Matilda was so deeply into her work I hesitated to interrupt her. She was a tall lean woman, and quite attractive for someone I had to guess was in her late seventies. She had her hair dyed blonde, and her face, though creased with wrinkles, looked lively, or at least the side of it I could see. She was actually quite beautiful for a woman of her age, and I could imagine that even twenty years earlier she must have turned quite a few heads. She was wearing a paint-splattered, over-sized shirt and blue jeans, white canvas shoes dotted with paint. She didn’t look like a woman who would know about weird things that crept up on the porch where she once lived.
Finally, I knocked. She turned, slightly startled, and saw me. Her face lit up and she said, “Yes?”
“Miss Wright?” I said, not entering the room.
“Actually, it’s ‘Mrs,’ but my husband is long dead. I prefer Matilda. Do I know you?”
I shook my head. “No, ma’am. I live in what used to be your family home, or so I’m told. Would it be all right if I came in and spoke with you?”
“By all means,” she said.
She hustled to lift a box of paints out of a chair and offered it to me. I took the seat and she sat on her bed and looked at me. “You live in my old house?”
“I do.”
“How interesting. I think about it often. It’s where I grew up.”
I nodded. “I wanted to ask you a few questions about it. They might seem like silly questions.”
“By all means, ask.”
It turned out I didn’t so much as ask her a question, but broke down and told her all that had happened since I had lived there. I felt, as I feel now speaking to you about these events, a little silly. But I couldn’t stop telling her all that had occurred, and she didn’t once interrupt me. When I finished, I asked the actual question. “Did anything odd ever occur while you and your family lived there?”
“Nothing of that nature, no. And my family and I were very happy there.”
This was a disappointing answer, and I’m sure my face showed it. I said, “I don’t know what difference it would make if I knew what’s responsible for what goes on there, but I keep thinking if I knew something, then maybe it would make a difference. Though, now that I say that aloud, I can’t imagine what it would be.”
Matilda looked at me for a moment, as if measuring my character. “I didn’t say there was nothing odd that ever happened there.”
My ears pricked.
“I said there was nothing of the nature you describe, and that we were happy there.”
“Then there was something?”
“Quite different than what you describe. I had an invisible friend.”
I was immediately disappointed. “So did I, when I was very young,” I said. “Lots of children do.”
“That’s true,” she said. “The thing is, well... shall I take some time to explain?”
“Yes, ma’am, that’s why I came.”
“When I was very young and we lived in that house, we owned a large amount of acreage. I don’t know how much of that is left.”
“Ten acres and the house and barn,” I said.
She nodded. “It was a hundred acres then. Right behind the barn there were woods.”
“There still are.”
“The woods were thick, and I often went there to play. And one day I came upon a grove of trees. It’s impossible to describe how surprising this was, because they weren’t just trees. Here I was in the middle of a forest, quite comfortable walking about, and I came upon what can only be described as a kind of grove. It was broken apart from the thickness of the woods, and there were a number of trees that were clutched together, but they were not like any of the other trees. They were thick limbed, and they didn’t grow very high, and they were amazing in the way their boughs twisted, and underneath them it was cool and pleasant. None of the other trees were near them. There was instead a field of flowers, blue bonnets, and they were the buffer between the grove and the other trees. I would suspect that the grove was surrounded by two acres of those flowers.
“The trees appeared very ancient, though I can’t say that I knew that at the time; I say that in retrospect. For me then, they were merely odd and beautiful. Thinking back, they seemed to me to be among the first trees to ever grow on the earth. They had not aged like other trees, or grown high, but they were thick, and their bark was soft to the touch.
“I sat under those trees and took a rest, and as I did, a little girl stepped out from between them and looked at me.”
“A little girl?”
“Yes. She hadn’t a stitch on, but she seemed comfortable with that. She told me her name was Elizabeth. That’s my middle name, young man, Elizabeth, so there was a kind of small bond immediately. And here’s the interesting part. She looked just like me.”
“Your imaginary friend?”
She didn’t respond to my remark, she just continued talking. “She was very pleasant. She and I began to talk, and it was amazing. We had so much in common, and pretty soon we were playing together. She wouldn’t leave the grove of trees, however, and stayed under their shadow. That was all right. I liked it there, and the grove was large enough to give us plenty of shadow to play under. It was hard for me to tear my way free of her and go home, but night was coming. I became aware of it suddenly, and wanted to go home. I was, as I said, comfortable in the woods, but I knew I wouldn’t be comfortable there if night came, as it was easy to get lost, so I told her goodbye. She begged me to stay, but I told her I couldn’t, but that I would be back as soon as possible. She finally relented, and as I was about to leave, she stepped between a gap in two of the trees, and was gone. I looked, but there was nothing there but the trees.
“Young as I was, nine or ten years old: I don’t remember exactly. But young as I was, I accepted all of this freely. I went home and told my mother that I had met a girl in the forest and that we had played together, and that the little girl didn’t wear clothes and had disappeared inside some odd trees.
“Mother laughed at this, and thought I was playing, and didn’t take alarm at the matter. I went back the next morning, and Elizabeth was there, but this time she wore clothes. The ones I had worn the day before. Or clothes that were like them. We played that day and it was even more fun than the day before. I don’t remember what we played, but there were no girl games of tea and pretending to be married. None of that. Chase, I suppose. I don’t remember, but by mid-day I grew hungry and went home. Elizabeth was pouty about it, but I assured her I would be back after eating, and that’s exactly what I did. But when night came and I started home, she decided to go with me. As I had played past the time I should have, I was growing frightened of the forest, and I was glad to have Elizabeth as a companion.
“As we went through the woods, I heard my mother calling, and I hastened to reach her. Elizabeth held my hand as we went, and finally when we arrived in the yard, there was my mother, in her apron, worried looking. When she saw me she ran to me and scolded me. I still had hold of Elizabeth’s hand. I introduced her to my mother, and my mother smiled, and said, ‘So this is your imaginary friend.’
“It was obvious she saw no one and was humoring me. But Elizabeth was there. To shorten this up, she stayed with me for several years, or at least she was with me nights. During the day she told me that she went back to the grove. When I came home from school, after supper, when it began to turn dark, or sometimes on rainy days, she would be in my room, waiting. We had wonderful times together. I finally quit trying to convince my mother Elizabeth was real. This had eventually resulted in me being sent to a doctor – not a therapist, I might add, as there were none available then, least not that we knew of – and frankly, I had come to the conclusion she was not real at all. But, I didn’t dismiss her from my memory. I enjoyed having her around, even if I aged and she did not. In fact, she never changed or changed clothes from the day she walked out of the forest with me. Then, all of a sudden, I was twelve and we were moving.
&nbs
p; “Elizabeth was very confused. We had a long talk about it, but she didn’t understand. I invited her to move with us, but she said she couldn’t. That she had to stay near the grove. And then we moved, and that was it. No more Elizabeth. I came to the conclusion that moving had been an excuse for me to cut the bonds to this imaginary friend I had invented, and though we always had good times together, when she was no longer there, I felt a strange sense of relief. Elizabeth is the only thing odd that I know of that ever happened in that house.”
I looked around the room, and back at Matilda. “So many of your paintings are of flowers and trees. Especially trees.”
“I like nature,” Matilda said. “But that grove... I have spent my life trying to duplicate those trees. Here’s something odd. After the night Elizabeth came home with me, I began to paint. It was an obsession. I painted for one reason and one reason alone, and that was to somehow put the images of those trees on paper. Oh, I painted other things, of course, but I always came back to them, and in time, I became known for them, and they became a large part of my career as a painter.”
“Did you ever paint Elizabeth?” I asked.
Matilda shook her head. “No. There was no need. I knew what she looked like. She looked like me when I was a child. But where she came from, that intrigued me.”
“I think I saw some of your early drawings in the barn,” I said.
“Really?”
“Perhaps, or one of your siblings.”
“I had two brothers,” she said. “To the best of my knowledge they didn’t paint or draw.”
I sat for a moment, thinking about Matilda’s invisible friend, but there was nothing in that story that told me much.
“May I have a look at the old homestead?” Matilda asked.
This took me by surprise.
“Of course, but after what I told you about the house... are you sure?”
“You said it only happened at night and on dark days,” she said. She nodded her head toward the blinds and the harsh light seeping in. “It’s still very much day and there doesn’t seem to be a cloud in the sky.”
“Certainly,” I said. “I can drive you out for a look, and then I’ll drive you back.”
Though I had gone in to see Matilda with high hopes – even though I was uncertain what I was hoping for – I was leaving with less enthusiasm. I was in fact thinking I would take her to see the homestead, bring her back, and then use a bit of my fading bank account to stay at a cheap motel. And then, the next morning, I was going to concede defeat. I had already missed a major test to hear about Matilda’s imaginary friend. It was time to dissolve my old plan and start thinking of another, as had my erstwhile room mates.
IT WAS COLD outside, but there was no wind blowing and there was plenty of sunlight, so it wasn’t unpleasant. Matilda was dressed in a lined leather coat and wore a kind of cloth hat that made her look like the cutest grandmother that ever lived.
She walked briskly, as if she was twenty years younger, and climbed into my wreck of a car without comment, or any obvious examination, and we were off. It was as if we had known each other for years.
When we arrived at the house, the first thing Matilda wanted to do was see the old drawings I had told her about. Out at the barn I found them and showed them to her. She smiled. “Yes, these are mine. Interesting. You’ll note that my brothers are not in the drawings.”
I smiled and she laughed.
“This one,” she said touching the one with the shadow, “is Elizabeth. It’s feels odd looking at this, now. I drew Elizabeth like a shadow, my shadow. How unusual for me to see her that way. I had totally forgotten about this.”
“You should take those with you,” I said.
“I will,” she said. “I’ll leave them here for now, but when you take me back, I’ll bring them. Would you like to see the grove?”
I hadn’t the slightest interest, actually, but I was trying to be polite, and to tell you true, I was glad to have company after all I had been through.
“Certainly,” I said.
Matilda led the way. The woods were thick, but there was an animal path through them, and we followed it. It was narrow and a little muddy from the rains of the day before, but the walk felt good in the cool winter air.
There wasn’t a true trail, and it appeared even the animals were no longer using it, as it was overgrown and hard to follow. I felt certain Matilda would give up shortly, but she didn’t. She moved like a squirrel. Far better than I did. The woods were thick on either side of us, and there were an amazing number of brightly colored birds flittering about from tree to tree, singing their songs.
Finally, the trail came out in a clearing, and in the center of the clearing were the trees. They were as Matilda had said. Strange. But I saw them with less warmth than she had depicted them. There were a large number of them. They were squatty in construction, and the limbs had a twisted look. I swear to you, a few of the limbs were actually knotted. The leaves that grew on the trees were black and chunky. The bark had fallen off of them in a number of places; the only way I truly know to describe those trees is to say they appeared cancerous. The clearing around them wasn’t spotted with blue bonnets, or any kind of flower, but instead yellow weeds grew knee high on all sides. There were no birds singing now. There were no birds in sight.
“My God,” Matilda said. “They have aged so. They look so... sad.”
I couldn’t disagree with this assessment, and actually, when I think about it, it’s a far better description than my saying they were cancerous-looking. ‘Sad’ is exactly the word, and now that I remember that, and tell it to you, I have to emphasize that no other word would be as accurate.
We walked toward the trees, and as we did I heard them shift. It was not the wind that did it, and I didn’t actually see movement, but there was a sound akin to ancient lumber being stepped upon by a large man. Had I not felt I was in some way there to protect Matilda, I would have turned around then and gone back. But she was like a juggernaut. She walked into the shadows beneath the grove of trees. The leaves rustled. The limbs creaked.
Matilda bent down and picked up a chunk of bark lying on the ground and examined it. She dropped it, touched one of the trees. There came that creaking sound, but I swear to you no limbs moved and no wind blew.
“They have suffered so,” she said. “Elizabeth, are you there?”
The limbs began to move and thrash about, and one of them stretched long, swept low, and knocked me off my feet. I tried to get up, but the limbs came thrashing down on me like whips.
“Come on,” Matilda said. “Come on.”
Next thing I knew, she had helped me to my feet, and we were both running. Matilda, in spite of her age, ran spryly, at least until we were away from the grove and back on the trail. She had to stop then and catch her breath. Her face was red and she coughed a few times, leaning one hand against a pine to hold herself up.
I felt like an absolute fool having let her talk me into taking her out into the woods to see a grove of trees, and now that we had seen them, I felt not only like an idiot, but like a very frightened idiot. If there was, anywhere in the back of my mind, an urge to stay on and deal with this odd problem, it was now gone. I wanted one thing, and one thing only. To leave that house and that property.
MATILDA MOVED SLOWLY after that, one arm around my neck as we walked. By the time we made the house she had grown weak, and insisted on going inside. I was ready to put her in the car and leave, but as it was still light, and we were away from that infernal grove, I waltzed her inside and let her stretch out on the couch. After a few minutes she felt better, but she didn’t move. I fetched her a glass of water and sat it on the end table, but she didn’t touch it.
“Elizabeth, she was there,” she said.
“I didn’t see her,” I said.
“Which would be why I called her an invisible friend,” Matilda said. “Actually, I couldn’t see her either, but I could sense her.”
“What
I sense is a change in my plans,” I said. “I’m going to leave this house like my comrades, and not come back.”
Matilda ignored me. “The trees, they reflect Elizabeth’s mental state.”
I sat down in a chair and put my hands on my knees and listened.
“I don’t now exactly how all this has happened,” she said. “But I never truly doubted that she was real, and invisible to others, in spite of what I said earlier. I realize now I lied to you. It was an unintentional lie, but it was a lie. I always felt, on some level, that she was real and invisible. Or refused to reveal herself to others. I can’t say. But when we left here I had a feeling not only of sadness and loss, but one of euphoria. It was as if I knew somewhere inside of Elizabeth was something dark, just waiting to take control.”
“But how could this be?” I said.
Matilda sat up slowly. “I don’t know. I think it may be that Elizabeth is like those spirits of old. That the grove is one of a handful left that hasn’t been chopped down and plowed under. Groves like that had to exist all over the world at one time. I don’t know any other way to explain it. Trees like those, they’re the homes for something that is unworldly.”
“You’re telling me,” I said.
“I remember reading about nymphs in Greek mythology. Some of them were sacred to a particular stream, or lake, or grove.”
“You think she’s a nymph?”
“An elemental,” she said. “One of the last ones left. One of the ones that is connected to the earth when it was raw and new. One of the ones that has survived. I have been thinking about this for years. I’ve wanted to come back here for years, but didn’t for one simple reason. I was afraid I might be right. That Elizabeth might be real. And that she might be angry.”
The Future of Horror Page 39
