Walk Among the Whispering Willows

Check out another one of Grandpa's Tales. This one will also be featured in "Generational Tales of Terror", coming... sometime soon!

Content Warning: Child abuse

Settle down now boys, Grandpa’s got another story for you. Yes, it is another old one, another from my childhood. It is one your father and your grandmother would not believe. They would rather trust the stories in the newspapers and the rumors around town than what actually happened. But believe me when I tell you there is truth to every word I say. It is a story of an old friend of mine. A friend I miss dearly to this day. Yes, you are correct young one! You could have called him my best friend. I was his and he was mine. But like all good things my young kin, even the best childhood friendships must come to an end. I tell you youngsters, the loss of my old pal was one of the hardest things I have ever had to overcome. But I believe he would have wanted me to carry on his story. To pass it on, so his memory would not be forgotten. Tonight, I will tell you the story of my friend Robby and I as we took a walk among the whispering willows.

            It started back when I was just a little one, around your age in fact. You see, back then, the houses that now reside on Willow Street, the same street you all pass by on the school bus on the way to school every morning, had yet to be constructed. Back then, there was a grove of actual weeping willow trees in their place. It was a small grove, but large enough that one could still get lost within. Large enough that when you stopped and looked in through the tree’s long swaying leaves you could not possibly see through to the other side. Old Robby and I, we would pass by that grove every morning and night as we rode our bikes to and from school. And it was uphill both ways of course, ha!

            Oh, never mind, that is just an old joke you will understand when you get older. Every day as Robby and I rode our bikes home we would make sure to pedal just a little faster and speak just a little softer as we passed the old willows. Around town back then there was a myth. A myth that whoever had planted the willows, since the trees are not native to the prairies and therefore had to have been planted, had enchanted them. Well, enchanted some said, but others would have said cursed.

It was said it was cursed because children tended to disappear within the waving willow leaves. But enchanted, because those that disappeared had gone of their own free will. They’d wandered into the willows with a reason to disappear, and something within the trees granted them freedom from what haunted them in reality. It was that these children would follow the whispers of the willows until they found… it. It was not a monster per se, and not a creature either. Let us call it… an entity. This entity, though it went by many names, was mostly called “The Planter”.

            The Planter was never thought of as an evil or malevolent being. It was simply known as something that was to be respected and given space. Some described it as a living breathing tree. A solid, unmoving mass of bark and branches that whispered to the children. Others said it was more humanoid with white bark skin to match the willows it guarded, and long arms to hold the hands of the children as it whisked them away. Regardless of what it was, Robby and I were terrified of the thing, of the legend, or so I thought at least.

            Robby and I had been best friends since I could remember. We would spend our days playing jacks or shooting marbles, always with broken and bleeding knuckles from where the teacher had rapped us for talking and giggling at the back of the class. In the months leading to his disappearance, however, he seemed to pull away. At first I thought nothing of it. Sure, we played less jacks and we giggled less. We shot less marbles and often our bike rides around that time were spent in silence. But I knew his father had just returned from his deployment, and I figured that Robby was just spending quality time with his old man. Oh, the innocence of a child.

            It wasn’t until the day Robby walked into the willows that I finally clued in that things might not be all alright at home for him. I remember it clear as day, Robby came to school late with an eye that was black and blue and an arm in a makeshift sling. I remember becoming furious, “Who did this to you?” I asked. “Was it Tom and his gang?” I whispered as he sat beside me. They were the older boys who sometimes stole our good snacks from our lunch kits, you see. All Robby did that day was shake his head and stare at the board. I remember looking over at him and seeing teardrops on the paper on his desk. Right then, I didn’t care who’d done it, I was furious, and I wanted to avenge my pal. So, when he took off home before I could ask him who had hurt him, I tell you I pedaled that bike as fast as I could to catch up to him. And I caught him just as he rode to a stop in the ditch beside the willows.

            As I came around the bend in the road I saw him. He had dropped his bike in the tall roadside grass and was locked in a thousand-yard stare into the waving willow leaves. I called out. I called out as loud as my young lungs could shout. “Robby!” I shouted. “Robby, stop! Wait!” I screamed. My sneakers flew ‘round and ‘round on the pedals. Around and around went the chain. In the motion my shoelaces untied, and through the chain, around and around my shoelaces went, sending me sprawling onto the rough asphalt. Ignoring my skinned knees and forearms I leapt to my feet and shouted once more to Robby. Robby turned to me, he raised a hand, shook his head, and walked into the willows.

            By the time I limped my way to where Robby’s bike lay, young ones, it was already too late. My best friend in the whole wide world had heard the whispers of the willows and had followed their gentle summoning through the waving leaves of the grove. I remember that moment like it was yesterday. My heart racing, my palms slick with sweat, blood dripping down my knees I followed Robby into the grove of the whispering weeping willows.

            I don’t quite remember how I knew which direction to go. I just remember the vague outline of Robby’s figure passing through the leaves ahead as I trudged along through the moss-covered ground. A few feet into the trees I heard the first whispers, they said, “Leave him… Let him be.” A shiver ran down my spine when I heard it. I knew what they meant. The trees were guiding Robby to the planter. When Robby reached it, he would be gone forever. “No!” I shouted, “Robby! Stop. Please!”

            I quickened my pace. I needed to reach Robby before it found him! After what seemed like an eternity, an eternity being bombarded by whispers which had grown ever more adamant that my old pal did not want to be saved, I reached the edge of a clearing and I saw him.

            I parted the hanging leaves at the edge of the clearing and peered within. It was as if the trees had decided in unison to stop growing in a perfect circle around a giant willow in the center of the circle. Robby stood before this tree. Head tilted back and tears streaming down his face he stood. I leapt forward, I needed to stop him, but something snatched up my ankles and held me back. With terror in my heart, I realized the leaves of the willows had snared me. The grove was doing all it could to stop me from reaching Robby. I kicked and screamed but I was powerless to move, and my cries seemed to fall short of Robby’s ears.

            That was it then children. That was when I saw it. The planter peeled itself away from the tree in the center of the clearing with the sound of creaking and cracking bark. It was enormous. It must have reached nine feet tall. Its skin an amalgamation of white and brown bark. Its face made of conformed and blended tree knots and its arms long and thin donned the appearance of branches. It peeled away and knelt before Robby.

            On the wind lay out a low rumbling whisper, “Come child.” It said as the planter pulled Robby close and wrapped him tightly in a hug. I cried one final cry as the planter stood, took Robby’s hand in it, and guided my best friend to a great knot in the giant willow. The planter lay its other hand on the tree and muttered a chant. Before my eyes the bark of the tree appeared to swirl and morph until a small doorway appeared on its surface. Robby turned to face me one last time. One last time I saw my pal’s face. The solemn and tear-ridden face of a beaten child was replaced by a smile that reached all the way to his eyes. Behind Robby, the planter turned the knob and swung the door wide. Robby spoke to me and he sounded a thousand miles away, “Goodbye, my friend. It’s okay. I can be happy now.” He turned together with the planter and stepped through the doorway.

            As the door faded away I was released from the snare of the willow leaves. I sprinted to the tree in the center of the clearing, but it was too late. The door was closed. I was not meant to follow.

            That, my young kin, was the story of my old pal Robby. I want you to remember that story as you drive by Willow Street on the bus tomorrow. Remember that you never know how badly someone is hurting, and that you should look out for your best friends and your siblings as best you can. What’s that? Oh, that old willow tree in the back yard? Ha-ha, yes. I suppose not all the willows from the grove were chopped down after all.

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