The Orchard Keepers

Terrence King’s SUV rumbled down the gravel road like it didn’t belong. The hedges on either side of the path grew wild and high, as if the land itself wanted to hide what lay beyond. According to the paperwork, the old orchard spanned fifty acres—prime real estate for a luxury retreat. The place hadn’t been on the market, but money had a way of opening gates.

As he rounded a bend, he saw them: twelve women dressed in long linen dresses, each stained with dirt and apple juice. Their heads were crowned with wreaths of dried leaves and orchard blossoms. One girl stood apart, blindfolded, unmoving. They said nothing as Terrence stepped out of his vehicle, brushing dust from his suit.

“I’m here for the land assessment,” he said, smoothing his tone with the practiced politeness of corporate charm. “You must be the caretakers.”

The women didn’t respond.

“This orchard is beautiful,” he tried again. “Untouched. We’re offering a very generous sum for it. Enough for each of you to disappear to the coast and live easy.”

An older woman stepped forward. Her face was weathered like bark, her eyes pale and unnerving.

“This land isn’t ours to sell,” she said. “It belongs to the trees.”

Terrence chuckled. “Look, I’m not here for poetry. The deeds trace ownership back three generations. You’re listed as tenants.”

“We are keepers,” she corrected. “Not owners. Not tenants. Keepers.”

The blindfolded girl turned her head slowly toward him.

He hesitated. “Can I speak to whoever’s in charge?”

The woman turned and walked toward the trees. The others followed. Silently. Almost floating. The blindfolded girl was the last to move, her hands grazing the air as if she were feeling paths invisible to everyone else.

Terrence followed, curiosity stronger than caution.

They led him deep into the orchard, where the apples were black-red and so round they seemed unnatural. The trees were thick, their branches sagging under the weight of fruit. A strange wind rustled the leaves though the air had been still just moments before.

They stopped in a clearing where a wooden table had been set—pitchers of cider, slices of pie, roasted nuts in cracked bowls. Everything looked delicious, rustic, wholesome.

“You may eat,” the old woman said.

Terrence raised an eyebrow. “Is this some kind of ritual? Look, I just want to finalize a purchase.”

The women only watched.

He sighed, sat, and tasted the cider. It was…perfect. Cold, tart, with a hint of spice. Too perfect.

He didn’t remember falling asleep.

When he woke, it was morning, and the table was gone. A burlap shirt clung to his back, and rough linen pants scratched his legs. A wicker basket hung from his arm.

“Pick,” one of the women said from behind him.

“I— What the hell?” Terrence looked down. “Where’s my suit?”

“Pick,” she said again.

The orchard was exactly as it had been. No roads, no car. Just rows and rows of trees.

And so, he picked.

Each day, the sun rose and the women led him to new trees. Each night, he sat at the same table and drank cider with them in silence. The blindfolded girl never ate. The apples never ran out.

He tried to run once. Got as far as the edge of the trees before they twisted back toward the center. Every path bent wrong. The sky didn’t move. His beard grew. Time passed, but the harvest never ended.

A week later, in the real world, Deputy Elena Price was sent out to investigate a missing persons case. The CEO of King Holdings had gone silent during a site visit. She followed the GPS to the edge of the orchard.

The first thing she noticed was the silence. No birds. No rustling animals. Just the wind, like breath between whispers.

Then the women appeared.

They didn’t speak. One offered her a glass of cider.

“Have you seen this man?” Elena asked, holding up the photo.

The women stared.

The blindfolded girl stepped forward, plucking a single black-red apple from a nearby tree. She handed it to the deputy and smiled.

Elena stared at the fruit, suddenly dizzy. The air thickened. Her radio crackled, but the voice was too far to reach.

She stumbled backward.

“I think I’ll come back with backup,” she mumbled.

The old woman spoke at last. “He’s here now. Just like the others. They always think the land is theirs, but it is they who feed the orchard.”

The deputy didn’t remember driving away. But the car did move, and she returned to the station. She told them she found nothing—just a wild field and a broken gate.

The case went cold.

Back in the orchard, Terrence picked apples under a watchful canopy. The blindfolded girl stood nearby. The trees whispered.

And the roots grew deeper.