Total pages in book: 68
Estimated words: 65042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 65042 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 325(@200wpm)___ 260(@250wpm)___ 217(@300wpm)
The soft glow got stronger, brighter with every step, and after what felt like ages, I saw it.
A shape—huge and branching—rising up into the gray light like something out of a dark fairy tale.
It was a tree—a dead one, or so it seemed.
Its thick limbs twisted up into the nothingness of the sky, bare and gnarled like bony fingers. It looked ancient and skeletal, as though it had been waiting here for centuries with nothing to do but dream in the dark.
But that wasn’t what made my skin crawl. No, what sent a chill down my spine was the figure hanging from the thickest branch—swaying slightly in a breeze I couldn’t feel.
It was a man—or at least, what had once been one. A rope was wrapped tight around his neck. His arms hung limply at his sides, and his boots were dangling a few feet off the ground.
I couldn’t see his face, thank goodness—something told me I didn’t want to.
My breath shuddered out of me and I wrapped my arms around myself, holding on tight.
All right, Danni—yes, it’s creepy but you’re here for a reason.
Deliberately, I turned my attention to the tree instead and studied it closely. There were some interesting knots in the bark of the trunk that made for an excellent distraction from the dead man hanging from its branches.
I’d read an article somewhere that said that the human brain is always looking for patterns—which means we have the propensity to see faces in inanimate objects. As I stared at the dead tree’s trunk, I felt like my brain was trying to see a face there.
Two of the twisted knots were positioned in such a way that they almost looked like eyes. A gnarled ridge below them curved slightly—almost like a mouth. Yes, I could almost see it—an ancient, gnarled face.
I leaned closer, examining the tree’s face and then—
“WELL?” the tree boomed, in a deep, gravelly voice. “WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR, GIRL? SPEAK YOUR WISH.”
“Oh my God!” I gasped and stumbled backwards, nearly falling onto my ass in the cold black dirt.
Apparently it wasn’t just my imagination—the tree was alive!
34
DANNI
My heart was pounding so hard it felt like it was trying to break through my ribs and run away. But I couldn’t waste this opportunity.
This is it, I told myself, trying to get my nerves under control. This is what you came for. You can’t chicken out now, Danni—come on!
The tree’s eyes—if that’s what they were—had gone still, just dark knots in the rough bark. For all I knew, it might not wake again for another century. This was my only shot.
I swallowed hard, reached into my pocket, and pulled out the crumpled piece of paper where I’d scribbled my list earlier. My fingers were shaking so badly the paper made a soft rustling sound, like dry leaves.
“Hi, Mr. Tree,” I said, my voice sounding absurdly loud in the empty, dark woods. “Er, thank you so much for this opportunity.”
I hesitated, wondering if it was, in fact, a “Mr.” Tree. What if I’d just offended some ancient, divine “Mrs.” Tree or, worse, a “They” Tree that didn’t subscribe to binary pronouns?
Then I gave myself a mental shake.
Come on, Danni, you’re overthinking it—just go!
Whatever sex—or non-sex—it was, the tree didn’t answer.
“All right,” I said briskly, because I felt like I had to fill the silence. “I wish for…”
And I began reading from the list, line by line, my voice echoing softly across the clearing. Yarn—hundreds of skeins of it, in every weight and color. Knitting needles of all sizes. Shelving, counters, a cash register, tables, chairs. Some furniture for a cozy corner where customers could sit and sip tea. And lastly—because I figured I might as well shoot my shot—a shiny new espresso machine for the shop.
“And please have it delivered to my cottage on Main Street in Hidden Hollow,” I finished, my voice trembling only slightly. “Thank you so much.”
The tree’s “eyes” flickered open again. They weren’t really eyes, but the movement was unmistakable—those dark knots suddenly had wooden pupils that winked at me. Its gnarled mouth worked soundlessly for a moment, like it was chewing on my words. Then it said, in a deep, gravelly voice that rumbled right through my bones,
“DONE.”
Just like that.
And then the face went slack again. The knots were only knots—the bark was just bark. The tree was just a tree.
I stood there for a long moment, the cold air biting my cheeks, the sound of my pulse loud in my ears.
“Is that it?” I muttered finally. “There’s nothing more to it?”
The silence pressed in on me.
And then a voice—not the tree’s, but something lower, darker—slid out of the shadows like smoke.
“Well,” it purred, “there’s a little more to it.”
I froze. Every hair on my arms and the back of my neck stood up. There was something wrong with that voice—it was evil. I didn’t know how I knew but I did—the thing that had spoken wished me harm. But I didn’t have any idea what or where it was.