Of Gnarled Roots and Rot
by Jason Frederick Myers
Despite any evidence, you know that it took him. You remember that night years ago when there was still “country” to live in, before the masses migrated from the cities, bringing their neighborhoods and Dollar Generals. Back then, the stars were at their most vivid in the sky, unobscured by artificial light, and you could drive for miles down dark, desolate roads without seeing anything but the glowing eyes of white-tailed deer or skunks. The latter seemed to thrive back then; a local festival was even named for them, the wind carrying their musky scent through every hollow.
Summer in southern Appalachia meant hot, muggy afternoons playing in the creek and nights filled with “snipe” hunts and other childhood adventures. You stood in those dark woods that night, a child, flashlight trembling in hand, as Darren Fuller dared your brother Alex to climb the tree.
The lore of that Southern Live Oak varied widely depending on who you talked to—no different than any other small-town urban legend about haunted houses, roads, or bridges. Some said its thick branches were used to hang witches and criminals, others that the ground itself was cursed, the tree’s immense root system stretching to the depths of hell. Some claimed it wasn’t of this world, a nonorganic evil of unknown origin and sinister intent.
You’d heard all the stories by then. A logger’s chainsaw accident, his leg cut off below the knee trying to remove the tree; a teen from the next county carving his initials into its bark and then choking to death on his tongue. A hunter even claimed the tree stalked him, appearing in his path at every turn. To spit or bleed on the old tree was considered a death sentence.
“Bet you’re too chicken,” Darren said, pointing a mud-caked fingernail at Alex’s chest. All around you, the hushed whispers of other children danced in and out of discernment, their wide, owl-like eyes reflecting in the rich moonlight. You watched as Alex took it all in, not old enough to understand how reputation works in a small town.
“I’ll do it,” Alex said. You ran to him, begged him not to, and told him how scared you were. He bent down and pulled you close, comforting you as all big brothers should.
“It’s okay,” he said, calmly reaching into his pocket and retrieving a large folding pocketknife, its wooden handle bearing his initials. “Take this. Every brave hunter needs a good knife.”
You held that knife and watched, frozen in fear, as he approached the tree, its branches twisted and contorted in the darkness like the broken bones of a giant. A moment later, he was up, standing on a thick perpendicular branch twelve feet above the ground. He flashed you his boyish smile and waved triumphantly to the crowd below. What you saw next, you’d question for the rest of your life.
A shadow darker than the surrounding night crept through the canopy over Alex’s head, its thin black tendrils snaking silently toward him in an act of predation. Then suddenly, that familiar smile was gone. You watched something strike his face, watched his arms flail desperately for rescue, snapping branches like pieces of dried-out kindling as he fell. Around you, children scattered, their terrified screams echoing through the forest.
“Bullseye,” Darren muttered. He dropped a handful of long-leafed pinecones and took off, the satisfied smirk on his face another smile you’d not soon forget.
You ran to Alex’s motionless body, convinced he was dead. You wonder sometimes if that would’ve been better—closure at the expense of an unwanted outcome. He began to stir, a thin stream of blood flowing from a laceration on his right cheek into the earth beneath him. His hands still grasped a broken tree branch, a black tarlike sap seeping from its jagged end. You screamed for help, and though the two of you were alone in the darkness, you couldn’t help but feel that something in those woods was watching.
That night, you lay in bed, hoping the music from your headphones would drown out the shuffled furniture and slammed doors outside your bedroom. Your father’s anger over the night’s events quickly escalated to Alex’s falling grades, hanging with the wrong crowd, and other adolescent missteps. You remembered the muffled threats and consequences of noncompliance. You wanted to go to your brother after and console him, but fear of reprisal from your parents trumped all other emotions. Ultimately, you did nothing, turned up the music, and hoped things would blow over.
Because of the music, you never heard it come for him, pluck him from his bed on the other side of the wall without a trace. A search failed to provide any clues about his fate. As the days wore on, and your mother cried herself to sleep night after night, you’d sneak into his bedroom, whisper his name, and hope you’d find him there. Only silence and empty space responded.
Time passed. Acceptance forced its way in but never entirely replaced the sadness. Your parents divorced, and your father moved to the West Coast, putting as many miles between himself and the guilt as possible. You mainly kept to yourself, promised to leave town when you could, and eventually delivered on that promise. You moved and started over, the distance like scar tissue forming over painful memories.
But the tree’s roots followed you. You unearthed them one day, digging a garden in the backyard, the metal blade of your shovel striking them with an inexplicable spark. You recognized these roots somehow from that ancient oak, could feel the black sap pumping inside them like large subdermal blood vessels.
That night, your dreams were vivid. You woke restless in bed and followed a thin beam of hazy moonlight to a nearby window. You peered outside to find your viewpoint unexpectedly elevated. The entire house was no longer on the ground but up in the tree, its black, permeable leaves hanging in the darkness around you like the wings of bats. Below, the tree’s roots danced hypnotically, the warm spring wind carrying inaudible whispers through the sheer window curtains.
Suddenly, you were outside, standing on a thick, perpendicular branch. Alex sat at the far end, feet dangling off the edge, his face shrouded in darkness by the canopy above. He reached for you, and you inched forward, careful not to lose your balance as the branch below your bare feet began to bend and groan. Now, just inches away, you reached for him, and as your fingers touched, the branch between you snapped like calcium-deficient bone. You screamed as Alex fell, swallowed into darkness by the snake-like roots below. Black sap began to seep from your pores, covering your entire body, and you woke back in bed, skin drenched with sweat.
A week later, a nurse summons you back home. Hospice care is the best thing for your mother, they tell you, and as you stand alone in the kitchen you grew up in, you can’t help but feel like you should’ve visited more.
You take a break from boxing things up and find yourself outside, wandering beneath the trees, fragrant blooms of Mountain Laurel and Rhododendron nestled on the forest floor around you. Suddenly, the oak stands before you, its bark weathered and aged with time, like a giant human face. A group of young Loblolly Pines surround it now, their trunks bowing away from the tree as if showing fealty. The pain from years ago bubbles back to the surface, and tears escape your eyes, disappearing into the soil below. An uneasy feeling comes over you as the sun begins its daily hibernation. The air suddenly seems heavy, suffocating. A hot eastern wind picks up, carrying indistinct whispers on its breath. Panic starts to rise, and you run, pursued by shadows around every corner.
Soon, your old home comes into view between the trees, and as soon as you are inside, you start to feel better. You make tea, play music on your phone, and spend the evening looking through old photo albums of fond memories. A while later, sleep beckons you, and you make up the sofa bed to sleep on. But, as you close the living room curtains, something outside catches your eye.
At the far end of the yard, a flock of wild turkeys moves in from the forest’s edge, foraging in the overgrown grass. You smile, happy that the influx of new homes hasn’t completely removed this last tiny bit of wildness.
One of the black-feathered birds begins to rise, followed by another, their bodies turning into something more or less human. Their hollow eye sockets swell, glowing like empty backlit holes. You stagger back from the window, hoping what you saw was a trick of the imagination, as shadows appear near the house, darkening its windows. You turn off the tabletop lamp next to you and stand frozen in darkness, trying to remember if you locked all the doors. Soft footsteps sound softly overhead, and you attempt to rationalize the possibility of turkeys landing on your old home’s roof as the footsteps grow louder. A second sound comes from the kitchen, and you realize the window above the sink is opening.
Without thinking, you’re down on your knees, heart racing as you crawl to the coffee table in the center of the room. Shadows appear in the kitchen behind you as you reach for your phone, only to discover it stuck to the table in a tacky, wet substance as black sap oozes beneath the windows and doors.
You’re back on your feet, running on unsteady legs as whispers fill the living room behind you. Instinctively, you arrive at your old bedroom, slamming the door closed behind you and wedging your tiny blue desk chair beneath its loose doorknob. A moment later, sap oozes around it, covering the chair and turning what was blue to black. Terrified, you dive onto the bed, closing your eyes and covering your ears, hoping to wake from an all too real nightmare.
With your senses muted, you do not see them come in. Tall, shadowy human-like forms surround your bed, their unnaturally long multi-jointed limbs made of gnarled roots, their hair composed of dark rotting moss. Something touches your arm, and you scream, tears flowing. Shaking, you force open your eyes and see them standing before you, their blank, empty faces suppressing the dim outside light. Features appear on the face closest to you, a large mouth and teeth forming a familiar wide smile. A smile you’ve always known and longed to see again.
“Alex?”
Darren Fuller’s single-story brick ranch home sat like a time capsule between two new subdivisions. Though he had never left town, he had married but divorced after rumored allegations of abuse. He moved back into his parents’ home and eventually inherited it along with a few junk-infested acres of property.
You knock on the old front door of the Fuller residence, its green paint peeling away from years of wear and neglect. A much older and heavier Darren Fuller opens the door, crumbs and food stains painted on an off-white sleeveless tank top. You worry he won’t remember you, but he does, greeting you with a chipped tooth yellowed smile. He invites you inside, apologizing for the weeks of dirty dishes and food wrappers piled on every available flat surface, and you talk for a while, exchanging monotonous pleasantries.
“Such a nice day,” you say, peering through a dust-covered window. You invite him for a walk outside, and he happily obliges. You stroll past the neighboring subdivisions and neat rows of Bradford Pear trees, their fishy scent offensive in the air, and enter the forest together, the same one you played in as a child. Before long, the old Southern Live Oak comes into view, its thick limbs reaching toward the sky like a giant overturned spider.
“Should probably get back,” Darren says nervously as the sun fades.
“Just a bit longer,” you tell him, offering a broad smile as artificial as the streetlights now on every corner. You lean in and kiss him warmly on the cheek. He blushes as you take his hand in yours, and the two of you continue to walk, circling the tree. The other hand in your pocket grips an opened wood-handled knife, one every brave hunter should have. Around you, the sun is no longer your acquaintance, but you are entirely at ease, no longer afraid of what shadows bring. You are finally home, after all. And there’s no better place to be.