the hanging worm

Chapter 1 – The Too-Red Cherry

The sun beat down on Red Hollow like a damp slap.

That year was one of the hottest in decades.

It almost felt like the heat was unnatural.

It clung to the skin, to thoughts, to the silence.

It made the population slow and suffering!

In old Mamie Josie’s orchard, the cherry trees bent under the weight of the fruit.

At the entrance to the orchard, barely had she moved under the weight of summer, Carole stopped, breathless, and let her gaze wander over the rows of trees stretching under an azure sky.

That year, the cherry trees were particularly fruitful, their branches heavy with large, bright red cherries, so shiny they seemed to sparkle like rubies in the golden light.

Each fruit, full of sap, promised an explosion of sweet and juicy flavor down to the stem, evoking the summers of yore when Carole, as a child, climbed the trees, her lips stained with juice and her laughter easy.

The sweet smell of ripe fruit hung in the air, mingling with the hum of bees and the haunting song of cicadas.

Carole, in her forties, had a simple, almost timeless beauty. Her chestnut hair, slightly wavy, cascaded in unruly strands over her shoulders, caressing a face where time had etched fine lines, like memories of a well-lived life. Her blue eyes, strikingly clear, seemed to capture every detail of the orchard with a tenderness mixed with melancholy. Dressed in a beige linen shirt, slightly wrinkled, and worn canvas shorts, she blended into this rustic setting, as if she had never really left this place. Yet, the city, with its frenetic pace, had left its mark: a slight tension in her shoulders, a subtle fatigue in her gaze.

She had arrived the day before at her grandmother’s, in this corner of the countryside where time seemed to slow down, as if held back by the gentleness of the surrounding hills. These summer vacations, Carole had longed for them like one yearns for a breath of fresh air. She had come to help Mamie Josie take care of the orchard, a task that, although sometimes grueling, offered her a refuge, a way to reconnect with roots she had almost forgotten. Between picking fruit, pruning branches, and evenings spent listening to her grandmother’s stories on the old rocking chair on the veranda, Carole also hoped to find herself, to soothe the knots of her city life.

But that day, something drew her further. Carole moved slowly through the orchard alleys, her steps treading on the dry, crackling grass, until she stopped in front of the tree at the back, the one they called The Mute. It was a massive cherry tree, with a gnarled trunk and cracked bark, its branches stretching like twisted arms, defying time. No one knew how long it had stood there, solitary and imposing, at the end of the orchard. Even Mamie Josie, with her ninety-six years, her twisted dentures that clicked when she spoke, and her eyes squinted from decades of sun, shrugged when asked about it. “It was there before me, and it will be there after us all,” she said, an enigmatic smile on her lips, as if she shared a secret with the tree.

The Mute lived up to its name. Unlike the other cherry trees, it did not rustle in the wind; its leaves seemed frozen, and its fruits, though rare, had a darker hue, almost black, with a flavor no one dared describe. The village elders whispered stories about it: some said it was cursed, others that it housed the souls of ancestors, watching over the orchard like a silent guardian. Carole had never believed these legends. Yet, as she placed her hand on the rough bark, she felt a shiver run down her spine, as if the tree were whispering something incomprehensible to her. She took a step back, her blue eyes scanning the branches, seeking an answer in their stillness.

Around her, the orchard buzzed with life: insects danced in the sunbeams, cherries shone like jewels, and in the distance, she could hear Mamie Josie humming an old tune, probably busy sorting fruit on the wooden table in the garden. But here, in front of The Mute, the world seemed to hold its breath. Carole stood there for a long moment, motionless, torn between curiosity and a strange reverence. This tree, with its mystery, seemed to remind her that some things—like the orchard, like her grandmother, like herself—carried stories too deep to be told in a single summer.

No one knew how long it had been there. Even Mamie Josie, with her ninety-six years and her twisted dentures, said:

— That tree, it was already old when I was a kid... And it’s always made cherries that scare the hell out of people.

Carole didn’t care. She wasn’t afraid of anything, least of all a tree, no matter how old it was.

She was fed up. Fed up with men, fed up with work, fed up with this damn heatwave, and sometimes even fed up with this damn life.

When she laid eyes on that cherry, there, at the end of the branch, her heart skipped a beat. It was huge, rounded, shiny like a ruby under the midday sun. A cherry so perfect, so juicy that it seemed to pulse, ready to burst like a little heart filled with sweet blood. No way she was passing it up. Without thinking, she let out a light, almost wild laugh, and dashed down the orchard alley.

Her feet pounded the dry earth, kicking up clouds of ochre dust. The apple and plum trees blurred past in a green and golden haze, their branches heavy with ripe fruit brushing her shoulders. The air smelled of warm grass, sap, and that sweet, intoxicating scent of cherries that hung like a promise. At the end of the alley, the old cherry tree stood, gnarled and majestic, its leaves rustling in the breeze as if whispering, Come, take it, it’s yours.

She stopped abruptly under the tree, breathless, her cheeks flushed from the run. The cherry was there, within reach, suspended like a jewel. She plucked it with a precise gesture, her fingers brushing the smooth, warm skin of the fruit. She brought it close to her face, slowly, as if to etch every detail into her memory. The light played on its surface, revealing purple and crimson reflections, almost too intense, as if the cherry itself absorbed the sun. She inhaled it, closing her eyes. A sweet, slightly tart scent made her mouth water.

Then, she bit into it.

Her teeth pierced the flesh with a soft pop. She expected a burst of juice, a torrent of sweetness mixed with acidity. But nothing. One second. Two. Then a sensation. No sweet taste. No acidity. Just... a slight vibration, as if the fruit still quivered between her lips. A shiver ran down her spine, like a cold breath whispering in her ear.

And then, that voice.

— Thank you.

A whisper, clear and soft, but belonging to no one. Not a sound carried by the wind, not a human voice. It came from... inside. From the cherry. From her throat. From everywhere and nowhere. Her eyes widened, the smile she had worn a second earlier frozen into a grimace of astonishment. The juice, which she hadn’t felt flowing, suddenly trickled down her chin, but it was warm, almost alive, as if it pulsed to the rhythm of her frantic heart.

She took a step back, tripping over a gnarled root. The cherry, half-eaten, slipped from her fingers and rolled into the grass, gleaming with a strange, almost silvery light, as if it captured the light of an absent moon. The orchard, so alive a moment earlier, had fallen silent. The birds had flown away. The wind had died down. Even the leaves of the cherry tree seemed frozen, suspended in an oppressive silence.

She brought a trembling hand to her mouth, wiping away the juice that clung to her skin. Her fingers brushed something warm on her wrist—the bracelet, that damn bracelet she had always worn, with its ancient engravings and secrets. It vibrated softly, as if responding to the voice. She looked down. The engraved symbols shimmered, faint but undeniable, pulsing in time with her heartbeat.

— Who... who spoke? she murmured, her trembling voice lost in the still air.

No answer. Just silence, and that persistent sensation, as if something were watching her, lurking in the shadows of the cherry tree, in the very flesh of the fruit she had bitten. She looked up at the tree. The other cherries hung, motionless, but they seemed... different. Darker. Heavier. As if they were watching her back.

Her heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to run, but her legs refused to move. And deep inside her, there, beneath her skin, beneath her bones, something stirred. Something ancient, untamed, awakening to the echo of that voice. Thank you. A word that was not an end, but a beginning.

She clutched the bracelet against her wrist, as if to stop it from speaking, from vibrating, from pulling her further. But she knew, deep down, that it was too late. The cherry, the orchard, the voice—everything was connected. And she was at the center of something she didn’t yet understand.

Above the orchard, the sun seemed to pale, veiled by an invisible cloud. And in the shadow of the branches, a gentle breeze rose, carrying a barely audible whisper: Soon.