by Zaina Anwar
1
In the little village of Ungrin, adjacent to the old, dilapidated church, where the road begins to climb slowly but steadily, stands a red-brick house. Like many other residences in the neighbourhood, its facade is partly hidden beneath a burgeoning mesh of ivy, and the main entrance is flanked by four oblong windows, two on either side. The same arrangement is repeated on the upper storey with the difference that the windows are smaller. There is nothing remarkable about this building save for one peculiar feature. The house has a large, front garden hedged in from the road by a green picket fence. A low, iron gate, elegantly embellished with scrollwork, constitutes the main access through this enclosure. If you stand at this gate, directly facing the house, you would be surprised to see that almost one half of the facade, to the left of the doorway, is wholly concealed behind an enormous oak tree. Due to this highly irregular--and unfortunately irremediable--arrangement, the sun barely penetrates into this portion of the building and any view afforded from the upper windows is heavily latticed with the branches of the oak.
The following story is an account of a series of bizarre incidents occuring about ten years ago, and all converging in one way or another, on this particular house. They eventually culminated into a catastrophe so macabre that to this day, the building stands deserted and no one in the village, whether adult or child, has ever dared to venture beyond the garden gate........
Even though there were many other trees in the neighbourhood-- the woodland that lay beyond the village was full of them-- they paled in comparison to the towering majesty of the oak. The trunk was wide enough to accomodate two grown men and its huge, cumbersome branches were stretched out greedily, in innumerable twists and turns. The house was dwarfed by contrast, reminding one of an animal cowering for mercy. It was said that the tree had been around long before the very first settlers arrived in this area. Over time, this centenarian had acquired a strong patina of age and to a sensitive observer with a romantic disposition, it could very well appear to be a repository of ancient, mystical secrets.
At the time that this story begins, the house had been recently tenanted by a couple-- an old woman and her daughter. Mrs. Ullman had previously lived in another part of the province. One day, in concert with her offspring, she had made the bold decision of moving to an entirely obscure neighbourhood. It was not a matter of a ruined reputation nor an escape from obtrusive relatives. On the contrary, there was a bitter memory that she was trying desperately to erase...
Two years before, Mrs. Ullman had lost her husband and son in the great civil war. Since then, the large, rambling house, where she had spent her entire married life and in which everything was invested with a thousand memories, had become unbearable. Everything reminded her of them. The house itself had been built by her husband; the large field that stretched out in the front, was where her son had laboured for most of his life. She became extremely despondent; life, it seemed to her, had ceased to have a purpose. At last, her physician, seeing that her health was deteriorating rapidly, adviced her:
“Mrs. Ullman, I believe that your only salvation lies in a complete change of atmosphere. Though I do not, for a second, doubt the terrible nature of your tragedy, I must insist that you reconcile yourself to your loss and move on with your life and for that, madam, you must get as far away from here as possible”.
And so we find, Mrs. Ullman and her daughter Marie, settled in their new lodgings having been drawn to the house by its sense of quietude and old- fashioned charm. But there was another, more practical reason for the choice of a house which after all, had been designed to cater to the needs of a much larger family. Due to the eccentric position and size of the oak, the value of the property had been affected and the rent was substantially reduced. Mrs. Ullman was so tempted that she leapt at the opportunity and in her innocent, naïve way, congratulated herself over the lucrative bargain. Marie on the other hand, was at first quite reluctant....
It was not the house that displeased her; in fact, she was quite taken with it. Rather, it was the presence of the dark, brooding oak which made her uncomfortable. It loomed ominously in front of the house like a sentry constantly on his guard. She had seen many oak trees before and found them to be quite attractive but this one was clearly an exception to the rule. There was something very unnatural about this tree--the contortion of its branches was painfully severe; the bark looked like thick, leprous, aging skin. It seemed to have deviated from the regular laws of nature and was following an aberrant path of its own.
She was surprised to see that the tree did not have a similar affect on her mother. Apart from the initial alarm at the disproportionate size of it, she had expressed no other interest and was much more preoccupied with the house. To Mrs. Ullman, the tree was just an abstract blot over the landscape. Hence, despite her reservations, and seeing that her mother was already so intent on the property, she thought it best not to remonstrate too strongly. After a few timid words of protest, she assented to the proposal. Besides, she was young and this was the first time she had ventured beyond her birth place in twenty five years. Apart from the affair of the tree, she was enchanted with her new surroundings...
Marie was quite an attractive woman, of medium stature, with a clear complexion and large, brown eyes. The most remarkable feature of her appearance was the hair. It was voluminous, streaming in great, riotous profusion down her back. But what was most striking about it was the colour, which was the most beautiful and lustrous hue of red!. Looking at it, one was reminded of rubies and autumn leaves... She kept it coiled up in a big knot at the base of her neck, but since it was so thick, it rested heavily on her head, framing her face like a fiery halo. Hair with such qualities is rare, and it made her stand out wherever she went.
She was quite reticent by nature, preferring to remain silent rather than indulge in tedious, idle conversation. One of her favourite activities was to sit quietly in a corner with a good book and a warm cup of tea by her side. Marie was quite well read for her age. Books were her constant companions and over the years, she had amassed quite a collection of them. She was very proud of her acquisitions; they were always accorded a place of honour on the highest shelf in her room.
Mrs. Ullman had never quite understood her daughter's obsession with books. Though she was the wife of a farmer who himself had been quite successful, she considered reading –-since it failed to produce any immediate, profitable results--to be an extravagance reserved only for the rich. Often times, Marie had been accosted for keeping her head buried in a volume at the expense of other household duties. As a matter of fact, this was the only bone of contention in their relationship. In her heart, Mrs. Ullman had a great respect for her daughter's affectionate temperament and generosity of spirit. Furthermore, the war, having bereaved them of their men, had brought them closer together. There was a desperate plea on either side for some semblance of normalcy with the result that mother and daughter were more dependent on each other than they had ever been in the past.
By the end of the first week, the Ullmans had managed to unpack most of their belongings and the house was slowly acquiring the air of a comfortable home. It was large and spacious. The main entrance lead directly into a moderately sized hall, with a high ceiling and paneled walls. In front was a heavy, mahogany staircase leading to the upper apartments. Next to it was a long, narrow passage which proceeded to the kitchen at the back of the house. To the left of the hall was a door that led to the main sitting room, while the one to the right, opened into the parlour, which on account of the huge fireplace, was the most comfortable room in the house. Furthermore here, the view from the two rectangular windows, which opened directly onto the lawn, was not obstructed by the tree. Consequently, they afforded a long, clear vista, past the garden fence and the main street, stretching over the low, undulating plains all the way to the woodland which stood, clustering darkly, against the horizon.
All the bedrooms were located on the upper floor and their number far exceeded the requirements of the two women. Most of these ancillary chambers were consigned by Mrs. Ullman to the function of storage, which, because of her lifelong habit of obsessive hoarding, was a wise decision indeed. As they were organizing one of these rooms, she turned to Marie:
“It is so cumbersome, this business of living. Just look at these things!. Clothes, hats, flowerpots, clocks.... this is too much!”.
Marie who had been sifting through the contents of a little cardboard box, lifted out a little puppy made of porcelain, and frowning at her mother, said, “There are ten of these in this box. Where did you get these?. Oh mother, can't we just get rid of them?. I mean, what are you going to do with these?”...
“Get rid of them!. Do you know how rare each one of them is?”, and taking the piece from Marie's hand (who knew very well that none of them could possibly qualify as a rarity), moved toward the window for a closer inspection. Suddenly, a smile lit up her face:
“Your father gave me this one”. For a while, she stood looking at the antique, running her hands lovingly over it. Then, with the painful memory, the tears came and after a quick, mournful look at her daughter, she turned around and hurried out.......
2
Marie had taken a room on the top left corner of the house. She did not have much of a choice in the matter since this was the only other room on the upper floor equipped with a fireplace. It was of a good size and easily accomodated such simple articles of furniture as she possessed. It did not bother her that the window (and there was only one) did not afford much of a view on account of the oak. She felt that the elaborate plans she had made, of solitary jaunts and an occasional ride into the surrounding countryside, provided ample compensation to this handicap.....
As a matter of fact, about two weeks after their arrival, once they had comfortably settled in, Marie set off on a little excursion to the main market square. Up until now, she had mostly strayed closer to home. The walk was long; the square was at a considerable distance, but once she had reached it, she realized that it was worth the effort. She found the little shops to be delightfully quaint and the people warm and welcoming. Almost every house along the streets had a front garden. She had never seen so many different kinds of flowers before. There was a wild extravagance of colours and the flowery perfume hung luxuriantly in the air. It was thus, happy and contented, that she turned onto the road that led back to the house....
The road was bordered on the left by a long row of cottages. On the opposite side, it gave way to vast, green fields that stretched out far into the distance. It ran thus, in a straight line for about half a kilometre at the end of which, it turned sharply and began to climb. The village church along with the adjoining cemetery was located at this bend. Next in line was the red brick house. Marie had just reached the turning; the path here was strewn thick with rocks and she had to pick her way carefully. All of a sudden, as she approached the church, she experienced a strange, overwhelming sense of anxiety descend upon her. A dark, inexplicable premonition was casting its shadow on her brow. She noticed too, that clouds had begun to gather overhead, and the usual early morning sounds so characteristic of the countryside, had become muffled and subdued.... With a heavy heart, she hurried her step. At last, she reached the garden gate, and as she struggled with the latch (it had the annoying habit of getting stuck at the most inopportune moment!), she happened to look up at the house. Suddenly, she froze. The latch fell from her hands. Her eyes widened with horror.........for what she saw then gave her the greatest shock of her life!.
There, up on the slanting roof, was a figure crouching very low on all fours, like an animal about to spring. His back, which was unusually rounded and protruding, was turned to her and he was clad in a strange black garment, similar to a cape, which ended in tatters just below his knees. His dome-like head was bald in most places with a few, sparse tufts of long, grey hair growing randomly over it. Suddenly, crouched low as he was, he began to move towards the top of the roof; his movements were oddly spasmodic and mechanical. On reaching the top, he paused for a second, so that Marie was convinced that he was going to turn around and look at her. But fortunately that did not happen (if it had, she would surely have had a fit!), and in the blink of an eye, he disappeared to the other side.....
For a few moments Marie stood, rigid and motionless, like the firmly rooted tree before her. She was both frightened and bewildered. Suddenly, it dawned upon her that he must have jumped down at some point on the other side. With this thought, she rushed into the house, heading straight for the kitchen door, which opened into a narrow lane. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her, all the way to the end, but there was no sign of him anywhere. At last, she gave up and returned, breathless and exhausted, back to the house.
That evening, Marie was restless. She could not keep still and was pacing aimlessly in the parlour. Her mother had noticed her agitation. She was surprised to see her in such a turbulent state for up till now, no crises, no matter how severe, had succeeded in disturbing her daughter's calm, disciplined temperament.
At last, Marie, feeling that she needed some fresh air, excused herself and stepped out on the lawn. The sun was setting and the sky was tinged with a lovely coral hue. Out on the horizon, the woods were shrouded in darkness, while in the foreground, over the verdant meadows, the cattle huddled close together in anticipation of their return to the farms. Across the sky, birds in huge, triangular formations, stirring up an incredible cacophany, fluttered down in sweeping arcs, aiming straight for the trees. Marie turned towards the oak, to see if the birds had returned to their roosts. Strangely, all the branches were empty and still; not a sound escaped from the foliage. She was struck by this unnatural phenomenon. It was then she realized that she had never, in the two weeks she had been there, seen a single bird in that tree.......
After much reflection, Marie thought it wise to keep the incident to herself. She was prudent enough to realize that her parent, whose frame of mind had remained fragile since the war, would not-- apart from intense anxiety and paranoia-- be able to contribute anything significant to her dilemma. Moreover, ever since the change of environs, some positive signs had appeared and Mrs. Ullman was beginning to regain some interest in the general affairs of life. Although the improvement was slow, it was critical, and Marie was very careful not to do or say anything that would arrest its course.
As the days progressed, the reality of the incident began to blur and its impact on Marie, absorbed as she was in the myriad household cares, was considerably reduced. She was even inclined to accuse her imagination, which-- coupled with intense physical exhaustion--had played a devious trick on her senses.....
Mrs. Ullman had hired a local caretaker to tend to the lawn. His name was Vincent and he was a hearty, robust man. He seemed to have a deep, almost mystical affinity for plants and unless checked in time, could talk on the subject for hours. Another curious thing about him was his extreme fastidiousness with regard to punctuality. More than once, Marie had been woken in the morning by the sound of his booming voice, precisely at the stroke of seven!. He was an honest, hardworking man and in his care, the garden began to bloom. He planted many different kinds of species, and inspected each plant regularly, with the tenderest care. Marie was fascinated with the way he worked and would oftentimes join him, so that, over time, she came to learn many secrets of the plant kingdom. Soon, a mutual understanding developed between them and despite his age-- he was twenty years older-- they became good friends.
One day, Marie asked him if he had been similarly employed by the previous occupants of the house. Fixing her with a look of surprise, he said:
“This house here has stood empty for the last fifty years or so. Don't tell me you did'nt know that”.
“Fifty years!. My goodness!. But the garden was so well kept and the house in such a perfect condition... I would never have thought.......”.
To this he responded only with a smile. Marie having guessed the reason, and with a glint in her eye, said, “ I suppose you are the one responsible for the miracle of the perennial garden?”.
“Aye, and my father before that. I have looked after this place here from time to time, though no body hired me to do so. The owner lives somewhere abroad. He does'nt appear to care much about this place but it makes my heart sad to see these pretty flowers here going to waste”.
“But someone must have lived here at some point.... and why has this house remained empty all these years?. Its curious, don't you think?”.
On hearing this, Vincent, looking visibly uncomfortable, and nervously avoiding Marie's gaze, tried to distract himself. Marie, concerned and inquisitive at the same time, persisted, “Vincent, is something wrong?”.
After dallying for a moment and seeing that Marie was staring at him expectantly, he spoke:
“Well maam, I don't know how much of it is true but someone did live here all those years ago... a woman as a matter of fact. From what I have heard, she was the present owner's great aunt. She lived here alone and loved this house very much, especially the oak tree. Her brother wanted to cut it down but she would'nt let anyone come near it. She was strange, that woman. Never went out, never went to see anyone. Just lived all alone cooped up in that house all year round. Then slowly”, and here Vincent hesitated for a moment, “rumours started spreading around the village saying that she practised what you call the black arts. People started saying that ever since she had moved into the house, the cattle on those yonder fields had begun to die. Then, incidentally, around that time, a few children disappeared. To the villagers, that was the last straw, and one day a mob appeared and they started throwing stones at the windows and even tried to set fire to the house. From that day onwards, the woman was harrassed constantly. Everyone wanted her to leave, until one day a group of men knocked on her door and told her that she had been asked to appear in front of the local council”.
Vincent paused for a moment, and then pointing towards the oak tree, continued, “The next day they found her hanging from one of these branches, with a noose around her neck....I always used to wonder why she did'nt bother returning to her family until my father, who was employed by her nephew for some years, told me that the family itself had harboured similar suspicions and had banished her to this house to keep her away”.
Marie was amazed. But she was also a bit confused-- was the woman really guilty?. Was there any truth to the accusations?... And then, as he suddenly remembered something, Vincent blurted out;
“There is one more thing, maam. She was not alone in that house. A young boy, he must have been nineteen or thereabout, used to live with her. They say he was her son but of this I can't be certain. He had some kind of a strange malady. He was almost bald, his hair grew only in patches, and he was a hunchback.......... After her suicide, he was found dead in one of those rooms up there....”.
At this point, Vincent had his back to her. He was looking up at the house-- he could not see that Marie's face had turned white and she was shaking uncontrollably. When he at last turned around, he saw that she was about to faint..........
For many days after, Marie lay in bed, burning with fever. Mrs. Ullman was at her wit's end. She was constantly by her daughter's side, hovering anxiously about the room. Poor Vincent blamed himself entirely, and apologized about a thousand times!. Gradually, under the ministrations of her mother, she began to recover until at last, the day came when she was well enough to leave the room. But there was now a change about her. She became withdrawn and spoke very little. She usually stayed indoors, seated in the parlour in front of the hearth, gazing for hours at the flames.....
3
Many months passed. Summer gave way to autumn and a wintry chill descended over the village. The leaves of the oak were slowly changing colour, and already, most of the foliage had begun to fall. The sun had become self conscious and hid itself apprehensively behind the clouds. The dark, drizzly days kept Vincent away and Marie missed his company. At times, when the weather permitted it, she would go for long, solitary walks over the meadows.
By now, she had seen the accursed, hunch backed creature more than once. One day, having walked almost to the edge of the woods, she had caught a glimpse of him amongst the trees. Another time, when she was leaving the house, she saw him crouching on one of the branches of the oak. But he always had his back to her; she had never been able to see his face.
She was constantly beset with the awful feeling that their presence was not welcomed in the house. With each passing day, this intuition was becoming stronger...... She became homesick; all her thoughts led her back to the place where she had spent her childhood. The ties that they had severed so brutally, now haunted her in her dreams. She saw the fields where she had spent so much time as a child; she remembered in exact detail her father's workroom. Her nostalgia turned into an obsession; wanting desperately to return, she decided that she would speak to her mother and force her, if necessary, to comply. It had to be done; they must return to where they belonged. One could escape if possible, to the far end of the world but one could not escape one's memories. She was determined to bring her plan to fruition...
But, alas, the opportunity never arose.....
One fateful night, in what must have been early October, Marie was abruptly woken from a troubled sleep. Though the previous day had been windy, by nightfall, the wind had died and the weather had cleared considerably. The fire in her room had gone out, and even though the casement was shut, it was very cold. Suddenly, she heard a curious rattling about the window, with strange, scratching sounds on the panes, as if someone was trying desperately to get in. It was slowly growing in intensity and just as Marie was about to attribute this phenomenon to the branches of the oak tree, she realized, to her horror, that they stopped within half a dozen yards of her window!.
The rattling continued mercilessly, eventually reaching such tempestuous proportions, that Marie, aggravated beyond belief, jumped off the bed, and picking up a heavy volume from the book shelf, flung it straight at the blasted aperture!....
The wicked commotion ceased as abruptly as it had begun; a deadly hush fell in the room. The sturdy window pane had withstood the pressure of the book. With a wildly beating heart, she lit a candle and inspected the glass as carefully as her strained nerves could allow. There were scratch marks everywhere!. She knew that it could not have been a cat, for how could any animal balance itself outside a window that had no supporting ledge!...
As she stood thus, shivering in the grip of uncertainty and fear, she was distracted by a movement in the garden below. Quickly, she blew out the candle and opened the casement just enough to be able to get a better view. In the light of the moon, which had been unusually bright that night, she saw a female figure standing next to the oak and looking-- steadily and with extreme menace-- straight at her!. Marie very nearly dropped the candle on the floor. The woman (she could see her clearly) was clad in a tattered, old fashioned black dress. She was extremely pale. Her eyes were disproportionately large and terribly inflamed; the cheek bones were unusually prominent as if over time, the flesh had fallen off!. She had a terrible wound around her neck such as is seen on the throats of victims of strangulation-- and the wound was bleeding uncontrollably!. Her first reflex was to run, but try as she might, she could not tear herself away from the window. It was as if a powerful, unearthly force had taken control of her and was forcing her to watch!...
For how long did Marie stand there, locked in a stare with this grim, hideous apparition, no one can tell.
Suddenly, the woman lifted her skirt and turning toward the tree, began to climb!!..... It was no ordinary ascent for she crawled up the tree at an incredible speed, with an agility that was humanly impossible!. Marie could not believe her eyes; she wanted to scream, but her voice was stranded in her throat. Terrified beyond her wits, she threw the candle aside and fled across the room toward the door. But when she turned the handle, she found that it was--- locked!.......
The next morning, when Mrs. Ullman came down to the kitchen, she was surprised to find that Marie, who was an early riser, was absent from her usual place at the table. Fearing that she might have been taken ill, the anxious mother retraced her steps, and after having knocked on the door a few times without receiving an answer, gingerly entered the room. The bed was empty and the window wide open; there was no sign of her daughter. Just as she was about to leave, her eyes fell upon the book; she noticed too the half-burnt candle. In a state of alarm, she searched the rest of the house but to no avail. Marie was nowhere to be found.....
Eventually, she called out to Vincent, who was, as usual, busy in the garden. After placating the troubled woman as he best as he could, he decided to launch a wider search in the vicinity of the premises. Soon, the news of the disappearence of the red haired girl had spread throughout the entire village. The men arranged themselves into groups and went so far as to search thoroughly, the dark, thickly growing woodland, where in a less desperate situation, no one would ever have cared to venture.
Over the next four days, the search continued uninterrupted, without, unfortunately, yielding any results. The local magistrate racked his brains but could not produce a single plausible theory which could explain such a sudden disappearance. In the end, the men gave up and returned to their homes.
Mrs. Ullman suddenly found herself alone in a house which was still completely alien to her. Under the circumstances, the sense of familiarity with her surroundings which she had so desperately wanted to escape, might have been a source of comfort. Now that her daughter was gone, her last and only connection to the world was brutally severed. She walked, as if in a drunken stupor, from room to room, crying out repeatedly, the names of those she had lost....
A few days later, she was dead.
About a month after the disappearance, Vincent decided to pay the house a visit. The memory of the dreadful incident was still thriving amongst the village folk. They never tired of discussing the affair, and many were convinced that some evil influence was involved. They resurrected the old story of the previous occupant and her dark, secret life to lend credibility to this conjecture.
The last effects of the Ullman family had long been removed and the house stood desolate and empty. For a long time, he stood at the garden gate, looking up at the facade, where the only sign of life was the creeping ivy. He thought of Marie, with whom--though only briefly--he had formed a close relationship. To him, the affair of her disappearence was a closed book. Unlike other people, he was not very inclined to hold responsible a supernatural force. He was convinced that there must be another, more rational explanation. He resented the enthusiasm with which the villagers indulged in debate and notwithstanding his own confusion, chose to remain silent, refusing to discuss the matter publicly...
With a sigh, he brought out the garden tools and set to work. The winter snows were fast approaching and the lawn had been left untended for a long time. He had a lot of work on his hands...
At last, toward sunset, after having accomplished most of his chores, he rolled himself a cigerette, and leaning back against the gate, proudly surveyed the garden. He had managed to restore some semblance of order to it, so that now, the only thing left to do was to remove the dead leaves which were lying in dishevelled heaps, around the base of the oak.
As he was employed thus, Vincent's attention was drawn to a curious irregularity in the trunk. There was a hole about the size of a clenched fist, with something like a piece of rope protruding from it. His curiosity was piqued and he knelt down for a closer inspection. Suddenly, his eyes widened with terror and his body recoiled in extreme agitation....... For what, at first glance, he had innocently assumed to be a piece of cable, was in reality---- human hair!!. And as if this discovery was not shocking enough, it so happened, that the colour of this hair-- some locks of which were now resting in his hand-- was red!......
Poor Vincent was frantic with fear. Without giving it a second thought, he exited the garden and clutching his hair in his hands, started running down the street like a madman.
His eyes-- though he did not realize it at the time-- were overflowing with tears.................
The End
In the little village of Ungrin, adjacent to the old, dilapidated church, where the road begins to climb slowly but steadily, stands a red-brick house. Like many other residences in the neighbourhood, its facade is partly hidden beneath a burgeoning mesh of ivy, and the main entrance is flanked by four oblong windows, two on either side. The same arrangement is repeated on the upper storey with the difference that the windows are smaller. There is nothing remarkable about this building save for one peculiar feature. The house has a large, front garden hedged in from the road by a green picket fence. A low, iron gate, elegantly embellished with scrollwork, constitutes the main access through this enclosure. If you stand at this gate, directly facing the house, you would be surprised to see that almost one half of the facade, to the left of the doorway, is wholly concealed behind an enormous oak tree. Due to this highly irregular--and unfortunately irremediable--arrangement, the sun barely penetrates into this portion of the building and any view afforded from the upper windows is heavily latticed with the branches of the oak.
The following story is an account of a series of bizarre incidents occuring about ten years ago, and all converging in one way or another, on this particular house. They eventually culminated into a catastrophe so macabre that to this day, the building stands deserted and no one in the village, whether adult or child, has ever dared to venture beyond the garden gate........
Even though there were many other trees in the neighbourhood-- the woodland that lay beyond the village was full of them-- they paled in comparison to the towering majesty of the oak. The trunk was wide enough to accomodate two grown men and its huge, cumbersome branches were stretched out greedily, in innumerable twists and turns. The house was dwarfed by contrast, reminding one of an animal cowering for mercy. It was said that the tree had been around long before the very first settlers arrived in this area. Over time, this centenarian had acquired a strong patina of age and to a sensitive observer with a romantic disposition, it could very well appear to be a repository of ancient, mystical secrets.
At the time that this story begins, the house had been recently tenanted by a couple-- an old woman and her daughter. Mrs. Ullman had previously lived in another part of the province. One day, in concert with her offspring, she had made the bold decision of moving to an entirely obscure neighbourhood. It was not a matter of a ruined reputation nor an escape from obtrusive relatives. On the contrary, there was a bitter memory that she was trying desperately to erase...
Two years before, Mrs. Ullman had lost her husband and son in the great civil war. Since then, the large, rambling house, where she had spent her entire married life and in which everything was invested with a thousand memories, had become unbearable. Everything reminded her of them. The house itself had been built by her husband; the large field that stretched out in the front, was where her son had laboured for most of his life. She became extremely despondent; life, it seemed to her, had ceased to have a purpose. At last, her physician, seeing that her health was deteriorating rapidly, adviced her:
“Mrs. Ullman, I believe that your only salvation lies in a complete change of atmosphere. Though I do not, for a second, doubt the terrible nature of your tragedy, I must insist that you reconcile yourself to your loss and move on with your life and for that, madam, you must get as far away from here as possible”.
And so we find, Mrs. Ullman and her daughter Marie, settled in their new lodgings having been drawn to the house by its sense of quietude and old- fashioned charm. But there was another, more practical reason for the choice of a house which after all, had been designed to cater to the needs of a much larger family. Due to the eccentric position and size of the oak, the value of the property had been affected and the rent was substantially reduced. Mrs. Ullman was so tempted that she leapt at the opportunity and in her innocent, naïve way, congratulated herself over the lucrative bargain. Marie on the other hand, was at first quite reluctant....
It was not the house that displeased her; in fact, she was quite taken with it. Rather, it was the presence of the dark, brooding oak which made her uncomfortable. It loomed ominously in front of the house like a sentry constantly on his guard. She had seen many oak trees before and found them to be quite attractive but this one was clearly an exception to the rule. There was something very unnatural about this tree--the contortion of its branches was painfully severe; the bark looked like thick, leprous, aging skin. It seemed to have deviated from the regular laws of nature and was following an aberrant path of its own.
She was surprised to see that the tree did not have a similar affect on her mother. Apart from the initial alarm at the disproportionate size of it, she had expressed no other interest and was much more preoccupied with the house. To Mrs. Ullman, the tree was just an abstract blot over the landscape. Hence, despite her reservations, and seeing that her mother was already so intent on the property, she thought it best not to remonstrate too strongly. After a few timid words of protest, she assented to the proposal. Besides, she was young and this was the first time she had ventured beyond her birth place in twenty five years. Apart from the affair of the tree, she was enchanted with her new surroundings...
Marie was quite an attractive woman, of medium stature, with a clear complexion and large, brown eyes. The most remarkable feature of her appearance was the hair. It was voluminous, streaming in great, riotous profusion down her back. But what was most striking about it was the colour, which was the most beautiful and lustrous hue of red!. Looking at it, one was reminded of rubies and autumn leaves... She kept it coiled up in a big knot at the base of her neck, but since it was so thick, it rested heavily on her head, framing her face like a fiery halo. Hair with such qualities is rare, and it made her stand out wherever she went.
She was quite reticent by nature, preferring to remain silent rather than indulge in tedious, idle conversation. One of her favourite activities was to sit quietly in a corner with a good book and a warm cup of tea by her side. Marie was quite well read for her age. Books were her constant companions and over the years, she had amassed quite a collection of them. She was very proud of her acquisitions; they were always accorded a place of honour on the highest shelf in her room.
Mrs. Ullman had never quite understood her daughter's obsession with books. Though she was the wife of a farmer who himself had been quite successful, she considered reading –-since it failed to produce any immediate, profitable results--to be an extravagance reserved only for the rich. Often times, Marie had been accosted for keeping her head buried in a volume at the expense of other household duties. As a matter of fact, this was the only bone of contention in their relationship. In her heart, Mrs. Ullman had a great respect for her daughter's affectionate temperament and generosity of spirit. Furthermore, the war, having bereaved them of their men, had brought them closer together. There was a desperate plea on either side for some semblance of normalcy with the result that mother and daughter were more dependent on each other than they had ever been in the past.
By the end of the first week, the Ullmans had managed to unpack most of their belongings and the house was slowly acquiring the air of a comfortable home. It was large and spacious. The main entrance lead directly into a moderately sized hall, with a high ceiling and paneled walls. In front was a heavy, mahogany staircase leading to the upper apartments. Next to it was a long, narrow passage which proceeded to the kitchen at the back of the house. To the left of the hall was a door that led to the main sitting room, while the one to the right, opened into the parlour, which on account of the huge fireplace, was the most comfortable room in the house. Furthermore here, the view from the two rectangular windows, which opened directly onto the lawn, was not obstructed by the tree. Consequently, they afforded a long, clear vista, past the garden fence and the main street, stretching over the low, undulating plains all the way to the woodland which stood, clustering darkly, against the horizon.
All the bedrooms were located on the upper floor and their number far exceeded the requirements of the two women. Most of these ancillary chambers were consigned by Mrs. Ullman to the function of storage, which, because of her lifelong habit of obsessive hoarding, was a wise decision indeed. As they were organizing one of these rooms, she turned to Marie:
“It is so cumbersome, this business of living. Just look at these things!. Clothes, hats, flowerpots, clocks.... this is too much!”.
Marie who had been sifting through the contents of a little cardboard box, lifted out a little puppy made of porcelain, and frowning at her mother, said, “There are ten of these in this box. Where did you get these?. Oh mother, can't we just get rid of them?. I mean, what are you going to do with these?”...
“Get rid of them!. Do you know how rare each one of them is?”, and taking the piece from Marie's hand (who knew very well that none of them could possibly qualify as a rarity), moved toward the window for a closer inspection. Suddenly, a smile lit up her face:
“Your father gave me this one”. For a while, she stood looking at the antique, running her hands lovingly over it. Then, with the painful memory, the tears came and after a quick, mournful look at her daughter, she turned around and hurried out.......
2
Marie had taken a room on the top left corner of the house. She did not have much of a choice in the matter since this was the only other room on the upper floor equipped with a fireplace. It was of a good size and easily accomodated such simple articles of furniture as she possessed. It did not bother her that the window (and there was only one) did not afford much of a view on account of the oak. She felt that the elaborate plans she had made, of solitary jaunts and an occasional ride into the surrounding countryside, provided ample compensation to this handicap.....
As a matter of fact, about two weeks after their arrival, once they had comfortably settled in, Marie set off on a little excursion to the main market square. Up until now, she had mostly strayed closer to home. The walk was long; the square was at a considerable distance, but once she had reached it, she realized that it was worth the effort. She found the little shops to be delightfully quaint and the people warm and welcoming. Almost every house along the streets had a front garden. She had never seen so many different kinds of flowers before. There was a wild extravagance of colours and the flowery perfume hung luxuriantly in the air. It was thus, happy and contented, that she turned onto the road that led back to the house....
The road was bordered on the left by a long row of cottages. On the opposite side, it gave way to vast, green fields that stretched out far into the distance. It ran thus, in a straight line for about half a kilometre at the end of which, it turned sharply and began to climb. The village church along with the adjoining cemetery was located at this bend. Next in line was the red brick house. Marie had just reached the turning; the path here was strewn thick with rocks and she had to pick her way carefully. All of a sudden, as she approached the church, she experienced a strange, overwhelming sense of anxiety descend upon her. A dark, inexplicable premonition was casting its shadow on her brow. She noticed too, that clouds had begun to gather overhead, and the usual early morning sounds so characteristic of the countryside, had become muffled and subdued.... With a heavy heart, she hurried her step. At last, she reached the garden gate, and as she struggled with the latch (it had the annoying habit of getting stuck at the most inopportune moment!), she happened to look up at the house. Suddenly, she froze. The latch fell from her hands. Her eyes widened with horror.........for what she saw then gave her the greatest shock of her life!.
There, up on the slanting roof, was a figure crouching very low on all fours, like an animal about to spring. His back, which was unusually rounded and protruding, was turned to her and he was clad in a strange black garment, similar to a cape, which ended in tatters just below his knees. His dome-like head was bald in most places with a few, sparse tufts of long, grey hair growing randomly over it. Suddenly, crouched low as he was, he began to move towards the top of the roof; his movements were oddly spasmodic and mechanical. On reaching the top, he paused for a second, so that Marie was convinced that he was going to turn around and look at her. But fortunately that did not happen (if it had, she would surely have had a fit!), and in the blink of an eye, he disappeared to the other side.....
For a few moments Marie stood, rigid and motionless, like the firmly rooted tree before her. She was both frightened and bewildered. Suddenly, it dawned upon her that he must have jumped down at some point on the other side. With this thought, she rushed into the house, heading straight for the kitchen door, which opened into a narrow lane. She ran as fast as her legs could carry her, all the way to the end, but there was no sign of him anywhere. At last, she gave up and returned, breathless and exhausted, back to the house.
That evening, Marie was restless. She could not keep still and was pacing aimlessly in the parlour. Her mother had noticed her agitation. She was surprised to see her in such a turbulent state for up till now, no crises, no matter how severe, had succeeded in disturbing her daughter's calm, disciplined temperament.
At last, Marie, feeling that she needed some fresh air, excused herself and stepped out on the lawn. The sun was setting and the sky was tinged with a lovely coral hue. Out on the horizon, the woods were shrouded in darkness, while in the foreground, over the verdant meadows, the cattle huddled close together in anticipation of their return to the farms. Across the sky, birds in huge, triangular formations, stirring up an incredible cacophany, fluttered down in sweeping arcs, aiming straight for the trees. Marie turned towards the oak, to see if the birds had returned to their roosts. Strangely, all the branches were empty and still; not a sound escaped from the foliage. She was struck by this unnatural phenomenon. It was then she realized that she had never, in the two weeks she had been there, seen a single bird in that tree.......
After much reflection, Marie thought it wise to keep the incident to herself. She was prudent enough to realize that her parent, whose frame of mind had remained fragile since the war, would not-- apart from intense anxiety and paranoia-- be able to contribute anything significant to her dilemma. Moreover, ever since the change of environs, some positive signs had appeared and Mrs. Ullman was beginning to regain some interest in the general affairs of life. Although the improvement was slow, it was critical, and Marie was very careful not to do or say anything that would arrest its course.
As the days progressed, the reality of the incident began to blur and its impact on Marie, absorbed as she was in the myriad household cares, was considerably reduced. She was even inclined to accuse her imagination, which-- coupled with intense physical exhaustion--had played a devious trick on her senses.....
Mrs. Ullman had hired a local caretaker to tend to the lawn. His name was Vincent and he was a hearty, robust man. He seemed to have a deep, almost mystical affinity for plants and unless checked in time, could talk on the subject for hours. Another curious thing about him was his extreme fastidiousness with regard to punctuality. More than once, Marie had been woken in the morning by the sound of his booming voice, precisely at the stroke of seven!. He was an honest, hardworking man and in his care, the garden began to bloom. He planted many different kinds of species, and inspected each plant regularly, with the tenderest care. Marie was fascinated with the way he worked and would oftentimes join him, so that, over time, she came to learn many secrets of the plant kingdom. Soon, a mutual understanding developed between them and despite his age-- he was twenty years older-- they became good friends.
One day, Marie asked him if he had been similarly employed by the previous occupants of the house. Fixing her with a look of surprise, he said:
“This house here has stood empty for the last fifty years or so. Don't tell me you did'nt know that”.
“Fifty years!. My goodness!. But the garden was so well kept and the house in such a perfect condition... I would never have thought.......”.
To this he responded only with a smile. Marie having guessed the reason, and with a glint in her eye, said, “ I suppose you are the one responsible for the miracle of the perennial garden?”.
“Aye, and my father before that. I have looked after this place here from time to time, though no body hired me to do so. The owner lives somewhere abroad. He does'nt appear to care much about this place but it makes my heart sad to see these pretty flowers here going to waste”.
“But someone must have lived here at some point.... and why has this house remained empty all these years?. Its curious, don't you think?”.
On hearing this, Vincent, looking visibly uncomfortable, and nervously avoiding Marie's gaze, tried to distract himself. Marie, concerned and inquisitive at the same time, persisted, “Vincent, is something wrong?”.
After dallying for a moment and seeing that Marie was staring at him expectantly, he spoke:
“Well maam, I don't know how much of it is true but someone did live here all those years ago... a woman as a matter of fact. From what I have heard, she was the present owner's great aunt. She lived here alone and loved this house very much, especially the oak tree. Her brother wanted to cut it down but she would'nt let anyone come near it. She was strange, that woman. Never went out, never went to see anyone. Just lived all alone cooped up in that house all year round. Then slowly”, and here Vincent hesitated for a moment, “rumours started spreading around the village saying that she practised what you call the black arts. People started saying that ever since she had moved into the house, the cattle on those yonder fields had begun to die. Then, incidentally, around that time, a few children disappeared. To the villagers, that was the last straw, and one day a mob appeared and they started throwing stones at the windows and even tried to set fire to the house. From that day onwards, the woman was harrassed constantly. Everyone wanted her to leave, until one day a group of men knocked on her door and told her that she had been asked to appear in front of the local council”.
Vincent paused for a moment, and then pointing towards the oak tree, continued, “The next day they found her hanging from one of these branches, with a noose around her neck....I always used to wonder why she did'nt bother returning to her family until my father, who was employed by her nephew for some years, told me that the family itself had harboured similar suspicions and had banished her to this house to keep her away”.
Marie was amazed. But she was also a bit confused-- was the woman really guilty?. Was there any truth to the accusations?... And then, as he suddenly remembered something, Vincent blurted out;
“There is one more thing, maam. She was not alone in that house. A young boy, he must have been nineteen or thereabout, used to live with her. They say he was her son but of this I can't be certain. He had some kind of a strange malady. He was almost bald, his hair grew only in patches, and he was a hunchback.......... After her suicide, he was found dead in one of those rooms up there....”.
At this point, Vincent had his back to her. He was looking up at the house-- he could not see that Marie's face had turned white and she was shaking uncontrollably. When he at last turned around, he saw that she was about to faint..........
For many days after, Marie lay in bed, burning with fever. Mrs. Ullman was at her wit's end. She was constantly by her daughter's side, hovering anxiously about the room. Poor Vincent blamed himself entirely, and apologized about a thousand times!. Gradually, under the ministrations of her mother, she began to recover until at last, the day came when she was well enough to leave the room. But there was now a change about her. She became withdrawn and spoke very little. She usually stayed indoors, seated in the parlour in front of the hearth, gazing for hours at the flames.....
3
Many months passed. Summer gave way to autumn and a wintry chill descended over the village. The leaves of the oak were slowly changing colour, and already, most of the foliage had begun to fall. The sun had become self conscious and hid itself apprehensively behind the clouds. The dark, drizzly days kept Vincent away and Marie missed his company. At times, when the weather permitted it, she would go for long, solitary walks over the meadows.
By now, she had seen the accursed, hunch backed creature more than once. One day, having walked almost to the edge of the woods, she had caught a glimpse of him amongst the trees. Another time, when she was leaving the house, she saw him crouching on one of the branches of the oak. But he always had his back to her; she had never been able to see his face.
She was constantly beset with the awful feeling that their presence was not welcomed in the house. With each passing day, this intuition was becoming stronger...... She became homesick; all her thoughts led her back to the place where she had spent her childhood. The ties that they had severed so brutally, now haunted her in her dreams. She saw the fields where she had spent so much time as a child; she remembered in exact detail her father's workroom. Her nostalgia turned into an obsession; wanting desperately to return, she decided that she would speak to her mother and force her, if necessary, to comply. It had to be done; they must return to where they belonged. One could escape if possible, to the far end of the world but one could not escape one's memories. She was determined to bring her plan to fruition...
But, alas, the opportunity never arose.....
One fateful night, in what must have been early October, Marie was abruptly woken from a troubled sleep. Though the previous day had been windy, by nightfall, the wind had died and the weather had cleared considerably. The fire in her room had gone out, and even though the casement was shut, it was very cold. Suddenly, she heard a curious rattling about the window, with strange, scratching sounds on the panes, as if someone was trying desperately to get in. It was slowly growing in intensity and just as Marie was about to attribute this phenomenon to the branches of the oak tree, she realized, to her horror, that they stopped within half a dozen yards of her window!.
The rattling continued mercilessly, eventually reaching such tempestuous proportions, that Marie, aggravated beyond belief, jumped off the bed, and picking up a heavy volume from the book shelf, flung it straight at the blasted aperture!....
The wicked commotion ceased as abruptly as it had begun; a deadly hush fell in the room. The sturdy window pane had withstood the pressure of the book. With a wildly beating heart, she lit a candle and inspected the glass as carefully as her strained nerves could allow. There were scratch marks everywhere!. She knew that it could not have been a cat, for how could any animal balance itself outside a window that had no supporting ledge!...
As she stood thus, shivering in the grip of uncertainty and fear, she was distracted by a movement in the garden below. Quickly, she blew out the candle and opened the casement just enough to be able to get a better view. In the light of the moon, which had been unusually bright that night, she saw a female figure standing next to the oak and looking-- steadily and with extreme menace-- straight at her!. Marie very nearly dropped the candle on the floor. The woman (she could see her clearly) was clad in a tattered, old fashioned black dress. She was extremely pale. Her eyes were disproportionately large and terribly inflamed; the cheek bones were unusually prominent as if over time, the flesh had fallen off!. She had a terrible wound around her neck such as is seen on the throats of victims of strangulation-- and the wound was bleeding uncontrollably!. Her first reflex was to run, but try as she might, she could not tear herself away from the window. It was as if a powerful, unearthly force had taken control of her and was forcing her to watch!...
For how long did Marie stand there, locked in a stare with this grim, hideous apparition, no one can tell.
Suddenly, the woman lifted her skirt and turning toward the tree, began to climb!!..... It was no ordinary ascent for she crawled up the tree at an incredible speed, with an agility that was humanly impossible!. Marie could not believe her eyes; she wanted to scream, but her voice was stranded in her throat. Terrified beyond her wits, she threw the candle aside and fled across the room toward the door. But when she turned the handle, she found that it was--- locked!.......
The next morning, when Mrs. Ullman came down to the kitchen, she was surprised to find that Marie, who was an early riser, was absent from her usual place at the table. Fearing that she might have been taken ill, the anxious mother retraced her steps, and after having knocked on the door a few times without receiving an answer, gingerly entered the room. The bed was empty and the window wide open; there was no sign of her daughter. Just as she was about to leave, her eyes fell upon the book; she noticed too the half-burnt candle. In a state of alarm, she searched the rest of the house but to no avail. Marie was nowhere to be found.....
Eventually, she called out to Vincent, who was, as usual, busy in the garden. After placating the troubled woman as he best as he could, he decided to launch a wider search in the vicinity of the premises. Soon, the news of the disappearence of the red haired girl had spread throughout the entire village. The men arranged themselves into groups and went so far as to search thoroughly, the dark, thickly growing woodland, where in a less desperate situation, no one would ever have cared to venture.
Over the next four days, the search continued uninterrupted, without, unfortunately, yielding any results. The local magistrate racked his brains but could not produce a single plausible theory which could explain such a sudden disappearance. In the end, the men gave up and returned to their homes.
Mrs. Ullman suddenly found herself alone in a house which was still completely alien to her. Under the circumstances, the sense of familiarity with her surroundings which she had so desperately wanted to escape, might have been a source of comfort. Now that her daughter was gone, her last and only connection to the world was brutally severed. She walked, as if in a drunken stupor, from room to room, crying out repeatedly, the names of those she had lost....
A few days later, she was dead.
About a month after the disappearance, Vincent decided to pay the house a visit. The memory of the dreadful incident was still thriving amongst the village folk. They never tired of discussing the affair, and many were convinced that some evil influence was involved. They resurrected the old story of the previous occupant and her dark, secret life to lend credibility to this conjecture.
The last effects of the Ullman family had long been removed and the house stood desolate and empty. For a long time, he stood at the garden gate, looking up at the facade, where the only sign of life was the creeping ivy. He thought of Marie, with whom--though only briefly--he had formed a close relationship. To him, the affair of her disappearence was a closed book. Unlike other people, he was not very inclined to hold responsible a supernatural force. He was convinced that there must be another, more rational explanation. He resented the enthusiasm with which the villagers indulged in debate and notwithstanding his own confusion, chose to remain silent, refusing to discuss the matter publicly...
With a sigh, he brought out the garden tools and set to work. The winter snows were fast approaching and the lawn had been left untended for a long time. He had a lot of work on his hands...
At last, toward sunset, after having accomplished most of his chores, he rolled himself a cigerette, and leaning back against the gate, proudly surveyed the garden. He had managed to restore some semblance of order to it, so that now, the only thing left to do was to remove the dead leaves which were lying in dishevelled heaps, around the base of the oak.
As he was employed thus, Vincent's attention was drawn to a curious irregularity in the trunk. There was a hole about the size of a clenched fist, with something like a piece of rope protruding from it. His curiosity was piqued and he knelt down for a closer inspection. Suddenly, his eyes widened with terror and his body recoiled in extreme agitation....... For what, at first glance, he had innocently assumed to be a piece of cable, was in reality---- human hair!!. And as if this discovery was not shocking enough, it so happened, that the colour of this hair-- some locks of which were now resting in his hand-- was red!......
Poor Vincent was frantic with fear. Without giving it a second thought, he exited the garden and clutching his hair in his hands, started running down the street like a madman.
His eyes-- though he did not realize it at the time-- were overflowing with tears.................
The End
