The Trees in Late June

Originally published in Sanitarium Magazine

It was two in the morning when FBI Agent Franklin Mash threw his now empty pack of cigarettes onto the passenger side seat. He looked closely at both sides of the road before he attempted to light his cigarette with the last of his gas station matches. He cursed as it went out right away, tossing the cigarette aside as he barreled down the highway in the middle of nowhere.

Highway 169 was a fifteen mile patch of road connecting a small county seat to an even smaller town. For years its only purpose was to connect commuters to the interstate. However in the past year, 8 people had gone missing on the highway. Their cars would be found totaled on the side of the road, but the drivers and those with them had simply disappeared. Eventually the local authorities passed it onto the FBI, who had then passed it onto Franklin.

Lucky me, Franklin thought.

He’d been driving all day and all night to get to southern Iowa from his office in Chicago. His investigation wouldn’t start until the next day, but Franklin had already downed three energy drinks and was in no mood to entertain sleep. The sooner he found whoever was committing these acts, the sooner he could get the hell out of here.

Raindrops began to splatter on his windshield, wiped away instantly. Soon, however, the rain began to pick up, his wipers pushed to their limits. The downpour came out of nowhere, and soon it was hard to see at all. Franklin squinted, both hands on the wheel, trying to keep the car steady as the wind picked up.

He started to slow down to turn around and head back to his motel when a large buck ran across the road. He put all his weight on the brakes, spinning out of control. The deer slammed into his bumper, the car rearing as the animal’s back broke underneath him.

His car went off the road, plummeting uncontrollably down a hill. Franklin quickly reached for the emergency brake, but all too late. He crashed into a small pond, water slowly flowing in through the floor, hitting his head hard on the steering wheel.

Franklin took a few deep breaths, trying to remain calm. He pushed open his door, allowing the water to flow in. Unbuckling, he fell into the muddy pond, his cheap suit instantly soaked and caked with mud. He waded to the shore, climbing out onto the long grass that surrounded the pond, wiping the blood off of his forehead. A cow stared at him, its mouth slowly chewing as it grazed.

“What’re you looking at?” Franklin said as he took his jacket off, attempting to squeeze the water out of it. Feeling dizzy, Franklin fell to the ground. He waited a couple of minutes, allowing the world around him to steady.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his cell phone, which unfortunately was just as soaked as he was. Franklin sighed as he returned it to his pocket. He waded back into the water, reaching into the driver’s side door to pop the trunk. He grabbed his briefcase and tossed his backpack over his shoulders. Franklin looked up the steep hill, just noticing that the torrential storm had stopped as soon as it had appeared.

Attempting to climb the hill, he slipped about halfway up, tumbling back to the ground below. He cursed as he landed oddly on his leg, a sharp pain shooting through his body. Franklin sat up, feeling his right leg. Fortunately it hadn’t broken. He slowly stood up, putting some weight on it. The pain was bad, but he could walk.

He looked up the hill, trying to find an easier way to scale it. Looking behind him and past the pond that his car was floating in, he spotted some lights about a quarter mile ahead, just past a thicket of woods. Limping, Franklin slowly made his way toward the light.

I should’ve just bought a lighter, Franklin thought, cursing himself for being cheap as his lungs began to crave some nicotine. He passed the grazing cow, which was still following him with its eyes.

“Thanks for the help,” Franklin said, flipping off the animal. The cow eventually went back to eating the tall grass around the pond.

When he finally reached the woods, Franklin immediately leaned against a tree, his leg throbbing. Amidst the trees he could make out that the light was coming from the porch of an old farmhouse, probably the owners of the land. Praying for some Midwestern hospitality, Franklin stumbled through the woods and toward the house.

The moon was blocked out by the thick summer leaves of the trees above him. Some rustling up ahead stopped him dead in his tracks. A deer walked out of the darkness, staring at him. Franklin hurried to pick up a rock and lightly tossed it forward, the deer scattering and running off into the night.

“You’re friend’s up on the highway if that’s who you’re looking for!” Franklin yelled after it, reminding himself to become an avid hunter. He picked up his briefcase and continued on his way, mosquitoes buzzing in his ears.

Eventually Franklin found himself out of the woods, the house now in full view. It was painted yellow, or at least it was originally as most the paint had chipped off. A barbed wire fence surrounded the entire property, rusted with age. An old black lab rested on the porch.

Franklin eventually found an opening in the fence, walking up the gravel driveway that led to the house. Unfortunately he was much louder than the coyote that ran swiftly across the yard. The black lab shot up, barking savagely. Franklin slowly approached the porch, holding his hands out when a man burst out of the house, the screen door slamming immediately after he’d exited.

“Get off my property!” The man yelled. His voice was rough with age. The left side of his face was drooping, his words slurred. He was even harder to understand due to the large amount of chewing tobacco he had in his lip.

“I don’t mean to intrude,” Franklin said, pulling out his badge. “I’m Agent Mash, with the FBI. I was heading to Winterset from De Soto to investigate some disappearances, but I had some car trouble.”

The older man limped down a step, eyeing Franklin cautiously.

“What kind of trouble?” The man asked, spitting on the dirt ground surrounding the porch.

“Well, one thing led to another, and now my car is floating in a small pond about a quarter mile that way,” Franklin said, pointing toward the woods.

“Hit an animal?”

“Yeah, a deer ran right in front of me during the storm that passed through.” Franklin explained. As he said it, he noticed that the ground wasn’t wet at all, dust rising as the farmer walked down from the porch in front of Franklin.

The farmer shook his head, spitting out the wad of tobacco.

“I’m sorry boy, there’s nothing I can do for you. Head on out the way you came.” The farmer patted Franklin on the back.

Franklin, a bit confused, followed the old farmer toward the porch.

“I don’t understand—I just need to use your phone or something, I don’t mean to put you—“

“I said I can’t help you!” The farmer said, his words slurring. “No one can. You’ve been chosen. I’m sorry.” The farmer turned around, tears welling in his eyes.

“Chosen? What’re you talking about?” Franklin asked.

The Farmer walked back up the porch, the dog growling as Franklin came closer. Franklin leaned against the porch, his leg throbbing, as the farmer reached in the door and pulled out a double barrel shotgun. Franklin took a few steps back and made a reach for his gun, usually strapped to his side, out of instinct. Unfortunately he’d left it in the car; he didn’t think he’d need it in small town Iowa. The farmer aimed down the barrel.

“I’ve tried before. I’ve tried to help all those people. Some of them were my friends! Some…some were my family,” The farmer said, the tears threatening to escape. “It uses the animals. Once it’s chosen, there’s nothing that can be done.”

“Are you talking about all those people that disappeared? Please, put down the gun. You can’t threaten an FBI agent. Don’t do anything crazy,” Franklin pleaded, holding his hand up.

“I’m not crazy!” The old farmer yelled. “Everyone thinks I’m crazy…I’ve seen what it does. If I try to help, I’ll be next! I’ve lost enough as it is.” The farmer looked down, shaking his head, before shooting the gun above Franklin’s head.

“Clear on out of here.”

Franklin took a few steps back, his ears ringing.

“Threatening me is a felony. You’ll be hearing from the authorities,” Franklin said, rubbing his ears as he began walking back toward the forest. “Could you at least give me some advice on how to get out of here?”

“It doesn’t matter which way you go, you’ll always end up there. It’ll draw you to it. The only advice I can give you is to make peace with your maker. I really do wish I could help.” The farmer walked into his house, the black lab with him.

“Psycho!” Franklin yelled after him, quickly heading down the gravel in case the farmer decided to aim lower next time.

He found that the gravel driveway led to an old dusty road. Hoping it would bring him back to highway 169, Franklin followed it in complete darkness, the moon hidden by black clouds.

Soon his eyes adjusted. He made out another deer up ahead, staring at him. This one, however, wasn’t frightened by him. It began to walk up to him; soon it was only a few feet away. It was a large buck, its antlers splitting off into multiple points. Franklin, a little intimidated by the deer’s courage, took a few steps back. That’s when he heard it. The deer whispered.

Not any kind of animal noise or anything he’d seen on those Saturday morning hunting shows. It whispered, its voice surprisingly human. Franklin wasn’t sure what it said, but it definitely said something. Franklin’s face went pale white. What had it said? Was he imagining it? He must have been. It was late, and he’d been through a lot. Still, Franklin couldn’t shake it as the deer continued to stare right into his eyes.

“What…what did you say?” Franklin asked, feeling as crazy as the old farmer for encouraging his own lunacy.

The deer walked closer to him, close enough to touch.

“Chosen for death, so He may live,” The deer whispered, its voice ghostly and thin.

Franklin fell back onto the gravel, the rocks piercing his palms. He grabbed a handful of them, throwing them as hard as he could at the buck. It didn’t flinch at all, the pebbles thudding against its chest.

“Get away from me!” Franklin screamed.

The buck walked forward, almost on top of Franklin. It lowered his head so it was right in front of his own. The deer’s eyes were gone, just empty sockets where they were only moments before.

The deer smiled.

Franklin stood up, running as fast as his injured leg would allow him. He ran off the road and into a corn field, tearing the stalks out of the ground as he barreled through the night.

Soon he ran out of breath. He stopped, looking behind him to find no sign of the deer that had haunted him only moments before. Was this what the farmer was talking about? It couldn’t be true. All of those years slaving away at the FBI had finally gotten to him, driving him mad. Or perhaps he was still in his car, passed out over the steering wheel, all of this a dream. He could only hope. Franklin now found himself on the edge of the corn field, the land leveling out into a clearing in the middle of a dense wood.

In the middle stood a birch tree, its bark as pale as Franklin’s face. Almost all of its leaves were gone except for a few, odd for being only late June. Franklin figured there were only a few dozen, maybe more. This was the least interesting thing about the tree, however.

What appeared to be eyes were painted onto each and every leaf on the tree. Blue eyes, brown eyes, every color was represented. Franklin approached the tree, cautiously after what he’d been though. The tree was surrounded by mud, Franklin sinking in ankle deep, a suction noise with each step closer to the tree.

He felt the bark, which was very warm and soft. Some sap was running down the tree. Franklin rubbed it between his fingers. It wasn’t as sticky as normal sap, too thin and dark red. Curious, Franklin took his backpack off and pulled out a pocket knife. He looked at the eyes on the leaves as he cut into the tree for a sample.

They winced.

Franklin fell back into the mud. Something strong underneath the soil wrapped around his legs tightly, Franklin yelling out in agony. He tried to grasp onto anything solid as they began to pull him underneath the mud, but to no avail. The last thing he saw before his head disappeared into the mud was the eyeless buck, and the mutilated deer he’d hit, bloodied, both smiling

“Chosen for death, so He may live.”

The deer collapsed immediately after Franklin disappeared. The buck’s grin lowered as it walked over to the cornfield, looking for food.

Another leaf began to grow on the branch of the birch.