Whispers Under the Elm: My Grandfather's Last Warning

The Secret Under the Elm

My granddad was not a chatty man, but when he did say something, it was as if from the centuries. "Listen to the elm tree," he instructed me the night before he passed away. "When the wind speaks through its leaves, listen carefully—and never, ever transplant its roots."

That was his last command.

We interred him three days later, in the little family cemetery behind the house he had raised himself. The ancient elm loomed there beside him, shading his grave with outstretched arms like a mourner in black.

I did not take much notice of what he said at first. He was an old man with strange tales—of owls crying like children, of shadows that vanished without light, of a hidden door in the ground closed for generations. I would sit next to him when I was a child, hypnotized by the stories. I scoffed at them as a teenager. I forgot all of them when I was an adult.

Only this last one. It clung to me.

The house was mine after he passed away. I went in to clear it out, intending to sell, but there was something in the atmosphere that caused me to linger. Sleep was restless. The wind had a voice that seemed familiar. The elm tree groaned in the wind as though it was trying to speak.

And the envelope arrived.

It arrived without a stamp, pushed under the door. Inside, a map. Not one of those new-fangled maps—a yellowed parchment on which were hand-drawn lines, a red "X" under the elm tree, and a message: "You will look for it. But don't forget what I told you."

It was his handwriting. Grandpa's.

I didn't understand. He'd said he'd kill me if I ever went digging under the elm. Now he was telling me where to dig?

Curiosity, that persistent snake, curled tighter around my back.

The Dig

I waited until the wee hours before I eventually gave in. I took a shovel and lantern and walked to the elm. The elm grass was unnaturally parched and cracked even after all the rain lately. When I dug the spade into the ground, the wind started blowing me up—a long, lamenting moan like air from an open grave.

I dug. For hours.

At approximately three feet, the shovel encountered wood. Not roots. A solid board of wood. I brushed aside the dirt--my heart racing.

A box.

I was able to extract it with effort. It was about the size of a suitcase, darkened by age, and bound with rusted iron. No lock. Only a clasp bearing an unfamiliar symbol--a spiral curling in upon itself, like a snake eating its tail.

I brought it inside.

Under the kitchen light, I opened it.

There was a diary. A small locket. A metal key. And at the bottom of it, a crumpled letter to me.

The Journal

The diary was written in my grandfather's unmistakable hand. The first entry was dated 1957.

"I've done something terrible. It began with my dad, and his dad before him. The elm watches—what we found beneath. We thought it was a cave. But it was a chamber. And it's alive."

The journal entries became more erratic. Words scrawled in despair:

"It calls to me at night. Calls itself 'Vatra.' Eats memory."

"Mother forgot her name. Then her own son. It's the tree. No, it's under the tree. I tried to burn it. The fire recurred in my dreams."

"Only the key. Only the sealing. Never open it again. Never let the bloodline forget."

I stared at the key.

What had he sealed?

The Passage

There had been a trapdoor in the attic. I'd noticed it before but assumed it crawl space. The key fit in smoothly.

It groaned open with a sigh.

Narrow stairwell of stone within—a stairwell in the attic. Unpossible. And yet there it was.

I descended.

The air cooled. The corridor gave out onto a secret chamber that was lined with bookshelves and other strange objects. There was a small altar in the center and carvings of the same spiral machine.

A second door on the rear wall.

I approached it, the key trembling in my hand.

But I remembered his words. *Never open it again.*

I turned away.

That night, I dreamed of the elm. Its roots were gnarled like veins, and underneath them, something opened one eye and looked at me.

The Choice

I tried to burn the box. Place it into the flames and be done with it. But whenever I tried, the wind would howl, or the fire would burn out.

Then I saw something terrible.

The locket. I had never opened it. Inside was a photo.

It was me.

Not as a child. How I looked at the moment.

The date written on the back of it was: *2027.*

Two years from now.

And in script at the bottom: "The one who forgets breaks the seal."

I sat down, pounding heart. Was everything predestined? Had he gazed into the future?

I still live in the house. I never touched the second door. But sometimes I hear it whisper my name.

And the elm tree groans.

I compose a letter annually. A blank one.

Just in case I ever forget.