story-twigfingers

Twigfingers

Peter stood at the top of the narrow sledding run that plunged through skinny saplings and thorny underbrush. This wasn't a baby slope like the one behind the elementary school. At the bottom of the first hill was a sharp turn, and if you didn't make that turn, you risked sledding off a four foot cliff and into a creek. Or you'd crash into the giant tree clinging to the edge of the cliff, its exposed roots clawing at the empty air.

Chris had been very specific. No toboggans and no saucers. Not because those were for amateurs, but because anything wider than a sled was too wide to navigate the hill.

"Ready?" Chris asked Peter.

Peter nodded. Even though he wasn't ready. He didn't want to go down the sled run, but he also didn't want to look like a coward in front of his brother. Chris was three years older. A big kid now, going to middle school.

Peter took a deep breath and looked down the hill. If he made it past that first turn, he'd be home free. After the turn, the sled run became a much gentler hill, and it ended in a clearing. The dark hollow in that tree at the edge of the cliff stared back at Peter. Around the knot hole, countless spindly branches poked out in all directions. The kids in the neighborhood called the tree Twigfingers. The decaying wood inside the knot hole sometimes looked like a face. Dark round eyes, a gaping mouth, a squiggly smear that might have been a nose.

Kids left offerings to Twigfingers. Trading cards and notes stuck into cracks in the trunk, faded by the sun and rain. Strings of plastic beads and dried macaroni dangled from the tree's lower branches. Painted rocks nestled among its roots. According to Peter's older brother, the worst thing in the world you could do was to offend Twigfingers. If you did, you could try and apologize, and leave a gift, then hope Twigfingers didn't climb in through your bedroom window at night.

"I'll go first," said Chris. "Then you can see how easy it is, okay?"

Peter nodded. He wasn't convinced it would be easy for him.

"Okay," he said.

Chris flung himself down on his Flexible Flyer sled and shoved off with his feet. He shot down the hill toward the turn, the red runners of his sled hissing over the packed snow. As he reached the turn, he yanked the sled's steering bar to the left. The back runner of the sled swung out over empty air, then it clipped the base of the giant tree and raced past, vanishing into the trees.

Peter pressed one mittened fist to his mouth, and bit down on a knuckle sucking the damp knitted fabric of the mitten. A scar of chipped wood stood out stark and pale against the dark tree.

After a few minutes, Chris appeared through the trees, towing his sled behind him. Without a glance at Twigfingers, he trudged up the steep hill toward Peter.

"See?" he called. "S'easy! You see what I did? Did you watch?"

Peter nodded.

"Okay, then it's your turn."

Letting his hand fall away from his mouth, Peter pointed down the hill.

"Chris, you ran into Twigfingers."

"Nah. I almost fell off the cliff — but I didn't."

"You hit the tree," Peter insisted. "Right there near the bottom. There's a chunk that's gone."

Chris turned back to look, and then he shrugged. "So what?"

"It's Twigfingers, that's what!"

"Peter," Chris said, "there's no such thing as Twigfingers."

"You were the one who told me about Twigfingers!"

"Sure. But it's just a stupid story. That doesn't even look like a face. It's just spots in the wood. Come on. It's okay."

"No," Peter said.

"Fine. Suit yourself."

Chris jumped on his sled again and streaked down the hill. This time, he made the turn flawlessly. His sled runners stayed on the snowy ground, and he missed Twigfingers completely. Peter waited at the top of the hill, growing colder and damper, and when Chris appeared through the trees, Peter yelled down to him.

"I'm going home!"

Chris didn't call him a baby, but Peter knew that's what Chris was thinking. Even while his face grew hot with humiliation, Peter said,

"You better do something."

"Huh?" said Chris.

"You hit Twigfingers. You better apologize."

"Pierre, mon frere — I'm not gonna apologize to a tree."

Leaving his sled at the top of the hill, Peter picked his way down, past Chris, slipping in the packed snow, grabbing at saplings to keep his balance, and feeling the thorny underbrush snag his snow pants and his jacket sleeves. He didn't want to look at the hollow of the tree. He didn't want to see that twisted, frightening face. He unwrapped his scarf from around his neck, and he wrapped it around the highest branch he could reach.

"I apologize," he said to the ground and the tangled tree roots.

But that didn't seem right. It did not seem sincere. Peter lifted his head and looked into the knot hole of the tree. Chris was right: from this angle, there was no face. Only dark splotches in the wood.

"I'm very sorry for what my brother did," said Peter. "I know he didn't mean to hit you. I hope that you forgive him. Thank you."

Reaching out, Peter gave the trunk of the tree a quick pat. A sharp twig caught his mitten, and tried to yank it from his hand. Peter snatched it back and turned away, then hurried up the hill to where his brother waited for him.

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Sleep was impossible that night. Each time Peter closed his eyes, he saw the face in the knot hole that was a face only sometimes. What if Twigfingers hadn't accepted his apology? What if Twigfingers had wanted his mitten instead, and Peter pulling away had also offended Twigfingers? Peter had faced his mother's disappointment over losing his scarf. He'd promised her he would go back the next day and look for it, knowing full well he wouldn't go back. Chris hadn't said a thing. He'd just looked at Peter strangely with a mixture of amusement and disappointment.

Peter lay awake in the darkness and listened to Chris across the room in his own bed, breathing slow and steady. After a while, Peter got bored thinking about things he didn't want to think about. He leaned over the side of his bed and grabbed his tablet from the floor. He could play a game or two with the volume on mute. Nobody would know.

He turned on the tablet. And, as he so often did, he accidentally turned on the front facing camera, too. The bedroom looked strange on the tablet screen. Grainy and yellowish gray. Peter moved the camera around, intrigued by the familiar space that now looked so alien. High in one corner of the room where two walls met the ceiling, a dark stain spread like a cobweb. Confused, Peter lowered the tablet and squinted up into the corner. His eyes could see more of the dim bedroom than the camera could. But, he could not see the dark stain. Nothing but gray shadow. Though he couldn't see it in the dark, he knew there was a crack up in that corner. It ran down the wall for a few inches and then up again, like a smile.

Again, he raised the tablet. On the screen, the stain looked larger. As he watched, it crept down the bedroom wall. It no longer looked like a cobweb. It looked like tree branches. Spreading toward Chris's bed.

Peter screamed. He threw the tablet into his blankets and sat up straight in bed. Chris woke with a thud and a rustle of covers, and the bedroom flooded with light.

"What is it?" Chris cried. "What's happened?"

"I saw Twigfingers! In the corner! Twigfingers didn't accept my apology. Chris, you have to apologize to Twigfingers!"

Chris scrubbed both hands over his face, then dropped them onto the blanket. "You had a nightmare, Peter."

"You told me Twigfingers was real," said Peter.

"I told you that because every kid in the neighborhood gets told about Twigfingers. I'm sorry for scaring you, but —"

"If Twigfingers isn't real, then how come —"

The bedroom door squeaked open, and their mom stuck her head in. Her hair was frizzled with sleep, sticking up on one side. She squinted against the light. Peter had intended to point out that if Twigfingers was just a story, then why did all the kids in the neighborhood leave gifts for Twigfingers? Why were some of the gifts so old that the tree had begun to consume them?

"Are you two alright?" asked their mom. "Did one of you have a nightmare?"

"I did," said Peter. He wasn't sure why he said that. Their mom had grown up in the neighborhood. "I'm sorry, mom. I didn't mean to wake you."

"Has Chris been scaring you?"

"No!" Chris protested.

Peter didn't argue. Chris had told him the Twigfingers story a couple years ago.

"Chris didn't scare me," Peter said. "It was just a nightmare. Really."

Their mom looked skeptical. "Well," she said. "Alright, then." She came into the room, gave Chris and Peter each a kiss, clicked off Chris's bedside lamp, and then ruffled Peter's hair. "Goodnight. Sleep tight."

"Night, Mom," Chris said. He had already rolled over and turned to face the wall.

Their mother started toward the bedroom door then made a "hm" sound. Bending down, she scooped something off the floor, then folded it. As she placed the object on the dresser, Peter realized it was his blue scarf.

"Sweet dreams from now on, okay?" she said, and then she closed the door gently behind her.

"Twigfingers is just a made up story," Chris mumbled. "I promise."

Peter felt around in the tangled blankets until he found his tablet. He held it up, but he was too afraid to turn it on. He gazed up at the corner where the two walls met the ceiling. Nothing but shadows. His hands gripped the tablet. If he showed Chris what he'd seen on the tablet screen, Chris had to believe him.

"Chris?" he whispered.

Chris answered him with a soft hitch of breath. Maybe a snore, maybe a sniffle, maybe an irritated huff. Not looking at the tablet, Peter hit the power button. The screen glowed, casting its soft light up toward the ceiling. Peter lifted the tablet and he looked through the camera.

Twigfingers stood over Chris's bed: a column of dark wood bristling with spindly branches. Stiffly, slowly, it turned toward Peter, showing him its face that was only a face when it wanted to look like a face.

Peter tried to scream, tried to speak —

I didn't do it, he wanted to say. It was Chris. Chris did it. I only wanted to apologize…

— but he could not make a sound. Chris lay frozen on his back, staring up at Twigfingers with wide eyes that glittered in the moonlight. Black twigs spilled from his open mouth and bulged in his throat; twigs came slithering across Chris's blankets, toward Peter's bed.

Peter felt for the tablet's power button and pressed it. Darkness. Only the familiar shadows of his bedroom. He listened for the sound of Chris's breathing from the bed across the room. But there was only silence.

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