The tree had always been there.
Older than the house.
Older than the town.
It sat crooked on the hill behind our backyard, its bark gnarled like ancient muscle, branches curled as if to hold something close. My mother called it the Ashroot. Said it was sacred. Said it "remembered us."
---
I didn't believe her.
Until it started remembering back.
---
That morning, I found Clara in the kitchen, staring at her sketchpad with trembling hands.
She hadn't drawn this one.
Not on purpose.
She said she'd fallen asleep at her desk. Woke up to find her pencil snapped in two and a fresh page filled with black lines.
But the lines weren't random.
They were a face.
Not quite human.
Elongated. Hollow-eyed.
Mouth open too wide.
And roots growing through its eye sockets.
Clara whispered:
> "It's her."
---
I looked at the drawing again.
It looked like Eleanor—my mother—but older.
More buried.
Less woman than shape.
Her eyes had been replaced by tiny concentric circles—tree rings.
---
"I didn't draw this," Clara said, voice flat.
I believed her.
---
Theo came home later that morning, drenched from the rain.
He'd been out trying to talk to Noah, who'd locked himself in the attic room my mother once lived in.
Noah had taken her old rocking chair and placed it beside the window.
He just sat there, humming.
The same three notes.
Over and over.
Low. High. Hold.
---
Clara refused to go near the attic. She kept scratching at her arms. Not anxiety—itching, like something under the skin.
And I noticed her fingers had splinters.
But not from furniture.
They were black.
Old. Dry.
Like tiny fragments of bark.
---
That evening, I went out to the tree.
Alone.
I took a flashlight and the watch Mom always wore—the old one with the cracked crystal and the engraving on the back:
> "From the root, again and again."
---
I thought maybe burying it at the base would give me peace.
Instead, it gave me confirmation.
---
As I knelt and began digging, the soil felt warm.
Wet.
Alive.
Worms retreated. The smell was thick and metallic.
Then I hit something solid.
Not a rock.
Something smooth.
Something round.
I dug around it and pulled it up.
A jar.
Sealed in wax.
Wrapped in red twine.
Inside:
Teeth.
Tiny.
Children's teeth.
---
I dropped it.
The flashlight flickered.
And I heard footsteps behind me.
But no one was there.
Only the sound of the tree creaking, like an old woman shifting her weight.
---
That night, Clara woke up screaming.
She said she saw Grandma in her mirror.
Said she looked angry.
Said her mouth was stitched shut with roots.
And said one word before vanishing:
> "Choose."
---
Theo told me we should leave.
Take the kids.
Go to a hotel.
But I think deep down, he knew what I knew.
This didn't follow us.
It started with us.
It waited for this.
---
I went to the attic.
Noah was asleep in the rocker, cradling something.
A bundle of dirt, wrapped in cloth.
I unwrapped it slowly.
Inside was a locket.
My mother's.
Inside: A photo of me as a child—smiling.
And on the back, etched in her old, shaky hand:
> "One child will carry the blood."
"One child will carry the fire."
"Only one survives the root."
---
I looked at Noah.
His lips were moving in his sleep.
I leaned closer.
He whispered:
> "She's picking soon."