Trembling With Fear 5-03-26 – The Horror Tree

Stay away from the Barn

Although her truck handled the sharp turns of the mountain road with ease, the concussion I gave the girl soon catches up with her and I see her slump over the wheel as the adrenaline wears off, and she blinks out of consciousness. The truck veers to the right, loses power and bumps to an unspectacular halt at the base of a huge sycamore.  

These mountain roads, unfortunately for her, are predictably quiet. Nothing for miles in any direction but a military facility in the unreachable distance, which she couldn’t find if she was trying. But she’d find no help there anyway. As I approach the driver’s window, her head wobbles limply as she fights to come around, but it’s no good. Her fate is already sealed. I tap on the gl*** with my fingernail, and she turns to me, groggy, terrified, and filled with confusion.

“I told you not to look in there… but you didn’t want to listen”

“I’m sorry,” she pleads, tearfully and full of self-pity.

“Open the door” I order her.

She hesitates and looks around, but there’s nothing but woods. Acres and acres of emptiness, void of the help she aches for. Frozen with option paralysis, I prompt her again.

“Open the door,” I repeat and show her the pistol I used to whip the concussion into her. 

It thaws her, and she opens the door, trembling like an orphan in the cold. I lead her back to my truck and secure her hands with 15mm cable ties and place her face down in the back. 

“Please, don’t kill me. I won’t tell anyone I swear,” she begs through stifled tears.

I remind her that she’s only here because of her own stupidity.

“I told you not to look in the *** barn,” I snarl, and slam the door. 

***

ONE HOUR PREVIOUSLY.

A knock on the door caught me by surprise. Being this far out into the wilderness usually eliminates the chance for random visitors. Usually. I open the door to a beautiful young woman, no more than thirty years of age, natural looking with no makeup in sight. Her vibrant red hair, pulled tightly into a neat ponytail, hung like a fox’s tail over her right shoulder against her forest green uniform. On her left breast, embroidered in yellow stitching was the emblem of her organisation. An owl above the words Hooter Nannies. She began with a smile and a joy about her that I’ve never possessed.  

“Hello, my name is Mishkal. I’m with Hooter Nannies. We’re a privately funded owl conservation society, and we’re in the area counting owls,” she said, flashing a fancy laminated card at me with her picture on it. “I’m sorry to bother you today, but I was hoping to get to some of the large Sycamores behind your property, to put up a few bird boxes. This last mating season was very poor and we’re hoping that if we put up some boxes, it will give the chicks this season a much stronger chance,” she added.

I look past her and see her truck parked in the background, with the same owl insignia on the door and ladders tethered to the roof rack. 

“Are you alone?” I ask her.

“Yes, but I ***ure you I work very quickly. I’ll be up and down those ladders in no time. I promise,” she excitedly brags.

“Have you tried just going through the wood? Why do you need to come through here, Meeshka?” 

“Mishkal,” she corrects, “I tried to, but it’s pretty dense in there. I couldn’t get the ladders in through all the bush.” 

I take a step out onto the porch and consider the risk.

“Where do you need to get to?” I ask her.

She smiles like she’s already won me over and points.

“Well, if I just head right across the field here I can get the ladders up from inside of your fence line. It butts right up to the woods, and more importantly those beautiful big Sycamores.”

The spot she points to, east of the house, is about 150 meters from the barn.   

“And you just need to get to the fence line?” I ask.

“Yes. And I’ll be quick. Half an hour. Max.” she says with the excitement of a little girl, giddy about her favourite woodland creature. 

I grant her permission, with one caveat. 

“Ok, but stay away from the barn. There’s nothing in there, and it’s not safe. It’s waiting to be torn down.” I say in my most motherly tone.

“Ok great, thank you. I’ll get right to it. Would you like me to leave you some leaflets about the local owl population?” she asks, and readies a small glossy booklet of information.

“No thanks” I answer and snub the booklet. Then take position in the bay window to keep my eyes on her. 

*** 

She proceeds exactly as she said she would. The ladders go up, and she climbs them swiftly and drills the bird boxes into position like a pro. Four trees, four boxes and 24 minutes later she’s done. As she raises the ladders to her shoulder and lifts her tool bag to head back, I place the rifle I’ve been holding behind the curtain. When I arrive out on the porch expecting her to be moving across the field toward me, I instead see her heading back toward the barn. Her curiosity magnetized to the favourite haunt of her favourite creature. I remove the pistol from the small of my back and move in the direction of my poor decision. And possibly her last. 

I p*** her ladders and tool bag thirty meters out, and when I get to the door, she’s frozen to the spot in fear. Staring right into its big black eyes. I crack her good, just behind her right ear, with the butt of the gun and she drops like an abandoned marionette. But, as I turn to settle the creature, agitated behind the gl*** of its enclosure, she rises like Lazarus. She shoves me from behind and breaks into an unbalanced, wobbly terror induced run toward her truck. I scramble to retrieve my fumbled pistol. It takes me too long, and by the time I get to the barn door she is closing her truck door. The adrenaline has given her a head start, but it won’t last. When I catch up on the road, I’m just in time to see it wear off. And the hot pursuit shunts to an unspectacular ending ironically at the base of a huge Sycamore. 

On the way back to the property, Mishkal fights through the shock and injuries to ask.

“What was it, what was that in the barn? Was it real?”

“You already know my dear. You just don’t want to believe it” I say. “And yes, they are as real as you or me.”

“Its eyes were so big, so black. It looked like they do in the movies. I can’t be real.”

“Art imitates life, my dear.”

“Are you going to kill me?” she asks me hopelessly.

“No dear. But they will” I say, and she lets out an uncontrollable sob.

“Please don’t give me to the alien! Please!” she begged, choking on tears and emotion.

“No no, not them dear. They wouldn’t hurt a fly. I mean the people who are keeping them in my barn. The ones in the black van behind us. I told you to stay away from the barn,” I reply. And then stop for the van.