The Persistent Sap

I never believed in the stories about the old farmhouse until we moved into the one my grandmother left us. It sat on a hundred acres of overgrown orchard, mostly apple and pear trees that had gone wild. The realtor said the previous owners were an old couple who had passed away, and the place had been vacant for years. We were city folk, my husband Mark and I, looking for a fresh start with our two kids. The price was too good to ignore, and the idea of a quiet country life appealed to us.

Our first weeks were peaceful. The house was drafty and creaked at night, but that seemed normal for an old place. The kids loved exploring the orchard, and we spent weekends clearing brush and trimming the trees back. But soon, I started to notice things. The sap from the apple trees was unusually thick and dark, almost like blood. And when it dried on our hands, it left a sticky residue that took days to wash off.

One evening, while putting away tools in the barn, I saw a fresh gash on one of the largest apple trees. The bark was peeled back as if something had clawed at it, and the sap oozed out in thick drops, forming a small pool on the ground. I touched it with my finger; it was warm. I dismissed it as just the sun’s heat, but the image lingered.

Then, strange things began to happen inside the house. At night, I would hear a rhythmic tapping on the windows, like branches brushing against the glass. But when I looked out, the nearest trees were far from the house. The taps grew louder, more insistent, and seemed to come from inside the walls. The kids complained of nightmares about trees with faces, their mouths dripping sap, promising to take them for a walk.

Mark thought it was just our imagination, too much stress from the move. But I knew better. I started doing research on the property. I found old newspaper clippings about a family who lived here in the 1920s. The father was a botanist who believed trees could communicate with humans. He had planted a special hybrid apple tree, a cross between a common apple and a rare, now-extinct species. He claimed the tree could ‘feel’ and ‘remember’. The family disappeared mysteriously, and the tree was never found.

I began to notice that the largest apple tree, the one at the edge of the orchard, seemed to be watching me. Its branches would sway even when there was no wind, and its leaves would rustle in a way that sounded like whispering. One day, I found the kids sitting under it, their faces pressed against the trunk, their eyes closed. They said the tree was singing to them, telling them stories. I pulled them away, angry, but they cried, saying the tree was lonely and wanted us to stay forever.

That night, I had a dream. A voice, low and resonant, spoke to me. It said, ‘You cut my friends. You trimmed my arms. You must feed me with your love, or I will take what is mine.’ I woke up in a cold sweat, but the dream felt too real. I looked out the window and saw the silhouette of the tree against the moon, its branches reaching toward the house like grasping hands.

Over the next days, our family grew more distressed. The kids refused to leave the tree, saying it was their friend. Mark developed a strange rash on his hands after pruning some branches. And I found sap on our pillows, even though we never brought any inside. The raccoons and squirrels that used to chitter in the orchard had disappeared, leaving an eerie silence.

One afternoon, I decided to confront the tree. I took an axe, determined to cut it down. But as I raised my arm, the tree’s branches seemed to move, wrapping around me, pinning my arms. The bark split open, and a viscous, sweet-smelling liquid covered me, soaking into my clothes. I heard the voice again, clearer than before: ‘You will be part of me now.’ I blacked out.

When I came to, I was lying on the ground, the tree looming over me. My clothes were stained with sap, and my skin felt sticky and tight. Before I could move, I heard a scream from the house. I rushed inside to find Mark and the kids huddled in the living room, pointing at the walls. The wallpaper was peeling, revealing the wood beneath, which was dark and wet, veins of sap running through it like arteries. The house itself seemed to be part of the tree’s root system, and the tree was slowly claiming the structure.

We tried to leave, but the front door wouldn’t budge. The windows were sealed shut by a thick, resinous substance. The phone lines were dead. We were trapped. The tree began to sing, a low, mournful song that resonated through the floorboards. The kids’ eyes went blank, and they started humming in perfect harmony with the tree. Mark and I held onto each other, feeling the sap seeping from the walls, pulling us toward the trunk.

Now, weeks later, we live in the orchard, but not as humans. Our forms have merged with the trees. Our arms are branches, our hair is leaves, and our tears are sap that falls like rain. We stand in a grove, surrounding the largest tree, which bears strange fruit in the shape of human faces. And sometimes, when a traveler passes by, we whisper to them, inviting them to stay forever, to become part of our family. The tree is no longer thirsty, but it is always hungry. And once you taste the sap, you can never leave.