Special Selection for the 2022/2023 Winter Holiday Issue
Fiction by Austin Gilmore
Do you know who cared where it came from? Absolutely no one.
Most thought, and I admit I was one of them, it was a lightning strike that turned a pile of discarded Christmas trees into one gigantic, murderous Spruce. Others believed a more nuanced story, something about it being born from vengeance, going from being the center of every household’s holiday celebration to being tossed out like a piece of trash. I couldn’t track that one, but now I see my explanation wasn’t much better.
I didn’t know what to believe after that mountain of thrown out Christmas trees mysteriously disappeared, leaving only a trail of needles leading deep into the woods of Franklin Park. But there it stood, a gargantuan Spruce that wasn’t there the day before.
And do you know who cared? Absolutely no one.
The town gave a collective shrug and went on with their lives. But it bothered me. I call it The Detective Nag. Trees don’t just appear out of thin air. But that’s a soap box you can’t stand on for very long. When I heard myself saying wild things like “Trees don’t grow on trees!” I knew I had to stop and just accept the anomaly like everyone else.
Winter turned to Spring and life went on as usual. I avoided driving by Franklin Park whenever I could. The rare times I had to, when I saw the tip of the Spruce high above the other trees gashing clouds and sky, it felt like it was watching me, like it was watching everyone. Like it was biding its time.
Halloween and Thanksgiving came and went. Christmas lights were hung, Santa’s face popped up in the windows of businesses, and Braxton Sifers was found in the bullseye of our Target, his ravaged body held up by jagged sticks and pine needles.
That was December 1st.
Amanda Girouxi was discovered in her parked LeSabre, a tree limb the size of a light pole kabobbed both body and car.
That was December 2nd.
Larry Atchity was found bobbing face down in his jacuzzi, with a wreath of dense pine needles wrapped tightly around his neck, both carotid arteries expertly gashed.
That was December 3rd.
I went to my old station for the first time since I was forced into retirement and laid out my theory. “It’s the Spruce. There’s gonna be twenty-two more bodies if we don’t do something about it!”
And do you know who believed my theory? Absolutely no one. They laughed me out of the bullpen. And as the next few days passed without another body, I began to understand why they had. It was ridiculous theory, a murderous Spruce.
But I was right, there were other bodies. It just took a few days to find them.
It was like living in a macabre Advent calendar. Every new December day we’d wake to find another loved one torn apart by tree limbs, gutted by bark. It wasn’t until we started using the Super Food Barn freezer as a make-shift morgue, packed tight with fifteen mutilated bodies, that people started to believe my absurd theory.
Like modern day townspeople with torches and pitchforks, we all met up at Franklin Park and waited for some brave soul to volunteer to go in and cut down the Spruce. It was Shane Schefter who finally spoke up, wearing his letterman’s jacket, only a month removed from bringing home his second State championship. That damn Shane Schefter, if anyone could do it, it would be him. He tugged the cord of a chainsaw and heroically disappeared into the darkness of the woods.
We cheered at the sound of the chainsaw grinding into fresh wood. We high-fived as limbs crashed to the ground. We dove for cover when Shane shot out of the woods crashing like a meteorite into the side of his F150, his chest stabbed with so many tree shards it looked like the top of a pineapple.
Some packed up and moved that very night. The rest of us stayed, hoping to ride out the rest of the holiday season, hiding in our basements like we were stuck in a permanent Tornado Warning. I spent those ensuing days listening to Christmas carols, wrapping presents, and formulating a plan, only catching its movement a handful of times. The sounds though, you couldn’t miss. The shimmering shuffle of the needles in motion, the crack of limbs making its attack, the screams of its daily kill.
On Christmas Day, I put my plan into action. I went for a walk, hoping by then the
Spruce had claimed its final victim of the holiday season. I stepped over bodies of friends, with thick branches sticking out of their chests and needles in their eyes. Each step emboldened my plan even more.
I was going to burn it down.
I pulled out the engraved lighter the department gave me for thirty years of service, flicked it lit and tossed it into the darkness of Franklin Park. From a park bench I sat alone, watching my town fill with smoke and ash, dramatically humming Santa Claus Is Coming to Town.
As the sun rose on the morning of the 26th, so did the people from their seasonal hiding places, only to find what I had been staring at since the fire died down hours before. The blackened remains of the woods, with the Spruce untouched standing at the charred center.
And do you know who cared? Absolutely no one.
The town gave a collective shrug, and with the holiday season over, they went back to their lives like nothing had happened. “What about the Spruce?” I’d ask anyone who would listen, the Detective Nag taking over.
“Eh, Christmas is a long way off. We’ll figure something out.”
And there it still stands. Watching us. Biding its time for the temperature to drop, for Thanksgiving to pass, and for its reign of terror to begin again.
Austin Gilmore is an Art Director and gallery artist, who co-ran Kevin Costner’s production company for 7 years. He is passionate about donuts.
