The Ghost Tree

by Christina Henry

  They never faltered even though every year a girl went missing, and later that girl was found dead.

  * * *

  * * *

  Those girls were always found in the woods, and what happened to them cannot be spoken.

  And nobody would speak of it, though everyone had a sense there was Something Wrong, something seething beneath the surface of their picturesque little town. Everyone pretended things were just fine, and all the neighbors made casseroles for the families that lost their daughters, and they waited for their turn.

  Then one year, a man was found in the woods, near the pretty cabin that had been empty for as long as anyone could remember. This man had his heart torn out, and no one could say what had done it, or why or how, and nobody wanted to say anyway.

  Nobody talked about witches, or a curse, or the girls that went missing or the Dark Thing that slouched through the dry-leaved forest and seemed to seep out of the soil into the very air. No one spoke of those things.

  But after the man died, things went wrong.

  He was the wrong sacrifice.

  And the Dark Thing that waited for its yearly blood and bread found it was no longer bound by the rules of the curse. It could slither along in the forest, or slither its way into the body of a man if it wanted. It was so much easier to move among the sheep if it was disguised as one of them.

  It was free now, free to choose its own meal at its own time, and to eat more than one a year. It could feast now. It wanted to feast.

  The sacrifice had been wrong, so it went looking for the right one.

  1

  It was a good story, and it was well told. But when Nana got to the end bit, the bit about the man being found in the woods, Lauren felt like her grandmother had struck her. How could Nana use Lauren’s father’s death in this story, like it was just a dramatic plot point? How could she so callously throw that out there without any regard for Lauren’s feelings?

  Lauren had been buying it all up until the end. The story of the witch and the man who loved her had struck the perfect tragic note, like an old-fashioned legend. And the notion of a creepy presence in the forest didn’t even seem that farfetched. She liked the idea of a local story that explained so many of the funny things about Smiths Hollow, even if it wasn’t really true.

  Of course it couldn’t be true. It was just a story. Even if Nana had decided to add her father’s murder into it.

  Maybe she thought it would help me? Like there would be an explanation even if there wasn’t a real explanation.

  Yes, that must be it. Although Lauren considered the method a little thoughtless, and telling a story like that to explain her father’s horrific murder seemed more like the kind of thing you’d do with a younger kid.

  A kid you wanted to terrify.

  And the thing of it was . . . Nana seemed to think she was telling a true story. There was something in her manner, in the intent way she stared at Lauren. And a true story meant that she believed all that stuff about the girls.

  But the idea that one girl was getting killed every year was ridiculous. Everyone would know about it. There would be communal outrage.

  “It’s impossible,” Lauren said.

  “What is?”

  “That.” Lauren waved her hand around in Nana’s general direction, her gesture encompassing the whole story. “There’s no way any of it’s real.”

  “Why can’t it be real?” Nana asked. She seemed genuinely interested in Lauren’s answer.

  “Because we would know,” Lauren said. “And I don’t know any girls who’ve been killed in the woods. Mom would never have let me near the ghost tree if girls were getting killed there all the time.”

  She remembered then her vision in the woods the day before, the pain that had split her skull, the bloodied handprint on her bike seat. And the dead girls in Mrs. Schneider’s backyard.

  But that was something that just happened. It hasn’t been going on for years and years. And everybody knows about it—everyone on the street, everyone in the town. It’s not some kind of weird secret.

  “But you do know girls who have been killed there,” Nana said gently. “Jennifer Walton. She was in your first-grade class. Callie Bryzinski. She was in your sixth-grade class. Holly Becker. Your third-grade class. Terri Zimmerman. She lived four houses away from you. Paula Lisowski. She was your babysitter for two years.”

  “What are you—no,” Lauren said. “No, I would know if they were all murdered. It would be in the newspapers. And on the TV. Reporters would come from Chicago. And everyone would be talking about it. None of those things ever happened. Not ever. Jennifer Walton’s family moved to North Carolina.”

  “After their daughter died, and they moved back three years ago because you can’t leave Smiths Hollow, even if you’ve already made a sacrifice.”

  Lauren shook her head. “And Paula Lisowski went to college. She was a really good artist. She wanted to go to NYU.”

  “She died before she graduated high school.”

  “Stop saying that!” Lauren shouted. “Stop telling me things that I know aren’t true. This stupid story has gone far enough.”

  Lauren stood up, feeling flushed and unreasonably angry. Why was her nana acting this way? Was she trying to scare Lauren for some mysterious reason of her own? “And anyway, if everyone forgets about the stupid curse, how do you know about it?”

  “Because we are a branch of the same tree that made those witches, long ago.”

  “Now I really know you’re making it up,” Lauren said, and hot tears sprang to her eyes. Why was her own precious nana doing this? “Are you trying to make fun of me? Do you think I’m dumb or something?”

  Nana looked stricken. “No, Lauren, I never—”

  “You just said that there were only three of them, that there were always three. One grandmother, one mother, one daughter. And since in your story all of them died, including the daughter’s baby, we couldn’t be related to them. So your story is just a lot of bullshit.” Lauren clapped her hand over her mouth. She only ever swore to herself, or maybe when she was around Miranda, but never in the presence of an adult.

  “That’s right,” Nana said calmly, ignoring Lauren’s curse. “I did say that. What I didn’t say was that when the first three witches, the very first of them all, settled here, the oldest woman had a sister that did not come to live with them. She and her descendants stayed in their little town, pretending that they were not full of magic. But when the last three died, one of those descendants came here. And that woman was my great-grandmother.”

  “That’s very convenient,” Lauren said. “The sudden appearance of a magical sibling and her children, so that the line doesn’t die out at the end of your story.”

  “You can believe or not,” Nana said. “I told you that at the beginning.”

  “I don’t,” Lauren said, stalking toward the door. “I’m going home.”

  “I thought you would be different than your mother,” Nana said.

  No words could have arrested Lauren’s movement quicker. She wasn’t like Mom—nitpicking, closed-minded, always miserable.

  “I am different from her,” she said. “I am nothing like her at all.”

  “Then tell me about your visions,” Nana said.

  “How did you—?” Lauren almost asked, but then decided she would admit to nothing. And making that decision hurt, because Nana had always been a trusted confidante. She’d always felt she could tell her grandmother anything. But if Nana was going to act like this, then that weird vision Lauren had was none of her business. “What does that have to do with your story, and these supposed murdered girls?”

  Nana huffed out an impatient breath. “If you are the descendant of a witch—and you are, whatever you might think at the moment—then you are the right age to start showing manifestations of that power. It usually begins in
adolescence.”

  Then why does David know everything that’s happening? Lauren thought. David wasn’t even in grade school yet. Lauren really hadn’t had time to let what happened yesterday sink in, and now Nana was telling her that she was a witch, or something like one.

  Magic wasn’t real. Yes, something strange had happened to both her and David, but it didn’t mean they could cast spells or whatever. And Lauren definitely didn’t believe in curses.

  “Even if I did believe we had some kind of magical bloodline—and I don’t, just saying it out loud is ridiculous—you still can’t prove that it has anything to do with a bunch of dead girls. Because there are no dead girls. Nobody would live here anymore if that were happening.”

  “I told you in the story—nobody can leave Smiths Hollow. They can go for a little while, but they always find themselves returning. Because that, too, is part of the curse. The monster must have meat to feed on, and those three witches made certain it would have it. And there are dead girls. Many, many girls. One every year, and the only one who remembers them is me. Well, me and one other.”

  “Why only you?” Lauren asked, finding another logical flaw in Nana’s story. “Why not Mom, or me? We’re all related.”

  “Your mother is too mundane,” Nana said, her voice hard. “If she ever had any magic to speak of, she’s suppressed it so thoroughly it will never come out again. She closes her eyes and pretends that what she doesn’t want to see isn’t there. So of course she would ignore the girls, the way she ignores everything that doesn’t suit her. And as for you . . . well, once you know what’s happening you’ll find it easy to remember. Too easy.”

  Nana sighed, and it was a sigh filled with more grief than Lauren could comprehend. She almost went to her grandmother then and put her arms around her. She almost said Let’s forget all of this and I love you, Nana.

  But then Nana said the unforgivable thing.

  “There wasn’t a girl last year, though. There was supposed to be. But your father went in your place.”

  2

  Miranda walked around the ghost tree for about the billionth time, checked her watch, and found that it was only thirty seconds after the last time she checked. Where was Lauren? She was never this late.

  Maybe her mom was still out.

  But if so, then why hadn’t Lauren called before one? They’d set a time. They’d agreed.

  And Miranda was going to burst open if she didn’t tell somebody about Him. Of course, she couldn’t tell Lauren His real name, because He was technically an adult and if anybody found out about Him and Miranda then He could get in a lot of trouble because she was jailbait.

  Not that anything had happened last night. But Miranda knew something was going to happen, could just tell from the way He watched her and the way He had touched her shoulder before she climbed out of His car, telling her to be careful. She could feel Him watching her all the way up the path to her front door.

  And He was so much better looking than Tad, and nicer, too. Miranda knew He would never abandon her in a mall food court for some slut in a neon tank top.

  She looked at her watch again. One thirty. How much longer should she wait? She was starting to get really pissed off. Lauren had just walked out of the Dream Machine yesterday without saying a word and left Miranda looking stupid in front of Tad and Billy. Not that Tad and Billy mattered at all now, but it was the principle of the thing. You don’t just go off and leave your best friend without saying a word.

  Well, maybe I should keep Tad as a backup. Because He isn’t going to drive me to school in His car, and I do not want to spend the next year taking the dorky school bus. We’ll have to keep our relationship a secret, so I can pretend to be Tad’s girlfriend at the same time.

  Miranda was sure He would understand. It was the kind of thing that happened in grown-up relationships all the time—a public lover and a secret one.

  “You don’t even have a relationship yet,” she said to herself. “Don’t get ahead of yourself.”

  But they were going to have a relationship. He was going to be the one who took Miranda’s troublesome virginity. She knew. She knew.

  And I’m sure He’s a better kisser than Tad, anyway. Tad had attached himself to her face like an octopus sucker, and she’d just kept telling herself it was all in service of the Camaro. But He was probably a very good kisser. He wouldn’t be rough.

  There was a rustle in the woods behind her. Finally.

  “Lauren, what took you so—oh. It’s you. What are you doing here?”

  It wasn’t a very welcoming thing to say to Him. But she hadn’t expected to see Him there, in the place where only she and Lauren went. And besides, she wasn’t wearing good clothes or lip gloss or anything. She self-consciously smoothed down the hem of her shorts, which had gotten wrinkled. Her armpits were sweaty from pacing around, too, and she bet her hair was frizzy from the heat.

  “I heard you and Lauren like to come here,” He said. “I was hoping to find you.”

  Miranda felt a swell of happiness. She’d been right. He wanted her. But then something He’d said snagged on her pride.

  “You wanted to find me and Lauren?” she asked suspiciously.

  That would make more sense, since He knew Lauren first. But it wasn’t really what Miranda wanted to hear, especially after He asked about Lauren first thing the night before. She’d almost let herself forget that. He only came to see her because of Lauren. Boring Lauren who still dressed like a little kid and was stuck at home with her brother because her mommy said so.

  “Well,” He said, giving a shrug that made Him look like a guilty little boy. “I was hoping that you would be alone. And here you are.”

  Yes. Here I am. She knew that He wasn’t really interested in Lauren. Who would be when Miranda was around?

  She took a couple of steps toward Him, then stopped. What if Lauren came along just at that moment and ruined everything? There was still a chance she could show up. They had to get away from here before that happened.

  Take me away, she thought. Take me somewhere we can be alone.

  He had stopped about ten or so feet from the ghost tree, leaning against one of the many oaks that surrounded it. His posture told Miranda that He wasn’t in a hurry to go anywhere in particular. His eyes moved from her bare ankles and up her legs, over her torso and finally to her face. She stared right back at Him and He smiled.

  “Want to walk with me, Miranda?” He asked.

  “Yes,” she said, and let Him take her hand and lead her into the woods.

  3

  Alex hadn’t wanted to draw attention to what he was doing, so he’d made a mental note to not get caught up in the search and spend so much time in the basement that someone would notice. He’d spent an hour getting dusty as he searched through the files from the year prior, looking for any cases that were similar to the still-unidentified girls in Mrs. Schneider’s backyard.

  This was both easier and harder than expected. Easier because violent crimes were very rare in Smiths Hollow, so he could tell at a glance if the file was worth further investigation.

  It was harder because he had to wade through an ocean of minor break-ins, juvenile shoplifting, and complaints about neighbors having noisy parties. He noticed that Mrs. Schneider featured prominently in a number of these and made a mental note to ask Sofia if she wanted to throw a potluck picnic for the block on the Fourth of July. Let the Old Bigot complain about the noise when everyone in their neighborhood was outside enjoying themselves while she sat in her living room and choked on her own bile.

  Alex knew that he should probably show some compassion for her, given the circumstances of the previous day, but somehow he just couldn’t dredge it up for a person like her.

  By eleven thirty he’d found no violent crime from 1984 except that of Joe diMucci. He thought there were plenty of similarities—the removal of b
ody parts for one, though the girls had been beheaded and dismembered, and diMucci had his heart removed.

  He was fairly certain that the type of wound was similar, but he’d have to compare the photos of diMucci’s body to the ones he’d taken of the girls yesterday to be sure.

  Some kind of escalation, maybe? Alex thought, and then laughed at himself a little bit. That was something from an FBI novel about serial killers he’d read once. He had about as much experience profiling as he did investigating murders—none at all. But nobody else seemed interested in the dead girls.

  Alex thought that under normal circumstances some kind of outside investigator would be called in to help them—detectives from Chicago, maybe, or yes, the FBI. They were a tiny town with a tiny police force that spent most of its time breaking up Friday night fights at the local watering hole. Two mutilated bodies should justify some kind of assistance.

  But Christie didn’t seem to be inclined to do that, and Mayor Touhy wasn’t interested in bad press that might put his precious summer fair in jeopardy.

  How is he going to feel if some killer uses his fair as a hunting ground? Pretty damned stupid.

  Alex went to find Miller for lunch, because he knew if he didn’t, Miller would come looking for him and he didn’t want to answer any questions about what he was doing in the basement. He had an odd feeling that all the files might suddenly disappear, or the department building might be torched in the night. He’d be more willing to dismiss these thoughts as paranoia if he hadn’t struggled just to write down THE GIRLS in his notebook.

  They drove out to Sam’s Dairy Bar, because Miller decided he desperately needed a chocolate shake to go with the French fries he craved.