The Sap Tap

The old farmhouse we rented sat at the edge of a maple grove, its foundation cracked and its porch sagging like a tired spine. I was sixteen, spending a lonely summer while my parents worked, and the only company I had was an ancient computer in the dining room that hummed like a trapped bee. The room smelled of dust and dried apples, and the windows faced the trees, their branches scratching the glass on windy nights.

One afternoon, with the house quiet and heavy with heat, I was hunched over the keyboard, browsing a forum about strange occurrences. I’d always been drawn to such tales, but I’d never had one of my own—until that day. A sound came from the hallway: a soft, rhythmic creak, like someone stepping slowly along the boards. It was deliberate, unhurried, and it stopped just before the kitchen entrance. I froze, ears straining, but the click of the clock on the mantel was the only answer. I called out, my voice thin and shaky, but no one replied. I rose, my heart thudding, and peered down the hall—empty. I checked the rooms, the closets, even the attic door, but found nothing. I laughed it off, blaming the house’s old bones, but a cold knot tightened in my stomach.

That evening, I mentioned it to my father, who was a practical man, a tree surgeon by trade. He grunted, saying the house settled and the wood expanded with heat. But I noticed he avoided my eyes. Over the next week, the creaking returned, always when I was alone, always from the same spot. Sometimes it would be followed by a faint dripping, like a faucet barely on, though the kitchen sink was dry. I began to map the sounds: a creak, a pause, a drip—like a rhythm, a pulse. One night, I woke to the sound of a soft tap, as if someone was knocking on my window. I pulled back the curtain and saw nothing but the dark shapes of trees. When I turned back, my dresser mirror had a thin crack running down its center, and I had not broken it.

My mother, usually dismissive, grew uneasy. She started leaving a small bowl of maple syrup on the kitchen counter each night. When I asked why, she said it was an old family tradition to keep the spirits kind. I didn’t believe her, but the offerings seemed to calm the noises. For a few days, the house was silent. Then, one afternoon, I was alone again, and the creaking started, louder and faster, as if something was pacing. I followed it to the dining room and saw that the computer screen was flickering, showing a single image: a tree, its bark split, sap oozing in thick amber ropes. I turned to leave, and there, in the hallway, I saw a shape—tall, dark, and featureless except for a gaping mouth that seemed to drip with something wet. It raised a hand, and I felt a cold spray across my face, like sticky resin. I blinked, and it was gone, but the air smelled of boiled maple, and my skin was coated in a thin, sweet film.

I ran outside, wiping my face, and saw that the maple grove was alive with sound—every tree creaking and groaning, branches swaying without wind. A deep thrumming came from the ground, as if the roots themselves were humming. I stumbled to the orchard’s edge and looked back at the house. The windows were dark, and the porch sagged as if burdened. I knew then that the house was not old; it was alive, and it fed on the loneliness of those who stayed. My parents moved out a month later, but I still hear that rhythm in my dreams: creak, pause, drip. And when I visit a forest, I sometimes press my ear to a trunk, listening for the tap of something inside, waiting to be let out.

Years later, I returned to the farmhouse, hoping to confront it. The property was abandoned, the maple grove overgrown. I entered the house, and the hallway floor creaked at my step. I walked to the kitchen and found a jar of stale sap on the counter, my mother’s last offering. I took it, and as I turned to leave, I heard a new sound: a soft, wet slithering, coming from the walls. I lifted the jar, and the sap inside pulsed like a heartbeat. I dropped it, shattering, and the liquid spread across the floor, forming a dark stain that slowly shaped itself into a hand, reaching for me. I ran, and I have not stopped. That stain, I believe, is still there, waiting for its next visitor, and the sap in the trees taps, taps, taps.