The Consuming Tree

I never understood my mother’s dread of the woods until this Christmas.

Winter has always been my favorite time of the year, and I consider myself somewhat of an expert at “decking the halls.” Since I was a kid, I would wake up early on Black Friday to string garlands, hang lights, and meticulously arrange little figurines of elves and Santa Claus around the house. This always concerned my parents, who did not care for this time of the season. Their disdain always puzzled me, especially given that my mother had immigrated from Germany, a place renowned for its incredible Christmas celebrations.

Despite their chronic Grinchism, Mom always gritted her teeth and allowed me to partake in the season with one caveat: no Christmas tree. I accepted this bargain without hesitation, for my mother’s fear of trees was not entirely unfounded.

As children, my mom and her younger sister awoke early one Christmas morning to a picturesque winter wonderland. The window panes were frosty and fluffy, and new-fallen snow covered the ground.

They snuck out of their rooms and were dazzled by all the presents under the glittering Christmas tree. They held hands, entranced by the golden spectacle. Despite their urge to start opening the gifts, their parents had been clear: wait to open gifts until everyone awoke. By the thunderous sound of their father’s snoring from their parent’s bedroom, they could tell they would not rise for several hours.

Minutes passed, then hours, as the girls grew bored and impatient — the gifts taunting them from under the tree. They decided to collect chestnuts from the nearby grove to pass the time. Chestnuts roasting on an open fire certainly would lessen their parent’s anger for disobeying them. They bundled up and began shuffling through the powdery snow toward the treeline at the edge of their farm.

The grove was just beyond a dark thicket of woods. The bare boughs of the trees creaked as they swayed in the wind. Many were lost in the black forest every year. While most understood the woods were naturally hazardous and full of beasts, some locals claimed the trees would occasionally come alive to snatch up wanderers. The girls clutched each other tightly and bravely walked through until they finally emerged from the shadowy woodlands and into the sunny grove.

My mother collected chestnuts while my aunt was more preoccupied with running around trying to instigate a game of hide and seek. Feeling a bit tight-strung from disobeying their parents, my mother was not in the mood to play.

“Come, play with me, Ada!” my aunt squealed as she ducked behind a large, dark spruce tree at the grove’s edge.

“Will you come back here already, Emilia!?” My mother yelled. “They’ll be awake soon!”

My mother threw down her pail and huffed over, but her sister was gone. Her frustration turned to panic as she screamed her sister’s name but received no response. She had vanished without a trace, leaving only her cherry red scarf in the snow at the base of the massive spruce tree.

My mother returned home, cheeks red and blistered, sobbing and clutching my aunt’s red scarf. Her parents, relieved that one of their missing daughters had returned home, wiped her eyes and asked what happened. Through her sobs, she could only choke out, “The trees ate her!”

My grandparents never found out what happened to their youngest daughter but harbored a deep resentment towards their eldest until their deaths. This ordeal left my mother deeply scarred and with a lingering nervousness around trees.

But this is my year finally. My husband and I bought our first home, and I can now go full send on Christmas — tree and all. We picked out a handsome spruce and set it in the corner of our living room, and it felt like a real Christmas for once.

That evening, I was shutting the lights off in the living room before bed. I unplugged the soft white lights wrapped around the tree. As I left the room, I heard a rustling behind me. I turned and found the tree had moved several feet from its original spot towards me. It hadn’t fallen or tipped over; instead, it stood straight up with a shower of fallen spruce needles trailing the floor behind it.

I shimmied it back into place and went to leave the room again, but as I passed under the doorway, I heard a noisy clinking of ornaments. I quickly flipped on the overhead light and spun around, but the tree was where I had left it.

“What are you doing, honey?” my husband called.

I shook my head, cut off the light, and went to bed.

Our dog, Frances, woke me the following morning with a soft whimper. He was shaking and had his tail tucked between his legs. Upon hearing me say “walk,” he calmed down, so I went into the living room to grab my walking shoes from the closet. I sat on the couch, slipped my shoes on, and called Frances to fasten his harness, but he didn’t respond.

I found him in our bedroom, cowering in the corner. In my frustration, I grabbed him by the collar and dragged him into the living room. He was fixed on the tree and softly growled and yipped. After securing his harness, I realized I had forgotten the bags, so I went to the kitchen for a moment to grab them.

From across the house, I heard a sharp yelp — like someone had stepped on Frances’ tail. When I returned to the living room, the dog was nowhere to be found. I searched high and low but found nothing except his collar underneath the Christmas tree. I rushed into the bedroom and woke my husband.

He insisted we search the neighborhood for Frances, thinking he had somehow gotten out, but I knew it was useless. The tree did something to him. I demanded we toss it immediately, but my husband insisted I was being “hysterical.”

“Come on, tomorrow is Christmas,” he said. “We’ll keep it one more day, then get rid of it.”

I reluctantly agreed but felt uneasy all day and never once turned my back on the tree. That night, I went to sleep with a pit in my stomach.

I woke in the early hours of the morning to a piney smell. Panicked, I threw on the lights. The tree was in our room, hunched over my husband, and the soft smacking sound of chewing echoed off the walls. It seemed startled and turned toward me after I switched on the light.

My husband’s legs dangled from the tree’s mouth, a vast, grinning maw with bright red lips and human-like teeth, having already been half consumed by the thing. It bit down hard, severing my husband’s legs at the knee and sending a spray of blood down onto our off-white sheets.

It licked its lips, and its grin widened as it slowly and quietly teeter-tottered over to me around the foot of the bed, my husband’s childhood ornaments rattling and falling off as it shambled. I seized my moment, rolling over my husband’s severed legs and landing on the wooden floor. I dashed but tripped on the carpet, sailed into the hallway, and slammed into the drywall.

I was dazed momentarily, and the tree pounced on me quickly. I could feel its cartoonishly huge teeth chewing on my leg and pulling me into its gullet.

Before it could eat me whole, I grabbed the topmost branch that stuck upwards and snapped it off. It whimpered and released me long enough to wrest myself free and run into the living room. I rummaged through the closet and grabbed a can of bug spray and a lighter. The monster loomed behind me as I quickly whipped around, flicked the lighter, and sprayed the Christmas tree with my homemade flamethrower. It erupted in flame, its sap crackling as it shook violently back and forth.

The drapes set fire, and the room quickly filled with smoke. I crawled to the door and tumbled out just as I ran out of breath — slamming it behind me.

I sat on the front lawn and watched as my home became engulfed in flames. The deaths of my husband and dog quickly overshadowed my gratitude for having survived the ordeal. I wept and screamed and cursed the forest. Through tears, I could see the trees rustling in the hazy distance beyond the fire, unsure if they were closer than I had remembered before.