What the Oak Concealed

The chainsaw coughed once, then fell silent. After its brutal roar, the quiet in the bedroom seemed almost as frightening. Wind hissed through the broken window, and Mark breathed in short, uneven pulls.

A Polaroid trembled between my fingers. Mark stared at it as though it had changed the room around us. His shoulders sagged; the wildness in his face gave way to a chill, measuring look.

The saw slid from his hands and struck the hardwood with a blunt clank. A slick stain of dark oil spread beneath it.

“Give it here.” His voice had lost its force. What remained was low and level, and that frightened me more.

Beyond the shattered window, frozen earth crunched underfoot. Mrs. Gable had retreated into the dark of her yard, crying into her thin, wrinkled hands.

“You touched the tree,” she called, her voice breaking. “You broke the seal. May God help us both.”

I kept my gaze on Mark. He advanced slowly, boots grinding fragments of glass into the rug between us.

“Clara.” He held out one hand, palm up. “Don’t study it. Give it to me.”

I pushed myself against the damaged wall. Plaster rasped against my sleep shirt, and the Polaroid’s edges dug into my fingers until they hurt.

“Who is that woman?” I asked. My voice shook so hard the question nearly came apart.

He moved closer. Lamplight dragged his shadow across the room and carved his expression into something unfamiliar.

“It’s junk,” he said. “It came out of the wall. The people who lived here before us must have left it. Hand it over.”

“That baby is me.” I held the picture tight against my chest. “That blue blanket is the one my parents wrapped me in when they brought me home. It’s still in the cedar chest.”

“You’re mixed up,” Mark said gently, in the careful tone he used when he wanted to sound sensible. “You just woke up. The noise frightened you. You can’t think clearly.”

Then he sprang at me.

His hand closed around my left wrist. He wrenched my arm downward, and pain shot up toward my shoulder so sharply that I cried out.

I drove my heel into his knee. He made a harsh sound and rocked back, his grip loosening enough for me to yank free.

I bolted before he could catch me again. Glass scored my shins as I scrambled over the floor, barely feeling the cuts.

Through the hall I raced, then hurled myself into the master bathroom. I slammed the door and turned the lock just as Mark crashed into it from the other side.

The frame shuddered. Wood cracked near the hinges, but the door stayed shut.

I stumbled backward until the tub struck the backs of my legs. Then I sank beside it, knees drawn close, struggling to breathe. The bathroom was dark, cold, and sharp with exhaust drifting in from the bedroom.

“Clara,” Mark said through the door. The pounding had stopped. His voice was calm again, almost tender. “Open up, honey. I’m sorry I grabbed you. You’re having another episode.”

The word landed like something familiar and poisonous. Episode.

For three years, whenever I questioned his lies about money or asked where he had been, he had used that word against me. He brought up the breakdown I’d had in college, before we met, until I doubted my own judgment.

I shut my eyes. “I’m not crazy,” I whispered into the blackness.

My hand found the light switch. The vanity bulbs blinked, then flared bright enough to sting. When I could see again, the Polaroid was still in my hands, smeared with blood.

The picture looked older than I’d first thought. Its edges had yellowed, and the surface had a faint, gummy feel, as if it had spent years trapped in damp darkness.

I examined the woman holding the baby. She appeared barely twenty. Her hair hung in wet tangles, and her clothes looked worn and grimy.

Her gaze was what held me. Wide-eyed and fixed on the lens, she looked terrified beyond movement. My chest tightened as I recognized the place behind her.

She stood where the old oak now rose in our yard. I studied the photograph more closely, following her face down to her neck.

A slim silver chain circled it, carrying an oval locket. There was a clear dent on its right edge. My breath caught; I reached for my own collarbone. I wasn’t wearing mine, but I knew it was in my jewelry box, less than twenty feet away. The locket on the woman in the photograph was identical to my own.