The Weeping Fig Tree

Dear reader, my English isn’t perfect, but I need to share what happened. I am a woman from Ankara, Turkey, now living in the Netherlands. My family still lives in a small village near the Black Sea, and lately, something has been wrong there.

It started two weeks ago when my aunt called, sounding anxious. She said my cousin, Elif, had been crying every night for no reason. Elif is a cheerful 24-year-old, engaged to a kind man named Demir. They planned to marry in autumn. But one morning, Demir called off the wedding, saying he simply didn’t love her anymore. That same day, he left the village for Istanbul, leaving no explanation.

My first thought was that Demir was just a coward. But then my aunt mentioned that Elif had been spending a lot of time in the garden under the old fig tree. That tree was ancient, with gnarled branches that twisted like contorted fingers. Elif used to sit there as a child, but now she claimed the tree whispered to her. I dismissed it as grief.

However, when I video-called Elif last Tuesday, I saw something that chilled me. Her face was gaunt, her eyes hollow, and she kept glancing over her shoulder at the tree visible through the window. She whispered, ‘It wants me to dig.’ I asked, ‘What wants you?’ She just shook her head and ended the call.

That night, my aunt called again, panic in her voice. Elif was in the garden, digging furiously with her bare hands under the fig tree. My aunt tried to stop her, but Elif fought her off, screaming, ‘It’s here! I have to find it!’ They called the village doctor, who sedated her. She was put to bed, but the next morning, the tree was covered in fresh sap, as if it were bleeding.

I booked a flight to Turkey immediately. When I arrived at the village, the atmosphere was heavy. The fig tree looked different – healthier, more vibrant, while Elif withered. The local imam was called, and he inspected the tree. He found a small cloth doll buried at its roots, pierced with pins and stained with what looked like dried blood. He said it was a binding spell, meant to sow discord and drain the life from the victim.

But the imam also warned that the spell had attached itself to the tree. If we cut it down, the spirit trapped inside would be released, perhaps causing more harm. The only way to break it was to find the source – the person who buried it. My uncle was furious, accusing neighbors. But I noticed that every time Elif wake up, she would point to a specific house across the field.

That house belonged to an old widow named Nuriye. She was a lonely woman who never married, often seen gathering herbs at night. The village children said she was a witch, but we dismissed it as superstition. Yet, when I brought Nuriye some bread as a gesture, she smiled with yellowed teeth and said, ‘Your cousin should not have taken my Mehmet.’ I was puzzled – Mehmet was not Demir’s name. Then I realized that Nuriye had a son named Mehmet, who died years ago in a construction accident. She blamed Elif because Elif was dating Mehmet before his death and had broken up with him a week before the accident.

Suddenly, everything clicked. Nuriye must have buried the spell out of revenge. I confronted her, but she only laughed and said, ‘The fig tree is the gate. It will keep taking what I lost.’ That night, the tree’s branches began to creak and groan, even without wind. Elif started screaming in her sleep, clawing at her own skin.

In desperation, I called a friend who practiced folk magic. He told me to dig under the tree again and find the heartwood. There, I would find a small jar containing the source of the spirit. With trembling hands, I did as he said. Under the thick roots, I found a glass jar filled with hair, fingernails, and a photograph of Elif and Mehmet together.

I took the jar to the imam, who performed a ritual to burn it. As the fire consumed the contents, the fig tree let out a muffled scream and withered within minutes, its leaves turning brown and curling like dying fingers. Elif finally slept peacefully that night.

But when I woke the next morning, I found a piece of paper slipped under my door. It read: ‘The tree is gone, but the gate remains. I will find a new root.’ The handwriting was old and shaky – Nuriye’s. She was nowhere to be found, and the village has been searching ever since.

Now, back in Amsterdam, I can’t shake the feeling that I didn’t destroy the spell, only moved it. Elif is recovering, but sometimes, when I FaceTime her, I see the faint outline of a woman standing behind her, smiling with yellowed teeth.

I don’t know what to do. I am not superstitious, but I see how the fig tree’s leaves still appear in the corner of my eye, even though I am miles away. Please, if you know how to end this, tell me. I fear for my family.