Inder The Oak Tree Novels & Stories

The sunlight faded, shadows lengthened, and the air grew heavier, the peaceful park taking on an eerie stillness. As we neared the oak, its gnarled trunk and sprawling branches looked ancient—almost alive. A shiver ran through me, though I couldn’t tell if it was from the chill or the growing tension between us. “Here it is,” Eirik said, stepping back to admire it. “Isn’t it magnificent?” “Very,” I replied, forcing a smile, watching him closely. The way he looked at that tree—as if it were a prize—creeped me the fuck out.

“It’s time to come.” They obeyed without hesitation. They didn’t know it yet, but they were already dead. I led them across the estate grounds toward the garden, the scent of moss and damp bark mingling in the cold air. The tree stood before us, a massive old oak tree, lush, thick with green leaves, its heavy branches stretching toward the sky like grasping fingers. “You need to help me with the tree,” I said. Conrad frowned. “What tree?” “This one,” I replied smoothly, stepping around its wide base. “Velan wants it moved to please his father-in-law.”

Heart racing for another reason now. She tied the reins to a low branch. The horse lowered its head to graze. Irmak walked to the center of the clearing. Her steps were light, almost silent. Torn dress dragged leaves. Hands trembled slightly as she touched the rough bark of a centuries-old oak. The trunk was wide, rugged, marked by centuries. Thick roots snaked across the ground like ancient veins. Irmak rested her forehead against the cold wood. Eyes closed. Deep breath. The wind whispered through the leaves. An owl's hoot echoed far away. Branches creaked like old bones.

The oak was turning at the very tips—not dramatically, just the first indication of what was coming, the specific early signal of a tree that knew the season before the thermometer did. She looked at it for a long time. He found her there at nine. He sat beside her without asking. Of course. "September," she said. "Yes," he said. "The oak knows." He looked at the oak. The very tips of it, the first bronze. "It always does," he said. "Mr. Osei says it's the most reliable indicator in the garden. The oak knows a week before anything else." She held that. "What does it feel like?" she said. The season is turning. This year specifically."

“When she gave you the ability to hide your scent, where did you go to ask her for help?” The woman glanced at Oliver, who looked as equally as baffled as she was. “That old oak tree.” She pointed to a large majestic tree, that sat directly at the edge of the clearing, we walked over to it and noticed a pattern carved deeply into the bark… “it’s the lunar cycle.” “The Luna oak!” Oliver quickly dropped to his knees in front of the tree out of respect. “I’ve only ever seen pictures… It’s said that the original lycans planted it, in respect of the goddess herself.” It was the perfect place for me to attempt to make contact again.

POV: Iris The forest paths of Oakwood were quiet that evening, the sun dipping low behind the dense treeline and casting long, wavering shadows across the earth. I moved carefully, my senses alert to every sound—the snap of a twig, the rustle of leaves, the distant call of a lone wolf. Oakwood was familiar now, yet it carried secrets beneath its comforting canopy, and tonight, instinct prickled along my spine.

The witch turned to the crowd and spoke, her voice echoing through the ages. “This tree is the Nature of this world. Its roots touch both realms — life and dream. It gives what the earth cannot. It heals, it binds, it restores. A piece of Eden that shall never die.” The vision flickered. The scene spun faster — flames, worshippers, rituals of healing and exorcism, souls cleansed beneath the crimson light. The power of the Oak was infinite, divine… until the images shattered into black. The elder witch gasped. Her body jolted back as blood trickled from her nose. She fell to her hands, trembling, coughing.

The time I was wasting. Evans was still out there. I straightened and stepped over the unconscious outlaws, looking around. I noticed it then. A tree. In the center of the clearing, there was a single, enormous oak. The wood underneath was scarred with something that made my stomach turn, and its bark was split. Blood. Not merely splashed. Not merely smeared. **Sculpted.** Three sharp, deep phrases that seemed to have been sunk like inhuman claws into the wood.

The chainsaw roared to life, cutting through the quiet of the early morning. Talon gripped the handle, his muscles tensing as he drove the blade into the thick trunk of the oak tree. Sawdust sprayed into the air, mingling with the faint tang of gasoline. Jake stood nearby, directing the operation, his voice sharp over the growl of the engine. “Take it slow,” Jake called, his eyes narrowed as he watched the blade bite deeper. “We don’t want it coming down too fast.”

“It’s not possible,” Mac said quietly, standing at the edge of Hope’s garden, looking at the small oak sapling with its cluster of pale, impossible blossoms. “Oaks don’t flower in October. They barely flower at all in the traditional sense. Something else must be growing through it.”