The Weeping Roots

The house on Linden Street had a peculiar history, but we only learned of it after the accident. It was a two-story Victorian that had stood empty for six years, its owner having died in a nursing home in a distant state. The town had whispered about the place—how the giant oak in the front yard had been struck by lightning and had to be cut down, leaving a stump that always seemed to weep sap no matter the season. We were new to the area, my father’s job transfer had brought us here, and we were desperate for space. My mother, my younger sister, and I moved in, while my older brother stayed behind for college.

We were a small family: my mother, a nurse; my sister, a high schooler; and me, a night-shift worker at the local hospital’s IT department. The house felt roomy, almost too roomy, with its creaking floors and drafty windows. My sister took the upstairs bedroom, and I took the one downstairs near the kitchen, which had a door leading to the backyard. My mother claimed the master bedroom upstairs, and we soon settled into a routine.

But from the first night, things felt wrong. The house had a smell—musty, like old books and damp earth—that no amount of air freshener could mask. And there was a sound, a faint, rhythmic tapping from behind the walls, as if something were trying to get in. I dismissed it as pipes or rats, but my sister, who was more sensitive, would often cry out in the night, saying she felt something watching her from the closet.

One month into our stay, my mother had to attend a medical conference in the capital, and my sister was invited to a week-long summer camp. That left me alone for the first time. My shifts were PM to AM, so I’d return home at two in the morning, sleep until noon, and then have the afternoons to myself. The first few days were uneventful, the house seeming almost benign. But on the fourth night, when I came home, the back door was ajar, and the kitchen light was flickering.

I called out, thinking my sister might have come back early, but there was no answer. I checked every room, every closet, but the house was empty. The only oddity was the stump in the yard. The stump had always been a fixture, but that night, it looked different. There was a fresh crack running down its center, and from it, a pale, milky liquid oozed. I touched it; it was cold and sticky, with an earthy smell. I wiped my hand on my jeans, uneasy.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. Every creak and groan of the old house made me jump. I lay in my bed, staring at the ceiling, when I heard a sound from the kitchen—a low, guttural hum, like a swarm of bees trapped under the floor. I tiptoed to the kitchen, and the humming grew louder, coming from the floorboards near the back door. I knelt, pressing my ear to the wood, and the humming ceased, replaced by a clear, detached voice: ‘I am the oak that was cut. I am the root that remains. You will feed me.’

I stumbled back, my heart hammering. The voice was calm, almost soothing, but its words chilled me. I grabbed a kitchen knife and crept outside, pointing the flashlight at the stump. The crack had widened, revealing a cavity inside, and from it, thin, root-like tendrils wriggled, as if searching for something. I backed away, then ran to my room, locking the door. But the voice followed, whispering through the walls: ‘You will feed me.’

I tried to convince myself it was a dream, some stress-induced hallucination, but the next morning, the stump had grown. Roots had crept over the lawn, reaching toward the house. I called my mother, but she was busy, and my sister was unreachable. I was alone with this… thing.

The days passed in a blur of terror. The roots invaded the backyard, then the foundation, and I could hear them scraping beneath the floor. I stopped going outside, but the presence grew stronger. I began to feel a pull, a drowsiness that made me want to lie down on the floor and sleep. I fought it, but one evening, I collapsed in the living room, and when I woke, I was on the floor, my head resting on a root that had pushed through the carpet.

In my dream, I saw the oak’s history. It had been a sacred tree to the indigenous people, a protector of the land. When the settlers cut it down, they cursed the spot. The owner of the house, a reclusive botanist, had tried to keep the stump alive, but his experiments went wrong. He vanished, and the house was left to rot. The stump was hungry, and it fed on the life of those who stayed too long.

I woke with a scream, the root pulsing under my cheek. I knew I had to leave, but I felt weak, as if my energy were being drained. I managed to call my father, who was out of state, but he couldn’t come immediately. He told me to go to a neighbor, but the neighbors had always kept their distance, whispering about our house.

That night, the voice returned, more insistent: ‘You will feed me.’ I stood in the kitchen, staring at the back door, which was now ringed with roots, prying it open. I saw the stump, now split open, revealing a dark hollow that seemed to breathe. I grabbed the axe from the shed, but as I raised it, a root wrapped around my wrist, pulling me toward the cavity. I screamed, but no sound came. The roots cocooned me, and I felt a needle-like pain as they pierced my skin, drinking from me.

I woke to the morning light, lying on the grass, the stump gone, replaced by a small sapling. I was exhausted, weak, but alive. I crawled inside and called my mother, begging her to come home. When she and my sister returned, the sapling had grown into a full tree, its leaves a deep, unnatural green. They didn’t believe my story, but I saw the fear in their eyes when they looked at the tree. I knew it would never be done with us. It would wait, bide its time, and when we slept, it would feed. And I knew, someday, it would take one of us, and I would be the only one who heard its whispers.

The house still stands, and the tree still grows. I moved out, but my family stayed. They say the tree is beautiful, but I know the truth. It is a beast that dreams of roots and blood, and it whispers in the dark: ‘I am the oak that was cut. I will be whole again.’