They Always Avoid That Tree.

Like many neighborhoods, mine contains streets named after the trees they bulldozed to build yet another pristine suburban housing development. I live on Oak Street, which runs parallel to Elm and Pine. 

However, not every tree in was cleared to make room for the middle-class families and their golden retrievers. One tree still stands, and it's in my front yard. I don't know why it was left here. It's not fruit-bearing or historical, and it's certainly not ornamental, with its dingy gray bark and year-round lack of foliage.

I've never really met any of my neighbors. I would watch them on their walks and trips to the mailbox, see them out mowing their lawns, but I've never been the sort to impose my company on people. When I first arrived here, I thought I'd be dealing with the pleasant problem of neighbor kids climbing the tree, causing an picturesque and innocent ruckus. I'd talk to them, and start fitting in to my new little community that way.

That has never happened.

Kids always give the tree a wide berth, despite it being the only one and looking ever so easy to climb. I didn't realize it at first, but once, when standing at my front window, I saw the neighbor's two sons cross to the other side of the street, shooting nervous glances from the sidewalk. I shrugged it off initially, but then I kept seeing repeats of this performance from other children; some would even break into a panicked run when passing the tree at night, throwing nervous glances over their shoulder as I watched them from my window.

After months of watching this behavior repeat, I decided that if every child here was terrified of that tree, I needed to find out why. I went out and inspected the tree thoroughly. I looked at it carefully, I ran my hands over it's scaly bark, I couldn't figure out what was so scary about a little old tree. I made up my mind that to make a proper investigation, I needed to climb it. 

Up I went, to the highest point I could access. It was fairly comfortable up in the tree, resting in the crook of the branches. I was just about to climb down when I saw my neighbor, Julie, and her husband walking down the sidewalk hand in hand with their little boy, Noah. 

Determined to be neighborly for once, I shouted a friendly "Hello!" The adults didn't seem to hear me, but Noah immediately started to cry, then buried his face in his mother's leg, hiding, but still throwing occasional frightened glances at the tree. 

"What's wrong, honey?" Julie asked him, her voice filled with concern.

"There's a ghost up in that tree!" Noah responded, choking back tears.

Julie turned to her husband, laughing, "Nobody has lived in that house since Margaret died. I can't imagine what he keeps thinking he sees over there."

Her husband chuckled back, "Didn't he think someone was watching him out the window last week?" 

It took a second to sink in, but I realized that the children weren't afraid of the tree. It wasn't the tree they kept looking back at in terror as they hurried past.

Because I'm Margaret.