HORRORS OF THE ARBORARY KIND BY SHAYNA MATTHEWS

HORRORS OF THE ARBORARY KIND BY SHAYNA MATTHEWS

Somewhere, stored far back into the depths of my memory, there stands an ancient tree. It is a frightening tree – and it is hostile. Gnarled, twisted branches brandish sharpened twigs which pierce the sky. The sky was weirdly gray when I first saw it…not so much cloudy gray as it was a misty gray, the kind of gray where horrors lurk. You know the kind of horrors I mean. The movie where you know those kids aren’t supposed to go “there” – “Don’t go in there!” You shout. “Are you stupid?” The horrors which could also be little more than a feeling, a twitch or a deepening of your pulse. Why? Because hostility reigns. The air is heavy with it. Dripping with it. For me, perhaps the first twitch I consciously recall having was standing face to face with The Tree. Not “a” tree…THE TREE. I have not spoken of it very often since that day…but apparently it has not left my subconsciousness. The tree in real life, I hope, is no longer standing; though I do not know. The darn thing is probably still there, refusing to keel over, still a menace to those who pass by.

"Tree" by Shayna Matthews

I was very small when I first met THE TREE. Small, meek and perturbed. You know how you meet someone and at first glance you don’t like them, even if you have no sane explanation why? I did not like that tree. Not one bit. It twisted straight out of the ground, dark and evil against a stark sky. It was hollow, I know, because there was a large gaping hole in the middle of the trunk. Unfortunately, it seemed to draw people toward it, as though it had powers a tree just should not logically possess. Of course, place an old hollow tree with a hole in it, and chances are the curiosity of human nature wins out over caution. Not every time, perhaps, but at least it does half the time. I would not have gone near that tree if someone offered me eleventy-ba-zillion dollars. But, there was a little boy who did. Was the tree angered over the gaping wound in its trunk? Or was it just a force of nature? Either way, that boy stuck his whole head into the hole, and got it stuck. I guess it never occurred to him that the tree might attack, or rather, the creatures who lived inside it. He did sure enough when the beehive exploded with furious tenants and swarmed him. I don’t remember what happened next, I think my parents must have squirreled me away somewhere out of sight. But I knew the ambulance came, and they whisked that poor boy away…after they got the tree (and a thousand bees) pulled off his face. Yes, the boy pulled through the horrible ordeal, and I’m willing to bet he has never allowed curiosity to get the best of him again.

Young as I was, I guess I never forgot that moment. Obviously, for I am writing about it now. Somewhere, there is a photograph of that very tree. Maybe my mother has it stashed away in the collection of old photos, maybe. I don’t really need to see the photograph though. I can still see  the wooded hostility standing alone in that field, waiting.

I wrote a scene in my novel recently, a scene where a boy draws a picture of a gnarled tree. It was a hostile tree that scarred the sky and struck fear in the heart of the boy. It was a scene of great sorrow, loneliness and fear. It wrote itself…so well in fact that I have no conscious memory of actually writing it. When I read back over what I wrote, my skin prickled and I was shivering. My teeth came near to chattering, truth be told. I had not thought of that damned tree in years. YEARS. And yet, it’s still there…waiting.