In the forests of Snake Lake, Tacoma, stood an old oak tree. Scarred by human and natural elements alike, it nevertheless stood proud and strong, as if daring nature to do its worst.
And the tree watched, and waited.
Its branches shook, the dry amber and red leaves rustling and shaking as if in the wind. Yet it wasn’t the wind.
The tree breathed. One slow intake, than one slow outtake, almost unnoticeable. Yet the tree breathed.
The leaves at the base of the oak tree swirled around it, leaping and soaring like brightly-dressed dancers, tumbling in the wind. Yet it wasn’t the wind.
The tree moved. Slowly, ever so slowly, its great roots and tendrils slithering through the soil like so many giant worms, inching the tree over. Inch by inch, day by day, it made its way towards its destination: the hiking path.
Winter fast approached, and snow would soon cover the whole forest, forcing the old tree to sleep, but it had one last objective to do before consenting to the cold embrace of the changing seasons. A week later, frost covering the ground like a fine silk blanket, found the old oak tree planted by the side of the path as if it had always stood there. Looking to all the world like a wood sentinel guarding a road, the tree settled its roots and took another long breath.
And the tree watched, and waited.
The spot at which it now stood lay directly at a sharp corner in the path, on a gradual slope. Slowly, slowly, the tree leaned itself over the path, and inch by inch stretched one of its old gnarled branches over the path, then inching it a little lower, a little lower, inch by inch.
And the tree watched, and waited.
Soon a sound could be heard, coming down the slope and approaching the corner, the whizzing and rattling sound of a bike speeding down the forest path. A barely visible shiver coursed through the tree. This was the moment it had been planning for the past eleven years. The biker sped around the corner at top speed, his hair rippling in the wind.
He never even had a chance to scream.
An earsplitting crack resonated through the forest, echoing among the trees. The old oak tree shuddered, the end of its old dry arm broken off completely. However, it had achieved its goal. The biker lay on the ground, the red of blood blending in with the shades of autumn. Then, ever so slowly, a crack seemed to appear across the oak tree, running from its base to its top. Slowly, slowly, the crack widened into a gaping cavern of wood. Then, the old oak tree bent down, its roots picking the corpse off the ground like so many pallbearers as the tree opened wide its oaken maw to receive him. The body in place, the crack slowly sealed up, until both it and the biker vanished as if they had never existed. Then the tree leaned back, away from the path, and withdrew its branches.
And the tree watched, and waited.
Not long after, a jogger appeared from the opposite direction as the biker. She noticed the bike on the ground, but jogged around it, soon passing the spot where the biker had lain not long before. But the swirling leaves had hidden the blood, so she jogged onward, unaware.
The old oak tree seemed to let out a sigh, the last of its autumn leaves rustling. Then, once more, the tree began to move. Inch by inch, hour by hour. By the time the first snow began to fall, the tree was already far from the path. Even as the tree began to fall asleep for the winter, it had already begun to dream of its next murder, eleven years hence.
Why did the tree hunt down men? Did some vendetta against mankind drive it onward? The tree itself could not remember. Ever since it had grown large enough, it had hunted. It knew no other way of life. For centuries, the tree had plotted and hunted, killed and ate, and outlived what an oak tree of its species should have lived. The tree itself had traveled across Washington, an inch at a time, feasting as it moved, the reason gone, the bloodlust remaining.
As the tree fell asleep, it dreamed a dream.
The hatred in the air was practically tangible. Gunshots and war-whoops rang out, piercing the still night air. A group of settlers was trying vainly to hold off a Puyallup tribe hunting party, and in the middle of it all, grew a tiny oak sapling. Barely aware of its surroundings, it sat in the center of the melee, ignorant of the slaughter around it. Then, amidst all the other sounds and emotions raging across the battlefield, one thought stronger than all the rest managed to permeate into the tree. The desire to kill.
The battle was over before it began, but not one settler managed to escape with their lives. In the midst of the carnage stood the little oak sapling, now no longer seeming so green and full of new life, but rather already touched with the grayness of age. Drinking deep with its roots, the tree had its first taste of blood.
Although the oak tree could not know it, as it slept a harsh winter settled in. Many trees around the old oak tree fell to the winter storms, but even subconsciously the oak tree refused to fall, as if still unwilling to die.
The long winter passed, and spring finally came, bringing with it Public Workers to take care of the fallen trees. In the midst of all the carnage, bent over, half uprooted and supporting itself with is branches, stood the old oak tree still clinging on for dear life.
“A pity we were told to remove all the trees here, this old guy put up a good fight” one of the men remarked, patting it. “I hear they’re turning this spot into an open park.”
As the old oak tree saw the man approach, chainsaw in hand, it shook and swayed in vain, trying to escape. But, half uprooted as it was, it lacked the strength. It could only shake weakly as it felt its long overdue death approaching. After taking the life of countless men, it seemed almost fitting that the tree should die at the hands of man.
The tree severed, the man put down his chainsaw. “How old do you reckon this big fellah is?” he remarked aloud, moving toward the trunk. “I wonder how many rings…”
As the man bent down to look, a scream escaped his lips.
Staring back at him from amidst the wooden trunk of the tree lay a human skull.
ns 172.69.59.25da2
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