The Wet Bark and the Yellow Door

The first thing I noticed was the smell. Not the musty odor of the old farmhouse we’d inherited from my grandmother, but something wet and green, like the inside of a frog. I woke up in the narrow attic bedroom, my phone screen glowing 8:30 AM, the single window revealing a gray, drizzling Minnesota morning. I shivered, pulling the quilt around me, listening to the rain drumming on the tin roof. Downstairs, my three siblings—twelve-year-old Emily, ten-year-old Luke, and seven-year-old Zoe—were probably already awake, arguing about cereal.

My parents were in Norway for a month, some research trip for my dad’s geology work, and I, Colin, had been elected to watch over them. I lived in a studio in Minneapolis, but for the past three weeks, I’d been commuting to this godforsaken farm, the only remnant of our family’s past, bought cheap at auction. The house itself was a sagging colonial with a crooked porch and a root cellar that smelled of earth and decay.

I pulled on my jeans and a hoodie, trudged down the creaking stairs. The kitchen was a disaster: milk carton tipped over, soggy cereal on the counter, Emily and Luke locked in a silent battle over the last bagel. Zoe sat on the floor, tracing patterns on the linoleum with her finger. ‘Get dressed,’ I said, pouring coffee. ‘We have to feed the goats.’ The goats were a last-minute addition, a favor to a neighbor who’d gone to Arizona for the winter. The kids actually loved them.

The rain had turned the yard into a mud pit. We slogged through, boots squelching, to the small barn. The goats bleated, pushing against the fence. As I scattered hay, I noticed something odd: a strip of yellow plastic, like a tie, hanging from the fence post. I pulled it free, intending to throw it away, but it was smooth and slightly sticky, like a bandage. I stuffed it in my pocket.

Lunch was grilled cheese and tomato soup, but I couldn’t shake the smell. It clung to my clothes, my skin. Zoe wrinkled her nose. ‘Something’s in the walls,’ she said, matter-of-fact, pressing her ear to the plaster. ‘It’s scratching.’ I told her rats. But the sound was rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

That evening, after the kids were in bed, I decided to explore the root cellar. The door was heavy, swollen with damp. I yanked it open, revealing a black pit, and the smell hit me like a physical blow—rot and iron. I descended the rickety stairs, dust motes swirling in my flashlight beam. The cellar was vast, filled with old jars, rusted tools, and in the corner, a strange mound of wet burlap. As I approached, I saw it was a pile of bark—large, curled pieces, like from a massive tree, but they glistened, and they were arranged in a circle.

I knelt, touching the largest piece. It was damp, and under my fingers, it moved—a slow pulse, like a vein. I recoiled, my heart hammering. The burlap was wet, and I could see now that it wasn’t bark at all. It was skin, human skin, gray and peeling, and the circle was a font, or a wound. I stumbled backward, knocking over a jar that shattered.

I ran upstairs, but the smell followed. The kids were awake, sitting at the top of the stairs, their faces pale. ‘Who are you?’ Emily asked, her voice trembling, looking at me strangely. I glanced down—my hands were slick, covered in a clear, viscous liquid that shimmered like oil. I wiped them on my jeans, but the wetness wouldn’t come off.

That night, I couldn’t sleep. The scratching was louder now, coming from inside the walls, from everywhere. I put my ear to the wall, and I heard a voice, low and guttural, singing a lullaby in a language I didn’t know. It was the same tune my grandmother used to hum, but twisted, dissonant.

I got up, walking to the kids’ room. They were huddled together on the bottom bunk. ‘Don’t go,’ Zoe whispered. ‘It’s playing with me.’ I looked at her hand, and in the dim light, I saw a yellow tie, similar to the one I’d pocketed, tied around her wrist. I snatched it off, but it left a red mark, like a burn.

The next day, I called my parents, but the line was dead. I tried my phone—no signal. The storm had knocked out everything. The rain continued, but inside the house, it was dry, yet the air was heavy, pressing down. I gathered the kids, deciding to drive to the nearest town for help. But as I turned the ignition, the engine sputtered, and the radio crackled to life, emitting a strange, melodic hum—the same lullaby.

I turned it off, but the hum continued from the house. I looked back, and in the window, I saw a silhouette—not human, but shaped like a tree, with limbs bending at unnatural angles. It was watching me.

We stayed inside, barricading the doors with furniture. But the scratching intensified, and the wallpaper began to peel, revealing beneath it a vast, intricate pattern of veins, pulsating. The kids started to sing the lullaby, their voices eerie, in perfect harmony. I tried to shake them, but their eyes were blank, fixed on the corner where the burlap had been.

Night fell, and I couldn’t keep my eyes open. I dreamt of the cellar, of the mound of skin, and I realized what it was: a molting. Something had shed its old body, and it was now somewhere in the house, learning to walk.

I woke with a start. The house was silent. The kids were gone. I ran to their room—empty. The barn was empty, the goats gone. The rain had stopped, and through the window, I saw the yard was covered in a fine mist, with a single tree in the center, a birch, that I had never seen before. It had long, slender branches, and at its base, a heap of children’s pajamas.

I walked outside, my bare feet sinking into the cold mud. As I approached the tree, I saw writing carved into the trunk, in a language I didn’t know, but I felt the meaning: ‘Rooted now.’ I looked up, and in the branches, I saw my siblings, their faces serene, their limbs fused to the wood, bark growing over their skin. They smiled at me, and their eyes were now like knots in wood.

I ran back to the house, but the door wouldn’t budge. The windows were suddenly covered in vines, thick and thorny, sealing me out. I pounded on the wood, screaming, but the only sound was the mocking lullaby, now coming from the tree. I fell to my knees in the mud, and as I looked at my hands, I saw the yellow tie was back, wrapped tightly around my wrist, and beneath it, my own skin was beginning to gray and peel.

I’m writing this from my new oak chair, in the living room of this farmhouse. The children are outside, in the tree, and they are happy. I can feel the roots growing from my feet, spreading into the floorboards. It won’t be long now before I join them. The scratching has stopped, and the house is quiet. But if you ever come to Minnesota, and you find a farmhouse with a yellow door, stay away. The door is open now, and something is always waiting.