THE MAGNUS ARCHIVESChapter 11 – Case #0181111: The Ash Tree
632 Words
Statement of Dr. Alice Maduka, recorded December 1st, 2018. Statement given in person. Recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London. Statement begins.
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They told me the tree was dead.
I’m a botanist. PhD in Plant Pathology. I’ve worked in dozens of countries with diseased flora. But this one—this tree—it doesn’t follow any rules of biology.
It’s not dying.
It’s waiting.
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PART 1: The Field
I was part of a conservation effort in a village in Wiltshire—Greystone Hollow. Small. Remote. Population: under thirty. The kind of place that doesn’t even appear on modern maps.
They asked me to examine a massive ash tree that had been standing in the village center for over four centuries. A landmark, they said. But recently, the leaves had turned black, and animals refused to go near it.
There was a smell.
Like burnt sugar and spoiled milk.
I took samples. Bark, sap, surrounding soil. That night, in my tent, I began to dream.
Not of the tree.
Of the roots.
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PART 2: The Dreams
They always began the same. Me, standing in darkness. A massive network of roots beneath my feet, pulsing like veins.
Then I’d hear the whispers.
Dozens of voices, all around me, chanting a name I couldn’t understand. Something old. Brittle. Too large to be contained in my head.
I’d wake drenched in sweat, ears ringing, hands trembling.
After three nights, I stopped sleeping entirely.
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PART 3: The Hollow Trunk
When I returned to the tree during the day, I found that it had opened.
A large crack had split down the middle of the trunk. Not natural. The edges were too clean, too deliberate—like a wound that had been peeled.
Inside, the hollow was lined with hundreds of small objects.
Teeth. Dolls. Coins. Bones. Some ancient. Some modern. One of them was a Nokia phone, still blinking a red light.
I played the voicemail.
Static. Then a woman’s voice:
“The tree eats what you forget.”
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PART 4: Greystone Hollow
I tried to leave the village. I packed my things, started driving.
Every road led back to the square.
The villagers didn’t stop me.
They just watched.
Some had sap-stained hands. Some had black soil under their nails. One old man smiled as I passed him and said:
“It’s your turn now.”
That night, I went back to the tree.
I had to.
The dreams had become unbearable. The roots in my mind had begun to move.
I stood before it and placed my palm on the bark.
It was warm.
It sighed.
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PART 5: The Offering
The next morning, the tree had changed.
Its branches were full. Green leaves again. Healthy. Vibrant.
The village was silent.
I found a trail of blood leading to the base of the trunk. I followed it.
Inside the hollow was a fresh object.
My bracelet.
I haven’t worn that bracelet in years. Not since my mother died. I never told anyone I’d buried it in Ghana. No one should know.
But there it was.
Sticky with sap.
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PART 6: The Institute
I escaped only because I ran into a roadworks crew just outside the forest line. They didn’t believe me, of course. But they didn’t stop me either.
I left everything behind.
Including something in my head.
I haven’t dreamed since, but sometimes, when I close my eyes, I feel it: the pulse. The heartbeat beneath the ground. As if roots are still coiled somewhere beneath London, waiting for my feet to stop moving.
And sometimes, when I pass a park or a cemetery or even a street tree… I swear I hear a whisper:
“You owe us now.”
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[Statement Ends]
- Writer
