The Sap of the Jackfruit Tree

I’ve always devoured those real incident columns in ghost story magazines, but never thought I’d have my own. I live in Bangalore now, but when the pandemic hit, I retreated to my grandmother’s ancestral home in a small village in Tamil Nadu. The house was a sprawling, single-story structure with thick granite walls and a courtyard where a massive jackfruit tree stood, its roots creeping into the foundation. The tree was older than anyone remembered, and the village elders warned me about it, saying it was the home of a yakshi, a vengeful spirit. I dismissed it as superstition, but now I’m not so sure.

One night, after a long day of sorting through my grandmother’s belongings, I decided to watch a movie. It was just me and my mother, who had insisted on coming along. We finished dinner, washed the dishes, and settled into the dimly lit living room around midnight. The movie was a slow-burn thriller, and by 1 AM, my mother had dozed off on the old settee. I continued watching, the glow of the TV casting flickering shadows on the walls. At 3 AM, the credits rolled, and I felt a heaviness in the air. I roused my mother and guided her to the bedroom, which was at the rear of the house, facing the courtyard. She fell asleep instantly, her soft snores filling the room.

I took my time to close the wooden shutters and draw the thick curtains, the ones with the faded floral pattern. As I turned to climb into bed, I felt an icy prickle on the back of my neck. The sensation of being watched was so intense it made my skin crawl. I glanced up and saw the curtain sway, as if a draft had passed. I dismissed it, thinking I hadn’t closed the window properly, and rolled over to face the wall. But then I heard it: a low, rhythmic scratching, like nails on wood, coming from the courtyard. It was steady, almost deliberate. I held my breath and listened. The scratching paused, then resumed, now accompanied by a faint, mournful humming.

My heart hammered against my ribs. I tried to convince myself it was the wind rustling through the jackfruit tree’s leaves. But the humming grew clearer, and I could swear it was a woman’s voice, singing an old lullaby in Tamil, the same one my grandmother used to sing to me. The voice seemed to come from directly outside our window. I wanted to scream, but my throat tightened. I shook my mother, but she was in a deep sleep, her breathing steady. I was alone with this.

I lay frozen, staring at the ceiling, as the humming continued for what felt like hours. Just when I thought I couldn’t bear it anymore, the voice changed. It became harsh, guttural, and filled with rage. It began to speak, not in Tamil, but in a language I had never heard, yet somehow understood. ‘You will not leave this place, child. The sap of the jackfruit tree binds you.’ The scratching intensified, and I felt something press against the window pane, something heavy and wet. I dared to glance, and through a gap in the curtains, I saw a silhouette—tall, thin, with long hair that seemed to drip like sap. Its eyes glowed amber, and its mouth stretched into a grin that was too wide.

The pressure on the window increased, and the old glass began to tremble. I buried my face in the pillow, praying for it to stop. But then I heard my own name, whispered in my ear, as if the thing was right behind me. ‘Ravi.’ I shivered and turned, but there was nothing. The room was empty. The humming ceased. The scratching stopped.

Silence. Then a loud, wet thud from the courtyard, followed by the sound of something heavy dragging across the ground. I forced myself to stay still, to breathe. After a long moment, I mustered the courage to look outside. The courtyard was bathed in moonlight, and beneath the jackfruit tree, I saw a dark, sticky substance pooling around the roots. The sap was oozing from the bark, forming a figure—a woman with hollow eyes, reaching out to me. She opened her mouth, and the same lullaby began again, but now it was a dirge, a lament.

I don’t remember anything after that. I woke up the next morning on the floor, my mother shaking me, asking why I had slept there. I didn’t tell her. I couldn’t. I decided to leave that day, but as I packed, I noticed the jackfruit tree’s sap had turned a deep red, almost like blood. The village elders said the yakshi was angered because I had disturbed her slumber. I haven’t slept since. Every night, I hear that humming, and I feel her eyes on me, waiting. I know, wherever I go, the sap of that tree has marked me, and I will never be free.