The Dead Baby Tree
by Adam Dorsheimer
I took to sleeping in the nursery after Emily died. To this day, I’m still not quite sure why I started; I think I liked the feeling of closeness, the sense that if I could lay my head in just the right spot, right where hers once was, I might still hear her tiny heartbeat somewhere deep inside.
Now, John didn’t like that one bit, but he was subtle at first—as subtle as he could be, anyway. In those early days, when the sun went down, he’d come knocking at the door, asking if he could expect me in bed later. And he’d only betray the faintest disappointment when I’d say,
“maybe tomorrow.”
After a couple weeks of that, I found I could no longer leave the nursery at all. Slowly--so slowly I couldn’t feel it happening—the room had become something larger than itself. A horrific, immovable prison had formed around me, and John’s patience was wearing thin. His
entreaties grew more bitter with each day I spent caged in our daughter’s old room. It was all I could do to coil up in her crib and escape into an insomniac daze, desperately awaiting the day I’d be set free.
Then, one morning, a tree appeared outside the nursery window. I wondered at first if it was really there, so I called for John to come take a look. He said nothing, but his expression told me he saw exactly what I did: a great big oak tree, twisted and scarred and covered in moss—a
tree that most certainly had not been there yesterday.
That night, I awoke to the sound of crying. My skin crawled. The voice was unmistakably hers. And yet, there was something beneath it, the sound of an unusual pain unlike anything I’d ever heard.
John burst in, pale-faced and silent, and headed straight to the window. I pulled myself out of the crib and followed.
It was a still night, no trace of wind in the muggy summer air, but the oak tree was moving all the same. With each dreadful bellow of Emily’s voice, it shuddered and convulsed, and the fractured wood of its trunk opened and closed as though the screams were coming from inside.
Huddled around it in a semicircle that stretched nearly to the edge of the property, were our neighbors. Upon seeing movement in the nursery, they pointed at the window. They yelled for us to quiet down—they had work in the morning and our tree just wouldn’t stop screaming. John went out to try and reason with them, and I returned to the crib, where I melted into a mass of bony abstraction and allowed the wailing to fade into restless nightmares.
Sometime later—and it must’ve been quite a bit later, for the sun was fixed in the sky—I became aware of some new, unfamiliar voices outside the window. Upon closer inspection, it seemed a handful of neighborhood children had taken to dancing around our garden. They ran around the tree, throwing their arms up and down, chanting in playful, sing-songy voices—dead baby tree, dead baby tree, please don’t eat me, dead baby tree.
I watched them until John went out and chased them away. A cold sweat began to prickle at the back of my neck. I knew he was really angry now, and for all his loveliest qualities, he was known for the nastiness of his temper.
Once the last of the kids scampered away, he came into the nursery and folded his arms across his chest. His face was blank, but his body quivered with rage. “Are you ready to come out?”
When I attempted to answer, I realized I couldn’t speak anymore. Without my knowing, my voice had been taken, exiled outside of myself. I ran my fingers across my face. Once I was certain my lips hadn’t gone too, I shook my head and mouthed the word “no.”
He didn’t say anything else, but instead turned on his heels and stormed out of the room. I let out a long exhale and climbed into the crib, afflicted by a sudden bout of exhaustion. At dusk, there was a tapping on the window. I peeked out the corner of the curtain to find John standing in the garden. He gestured for me to pull the curtain aside, which I did. And it was then that I noticed all our neighbors gathered behind him, their faces colored sickly by the faint moonlight.
From beneath the windowsill, John produced an axe. He scrutinized the thing in his hands, allowing his eyes to run across every inch of it before holding it out for the crowd to do the same. They let out a blood-thirsty cheer in response. Seemingly satisfied with their reply, he buried the blade into the tree.
The trunk splintered and writhed, screaming as if Emily herself had been struck. A horrible pain ripped through my chest. And yet, confined as I was to my place in this room, to this body that could no longer speak or cry out, I could only watch as John swung the axe again and again, and listen as the night came alive with screams and cheers and the rhythmic thumping of steel on wood.
Now, John didn’t like that one bit, but he was subtle at first—as subtle as he could be, anyway. In those early days, when the sun went down, he’d come knocking at the door, asking if he could expect me in bed later. And he’d only betray the faintest disappointment when I’d say,
“maybe tomorrow.”
After a couple weeks of that, I found I could no longer leave the nursery at all. Slowly--so slowly I couldn’t feel it happening—the room had become something larger than itself. A horrific, immovable prison had formed around me, and John’s patience was wearing thin. His
entreaties grew more bitter with each day I spent caged in our daughter’s old room. It was all I could do to coil up in her crib and escape into an insomniac daze, desperately awaiting the day I’d be set free.
Then, one morning, a tree appeared outside the nursery window. I wondered at first if it was really there, so I called for John to come take a look. He said nothing, but his expression told me he saw exactly what I did: a great big oak tree, twisted and scarred and covered in moss—a
tree that most certainly had not been there yesterday.
That night, I awoke to the sound of crying. My skin crawled. The voice was unmistakably hers. And yet, there was something beneath it, the sound of an unusual pain unlike anything I’d ever heard.
John burst in, pale-faced and silent, and headed straight to the window. I pulled myself out of the crib and followed.
It was a still night, no trace of wind in the muggy summer air, but the oak tree was moving all the same. With each dreadful bellow of Emily’s voice, it shuddered and convulsed, and the fractured wood of its trunk opened and closed as though the screams were coming from inside.
Huddled around it in a semicircle that stretched nearly to the edge of the property, were our neighbors. Upon seeing movement in the nursery, they pointed at the window. They yelled for us to quiet down—they had work in the morning and our tree just wouldn’t stop screaming. John went out to try and reason with them, and I returned to the crib, where I melted into a mass of bony abstraction and allowed the wailing to fade into restless nightmares.
Sometime later—and it must’ve been quite a bit later, for the sun was fixed in the sky—I became aware of some new, unfamiliar voices outside the window. Upon closer inspection, it seemed a handful of neighborhood children had taken to dancing around our garden. They ran around the tree, throwing their arms up and down, chanting in playful, sing-songy voices—dead baby tree, dead baby tree, please don’t eat me, dead baby tree.
I watched them until John went out and chased them away. A cold sweat began to prickle at the back of my neck. I knew he was really angry now, and for all his loveliest qualities, he was known for the nastiness of his temper.
Once the last of the kids scampered away, he came into the nursery and folded his arms across his chest. His face was blank, but his body quivered with rage. “Are you ready to come out?”
When I attempted to answer, I realized I couldn’t speak anymore. Without my knowing, my voice had been taken, exiled outside of myself. I ran my fingers across my face. Once I was certain my lips hadn’t gone too, I shook my head and mouthed the word “no.”
He didn’t say anything else, but instead turned on his heels and stormed out of the room. I let out a long exhale and climbed into the crib, afflicted by a sudden bout of exhaustion. At dusk, there was a tapping on the window. I peeked out the corner of the curtain to find John standing in the garden. He gestured for me to pull the curtain aside, which I did. And it was then that I noticed all our neighbors gathered behind him, their faces colored sickly by the faint moonlight.
From beneath the windowsill, John produced an axe. He scrutinized the thing in his hands, allowing his eyes to run across every inch of it before holding it out for the crowd to do the same. They let out a blood-thirsty cheer in response. Seemingly satisfied with their reply, he buried the blade into the tree.
The trunk splintered and writhed, screaming as if Emily herself had been struck. A horrible pain ripped through my chest. And yet, confined as I was to my place in this room, to this body that could no longer speak or cry out, I could only watch as John swung the axe again and again, and listen as the night came alive with screams and cheers and the rhythmic thumping of steel on wood.
Adam Dorsheimer is a short fiction writer based in Denver, Colorado. He holds a degree in sociology and English from College of Charleston, and his writing has been featured in Fiction on the Web, Literally Stories, Spires Intercollegiate Arts and Literary Magazine, and more.