Banana Trees Don’t Sleep at Night

Banana Trees Don’t Sleep at Night

The night air was thick and damp, the kind that clung to your skin like an unwelcome touch. Outside, the banana trees swayed slowly, their wide green leaves slicing through the moonlight. I was never fond of those trees. Something about them made me uneasy, though I could never put it into words. My grandmother used to say, “Banana trees don’t sleep at night, child. And neither should you if you hear them whisper.”

I always thought it was just one of her strange country superstitions—until the summer I stayed in her old house after she passed away.

The house sat on the edge of the jungle, its wooden frame creaking in the wind, its walls steeped in the smell of dried herbs and dust. My grandmother’s bed still bore the indent of her small body, the sheets neatly tucked as if she had just stepped out to make tea. I had come to pack up her belongings and close the chapter of this house for good.

The first few days were quiet, almost too quiet. The cicadas sang, the occasional gecko darted across the walls, and at dusk, the banana trees outside would begin their slow dance. It was always at night, though, that the unease began to crawl up my spine.

It started on the third night. I woke up to the sound of rustling outside my window—not just the usual wind-in-the-leaves sound, but something sharper, more deliberate. It was as if the banana leaves were moving against each other in slow, deliberate strokes, like fingers brushing together.

I told myself it was nothing. The jungle was alive, after all. But then I heard it.

A voice.

Soft, almost tender, humming an unfamiliar lullaby.

I froze in bed, my breath caught in my throat. The sound was coming from directly outside my window, from where the banana trees stood tall and still in the darkness.

The next morning, I went to inspect them. The trees stood like sentinels, thick trunks mottled with age, heavy bunches of fruit hanging like swollen lanterns. Nothing unusual. Still, my grandmother’s words echoed in my head.

That night, I stayed up intentionally, a mug of coffee in hand, my chair angled toward the window. Midnight came, and with it, the wind. The leaves began to stir again, not in chaotic swirls but in synchronized sways. Then came the humming—low and sweet at first, then sharper, closer, almost urgent.

And then I saw her.

A woman in white stood between the banana trees, her long hair swaying like the leaves themselves. She was barefoot, her feet half-buried in the soil, her hands stroking the banana leaves as though coaxing them to sing. Her face was pale, but I couldn’t make out her eyes—they were hidden in shadow.

She stopped moving. Slowly, her head turned toward my window.

I ducked instinctively, my heart slamming against my ribs. When I peeked back, she was gone.

The next day, I spoke to the old shopkeeper in town. He gave me a long look and said, “If you’ve seen her, you shouldn’t be there at night. The Pontianak favors banana trees. They say she was a woman who died in childbirth, and now she hides among them. She’s gentle at first… until she’s not.”

I wanted to laugh it off, but my hands wouldn’t stop trembling.

That night, I locked my windows and drew the curtains. Still, I could hear her humming outside. Soft at first, then growing louder, closer, until it was almost inside the room with me. I didn’t dare look.

Somewhere in the night, I must have fallen asleep, because I woke to find banana leaves scattered across the floor of my bedroom—wet, fresh, as if torn from the trees only moments ago.

On the seventh night, I decided to leave.

I packed my bags before sunset, but as I stepped outside, the air shifted. The banana trees stood utterly still. No wind. No rustling. And yet, I could feel their gaze, if trees could have such a thing.

Halfway to my car, I heard her voice again—closer now, coming from behind me.

I didn’t turn.

But I swear I felt fingers—cold, damp, and impossibly long—brush against the back of my neck.

I drove away without looking in the rearview mirror.

Now, years later, I still hear the humming sometimes. Not in the jungle, but in the city, far from my grandmother’s house. I’ll be walking home late, and the wind will catch just right.

And somewhere, in the rustle of leaves, I’ll hear it.

Banana trees don’t sleep at night. And neither should I.