The Mulberry Tree’s Debt

It was the last day of October, and the air had that sharp bite that promised snow before Thanksgiving. I was seventeen, home alone for the first time in my life, in a house that had been in my family for generations—a sprawling, drafty Victorian my great-grandfather built with his own hands. My parents were in Europe for their anniversary, and I’d insisted I could handle a week by myself. I was wrong.

That morning, I woke to the sound of wind rattling the old windows. The house groaned like a tired beast, but I’d grown up with its noises. It was the silence that followed that unsettled me. I padded downstairs in my socks, the floorboards cold and slick with age, and made coffee in the ancient kitchen. The clock on the wall ticked louder than usual, as if counting down to something.

I had to catch the school bus at the end of the long, winding driveway. I grabbed my backpack and swung open the heavy oak door. The porch sagged slightly under my weight, and the steps creaked in familiar places. I walked down the gravel path, past the gnarly old mulberry tree that my mother said was older than the house itself. Its branches reached out like gnarled fingers, and its roots had cracked the walkway decades ago.

As I passed the mulberry tree, a chill ran down my spine, so intense it felt like ice water. I froze. The air seemed to thicken, and I could swear I heard a whisper—not words, but a soft, urgent hiss. I turned around slowly, expecting to see nothing, but the tree’s shadow was longer than it should have been, stretching toward me even though the sun was barely over the horizon. And in that shadow, I thought I saw a figure—tall, thin, impossibly black—waiting.

My heart pounded. I took a step back, and the figure moved. It didn’t walk; it glided, as if it were sliding on oil. I turned and ran. I didn’t look back. My legs pumped hard, and the gravel crunched under my sneakers. But the sound of its pursuit was unmistakable—heavy, scraping footsteps, like boots on wet leaves, growing closer. I knew with a primal certainty that if it caught me, I would never see the light again.

Then something happened. My vision blurred, and I was no longer seeing only the driveway ahead. In my mind’s eye, I saw a girl with straight blonde hair, her face streaked with tears, running through a forest. She was me and not me at the same time. We moved in perfect sync, our breaths ragged, our legs burning. Behind us, a black shape—a man without features, but with a mouth that stretched too wide—was closing in. its fingers, long and bone-white, reached for our necks.

I stumbled on a rock, and the vision shattered. I was back on my driveway, but the bus was already at the stop, its doors open, the driver yelling at me to hurry. I sprinted the last fifty feet, threw myself through the doors, and collapsed into the first seat. The driver shook his head and closed the doors. As the bus pulled away, I looked out the window. The black figure was standing at the edge of the driveway, watching. It seemed to raise a hand—not in a wave, but in a warning.

I didn’t tell anyone about what I saw. I figured it was a panic attack, something my therapist called ‘acute stress.’ But that night, as I tried to sleep in my bed, the image of the blonde girl haunted me. I felt her fear as if it were my own. And I knew, somehow, that she was real. She was running for her life, and I had been given a glimpse of her terror.

The next morning, I woke to a knock at the door. No one ever knocked; they just came in. I opened it to find a woman in her thirties, her eyes red-rimmed, clutching a photograph. She asked if I’d seen her daughter, a blonde girl named Emily, who had gone missing two days ago. She showed me the photo, and my blood ran cold. It was the girl from my vision.

I couldn’t sleep after that. I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, feeling a pull toward the mulberry tree. It was as if it were calling me. Against every instinct, I got up and walked to the window. The moon was full, and the tree’s shadow stretched across the lawn like a black puddle. And in that shadow, I saw her—Emily—standing at the base of the tree, her face pale, her mouth open in a silent scream. She pointed at the ground beneath the tree, and I saw a patch of disturbed earth.

The next day, I called the police and told them something was buried under the mulberry tree. They thought I was a prankster, but they came anyway. They dug, and they found a shallow grave. It was an old one, with bones that had been there for decades. But Emily’s body was not there. However, tangled in the roots, they found a locket with an inscription: ‘To my dearest, from your faithful servant.’

I knew then that the tree was a gateway, a place where the spirits of the wronged came to rest—and where something darker feasted. And I realized that the black figure was not just a shadow; it was a guardian of that tree, a vengeful spirit that fed on fear. It had shown me Emily’s death because it wanted me to know that I was next, that I was chosen to join the ghosts under the roots.

I haven’t slept in weeks. Every time I close my eyes, I see Emily’s face, and I feel the cold breath on my neck. The mulberry tree stands watch outside my window, its shadow reaching even in the brightest daylight. And I know that the debt will come due. One day, I will walk past it, and I will not stop running. And this time, there will be no bus to save me.