WEEPING WILLOW
By Randy Romero
Amy Larson didn’t leave
much behind for her son, Eric. A few used books, an ancient record collection,
and a weeping willow tree that he could see perfectly from his bedroom window.
The willow was a large, deciduous tree with a stout trunk, topped by a graceful
crown of branches that drooped down, almost touching the grass.
Autumn had turned its
healthy green leaves a sickly brownish yellow. Its branches hung even lower
than normal. Its leaves shedding with every gust of wind, big or small. Yet
through all that, it maintained its dramatic, elegant appearance.
His mother loved that
tree, would sit for hours underneath, reading or sketching in her notebook. The
tree was special to her, so it was special to Eric by proxy. It pained him to
see its current state, but he knew in the spring, the leaves would blossom again,
and it would return to its majestic state.
It was just Eric and his
dad now. Frank Larson wasn’t a reader like his wife. He wasn’t fond of music or
the arts. He was fond of cheap beer and TV dinners and using his fists to solve
his myriad problems.
Eric and his mom used to
spend copious amounts of time together. Read together, draw together, listen to
music together. His mother was a Beatles aficionado. They once sat and counted
all the “Judes” in the song, “Hey Jude”. He couldn’t remember the exact number,
but it was a lot.
Eric Larson sat awake in
his bedroom, reading comic books. The door was closed but his blinds were open.
His bedroom windows faced the backyard, where he had the ultimate view of his
mom’s favorite tree.
But that night, the skies
were weeping. The rain came flooding down and made its presence known. He could
hear it beating down outside his windows, accompanied by the occasional flash
of lightning or crackle of thunder.
Dinner that night was a
microwavable mac and cheese that Eric had heated up himself. His father worked
late at the factory and decided to have a liquid dinner. He was passed out in
his bedroom by nine o’clock. Not that it mattered. Frank and Eric had little in
common and little to talk about or discuss. Eric immersed himself in comics he
bought with money that should have been going to his school lunches. He always
put a few bucks aside every week for comics that he stashed under his bed. He
was also saving up for a new bike.
Eric was too old to
believe in Santa Claus. And he had no hope his father was going to surprise him
that year with a bicycle. So he decided he was going to buy it himself. He
tucked a dollar away here and there, saved all his pocket change, recycled cans
and bottles, checked the return slots of every vending machine he came across
for stray coins.
Rain tapped against his
window and the sky lit up with a sudden burst of lightning. And in the
transient moments of this bright flash, he saw it.
Brooding behind the
weeping willow, but not well enough to conceal itself. The sky flashed again,
and he got another terrifying glimpse.
It was tall and
abnormally thin, with jagged, asymmetrical claws and crimson red eyes. Its skin
was as gray and rigid as the bark of the tree. It scaled it ways up the stout
tree limbs and arched branches, trying to camouflage itself against the tree.
But Eric could still make out its glowing red eyes in the rainy darkness.
His throat was too dry to
call for his father. He turned away in fright, and when he dared to turn back,
the red glow had vanished. He couldn’t spot the creature anymore, if it had
ever been there at all.
He turned his back to the
window, thinking that if he turned away again and then looked back, the
creature would return. No such luck. The sky blinked once again and Eric got a
good look at the weeping willow. Nothing was there.
His eyes frantically
searched the backyard whenever there was a flash of light, but he didn’t see a
thing. He chalked it up to his overactive imagination. Too many comic books and
monster movies he probably wasn’t supposed to be watching at his age.
He tucked his comic books
away and tried to put the horrifying image in the back of his mind. He tried to
convince himself it was nothing more than his imagination. He saw what his ten-year-old
brain had wanted him to see.
He crawled under the covers
and shut his eyes. Piercing screams shattered the dreadful silence that had
ensued since Eric first laid eyes on the creature.
The terrifying shrieks
were followed by a series of even more unnerving sounds. The sounds of crunching
and snapping, and the wet tearing sounds of flesh being ripped from bone.
He cowered in the dark
under his covers as his bedroom door creaked open. He peeked out and saw it standing
outside its bedroom. It was taller than the door itself. He couldn’t see its
face or its sharp red eyes as it stood motionless in the hallway.
Then it turned and
disappeared down the hall. Eric listened closely as it descended the staircase
and vanished into the night, leaving him unscathed. Leaving him to wonder for the
rest of his life why it had spared him. Was it truly a monster, or had it been
a guardian sent by his mother to free him from the chains of his father? The question
would haunt him until the end of days.
