The Thing in the Trees

Chapter One

The dishes always sit in the sink. Beckoning to me and only me. In a house that is filled with constant movement, they are the only things that remain untouched—in addition to the laundry, the dusting, and any other part of cleaning.

It doesn’t matter how many times I ask for help. How often I cry to my husband, asking for reassurance—the constant buildup of dishes, clothes, dust, and clutter, a methodical, steady pace, like an unwanted guest.

Outside the window, the sun is blending into the trees—a dark orangish red bleeding into the branches. A sickly kind of orange that made the sky look bruised and broken. As I continue to scrub a crusted baking pan with a sponge that has gone soft at the edges, my elbows deep in suds. The house was quiet—finally. The babies were in bed. My husband had retreated to his office, lost in a game or online videos. The house, for once, wasn’t demanding with need.

Just the constant whisper of dishes and housework long forgotten by everyone else.

And that uneasy feeling again.

The one that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up and my eyes trace the wood line as if someone had just emerged from the trees in the usual nightly ritual.

Every night, I try not to look up. And every night, I fail.

For weeks now, I’ve been getting this odd feeling of being watched—but only while I’m doing the dishes.

Chapter One (cont.)

My body recognizes the sensation of not being alone. Only at this sink. Only at this hour. Always, while I am elbow-deep in the remnants of dinner and the day, like whatever was out there knew the rhythm of my days and my resentment at being the only one stuck here, scrubbing away the crumbs and decay.

But when I inevitably lost the internal battle and glanced up, I found nothing waiting for me. Just the thick curtain of trees largely looming in the backyard, against the dead sky. But still, that feeling lingered. A pressure. A hum in my bones. The glass of the window felt too clear, as if it wasn’t keeping anything out and keeping anything hidden.

Decidedly, I turned back to the sink and kept scrubbing, taking out my frustrations and anger on the pans. Maybe it was just my paranoia. Or maybe the exhaustion from the baby not sleeping. Maybe I just needed to feel something—anything—after weeks of this domestic fog. I used to feel like I had value, didn’t I? I was a person with thoughts and feelings, and I mattered. Now I feel like a glorified appliance, there for convenience. Some people had affairs. Some people drank. Maybe my particular brand of escapism is a looming monster outside the window. At least it’s not drugs.

The plate in my hand slipped and cracked against the ceramic sink. I hissed a curse, more out of instinct than anger, and looked at my bleeding hand. At least the cut also made me feel something.

Chapter One (cont.)

I used to be so careful.

There was a time—before babies, before the house, before the endless parade of sippy cups and pediatrician visits and passive-aggressive texts from family—when I had been something else. Not happy, exactly, but awake. I danced. I painted. I stayed up too late reading books about ancient cities and forgotten gods.

Now I just scrubbed things that never stayed clean.

Sighing, I reach for a towel. And that’s when I saw it.

Not the thing in the woods. Not yet. Just… something small. Deliberate.

Balanced on the windowsill outside was a bundle. Tiny. Precise. A knot of twigs bound with red thread, tucked with a feather.

I froze.

The sponge dripped soapy water down my arm, but I didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

The bundle hadn’t been there before. I was sure of it. The sill had been empty when I started the dishes.

Slowly, stepping back from the window.

I thought about calling my husband. But what would I even say? “Hey, babe, can you come look at this weird little serial killer origami on the window?”

Instead, I opened the window and picked up the tiny bundle—its fragility vibrating through my fingertips. I walked to the trash and threw it away. I turned off the water and locked the back door. I drew the blinds closed, double-checked the deadbolt, and made sure all the lights were on. Then I poured myself a glass of Moscato and told myself to get over it.

I didn’t sleep that night.