The Other in the Hemlock Grove

I drove three hours to visit my old college roommate, Cara, at her new place in the foothills. The house was a renovated farmhouse, surrounded by a grove of hemlock trees that looked almost black against the afternoon sky. We had a great time catching up, laughing over old stories, and then she suggested we bounce on the trampoline she’d set up for her kids. We jumped until we were breathless, and the laughter turned to groans as we both needed the bathroom. She took the upstairs, I took the downstairs. After I finished, I climbed the stairs to find her, but she wasn’t there. I looked out the hallway window and saw her in the backyard, but it was odd. She was walking with her arms out, fingers lightly brushing the grass, as if she were feeling for something. She wore that red sundress she’d had on, but it didn’t look right in the twilight. I called out but the glass muffled it. She didn’t look up. So I went out to help her.

The air outside had turned cold—colder than it should’ve been for that time of year. The hemlocks stood still, like silent witnesses. I stepped onto the lawn and called her name. She didn’t turn. Instead, she started moving strangely fast toward the neighbor’s yard, her gait slightly off, like she was fighting something. I followed her, pushing through the thick hedge that separated the properties. The neighbor’s yard was unkempt, with a fallen oak and a shed that looked abandoned. I lost sight of her behind the shed. I moved around it, and saw her vanish into the trees beyond.

I was about to call out again when I heard a voice behind me: ‘Where you going?’ I spun around. Cara was standing on her back porch, holding a glass of lemonade, her expression puzzled. I looked back at the hedge, then at her. ‘I was following you,’ I said, the words feeling hollow. She gave me a confused smile. ‘Of course!’ she replied, and a chill ran down my spine. Her voice sounded exactly like Cara’s, but there was a slight delay, an echo that didn’t belong.

I went inside, my heart pounding. I told her what I’d seen. She just shrugged and said, ‘That’s weird. Maybe a deer or something?’ But her eyes flickered to the window, and I saw a momentary darkness cross her face, like a shadow cast by a passing cloud. She quickly smiled again. ‘Let’s have dinner, you must be hungry.’

But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. I asked to use the bathroom again, and she pointed upstairs. As I climbed the stairs, I glanced out the landing window. The backyard was empty, but at the edge of the hemlocks, I saw a figure—a woman in a red sundress—standing perfectly still, watching the house. Her face was blurred, as if indistinct, but I knew it wasn’t Cara. Because I heard a toilet flush downstairs, and then Cara’s voice from the kitchen called, ‘You alright up there?’

I didn’t answer. I went into the bathroom, locked the door, and looked out the small window. The figure was closer now, at the edge of the lawn, its head tilted unnaturally, as if it were listening. I realized with a start that it was wearing the same dress as Cara, but the dress was torn and muddy. And its arms were too long, the fingers reaching almost to its knees.

I heard the floorboards creak in the hallway outside the bathroom. A soft knock. ‘You done? The food’s ready.’ It was Cara’s voice, but it was slightly too high-pitched. I said, ‘Just a minute.’ I looked again. The figure outside was gone. In its place, on the lawn, was a small, carved wooden figure of a man, like something from a folk art craft. It was lying face up.

I unlocked the door and opened it, to find Cara standing in the hall, but she had a smear of red on her cheek. ‘What’s that?’ I asked, pointing. She touched her cheek and looked at her fingers. ‘Jam,’ she said, but it was too dark, too thick. She smiled, and her teeth seemed too white, too even.

We went downstairs. The table was set for two, but the dishes were empty, only a single candlestick flickering between us. ‘Where’s the food?’ I asked. She laughed, and it was too loud. ‘Oh, I forgot! Let me get it.’ She walked to the kitchen, and I heard the refrigerator open, then close. She came back with two plates of raw meat—steaks, still cool, with a dark sheen. ‘I thought we’d grill,’ she said, but the grill on the porch was cold, and the sky outside had turned a muddy gray.

I stood up, my chair scraping. ‘I think I should go.’ Cara’s smile dropped, and her face went blank. ‘But you just got here,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘The night is just beginning.’ The candle flickered, and in the absence of light, I saw her eyes—not Cara’s eyes, but dark, like holes. In that moment, I knew that where I was, it wasn’t a place of hemlocks and laughter, but somewhere else, where things wore your friends’ faces.

I ran for the door. I yanked it open, and the daylight hit me like a wave of warmth. I was outside, panting. The house looked normal, the hemlocks were green, and Cara was standing on the porch, wiping her hands on a dish towel. ‘Hey, you okay? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’ I looked at her, at the slight redness on her cheek, and I didn’t know if I could trust her. But I nodded and said, ‘Yeah, just a bit of a scare. Thought I saw something in the woods.’ She smiled, a normal smile, and said, ‘Probably a deer.’ I didn’t believe her, but I let her lead me inside. The table was set, and the smell of onions and garlic filled the kitchen. But I couldn’t shake the feeling that I had just escaped from a place where something else was always waiting, and that maybe I had left something behind in the grove—something that would follow me home.

I didn’t mention the figure to Cara again. But when I drove away the next morning, I saw it in my rearview mirror: a flash of red amidst the hemlocks, watching me. I drove faster and didn’t look back. But I knew I would dream tonight of a long-armed woman with Cara’s face, and I would never visit her again.