The Rain Tree Murmurs

I am a geologist, not a ghost hunter. That is what I told myself as I stood at the edge of the Siphiso Valley, my boots sinking into the red, wet earth. My name is Daniel, and I had come to the Venda region with my father and younger brother, Caleb, for what was supposed to be a geological survey during our autumn break. We were based at a small research station outside the village of Tshiendeulu, a place where the air smelled of damp fern and wild sage, and the forest dripped with a constant, gentle rain.

Our guide was an old Venda man named Mr. Mukwevho, who spoke with a softness that belied the iron in his back. He had agreed to take us to a sacred grove where the elders said a ‘rain tree’ stood—a baobab of impossible girth, its bark covered in ancient carvings. ‘The tree holds the whispers of the ancestors,’ he said, his eyes distant. ‘It is not for the curious.’ My father, a pragmatic botanist, dismissed this as superstition, but I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the mist.

We entered the grove at dusk. The canopy was so thick that the light turned to a green gloom, and the sounds of birds faded into a wet, watchful silence. The baobab was monstrous, easily forty feet in diameter, its roots sprawling like the fingers of a buried giant. The carvings were not the simple signs I expected—they were spirals and concentric circles, almost like topographical maps, but fluid, as if they had been drawn by water. I traced one with my finger, and the bark felt warm, almost like flesh.

That night, back at the station, I couldn’t sleep. I kept hearing a low, murmuring sound, like a distant conversation, just below the threshold of my hearing. I sat up in my cot, and the sound seemed to come from the window, from the direction of the grove. My brother, who slept in the next room, had the same complaint. ‘It’s like the trees are talking,’ he said, rubbing his eyes. My father, ever the scientist, dismissed it as the wind through the branches.

The next day, we returned to the grove to take measurements. I felt an overwhelming urge to touch the carvings again, and as I pressed my palm flat against the largest spiral, I felt a pulse. It was faint, but undeniable—a rhythmic throb like a heartbeat. I pulled away, shaken, and told my father. He laughed. ‘You’ve been eating too many local mushrooms,’ he joked, but I saw a flicker of unease in his eyes.

That night, the murmuring was louder. I could almost make out words—Venda words I didn’t understand, but they were insistent, plucking at my consciousness. I got up and walked to the window, and I saw something impossible: the forest was moving, not wind-shaken, but a slow, deliberate sway, as if the trees were breathing. And at the edge of the clearing, I saw a figure—tall, hooded, perfectly still. I blinked, and it was gone.

The next morning, I insisted we leave. But my father had one more task: he wanted to take a core sample from the baobab. Mr. Mukwevho refused to enter the grove. He pleaded with my father, his voice trembling. ‘The tree is not for taking. It is the vessel of the spirits. Please.’ But my father, stubborn, went alone. Caleb and I waited at the edge of the grove, listening to the rhythmic thud of his coring tool.

After an hour, he had not returned. We called his name, but only the murmur answered. I took a deep breath and entered. The air was thick, heavy, and the murmuring was now a chorus, surrounding me. I found my father kneeling at the base of the tree, his hands flat on the roots, his eyes vacant, his lips moving soundlessly. ‘Dad?’ I said. He turned his head slowly, and his eyes were not his—they were black, like pools of oil, and they seemed to see through me.

Caleb started screaming. I grabbed my father’s arm, but he was cold, unresponsive. Then the ground began to tremble, and the tree’s bark split open with a sound like tearing canvas. A gap opened in the trunk, dark and moist, and I could see something shifting inside—something with too many legs, too many eyes. The murmur rose to a roar, and I dragged my father away, stumbling, falling, as the roots began to snake around our ankles.

We ran. Behind us, the grove erupted in a cacophony of splintering wood and a sound that was almost a laugh. We didn’t stop until we reached the truck. We drove for hours, until we hit the main road, and only then did we stop to check on my father. He was shivering, muttering in a language I didn’t know, and his fingers were covered in a black resin that I could not wash off.

We never returned to the grove. My father is in a hospital now, in Johannesburg. He doesn’t speak, but sometimes, at night, I hear him whispering—the same murmuring rhythm from the forest. I hear it too, even in my apartment. It comes from the walls, from the pipes, from my own blood. I am writing this so you will know: if you ever see a baobab with spirals on its bark, and you feel the urge to touch it, do not. Because the rain tree is not a tree. It is a mouth, and it is always hungry.

And now, as I type these final words, I see the bark pattern on my own wall, forming a spiral. And I hear the voice again, clearer now: ‘Come home, child. You are mine.’