The Orchard’s Grasp

The day had been long, and the headache had settled in behind my eyes like a stubborn tenant. By the time the sun dipped below the neighbors’ roofline, I was done. I didn’t even bother with dinner; I just pulled the curtains in my room and collapsed onto my bed, willing the throbbing to fade. My house sat at the edge of the old Merrill apple orchard, a vast tangle of gnarled trees that had gone wild decades ago. The orchard had always felt alive to me, not in a pleasant way—more like it was waiting for something, its branches reaching out like fingers. Usually, I could brush off that feeling, but that night, it was stronger. From my window, I saw the trees swaying, though the wind was still. And then I saw them: shadows slipping between the trunks, darting and merging, always just at the edge of my vision. I told myself it was just the moonlight playing tricks, the headache messing with my perception. I closed the blinds, shut my eyes, and tried to command my body to sleep.

The sleep came, but it wasn’t restful. I was in the orchard, the air thick and cold, the smell of rotting apples cloying. I was running, though I didn’t know why. The trees were closing in, their branches like arms trying to catch me. Behind me, I heard footsteps, heavy and deliberate. I didn’t dare look back; I just kept pushing forward, my lungs burning. The orchard seemed endless, a labyrinth of identical trunks and twisted limbs. After what felt like an eternity, the footsteps stopped. I slowed, gasping, and turned to see if I had lost him. The path behind me was empty, the trees still. A wave of relief washed over me, and I stopped, letting my hands fall to my knees. That’s when I felt it—a grip on my wrists, so strong it hurt. I looked up, and there he was: a man with no face, his features just a smooth, pale void. He held me, his fingers digging into my skin, and I felt a cold that seeped into my bones. I tried to scream, but no sound came out. Then, just as suddenly, he was gone, and I was staring at the ground, my wrists throbbing.

I woke with a gasp, my heart pounding. I fumbled for the lamp on my nightstand, and the light flooded the room. My wrists ached, and when I looked at them, I felt the blood drain from my face. There were bruises—ugly, discolored marks shaped like fingers, wrapped around both wrists. They hadn’t been there when I went to bed. I touched them, and they were tender, as if I had been grabbed by a giant hand. I sat there for a long time, staring at the marks, trying to rationalize. Maybe I had squeezed my own wrists in my sleep? But the bruises were too clean, too defined. The pattern was unmistakable: a handprint, a malevolent grip. And that face—or lack thereof—stayed seared in my mind.

Since that night, I’ve been paranoid. I find myself checking my wrists every morning, pressing the towel against them, and sometimes, late at night, I catch the smell of apples, even when the windows are closed. The bruises faded, but they never fully disappeared; faint outlines remain, like the memory of a touch that will not leave. The worst part is the dreams. They return, always the same: the orchard, the running, the moment of relief, and then the grab. But now, when I wake, I am not just frightened—I am certain. There is something in that orchard, something that walks the shadows between the trees, and it has left its mark on me. And every time someone touches my wrists, even in friendship, I flinch. I flinch because I know that grip, that cold, that presence. And I know that one night, I will turn around, and the man will be there, not in a dream, but standing at the end of my bed, his faceless head tilted, his fingers already reaching for me.