Chapter 2: The Girl and the Apple Tree

When my cousin was finally carried home, his whole body felt ice-cold—his face as pale as a ghost, and nothing could wake him. Grandpa Joe didn’t waste a second and called Mr. Hawthorne—the local spiritual advisor from the next town over. Mr. Hawthorne had us move my cousin into the front yard, right where the sunlight hit. Then he turned to my uncle and asked:

By then, the yard was alive with neighbors—some still in pajamas, others barefoot, all crowding around the porch with wide eyes. The air was thick with the scent of fried food and grass, and every head was turned to the battered lawn chair where my cousin lay, limp as a rag doll. The spring sun shone down bright and sharp, but my cousin looked like something dragged from another world. A hush settled as Mr. Hawthorne, grizzled and smelling faintly of tobacco and peppermint, knelt to examine him. His drawl was thick as molasses as he asked:

"Where’d y’all find him?"

"At the old cemetery on the back hill," my uncle replied, eyes rimmed red from crying. "He was laid out on a new grave."

Mr. Hawthorne’s face changed, jaw working. "A new grave? Who’s buried there—a man or a woman?"

"A woman," my aunt choked out, dabbing at her eyes. "It was Lily, the mute orphan girl from the neighborhood. She got real sick a few weeks back, thought she was dying, and… she hanged herself. Not in the house—she did it from that old apple tree in her yard. Tree’s been dead for years. But the strangest thing—"

She took a shaky sip of sweet tea, voice trembling. "Next morning, that apple tree was covered in bright red blossoms. I went and saw for myself. By sundown, every last flower had fallen off. Folks still talk about it at the diner. It gave the whole town the creeps."

Mr. Hawthorne let out a long sigh. "Is that true? Was your son close with Lily?"

Grandpa shook his head, answering before my aunt could. "My grandson didn’t have nothin’ to do with Lily. Joe, please—you know I raised that boy myself. He’s all I got left. Don’t let him slip away."

Mr. Hawthorne frowned, lines digging deep in his face. "Apple trees are supposed to bring luck, but not when it’s like this… Lily shouldn’t be able to cause trouble. But a young man, full of life, sleeping on a woman’s grave? That’s never good."

He turned to my aunt, pulling out a battered notepad. "Tell me your son’s birthday and star sign."

The older folks exchanged uneasy looks. Some muttered prayers, others fiddled with crosses or wedding bands. In these parts, some things were better left unspoken.