Sarah & The Peach Tree
The Peaches
The peaches on the tree were fully grown. Each year, the children of the neighborhood gathered to pick them. The tree stood at the center of the playground. A couple of paces to the right sat the jungle gym; a couple to the left, the group of slides. The tree was over five decades old. The tradition had taken place since the first peach bloomed.
Sarah Gibbs was eight years old the first year she picked a peach. She had dark brown hair, plump cheeks, and a smile that could render even the worst criminal into a state of pure delight. As Sarah gathered with the other children, her parents sat on a bench nearby, barely watching their sweet little girl. Who could blame them? Married for several years before having Sarah, they had just renewed their vows and seemed more in love than ever.
A flicker of disappointment crossed Sarah’s face in the form of a subtle, modest smirk. One of the adults coordinating the event picked her up so she could pluck a peach. Unfortunately, the one she chose was badly bruised—nearly unrecognizable compared to the others.
An aggrieved Sarah sat on a bench far from her parents, the other children, and the iconic tree. She cried, the peach still in her palm. She cried, and cried. She watched her parents from afar, laughing and kissing. Such a beautiful child—so alienated, so sad. As the tears stopped, anger bloomed.
She held the wretched peach in one hand and threw it into the dying woods behind her. The crunch of leaves confirmed it had joined the rest of the decaying arbors. She sat again, arms crossed, a pout replacing her once-beautiful smile. She huffed, muttered childish swears. Then came a noise—soft at first. Then another.
Sarah turned her head toward the forest. The sound of rustling leaves grew louder, more aggressive. She picked up a rock and flung it. Still, the shuffling continued. She moved closer. Threw another rock. Then another. She stood at the cusp of the forest. The petrified trees loomed above her. At that moment, wonder turned to dread.
A feeling overtook her—one of awe and sheer panic. A cold sweat formed. Her nerves seized her body. She tried to move but couldn’t. Her hearing left her, replaced by a pulse—likely her own heart—amplified to a deafening roar.
From the corner of her eye, she saw it.
It stood only a few paces away, nearly indistinguishable from the tree it leaned against. Towering. Staring. It rose even taller—its features unrecognizable, its form monstrous. It moved toward her. It stood directly in her line of sight.
She fell.
Nine Years Later
Sarah Gibbs was beginning her final year of high school. A friend walked beside her as they entered the building. Over the past three years, Sarah had maintained a perfect 4.0 GPA. She had become the captain and leader of every club and organization she joined—the perfect student.
She still had her long, dark brown hair and a smile that made the guys wild. Her eyes were a deep, dark green—almost hypnotic. She wore dark clothes that enhanced her natural beauty, never makeup, never jewelry. She believed those things too trivial.
She never told anyone what had happened all those years ago. But it haunted her in ways even she couldn’t explain.
Sometimes, she’d wake up in the shadow of the neighbor’s arbor. She had a peculiar affection for a certain type of boy—tall, ragged. Stories circled the school about junior prom the year before: Sarah, returning from the bathroom, ran into Mr. Strickland—a tall, stoic teacher—and collapsed at the sight of him. She blamed it on dancing and lack of food.
One evening, she returned home after hours of meetings and rehearsals. Her parents were fighting again—screeching, insulting. She slammed the door. Suddenly, the yelling stopped. Her parents came down hand-in-hand, complimented her looks, told her how glad they were she was home.
Sarah went to her room to start homework. While doing calculus, she fell asleep. Her TV blared, but it didn’t wake her. Around 2 a.m., she woke to scratching at the window. The tree branch swayed in the wind, tapping the glass. She searched for the remote. The television began to flicker—channels phasing in and out. The ceiling light died. Static took over the screen.
She pressed buttons—nothing worked. Frustrated, she unplugged the TV and lit a candle. As she resumed her homework, the candle flickered from a draft. She dropped her pencil and leaned back.
There was no branch at the window now.
It stood there, staring at her.
Its black clothes cut sharply against the pale window frame. Her mouth opened, but she couldn’t scream. Her body refused to respond.
The television turned on.
Static.
Then, words:
“Those who try never forget.”
Her hearing faded—again replaced by that pulsing. Her nerves exploded into electricity. She stared. It stared back. Her mouth widened. Her vision dimmed.
She fell asleep.
She awoke several hours later.
The sun was bright above her. Trees surrounded her—lush, green. She laughed. Louder and louder. Her laugh turned to a shriek—a bone-chilling shriek.
She was in the forest. The one from her childhood. The nightmare.
She looked at herself—black pants, black jacket, white shirt, black tie.
Suddenly, she began to rise. Higher and higher, until she towered among the trees. She looked at the sky—red. Blood red. The trees turned black and petrified.
She shrieked louder and started running. She panicked, cried, ran for hours. Until she reached the forest’s edge. She stopped.
There was a playground.
A ruffling sound beneath her. A stone at her bare, blackened feet. Then another. She grew angry.
She saw a girl—swinging her feet, sitting quietly.
Sarah moved closer. Hid behind a tree.
The girl approached.
Sarah stepped out to greet her.
The girl froze. Sarah froze.
Horrified.
Hair raised. Cold sweat.
She fell.
Twenty-Three Years Later
She had become an accomplished artist. She lived in a vast apartment in New York City. Her walls were covered in paintings—each exploring the same eerie theme. Newspapers scattered across the coffee table shared common headlines:
“Kidnapping!”
“Child Missing!”
“Lost!”
All from her hometown.
Her hair had thinned. Her smile hadn’t been seen in years. But her eyes—those deep, majestic green eyes—remained.
She sat silently in a black suit, white shirt, black tie, staring out the window, mug in hand. The walls were blood red. The ceiling, jet black. In the center: a banner.
“Those who try never forget.”
It plagued the room.
She had grown wealthy through her art. But no lover ever came. No companion. No friends.
She stood suddenly. Climbed onto a chair. Tore the banner down. Wrapped it around her neck.
She threw her mug, shattering the glass door to the balcony. Across the way, a film crew stood. She signaled. They began filming.
She stood on the edge. The transmission broadcast in Times Square—and the world.
She tied the banner to a column.
She climbed over.
She fell.
Times Square froze. The monumental screen above lost picture. People gasped, some screamed. Others collapsed.
The screen turned black.
And then, the creature stared out.
The world saw it.
The new fear.
People ran. Some died where they stood.
Then the screen faded.
A single phrase scrolled across the bottom:
"Those who try never forget."