The Weeping Fig

The first four days were a study in stillness. I had agreed to watch over my son-in-law’s aunt’s apartment in the quiet coastal town of Bellhaven, while she visited her sister in the tropics. My granddaughter, Maya, was at school during the day, and I spent my hours reading on the balcony, overlooking the grey-green sweep of the Atlantic. The apartment was a relic of another era, with heavy mahogany furniture and a pervasive smell of camphor and old paper. I found it soothing, a break from the suburban noise back home.

On the morning of the fifth day, the 23rd of November—my daughter Renee’s fiftieth birthday—I tried to call her, but the call dropped into a void of static. I tried again, and then a third time, but the phone only emitted a low hum, like a distant bee. I left a message, though I was not sure it would get through. I poured another coffee and settled into my usual chair, a rattan thing that creaked like a ship’s rigging, and opened my book. But something was wrong. The balcony faced a small inner courtyard, dominated by a single, massive weeping fig tree. Its branches hung low, and its leaves were a deep, glossy green, but that morning, a single branch—the one nearest the railing—was trembling.

There was no wind. The air was balmy, still, and the only sound was the distant, rhythmic crash of the surf. I watched the branch for a long time, convinced it was a trick of the light or a bird, but it continued to quiver, as though something heavy were shaking it from within. I set down my book and walked to the railing. The leaves were wet, not with dew—it was mid-morning—but with a dark, viscous liquid, thick as oil, that dripped onto the flagstones below, where it pooled and seeped into the cracks. I touched a leaf and recoiled. It was warm, almost body temperature, and the liquid smelled faintly of iron and salt.

I called the building manager, a man named Tomas, to ask about the tree. He laughed and said, ‘Ah, that old fig? It’s been there for decades, but they say it’s got a temper. Some tenants swear it weeps when someone’s about to die. It’s just sap that looks like blood, though. Happens sometimes when it’s stressed.’ He offered to come by and check it, but I declined, feeling foolish. I cleaned the mess with a mop, but the stain on the stone remained—a dark, irregular blot that seemed to grow darker as the day wore on.

That evening, as I made dinner in the dim kitchen, I heard a sound from the courtyard: a soft, rhythmic thumping, like a heartbeat. I peered through the window and saw the fig tree silhouetted against the setting sun. The branch that had trembled was now thrashing, whipping back and forth as if caught in a gale, yet the other branches were still. I felt a chill run up my spine. I locked all the windows and doors, and dragged a heavy chair against the balcony door, though I knew it would not stop anything. I tried calling Renee again, but the phone now gave a busy signal, an endless, angry stutter.

I did not sleep well that night. The thumping continued until just before dawn, when it stopped abruptly. I rose, exhausted, and made a pot of strong coffee. As I crossed the living room, I noticed that the bookshelf had been disturbed. A row of leather-bound encyclopedias had been pulled halfway out, as if someone had searched for something. Their titles spelled out a word: ‘The Weeping Fig.’ I had never seen that particular title before, and I had browsed the shelf on my first day. I pulled one of the volumes out, and a photograph slipped from its pages: a faded black-and-white image of a woman with dark eyes, standing beneath the fig tree, her hand resting on its trunk. On the back, in faded ink, was a date: November 23, 1965. The same day as my daughter’s birthday, but over fifty years ago.

I tried to phone Renee again, desperate now. The call connected, and I heard her voice, but it was not her. It was a low, guttural whisper that spoke in fragments: ‘The roots are deep, Alice. They always return.’ Then the line went dead. I threw the phone onto the couch and stumbled to the balcony door. The fig tree was now covered in what looked like black berries, but they were moving, seething. I realized, with horror, that they were not berries but thousands of tiny dark beetles, crawling over the bark, over the leaves, over the very fruit of the tree. And as they moved, they formed patterns, letters, that spelled out my name: ALICE.

I knew, then, that I was not alone in that apartment. The woman in the photograph—her name was Edith, I later discovered from the lease—had died on that very day, in that very year, in this very room. She had been a botanist, obsessed with the fig tree, and had believed it was a doorway. The manager’s casual comment echoed in my mind: ‘It weeps when someone’s about to die.’ But it was not weeping for someone else. It was weeping for me. I gathered my things, grabbed Maya’s hand when she came home from school, and fled to a hotel on the other side of town. That night, I watched the news. A small item reported that the twenty-story weeping fig in Bellhaven had been struck by a mysterious blight, its leaves curling and blackening.

The next morning, I finally got through to Renee. She was fine, jubilant about her birthday. But as we spoke, I heard a faint sound behind my voice—a soft, rhythmic thumping, as if from a great distance. I glanced out the hotel window, and through the glass, I saw a fig tree on the street below, its leaves beginning to quiver. I ended the call and sat, staring at the branches, waiting. They stopped after a minute, and I felt a sense of relief wash over me. But then, in the reflection of the window, I saw a woman with dark eyes standing behind me, her hand resting on my shoulder. I turned, and there was no one there. But on the glass, written in condensation, was a single word: ‘Soon.’