The Longing Trees

Short Gothic-folk horror - 8-10 minute read

Happy Halloween everyone!

For over twenty years, I’ve been sharing short horror stories on Halloween. This year there are two, yesterday’s comedy-horror Fresh Salmon for McTavish and today’s Gothic-folk horror ‘The Longing Trees’.

I’ll be posting something every week:

• new stories every month

• paid subscribers will receive content every week (a mix of free and paid writing)

• occasional other free posts on topics relating to the craft of writing, video games, films, and more.

Typically it will be around horror themes, but if you’re interested in storytelling I hope you’ll find something insightful, inspiring, or at least amusing.

Onwards with today’s story…

The Longing Trees

The Longing Trees

by Mata Haggis-Burridge

“Weather’s turning, Ma’am, and we’re losing daylight,” the driver shouted from his perch atop the two-seater carriage. “We’ll be needing to stop soon.”

Genevieve Forsythe tugged aside the carriage’s window curtain. Blank fields rolled past, scattered with white lines where snow gathered in ploughed ruts.

“Got a village ahead,” the driver continued. “We could find an inn?” The driver didn’t try to disguise the hope in his voice.

Flecks of snow settled on the hard ground. Genevieve pushed her hand back into a fur-lined mitt. “Of course.”

The carriage seat across from Genevieve was cold. It would never be filled again. No other could replace him.

The sound of hooves slowed as the driver steadied the horses before reaching the village. Outside, at the centre of a field, a patch of trees had been left standing. Their shadows stretched towards a cluster of low buildings. Despite the trees’ bare branches, they entirely blocked the landscape behind them. It was peculiar, that so few trees could obscure so thoroughly.

She shivered and her eyes returned to the empty seat.

***

“The trees?” The daughter of the innkeeper had brought Genevieve’s supper to the room. She wore her hair tied in a simple knot, and her dress was acceptably clean. “Oh. Yes.” Silence punctuated her words. “The Longing Trees. We don’t go near ’em.”

“Why ever not?”

“Them’s wishing trees, places for longing. Leads to no good, messing with them.”

Genevieve thought of her journey that day. The empty seat. “Longing is a terrible thing, indeed.”

“That’s right, Ma’am.” The young woman shuffled her feet. “Will there be nothing else?”

“Stay, please. Tell me the story of the trees while I eat.”

“You sure, Ma’am? It ain’t for the gentle folks such as yerself.”

“I’d like to hear about the trees.”

“As you wish.” The corner of the maid’s lips turned up in a wicked grin, and her eyes glinted. “Better talking with you than cleaning downstairs.” She dumped herself onto the bed, causing its springs to creak. “For centuries, it’s been said that some folk got their heart’s desire, while many more never returned…”

***

An oil lamp hissed in Genevieve’s gloved hand. The snow glittered like diamonds. Behind her, the village was silent, and no lights shone from windows. Every resident would be curled under their thickest blankets.

The snow had fallen fast and thick in the hours since her arrival, but then the clouds had broken, revealing a full moon. It lit the land in an eerie inversion–the white ground brighter than the star-speckled sky.

Each footstep creaked into the blanket of snow. Its chill cut through her boots, which were never intended for field-walking with their modest heels and smooth soles. Her ankle skewed on an unseen ridge, nearly making her fall, and her gasped breath billowed as thick as a chimney into the frozen night.

The copse lay ahead. Some tree trunks shimmered in the moonlight, silver birches, but others were only stout black pillars cut against the darker shadows within.

It was insanity to believe a maid’s fairy tale. No tree-spirit could grant wishes. Such stories were for children and village folk, not a modern woman such as Genevieve.

A dozen yards from the trees, the snow underfoot abruptly ceased. A ring of clear soil curved around the trunks, scattered heavily with leaves that were turning to mulch. She paused at the edge of the thaw, then stepped across the line.

The air was warmer, closer to the trees. They must hold heat from the day, or some such other scientific process. Strange, yes, but not so unusual. It was only a little warmer.

A gnarled oak stood closest to her, its branches stretched outwards, reaching for sunlight away from the shade of its taller companions. It would make a fine marker for her to judge a completed circuit around the patch.

Three laps of the trees were needed. The young woman from the inn said it must be no less, or the magic would not work, and no more or there would be terrible consequences.

Genevieve held the lamp high and picked her way across the ground. Her eyes flicked between the trees and the mud, determined not to lose her footing lest a turned ankle end her adventure without a satisfactory conclusion.

“One, two, three…” She counted the trees, as she had been told she must. The correct total was essential. The lamp’s light swayed, reaching into the copse. It was not so deep as it had looked from the road and there could only be two dozen trees, thirty at most.

“Twenty-seven, twenty-eight.” The oak stood before her again. That was not so hard. Two more circuits would be necessary. Her eyes picked out every detail, and her mind raced into a future where he returned. Could the story be true? Could wishes be granted?

A breeze lifted a dusting of ice from the field. It whirled into the bare circle where it hung in the air, loitering, as if it were resisting entering among the trunks. Eddies formed, swirls where there should be none, transfixing Genevieve with their languid movement.

Needles prickled the back of her neck and across her scalp, a tingling entirely unrelated to the cold. She sensed she was being watched.

Impossible. Her imagination was galloping away.

She resumed walking.

“One, two, three…”

There was the oak. “Twenty-six, twenty-seven.” Her heart pounded. It had been twenty-eight the previous round. A miscount was understandable, in such conditions, but the number simply must be right. Presumably those that never returned from the trees had counted wrongly, if it weren’t all nonsense. She had one more chance to check.

It was there again–the sense of being watched. The field around was deserted. She huffed onto her gloved hands for warmth, and she caught a brief movement within the copse. A gust of wind hissed through the stripped branches. She barely noticed its bitterness on her cheeks as she strained to make out a shape–a figure–standing among the trees. It was impossibly tall, at least the height of the inn, and yet only as broad as herself.

A trick of the light, surely?

She moved her lamp side to side, attempting to throw light further into the copse, but each angle cast a new shadow. She had been warned at the inn that she mustn’t enter the patch until she had completed the three circuits and found the correct tally. Only if she knew the exact number of trees would her wish be granted.

Nonetheless, a weight in her stomach told her to retreat and accept that such stories were only warnings for children to not stray from sight. She should accept the unfairness of Death, whose steady hand could reach without care to extinguish true love. Most urgently, she must not indulge in superstitious fantasies. Maybe tomorrow she would move on, as everyone insisted she must, but here, alone in the moonlight, who could begrudge her a final hope?

Her path around the trees was easier this time, following the flattened route of her previous circuits. Something troubled her, itched for her attention as she counted. Her footfalls sounded different compared to her first journey. A short rustle mirrored each step, coming from somewhere within the trees. When had that begun? She checked where she was in her tally, examining the trunks to be sure she hadn’t counted twice. “Eighteen, definitely.” The lamp revealed nothing, but the echo continued when she stepped on.

The oak stretched out, its branches glistened in the lamp’s light. “Twenty-seven.” Her first count must have been mistaken. It was time to enter the copse and confirm this was all bumpkin’s folly.

Wind soughed among the trees like a long exhaled breath.

She picked her way over brittle tangles of wilted nettles and blackberry. Thorns tugged at the sodden hem of her shirts, imploring her to not proceed.

The oil lamp’s range seemed to shrink as she moved among the trunks. Dark elms, twisted oaks, and thin birches stretched their naked fingers over her head. The scents of decaying woodland seeped through her senses.

The flame sputtered and died. She had checked its reservoir before leaving the inn. It could not possibly have expired so soon, and yet she was cast into darkness. Frost settled inside her, and her heart fluttered. She must complete the journey to the centre, else this would all have been for naught. There was no going back. It was only a silly lamp. It was only a few more yards.

She waited for her eyes to adjust. The air was entirely still. The biting wind dared not follow her path.

Something clattered ahead, giving her the odd image of a bag of wooden xylophone blocks falling to the ground.

The sound did not repeat. After a moment, she edged onwards, guided by slivers of moonlight.

She entered a circle of firm, clear ground covered with a thin layer of dry leaves.

A spindly shadow stretched up before her, barely distinguishable from the trees behind. It swayed, then arms unfolded from its side with balletic grace. It towered over her. A ground-length cloak shrouded its limbs. A finger emerged from the folds of tattered cloth, revealing skin the colour of ash. The creature pointed at her.

“Speak your score.” Its rasping whisper tumbled from far above.

Iron bands locked around her chest. Sweat pricked her hairline and an uncontrollable shiver ran through her. Trembling gooseflesh grated against layers of fabric that now felt foolishly ill-matched for walking on a night such as this, into places such as this.

“Speak,” it said again.

She craned her neck towards the dark web of branches. “Twenty-seven.”

“Twenty-seven,” it repeated. Malice dripped from the words.

The clattering noise came again, but this time saw its source. A wide crescent appeared at the uppermost extent of the figure. Long, thin teeth filled the space, their texture like raw wood stripped of bark, and they chattered together. It was a laugh. The creature was laughing.

It dropped its extended finger and stepped aside with a flourish, like a magician revealing a mysterious cabinet. Its cloak swished across the circle, making the sound she had heard echoing her footsteps.

Behind where the figure had stood was a thin silver birch, its fist-width trunk previously hidden entirely by the creature and its night-black robe.

“Twenty-eight,” the creature whispered. The chattering laugh came again.

Genevieve lifted her skirts and fled. Thorns tore at her legs, branches whipped her face, and still she ran. She rebounded from a shadowed trunk she saw too late to avoid, tasted blood where it broke her lip, and yet ran on.

More trunks emerged from the gloom, and yet more. She pushed forwards, crashing through undergrowth, heedless of immediate damage, driven by the certainty of mortal danger behind. She must be in the field by now, halfway to the village, but the tall trees still enclosed her.

Her chest burnt like a furnace. She needed to stop, to breathe. She took shelter behind an ancient yew. There was no sound of pursuit.

Each breath drifted in the air before her, lit by scattered moonlight. The cold stung her ears, and she couldn’t feel her toes at all. Her face was numb, yet sweat still slicked her brow.

Still no sound.

She edged around the tree and squinted into the darkness. Her trail of destruction was clear, but she could see no movement, no creature striding through the dark towards her.

Above, there came the sound of clattering wood.

Sharp wooden teeth glowed in the moonlight. They swooped down, grinning, opening wide, multiplying, encasing, crushing.

***

The carriage’s driver checked Genevieve’s room shortly before dawn. She had requested an early start for the journey, but was not there. Nor was she anywhere at the inn. Only one set of footprints led out into the snow, away from the buildings. They were made by a shoe with a small heel, and lightly scuffed by skirts.

The trail led to a patch of trees that grew unhindered despite the fertile land surrounding them. He walked a circuit and found only her footprints, with none leading away.

His guts knotted as he peered into the shadows among the trunks. “Ma’am?” She could only be within.

With no other choice, he picked his way inside. At the centre, there was an oil lamp, its flame still burning. No other trace of Genevieve Forsythe would ever be found.

The End

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If you liked The Longing Trees, how about sharing this story (and this Substack ‘The Inciting Incident’) with others? There will be another story next month.

Don’t forget to read yesterday’s story too…

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What’s next on The Inciting Incident?

We’re going to be settling into a rhythm with one new story for all subscribers every month, along with other content about writing, video games, films, and more.

For paid subscribers, next week I’ll post a breakdown of the narrative decisions made while writing this story and Fresh Salmon for McTavish, talking about the writing process and maybe getting your creative juices flowing.

Typically, there will be one post on The Inciting Incident every week - I’ve not settled on a day just yet. If you have preferences, please post them in the comments!

Please like this story, share it with others, subscribe (if you’re not already!) or consider upgrading to a paid subscription if you fancy supporting my writing.

Also, do write a comment if you enjoyed this - the web can be like talking into the void sometimes. Sometimes you want the void to say ‘hello’ back.

Have a wonderful and safe Halloween. Until next time, be kind to yourself and others. Thank you for reading!

Mata