The Search Under the Roots
By mid-morning the street swarmed with uniforms. Police cruisers lined the curb, radios hissing. Neighbors handed out paper cups of coffee and whispered into each other's shoulders. The oak tree's shadow stretched long across the asphalt, dark as a wound.
Search dogs barked and strained against their leashes, noses low to the ground. Volunteers combed the sidewalks, calling the twins' names.
The father stood on the porch, arms crossed, while the mother clutched a mug she hadn't sipped from. She kept glancing at the oak tree as though she could will it to give her children back.
An officer approached them. "We've expanded the search perimeter. So far, no sign."
The father's voice was flat. "Check under the tree."
The officer hesitated. "Sir, we've looked. It's just an old oak."
"Look again."
The officer sighed, but radioed the team. Minutes later, two deputies and a volunteer headed toward the tree, pushing past the low fence at its base.
The air changed as they approached. Cooler. Still. The dogs whined, pulling back, ears flat.
One deputy crouched near a patch of disturbed soil. "Over here," he called. He brushed at the dirt with gloved fingers until something pale emerged—a scrap of cloth, a shoe lace. Then a bracelet. Then another.
Within moments, they had a small pile: Elena's black flats, muddy but unmistakable. Mara's scuffed sneakers. A cracked phone case with Mara's stickers still clinging.
The deputy's face went pale. "It's theirs."
From the street, the mother gasped. The mug fell from her hands and shattered.
The father started walking toward the tree but stopped when the air seemed to thicken, heavy with something invisible pressing on his chest.
"Do you hear that?" one of the volunteers whispered.
The others froze.
At first it sounded like wind moving through branches, but the day was still. Then, distinct: faint voices. High, thin, overlapping—like children murmuring under water. Words just out of reach.
Another volunteer spun, eyes wide. "Faces," he hissed. "In the bark—look."
They all turned.
The oak's bark was ridged and gnarled, but in the deep shadows between its roots, the shapes resolved into something almost human—curved hollows like mouths, knots like staring eyes. The faces flickered when you looked straight at them, but when you blinked, they were gone.
One of the deputies stepped back, stumbling. "It's a trick of the light," he muttered, but his voice shook.
The dogs began howling, pulling hard on their leashes, trying to drag their handlers away from the tree.
The father shouted toward the team. "Get away from it!"
But none of them moved, caught between disbelief and the sense that the tree was…listening.
Finally, the older officer barked orders, pulling his team back. The pile of belongings sat where it had been dug up, a small island of normality at the base of the impossible.
The mother sank to her knees on the lawn, sobbing. The father reached for her, but his eyes stayed on the tree.
Something had taken his daughters, and it wasn't done yet.