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The original was posted on /r/nosleep by /u/orangeplr on 2024-09-16 15:48:23+00:00.

The house was beautiful. It was like a dream. 

Two stories, two bathrooms, two beds - the living room dropped down like in the 70s, and the kitchen was complete with an island and a beautiful view of the garden and a large, towering apple tree. There was even some decor left by the previous residents: little bird feeders, a stone Buddha by the front step, a tree of life tapestry hanging in the living room. The realtor had told my parents the previous resident wouldn’t be needing these things back, but she would remove them before we moved in, but my parents told her not to. It made the space feel cozy and lived in. 

We moved in at the beginning of summer, so I didn’t have to worry about school for a while. It was nice to have no additional stress, but it made me sad to have those months free without much opportunity to see my friends. I found myself worrying about what they were doing, if they were having more fun without me, if they’d already forgotten I existed. 

It didn’t take long for me to realize: moving was lonely. 

I spent my summer in the garden, pretending I was a forlorn maiden, cast away from everything she knows. I lay in the cool dirt beneath the apple tree, watching the leaves flutter in the warm breeze. Sometimes I would even eat an apple, but they were always a bit too bitter for my taste. I would wonder about the sliver in the wood, like someone had hacked at it with an axe, then gave up. Who would try and chop down such a beautiful thing? 

That apple tree became a sort of sanctuary. The shade protected me from the blazing sun on the hotter days, and the trunk became an incredibly comfortable backrest to lean back on and read. 

One day, while I was doing just that, something blew up against my leg. A dirty, stained piece of paper. I set my book down and picked it up, curious. 

I scanned it quickly. It looked like a letter, from what I could make out, but it cut off at the end, and there was no backside. 

I shifted from my spot against the tree, digging my fingers into the soft dirt and searching around. I thought that if this letter had been here, maybe, just maybe, the rest were too. I was desperate for excitement at that point, and I wasn’t beyond getting my hands dirty to find some. 

Sure enough, soon my fingers were prying at dampened notebook paper, carefully edging it out of the soil. I think I found most of them just searching in the dirt: they weren’t buried very deep. 

As soon as I finished reading those letters, I went to find my parents, heaving. 

We left that house, and we never came back.

I’ll do my best to relay to you what the letters said. At least, what I could read of it. 

Dear Silvia, 

I miss you the worst in summer. The winter here is cold and unforgiving, but the summer is worse. I cannot even bring myself to leave the house anymore. 

I fear some days that death follows me, like a stray dog nipping at my heel. Now that you and Elsie are gone from my life, I have nothing left to run from. How could I be meant to stay here when you were not? Even so, I feel very strongly that dying now would be a betrayal to you, no matter how much I would love to join you, wherever you are. 

My days are lonely and plain now. I eat nothing but what I can take from the garden. Thank you for my nourishment and my survival, my dear wife. There isn’t much flavor to my food without the smell of you cooking it in the kitchen. 

I think often of my time as a butcher. I used to be happy with that kind of work, but now it only disgusts me. The thought of slicing through meat, meat that was once a living creature, nearly brings me to tears. Some nights, when I close my eyes, all I can see is muscles twitching. It haunts me in your absence. I swear, Silvia, I will never consume that stuff again. 

The apple tree is the only piece of you I have left. The only living piece. I could go catatonic for hours, just watching it sway. When I see that tree, I feel that you’re nearby. 

I miss you. 

R. 

Dear Silvia, 

Yesterday I went to sit under our tree. 

It pains me that when you were alive, I didn’t spend much time in our garden. Perhaps I had old hermit in my blood, even then. I preferred to watch you from the kitchen, admiring your gardening prowess from a distance. Perhaps that makes me a bad husband… but I think you liked that about me. How I always gave you enough space. 

It’s nice out here. Very peaceful. The fresh air feels like you, touching me. I could have sworn I could hear Elsie’s laughter in the breeze. 

I noticed something strange, as I sat against the trunk, enjoying the sunshine on my skin. It felt like the tree moved against my back, almost as if it were squirming. Perhaps my mind is not what it used to be. But perhaps it was you. 

If it was you, thank you. I hope you’ll reach out again. 

That night, I had a very hard time falling asleep. No matter what I did, I could not feel comfortable. My bed felt wrong, felt lumpy and strange, as if it were not made for me. I gave up and went to our kitchen, and I watched the tree through the window until my eyes grew heavy. It was so beautiful in the moonlight, glowing gently, drawing the eye. It was so quiet, so dignified. It made me feel uneasy, but in a comforting way, as odd as that may sound. 

When I got back to bed, it didn’t feel wrong anymore, and I was finally able to rest. 

R. 

Dear Silvia, 

These days, all I find myself doing is wandering the house, reminiscing. I don’t dare move or change anything. I want to preserve everything just the way you left it. 

Our house is covered in little trinkets, hippie things that I don’t entirely understand. You always had such an earthly style. Some of it I don’t care for, it simply isn’t my cup of tea, but I never would’ve told you that. I would never want to step on your toes. 

It’s apple season again. I remember watching you and Elsie climb our tree, shrieking and laughing uproariously as you hung from the branches like monkeys. Elsie… my little monkey. I know she never cared for that nickname when I called her it, but it stuck. 

You were such a good mother, Silvia. I hope you knew I knew that. 

I used to love apple season. I loved watching you pick them, dropping the ripe ones into wicker baskets in the grass, and a couple of days later, the entire house would smell of pie, sweet cinnamon and sugar, and it would linger for days, even all the way up in the attic. This is something I miss dearly. 

Please come back Silvia, and bake one last apple pie. 

R. 

Dear Silvia, 

Today I went out to pick apples. I thought maybe I could take a crack at your old apple pie recipe, perhaps treat myself to something besides wilted vegetables. However, something very strange and disturbing happened to me. 

I was collecting the ones that looked the ripest: I am not the most well versed in things like this, but I can make an educated guess. I found one that looked so perfect. It was red and shiny, not a scratch on it or a single worm hole, which felt lucky. I went to take a bite, and what I found caused me to vomit into the grass. 

Inside of the apple was meat. Raw meat. It was not quite the kind of meat I used to butcher, although it twitched as such. I could see white muscles and tendon. It oozed with pink plasma where my teeth had parted the skin. It tasted metallic and rotten on my tongue. The flavor still hasn’t passed. 

I cut open every single apple I had picked. The tree seemed to shudder. They were all like that. Made of meat. Some entirely, and some as if a rot was spreading over them. I can’t help but wonder how long it has been this way. 

I feel unnerved. I feel that I can’t trust my brain, my vision or my tastebuds. I feel I may vomit again. I do not know if what I experienced is real, but if it was, I do not know what to do. It is unholy, what I have experienced. 

Tonight, I will pray. 

R. 

Dear Silvia, 

Today, someone knocked on the door. 

I was still feeling shaken up and disoriented, so this caused my nerves to be completely shot. I do not enjoy interacting with strangers, or anyone, for that matter. 

It was a man, and he was carrying a box. He asked me for you, and for Elsie. 

I told this man that you had not lived here for a while. He seemed confused, so I clarified that I was your husband and Elsie was my daughter, and you had both passed away in a tragic accident. That caused him to look even more confused. 

Forgive me, but I felt defensive, and uncomfortable. I figured maybe this man looked so confused because I am old, and you were younger. Oh, how I wish I could rid this planet of all judgement. 

This man seemed as if he wanted to say something, but he didn’t. He left then. He did not give me the box, which I assume was meant for you. Perhaps he was a coworker of yours, or an old friend, or maybe even just a mailman. I feel sorry that he had to hear the news from me, even despite my disdain. 

I cried today. I didn’t dare go back out to the tree, but I wanted to. I feel as if I may be losing my mind. That interaction with that man at the door made me feel unnerved. I wish he had not come. 

I only wish to be with you again. 

My bed feels strange and alien. It feels too soft, and I swear something smells rotten. Perhaps an animal has gotten trapped in the walls and died.

I cannot sleep. 

R. 

Dear Silvia,

The smell of rot has become unbearable. I cannot live this way. 

When I sleep, what you could barely call sleep, I see you…

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