The Sorrow-Filled Mulberry

I live on the edge of a town that time seems to have forgotten, where the streets are lined with houses that have seen better centuries. The one I frequent belonged to an old widow before her heart gave out, and the place has been sitting empty ever since. It has this massive mulberry tree in the front yard, its branches drooping low, forming a canopy that blocks out the midday sun. That’s my spot, my refuge from the heat and the small talk of neighbors who think I’m odd for spending so much time under a tree.

One afternoon, as I sat with my back against the rough bark, a chill ran down my spine. It wasn’t the wind; the leaves were still. I heard a rustle in the grass, like someone walking close by, but when I looked up, there was no one. I shrugged it off, blaming my imagination, until I heard the crunch of gravel behind me. The path to the backyard was cracked and overgrown, but I knew it well. I got up and followed the sound, but the backyard was empty, just overgrown weeds and a half-collapsed fence. I turned to go back, and that’s when I felt a breath on my neck, cold and sour.

I spun around, but there was nothing. A low growl rumbled from the ground itself, seeming to vibrate through my bones. Then a force slammed into my back, sending me sprawling onto the gravel. My ankle twisted painfully, and I cried out, but the growl came again, closer, deeper. I scrambled to my feet and ran as fast as I could, not daring to look back until I was a block away, panting and shaking.

I couldn’t let it go. I told my best friend, Elena, about it, and she laughed, saying I’d probably just tripped and scared myself. I was determined to prove her wrong, so I convinced her to come with me to the tree the next day. We sat there for hours, the sun moving across the sky, and nothing happened. Elena was getting impatient, rolling her eyes, and I was starting to doubt myself. Then I felt it again, that cold breath, and the growl echoed from under the tree. Elena’s face went white, and she grabbed my arm, pointing at the tree’s base. There was a patch of ground that seemed to be moving, rippling like water, and from it came a low moan, a sound of pure sorrow. I saw a face forming in the shadows, the face of a man I recognized from the widow’s old photographs—her husband, who had hung himself from this very tree forty years ago. His eyes were black pits, and his mouth opened in a silent scream, and then the ground settled, and the tree was still. Elena and I looked at each other, and we knew we’d never speak of it again, but the image of that sorrow-filled face will haunt us forever.