The Night Walk
Mara dreamt of roots. Tangled, endless roots twisting through soil, tightening around her ankles until she couldn't move. Somewhere above, a voice whispered her name.
She jolted awake, the dream dissolving into the familiar hush of their bedroom. For a moment, she thought it was nothing. Then she noticed Elena's bed was empty.
Her stomach dropped.
The door was slightly ajar. A draft of cold night air slid into the room. Mara scrambled up, her bare feet silent against the wood floor.
"Elena?" she whispered. No answer.
She crept down the stairs, each creak of the steps loud in the stillness. The front door hung open. The pale wash of moonlight spilled across the threshold. Heart hammering, Mara stepped outside.
At first, she didn't see her. The yard stretched wide and shadowed, the oak tree at its far edge looming like a sentinel. Then movement caught her eye.
Elena stood beneath the tree, barefoot in her nightgown, head tilted back to the sky. Her arms hung limp at her sides. She looked like a statue abandoned in the dark.
Mara's breath fogged in the chill. "Elena!"
Her sister didn't move.
Mara ran across the damp grass, her toes numbing. Up close, she saw Elena's eyes—open, glazed, reflecting the moon as if they weren't her own. Her lips moved, shaping words Mara barely caught.
"…the roots are listening… the pact is older than us…"
"Elena!" Mara grabbed her shoulders and shook hard.
Her sister gasped, collapsing forward. Mara barely caught her. Elena blinked rapidly, shivering. "Wha—what? Mara? What's happening?"
"You tell me," Mara hissed, her voice shaking. "You were outside. You were talking."
"I—I don't remember." Elena's voice cracked, small and terrified.
Mara clutched her tighter, fighting back tears. "You scared me."
"I scared myself." Elena's words trembled in the air, and for the first time Mara realized how deep the fear ran in her sister. Not just fear of their parents, or of slipping up, but fear of something larger. Something nameless.
They crept back inside, careful not to wake their parents. Mara locked the door, bolted it, checked it twice. Back in their room, Elena curled into bed, her eyes wide open in the dark. Mara lay awake, listening to her sister's breathing, waiting for it to steady.
But it never did.
Mara lay in the dark, listening to the rhythm of Elena's breath. It was steady, but not calm. Each inhale caught faintly, like a thread pulled too tight. The longer Mara listened, the more certain she became that Elena wasn't sleeping at all—that she was lying there, stiff and watchful, eyes open in the dark.
At some point, Mara drifted into shallow half-sleep, haunted by images of roots knotting themselves into words. She woke before dawn to the scrape of movement. Elena was sitting upright on her bed, knees drawn to her chest, staring at the curtains.
"Elena?" Mara's voice was groggy, cautious.
Her sister turned her head slowly, too slowly, as though her body remembered the gesture before her mind did. Her lips parted. "Did you hear them?"
Mara's skin prickled. "Hear what?"
"The voices." Elena's tone was calm, but her eyes were glassy. "They don't stop when I wake up. They follow."
Mara forced a weak laugh, trying to ground them both. "You were dreaming."
Elena shook her head. "Dreams don't leave footprints."
The words lodged in Mara's chest. She wanted to argue, but when she glanced at Elena's bare feet, she saw grass clinging to her soles, damp with dew. Proof that the night had been real.
By breakfast, Elena had smoothed her hair, buttoned her blouse, and painted the familiar mask across her face. Their parents noticed nothing. Their mother fussed about toast, their father skimmed the newspaper, and Elena answered every question with bright, crisp precision.
Only Mara saw the tremor in her hand as she lifted her cup. Only Mara noticed the hollowness in her smile.
"You should eat more," their mother said warmly. "You've been looking pale."
"I'm fine," Elena replied, voice polite, almost cheerful. But her gaze flicked once toward Mara, sharp and pleading, as though daring her to tell.
Mara looked away.
The rest of the day passed in a haze. In class, Elena's handwriting slanted wildly across the page, messy in a way that made Mara ache. At lunch, she sat quietly, not joining her friends, her fork moving through her food without lifting it.
By the time they returned home, the sun was dipping low, shadows stretching across the yard. Mara caught Elena standing by the window, staring out at the oak tree.
"Elena," she whispered, uneasy.
Her sister didn't turn. "Sometimes," Elena murmured, "I think the tree remembers more than we do."
Mara's heart tightened.
She wanted to demand answers. She wanted to drag Elena away from the window, away from the whispers, away from whatever the pact had planted in their lives. Instead, she stood there, rooted in fear, watching her sister blur into something she couldn't name.
And when night came again, Mara lay awake, terrified of closing her eyes.
Because if Elena slipped back into the dark, Mara wasn't sure she'd return this time.