The Orchard’s Gift

I grew up on the edge of a town that had no right to be called a town. It was just a scattering of houses along a gravel road, with the nearest convenience store a twenty-minute drive away. Our property was bordered by an old apple orchard on one side, and a dense pine forest on the other. The houses were spaced far apart, and at night, the darkness was absolute.

I was fourteen when the first incident shattered my sense of safety. It was a summer night, and I couldn’t sleep. The heat was oppressive, and the fan in my window only churned the thick air. I got up to get a glass of water and stood at the kitchen window, staring out at the blackness. That’s when I saw it: a shape, darker than the night, moving between the trees that separated our property from the orchard. It was too tall to be a deer, too fluid to be a person.

I blinked, and it was gone. I told myself it was a trick of the light, the way the moon cast shadows through the branches. But the next morning, I found a perfect, unbruised apple on the kitchen counter. No one else was up, and I hadn’t put it there. I asked my parents about it, but they brushed it off, saying one of us must have left it out.

Things started to escalate. A few weeks later, I was helping my father repair the fence on the east side of the property, near the orchard. He bent down to pick up a tool, and when he stood up, he had a strange look on his face. ‘There’s something out there,’ he said, pointing to a cluster of trees. ‘I saw a face, just for a second, peeking out.’ I looked, but saw nothing. He shrugged it off, blaming the heat.

But the incidents multiplied. One night, I heard a rhythmic tapping on my window. At first, I thought it was a tree branch, but the sound was too regular, too purposeful. When I pulled back the curtain, a small, withered hand was pressed against the glass, attached to a shadowy arm that disappeared into the darkness above. I screamed, and my father came running, but by then, the hand was gone. The next day, there was an apple on my windowsill, perfectly placed.

I started to obsess over the orchard. There was an old, gnarled tree in the center, its branches twisted in ways that looked almost human. I’d seen it from my bedroom window, but I’d never thought much of it. Now, I couldn’t stop staring at it, feeling like it was staring back. My mother, sensing my unease, told me a story I’d never heard before: that the orchard had been there for over a hundred years, planted by a reclusive old woman who’d lived in a cabin that long since rotted away. She said the old woman used to make cider from the apples, and that she was rumored to have made a deal with something in the forest to keep her orchard thriving.

A week later, my father went missing. He’d gone out to check the generator after a storm, and he just didn’t come back. We scoured the orchard, the forest, the whole property, but there was no sign of him. The police found nothing. My mother was beside herself, and I felt a gnawing guilt, as if my fear had somehow caused his disappearance. I started sleeping with the lights on.

On the third night of his absence, I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, when I heard a voice, low and raspy, coming from the direction of the orchard. It was calling my name. I covered my ears, but the voice persisted, and it grew clearer. It was my father’s voice, but twisted, drawn out. ‘Come to the orchard,’ it said. ‘I have something to show you.’

I couldn’t resist. I put on my shoes and walked out into the night, my heart pounding in my chest. The gravel crunched under my feet, and the moon cast silver light through the bare branches. I reached the old gnarled tree, and I saw a figure standing beneath it. It was tall and thin, with limbs that bent at impossible angles. It wore a tattered coat, and its face was hidden in the shadow of a wide brimmed hat. In one hand, it held an apple, red and glistening.

‘You’ve been taking my gifts,’ it said, in a voice that was not quite human. ‘But you haven’t given anything in return.’

I tried to speak, but my throat was dry. The figure stepped closer, and I saw that its face was a mass of twisted wood, like the bark of a tree, with deep-set hollows where eyes should be. It held out the apple.

‘Take a bite,’ it said. ‘And you can have your father back.’

I reached out, my fingers trembling. I took the apple, and as I brought it to my mouth, I felt a cold wind wrap around me. I hesitated, and the figure tilted its head, a sound like creaking branches emanating from its throat. ‘Don’t be afraid,’ it said. ‘It’s just a gift.’

I bit into the apple. The flesh was sweet and crisp, but as I swallowed, I felt a burning in my chest. The figure laughed, a low, guttural sound, and then it vanished, leaving me alone in the orchard. I turned to run, but I found my father standing behind me, his face pale and blank. He didn’t speak, just stared at me with empty eyes. He walked past me, back toward the house, and I followed, not knowing what else to do.

When we got inside, my mother burst into tears and hugged him, but he didn’t respond. He just stood there, rigid. That was weeks ago. My father is still with us, but he’s not the same. He doesn’t talk, he barely eats. He just sits on the porch, staring at the orchard. And every morning, there’s a new apple on my pillow, placed there in the night. I don’t eat them anymore. I’ve learned that gifts from the orchard always come with a price.