The Wicker Arbor

I hadn’t seen Marcus since we graduated ’77. He looked thinner, and there was a nervous energy about him that didn’t match the easygoing guy I remembered. We ducked into a diner off Route 9, the kind with cracked vinyl booths and the smell of stale coffee. We were catching up, him rambling about some band he was into, when his hand jerked and sent his coffee cascading over his shirt.

‘Ah, dammit,’ he muttered, dabbing at the dark stain spreading across his chest. He looked up with an embarrassed grin. ‘Hey, can you give me a ride home? I need to change. We can hit some clubs later. I know some good spots.’ I agreed, and we headed out to my beat-up Impala.

On the drive, he told me he was living with some friends from school—Danny, Pete, and a guy named Stu. They’d found this massive place, an old Victorian that had seen better days, sitting at the end of a maple-lined lane on the outskirts of town. When we pulled up, I felt a chill that had nothing to do with the autumn air. The house was huge, all gables and peeling paint, with a wrap-around porch and a sagging second-floor balcony. It had a grand, neglected air, like something from a dream you can’t quite shake.

Marcus bounded up the front steps, calling over his shoulder, ‘Make yourself at home! I’ll be right down. Take a look around—it’s something else.’ I stepped inside. The living room was cavernous, with ceiling-high windows draped in heavy velvet curtains that turned the afternoon light to a sullen amber. The floor was dark hardwood, creaking under my weight, and the walls were lined with bookcases crammed with decaying volumes. A massive stone fireplace dominated one wall, its mantel cluttered with dusty trinkets and a tarnished brass clock that seemed frozen at some ungodly hour.

I wandered to a back room that must have been a study. It was smaller, darker, and filled with dark, heavy furniture. On a escritoire sat a strange object: a wicker arbor, maybe a foot tall, intricately woven with dried, twisted vines that looked almost like clutching fingers. It was the kind of thing you’d find in a florist’s or an occult shop, not in someone’s home. I touched it, and a tremor ran through my fingers, as if the arbor had been humming with a low, unending vibration.

I pulled my hand back, my heart thudding. The house seemed to settle around me, a creak from the floor above, the whisper of wind through a cracked window. I turned to leave the study and found a woman standing in the doorway. She was ancient, dressed in a black high-collared dress, her face a mask of wrinkles and shadow. She stared at me with milky, sightless eyes, and her lips moved as if she were speaking, but no sound came out. I blinked, and she was gone.

Then I heard Marcus’s voice from the top of the stairs. ‘Hey! You find the place?’ I hurried to the base of the stairs, trying to shake off the vision. Marcus came down, wearing a fresh shirt, a grin on his face. ‘You see the old lady?’ he asked, noticing my expression. ‘Mrs. Harker. She’s the owner, but she’s been dead for years. We see her sometimes. Don’t worry, she’s harmless.’ He laughed, but it had an edge. ‘You look like you could use a drink. Come on, I’ll show you the backyard.’

He led me through a tilting greenhouse, its glass panes cracked and overgrown with thorns, to a garden that was a tangle of dead weeds and sagging rose bushes. In the center stood another wicker arbor, identical to the one in the study, but this one was immense—so tall it seemed to scrape the grey sky. It was woven with the same dried vines, and as I looked closer, I saw that the vines were not just twigs but bones, thin and white, twisted into the weave.

‘I found that in the attic,’ Marcus said, his voice now quiet. ‘It was too big to get out, so we took it apart and rebuilt it here. Weird, right?’ I nodded, unable to speak. I felt a cold presence behind me, and I turned to see Danny, Pete, and Stu emerging from the house, their faces pale, their eyes wide. They didn’t speak, just stared at the arbor. Then, as if by some unspoken signal, they began to walk toward it, their steps slow and deliberate.

‘Wait,’ I called out, but they ignored me. Marcus followed them, his earlier cheerfulness gone, replaced by a hollow, distant look. They formed a circle around the arbor, and Danny began to chant in a low, guttural voice. The vines on the arbor seemed to writhe, and a cold wind whipped up, rustling through the dead leaves. I tried to move, but my legs were rooted. The old woman appeared again, this time beside the arbor, her mouth moving in a silent scream. The vines began to twist toward her, encircling her, and she faded with a shriek that only I seemed to hear.

Then the arbor glowed, a sickly green light emanating from its core. The four men—my friends—were laughing, but it was a wrong sound, too high and brittle. They turned toward me, their eyes black and hollow. ‘We’ve been waiting for you,’ Marcus said, but his voice was not his own. It was the old woman’s voice, crackling with malice. The vines snaked out from the arbor, reaching for me, and I stumbled backward, tearing my gaze away. I ran.

I’ve never gone back. I moved cross-country, changed my name, tried to forget. But sometimes, in the quiet hours, I see the arbor in my mind’s eye, and I feel the vines brushing against my skin. And last week, I found a package on my doorstep. It was a small wicker arbor, identical to the one in the study, still humming with that same dark vibration. The card inside was handwritten: ‘We’re still in the garden.’