The Pink Effigy

In late June, I was biking home from my summer job at the library, taking the shortcut through the outskirts of town. To get to the main road, you have to pass by the old municipal arboretum—a sprawling, overgrown stretch of land that most locals avoid after dusk. It wasn’t the kind of place for romance or loitering; it was just forgotten, a tangle of dying elms and cracked concrete paths. People said it was haunted, but I never believed it. I was more worried about the uneven ground and the occasional drunk sleeping under the benches.

My friends—Jared, Maya, and Tom—had taken the bus, but I preferred cycling. It was a hot, humid afternoon, the kind that makes the air thick and heavy. I was pedaling along the eastern edge of the arboretum, where the trees were densest, when something caught my eye. Hanging from a low branch of a gnarled oak, maybe twenty feet ahead, was a shape that made my stomach drop. It was a baby, I thought, a newborn wrapped in a bright pink blanket, dangling by the neck. The blanket swayed slightly, and the tiny face was pale and featureless, but I could see the outline of ears and a nose. I slammed on my brakes, my heart pounding.

I called out to Maya, but she was already halfway down the path, and the trees blocked her view. ‘Stop!’ I shouted, but my voice came out as a croak. I pointed, but by the time she turned, the thing was hidden behind a thick cluster of leaves. ‘There’s a baby—it’s hung!’ I said, my hands shaking. Maya squinted, then laughed nervously. ‘You’re seeing things, Lena. It’s probably just a doll or something.’ Jared and Tom caught up, and Tom, who was always the skeptic, rolled his eyes. ‘Need to lay off the caffeine,’ he said. But I could see his smile was forced. He walked over to the tree, parting the branches, and his expression changed. ‘There’s nothing here,’ he said after a moment, but his voice was flat, and he backed away quickly.

I didn’t sleep that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw that pink shape swinging. The next day, I went back alone, determined to prove I wasn’t crazy. The arboretum was quiet, the heat shimmering off the pavement. The tree was still there, but the branch was empty. I searched the area, half-expecting to find a fallen doll, but there was nothing. As I turned to leave, I noticed a small, pink ribbon caught in the bark near eye level. It was old and frayed, as if it had been there for years. I took it, feeling a chill despite the heat.

That evening, I showed the ribbon to my grandmother, who was visiting. She froze the moment she saw it. ‘Where did you get this?’ she whispered. I told her, and she clutched it to her chest. She told me a story I’d never heard before: in the 1970s, a teenage girl had been found dead in that arboretum, an infant in her arms. They said she was murdered, but the baby’s body was never found. Some thought she’d buried it, others that the killer had taken it. The girl’s name was Elsie, and her family always left pink ribbons at that tree on the anniversary of her death. ‘She’s still looking for her child,’ my grandmother said, her voice trembling.

I didn’t believe in ghosts, but the ribbon felt heavy in my pocket. The next morning, I went back to the tree, this time with a vague sense of unease. I stood under the oak, staring up at the empty branch. ‘Elsie?’ I said, not expecting an answer. The air grew still. A low, cooing sound came from behind me, like a baby’s gurgle. I spun around, but there was nothing. My skin prickled. I started to retreat, but I heard a creak above me. I looked up—the branch was bending, as if holding weight. And then, between the leaves, I saw it: a pale, delicate hand, reaching down. I stumbled backward, tripping over a root, and landed hard on the ground. When I looked up, the hand was gone, but the leaves were rustling as if something was moving through them.

I didn’t go back for a week. But the dreams were worse—every night, I saw the pink bundle, and I heard a woman sobbing. I finally decided to confront it. I brought the ribbon with me, holding it out like a talisman. ‘Elsie, I found this. Is it yours?’ I asked, my voice echoing in the empty space. A cold breeze swept through, and the tree rustled. I heard a whisper, so faint it could have been the wind: ‘Mine.’ I felt my blood run cold. I dropped the ribbon and ran, all the way home, not stopping until I was locked inside my apartment.

But it didn’t end there. Over the following days, I started seeing the pink shape everywhere—in reflections, in the corner of my eye. One night, I woke to a soft cooing beside my bed. I turned on the lamp, and there, on my nightstand, was the ribbon, neatly folded. I screamed, and my roommate burst in, but by then it was gone. I knew then that I hadn’t found Elsie; she had found me. And she wasn’t looking for her child—she was looking for a new one.

The last thing I remember is the overwhelming scent of lavender and a cold hand on the back of my neck. I woke up in the arboretum, under that same oak tree, lying on the grass. The sun was setting, and I felt strangely calm. My phone showed three days had passed. I sat up, and there was a pink bundle in my arms. This time, I didn’t look down. I knew if I did, I’d see my own face staring back.