The Weeping Sap of the Tung Tree

My name is Mira, and I spent my childhood in a small village cradled by the foothills of the Carpathians. Our home was a two-story wooden house with a steep, moss-covered roof, and it stood alone on a ridge above the village, surrounded by a dense grove of tung trees. Their broad leaves cast a permanent twilight over the ground, and their seeds, when crushed, bled a thick, oily sap that smelled of decay and burnt almonds. The only road into the village snaked past our property, a narrow, rutted track that most avoided after dark, especially during the foggy season.

My grandfather, a man of few words and many silences, lived in a small room on the ground floor, next to the kitchen. He spent most of his days staring out at the grove, his hands stained dark from years of handling the tung nuts. My parents, my younger brother, and I slept upstairs, in two cramped rooms with slanted ceilings. The house creaked and groaned like an old, tired beast, and the wind through the tung trees sounded like someone whispering in a language just out of reach.

It was the autumn of 1998, and I was sixteen. My best friend, Lena, and I were about to sit for our final exams, and our nightly phone calls were our only lifeline to the world beyond the ridge. The phone was a heavy, black rotary model that sat on a small table in the hallway, just below the stairs. That evening, around eight, I picked up the receiver, cradling it between my ear and shoulder, and dialed Lena’s number. The line crackled, and her voice came through, thin and distant.

We talked about history formulas and geography maps, but I found my mind drifting. The house was unusually quiet. My father was away on a business trip, my mother was putting my brother to bed, and my grandfather had already retreated to his room. The only sound was the faint, rhythmic ticking of the grandfather clock at the end of the hall. I was about to launch into a rant about our teacher’s impossible homework when I heard it—a soft, wet sound, like something heavy being dragged across the wooden floor above me.

I paused. ‘What is it?’ Lena asked. ‘Nothing,’ I said, ‘just the house settling.’ But the sound came again, more distinct this time. It was coming from my parents’ room, directly above the hallway. I swallowed, trying to dismiss it as a stray branch scraping the roof. Yet, my eyes were fixed on the staircase, a dark gap that led to the second floor. The house seemed to hold its breath.

Then the phone line went dead. I turned the receiver and stared at it. The dial tone had vanished, replaced by a low hum. I jiggled the cradle, but the hum persisted, growing louder and more distorted until it formed into something like a voice—a guttural, resinous murmur that seemed to drip into my ear, speaking in a language that was almost my own but twisted, as if it were being sung backward. I slammed the receiver down, my heart hammering.

I stood there, listening to the hum still vibrating in the wires. The house was silent again, but for a different reason. The usual creaks and groans had stopped. I took a step toward the stairs, drawn by a strange curiosity, when the front door, which was always locked from outside, swung open with a slow, deliberate creak. A cold gust of air rushed in, carrying the scent of tung sap and something else, something metallic.

I should have run. I should have called for my mother or grandfather. But my feet seemed rooted to the floor. I watched as a thin, silvery thread of sap began to ooze from the doorframe, sliding down the wood like a tear. It was not the dark, oily sap of the trees, but a pale, almost milky substance, glowing faintly in the dim light. It pooled on the threshold, and within that pool, I could see a reflection—not of my face, but of the grove at night, the trees swaying as if in a storm, and a figure standing among them, a tall, crooked silhouette that was too thin, with arms that hung too long.

I heard a creak behind me, and I spun around. At the top of the stairs stood my grandfather, his face chalky, his eyes wide. He was holding a lantern that cast a weak, flickering light. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. Then he raised his hand and pointed at the open door. I turned back, and the figure was closer, just beyond the threshold, its head tilted, peering at me with hollow, pulsing eyes. Its mouth opened, and from it came that same guttural whisper, now clearer, forming words that I somehow understood: ‘You let the seeds fall.’

I stepped back, bumping into my grandfather. He grabbed my arm with a grip like iron, his nails digging into my skin. ‘Don’t look into the sap,’ he hissed, his voice hoarse. ‘It’s a mirror for the old tongues.’ He dragged me toward the kitchen, away from the door and the stairs, and shoved me into a corner. ‘Your father didn’t burn the orchard, did he?’ I shook my head, stunned. He had always said the name of our house meant ‘the weeping grove,’ but I never listened.

From the hall came the sound of the phone ringing, shrill and piercing. But it wasn’t the familiar ring; it was a series of short, staccato bursts, like sobs. My grandfather’s face twisted in fear. He whispered, ‘The phone was never ours. It was theirs. They only lent it to us.’ I didn’t understand. He pushed me toward the back door, which led to the garden, shouting, ‘Run to the village. Don’t look back!’ I hesitated, but the ringing intensified, and I heard a wet, slapping sound on the floor, as if something was crawling up the stairs.

I ran, through the kitchen, out the back door, into the cold night air. The garden was shrouded in darkness, and the tung trees seemed to lean toward me, their leaves rustling with that same whispering speech. I glanced back at the house, and in the window of my parents’ room, I saw a shape, white and glistening, pressing against the glass, leaving a smear of sap behind. It looked like a twisted version of my mother, but her eyes were sewn shut with black threads.

I tripped on a root and fell, scraping my knees. The ground beneath me pulsed, and I looked down to see that the roots of the trees were woven together like veins, and sap was seeping up through the soil, warm and viscous, pooling around my hands. A whisper rose from the roots, and I knew it was the same voice from the phone. It said, ‘Mira, you are the seed that was meant to be planted.’

I screamed, tearing my hands from the ground, and scrambled to my feet. I ran down the hill, the grove closing in around me, the whispering growing louder until it was a cacophony, drowning out the wind. I reached the road, gasping, and ran until I collapsed at the village edge. When I looked back, the house was still visible, a dark silhouette against the moonless sky, but the grove had crept closer, its trees now touching the walls, their branches scraping the windows.

No one from the village ever spoke of that night. They found my grandfather’s body the next morning, slumped in his chair, his skin covered in a thin sheen of pale sap. My parents and brother were gone, vanished as if they had never been. I was taken in by a widow who lived far away, and I never returned to the ridge. But sometimes, late at night, when the landlines crackle and the wind blows through the pines, I hear that low hum, and I see the silvery sap in the corner of my eye, and I know the grove is still watching, waiting for the seeds it scattered to return home.