Where The Apple Tree Dies Part 2
By: P.G. Barnett
Tags: Short Story, Fiction, Fiction Series, Later Henry, Short Fiction

My name is Henry James, and I’m a writer for Dark Sides of the Truth magazine.

Part 1

As houses go, the tiny house on Purcell Avenue seemed the smallest and probably the oldest home on the block. It reminded me of one of the hundreds of tract homes built during the baby booming fifties, which would have put it somewhere in the neighborhood of about seventy years old.

Adorned with several window units, areas of the roof’s soffits peeling back, the house seemed out of place as if somehow it had chosen to retain its position in times long past, while everything around it continued to move forward.

At the front door, a brief search revealed the absence of a doorbell, so I pulled back the screen and rapped on the door a couple of times.

We both stepped back and waited as the door cracked open a tiny sliver and then wider to reveal an elderly lady, her short grey hair laying in tight curls against her head. Although at first, it seemed the woman was smiling, it really wasn’t a smile. It was more of a widening of her lips she’d pressed together tightly. There was a general sadness to her expression. As though she’d lived a very tough life, and the stress of finding a way to exist all these years had torn at her, bit by bit until she had very little left to give.

“Yes?”

“Ma’am, this is Sally Peters, and my name is Henry James. We’re from the Dark Sides of the Truth magazine. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

The woman frowned in thought, then shook her head.

“I’m afraid we don’t have the money for a subscription, sir.”

“Oh no, ma’am. We’re not selling subscriptions. I uh, well, uh…”

“What my partner’s trying to say ma’am is that we understand you may have had reason to contact the police department lately. And though they came out here twice, they couldn’t find anything. We think perhaps we may be able to help you and your family with your problem.”

The old lady shifted her gaze from Sally to me, then back to Sally as if she was struggling with a decision to either shut the door dismissively or allow two strangers into her home.

“Ma’am, if this isn’t a good time, we’ll come back.”

“No, sir, no, please. Come in.”

We followed her to a small living room spying a single chair upholstered in severely faded cloth, a mismatched couch with a rather battered coffee table in front it, and a stand sporting a small television. Although a window unit was pushing cooled air into the room, the pall of stale air was almost overpowering.

“Would you two like some coffee? I have some I brewed this morning still in the pot.”

“Yes, ma’am, that would be fine.”

“How do you take it?”

“Black no sugar.”

“And you miss…?”

“Sally. I like mine black as well. No sugar.”

The woman nodded and then walked out of the room while Sally and I traded glances.

“See Henry? We already have something in common.”

“I don’t suppose you like cheeseburgers, and chili cheese fries, do ya?”

“Love ‘em.”

“Huh, maybe there’s a chance for you yet, Peters.”

The elderly lady returned and placed a serving tray on the coffee table, then took one of the three cups and sat in the chair opposite us. For several seconds we sipped in silence, and the woman merely sat and watched us, as if expecting us to start the conversation.

“So forgive me, ma’am, but we didn’t get your name.”

“Eunice. Eunice Richardson.”

“Do you live here by yourself, Eunice?”

“No. My daughter and three of her four children live here as well. My daughter is at work, and the children are in school. I suppose you two want to know about the haunting. We tried to tell the police, but I don’t think they believed us. Especially the second time because the children called them. My daughter and I had gone to get a few groceries, and when we got home, a police car was there. All the children seemed terrified.”

“Eunice, what happened?”

“It’s Sally, correct?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“It wasn’t just one thing, Sally. Things have been happening since we moved in. We weren’t aware this house had been empty for years before us, and now we know why. Its previous owners lived in the house for only a year, and then they left, choosing to rent it to us. Previous to that, the house had remained empty since it’s original owners left.”

“Things like what Eunice?”

“Well, for starters, Mr. James, when was the last time you saw a hairbrush float down a hallway?”

“You mean by itself?”

“Exactly, but it doesn’t stop there. Things in this house are constantly moving, changing locations. Shampoos from the bathroom suddenly appeared in the refrigerator, pans I normally keep on the stove turning up in the stove. Drawers in my chest of drawers in my bedroom opening by themselves. A rocking chair was rocking itself…”

“Maybe your grandchildren playing pranks?”

“No, sir. These kids may be rambunctious at times, but they don’t lie, and they’ve been taught not to play pranks like this. Besides, several times the children were with their mother and me when it happened.”

“Any particular date or time these incidents happen?”

Eunice Richardson shook her head wearily, started to take a sip, then stopped and slowly lowered her cup.

“Now that I think of it, it happens pretty regularly and always on a Wednesday. I have a steamer trunk in my bedroom. It was my mother’s and came across this country inside a Conestoga. I keep it shut and locked, but every Wednesday, either late in the night or early in the day, I find the trunk unlocked and the lid up, and photos removed and tossed on the coverlet of the bed along with clothing from the closet and the chest of drawers.”

“So it doesn’t sound like whatever this is, is dangerous then.”

“Perhaps, but then later, we began to see a woman’s face in my bedroom window, my youngest granddaughter and I. Shirly and I saw the woman’s face plain as day and not just once. It always starts with her tapping on the sill outside — tap, tap, tap, tap. And then suddenly there she is, scaring the life out of us. The next morning after getting the children off to school, I go outside and check, and it’s always the same. No footprints, nothing to indicate someone had been there, except for, well except for…”

We both remained silent, waiting for the woman to collect herself.

“Except for the bloody handprints. As if she’d placed her hands there to lean forward and get a better look into the window. I washed the window sill clean, but every time she comes back, I find them there the next morning.”

“Okay, that doesn’t sound harmless, Henry.”

“I know, Peters.”

“I need to show you both something else, though. Outside in the back yard.”

“The bloodstains?”

“No, Sally. The tree. The apple tree.”

Read On — Where The Apple Tree Dies Part 3

Let’s s keep in touch: P.G. & Sharon Barnett (paul@pgbarnett.com)

© P.G. Barnett, 2020. All Rights Reserved.