The Weeping Birch

The last thing I remember before the silence was the hum of the engine, a constant companion on those long, empty stretches of County Road 9. It was just past 11 PM, the moon thin and gauzy, and I was driving home from a failed attempt to find work in the next county over. Then, without warning, the engine coughed, sputtered, and died. The headlights flickered off, plunging me into a darkness so complete it felt solid. I coasted to a stop, the only sound the tick of cooling metal and the frantic beat of my own heart.

I fumbled for the glove compartment, but my flashlight was gone. I checked my pockets, the seat, the floor—nothing. The panic was beginning to rise, a cold sweat on my brow. I was on a stretch of dirt road I recognized vaguely, bordered by dense, skeletal pines. My phone was dead, a useless brick in my hand. There was no choice but to walk, to find some farmhouse, some sign of life.

I stepped out into the night, the air sharp with the smell of damp earth and pine. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the crunch of my boots on gravel. I walked for what felt like an eternity, my eyes straining against the blackness, my hands outstretched like a blind man. Then I heard it: a soft footstep behind me. I spun around, my heart in my throat, but there was nothing. Just the road, the trees, and the suffocating dark. I called out, “Hello?” My voice was swallowed by the night, no echo. I waited, listening. Nothing.

I turned and continued, my steps quicker now. Another footstep, closer this time. I whirled, but again, nothing. My breath was coming in ragged gasps. I broke into a run, my feet pounding the uneven ground, my lungs burning. I tripped and fell, scraping my palms on the gravel. As I pushed myself up, my hand brushed against something cold and metallic. My flashlight, lying there as if placed deliberately. I snatched it up, my thumb fumbling for the switch. When I clicked it on, the beam cut through the dark like a blade, and it illuminated a single, ancient birch tree standing stark and white at the edge of the clearing. Carved into its pale bark, in letters that looked gouged rather than carved, were the words: HEAVEN IS CLOSE.

I stared at those words, my mind racing. What did it mean? A warning? A promise? The air around me seemed to grow colder, and I felt a presence, a pressure, as if something was standing just behind me, breathing on my neck. I didn’t dare turn. I stayed frozen, the beam focused on the tree, until my legs gave out and the world tilted into black.

When I came to, I was back in my car. The engine was idling, the headlights on, the clock reading 2:30 AM. My flashlight was in the passenger seat, its beam still on, pointing at the same birch tree through the windshield. The words were still visible, but now they seemed to be weeping—a dark sap oozing from the letters, as if the tree itself was crying. I didn’t wait. I threw the car into reverse, spun around, and drove home in a blind panic, not stopping until I was in my driveway, shaking and gasping.

I never went back. I didn’t want to know. But now, weeks later, I can’t shake the feeling that I brought something back with me. It’s in the hum of the engine when I drive at night. It’s in the flicker of the lights in my house. And sometimes, when I close my eyes, I see that birch tree, its bark growing darker, the words pulsing with a life of their own. Heaven is close, it said. But I’m beginning to wonder if heaven is the last thing I’ll find. Last night, I looked out my window and swore I saw a figure standing at the edge of my lawn, pale and still, its head tilted as if listening. And on the glass, written in the condensation, were the words: WE ARE WAITING.