2025 PARANORMAL FLASH FICTION CHALLENGE RUNNER-UP

and the runner-up place goes to…

Deryn Pittar

DR FINDLEY AND THE WHISPERING TREES

The houses on the outskirts of town vanished first. When the homes on Elm Street disappeared, the mayor rang me; ‘Dr. Findley, Expert in Paranormal Events’, my business card states. I’m a Doctor of Philosophy with an enquiring mind, but it reads well. 

The steel lampposts and letterboxes remained standing, but each wooden house became a clump of trees; saplings that grew feet each day, until within a week they towered, fully grown. Worse still, all the residents of the houses were missing. 

Today, among the trees I glimpse tiny faces in knotholes, visible in my peripheral vision. On closer examination I see only gaping knotholes and swirls of almost-faces. I begin to doubt my sanity.

The earth undulates, soft and slow like a caress; not loving, more malevolent.

For the third night in a row, I’m listening, walking, watching, and at stupid o’clock in the morning the houses, one street over, begin to moan.  In the dark I hear whispering, chittering, faint cries that could be owls or foxes, but I suspect worse. The wooden buildings cry and creak, their walls bend. Flat planks swell into rounds and through ceilings young saplings thrust, tossing aside tiles and iron sheets. During the cacophony I bang on doors, yelling ‘Get out. Get out!’  and scream the words through creaking windows and snapping glass. Something is turning the wood into its original form. Tables, beds, sideboards of exotic wood, sprout, reaching up and out.  

I can’t stop watching, despite my heart pounding and my knees threatening to fold. Mahogany, rimu, kauri, oak, pine and walnut – all demanding space to grow. They ease and squeeze, whisper and walk on new roots, searching for space. It’s awesome, and beautiful and terrifying.

Later that day, at the town meeting, I wipe my sweaty hands on my trousers and swallow several times. These gatherings are always traumatic. People get upset when I put forward my theories, as if it’s my fault. I cough from nerves, but the crowd stills. I have their attention.

“I think it’s a virus or something like a plague of army worms. It travels through the soil and hunts for wood.  Most active at night, it converts the wood to its natural form and this is why the wooden houses are becoming groves of trees. Treated wood, like fence posts, seems to be immune. It probably doesn’t like the taste.” No one smiles.

A loud query from the back. “Where are my relatives?”

Another calls, “My parents are missing,” a broken sob, “and my daughter.”

I don’t want to answer, but the queries multiply. “Probably absorbed into the trees—as nourishment,” I venture, to howls of protest. Their wave of grief hits me and I stagger back, yielding the podium to the mayor. The hall has erupted into a noisy melee and he bangs the gavel for silence.

“Doctor Findley feels a moat might stop the pathogen’s path.” He shouts above the noise, “We can join the lake and the river. Stop its progress.” 

“Start tonight,” someone yells. “Use my excavator.”

“I’ve plenty of shovels,” says the Hardware store owner. I’ve arranged a percentage on each sale. 

With a plan to follow the atmosphere improves and I slip away, before my credentials are questioned.

A week later I stand proudly by the moat, confident we’ve won. The young forest, opposite, rustles in the dark. The moon’s reflection ripples as tiny wakes form and beneath my feet the soil rises and belches. My stomach turns. Time for me to leave.

The bloody things can swim!

Assigned Phenomenon: Vanishing Town
This story was written as part of our recent paranormal-themed contest, in which each participant was assigned a different paranormal phenomenon.