[ WP ] A young child stumbles upon a serial killer dumping a body in the woods .

The wind whistled through the trees as Jimmy trotted through the woods, dragging his baseball bat behind him. It felt like it had been forever since he ’ d found a good branch to swing at. 
 
 He ’ d always liked walking in the woods at night. It wasn ’ t quite so hot, though you ’ d still start sweating the second you stepped outside. 
 
 Mom had stopped caring how late he stayed out a long time ago. None of his friends ever wanted to go with him anymore, but he kind of liked being alone. It always seemed like there were more branches to hit when he was alone. 
 
 As he reached the clearing with the six apple trees at its center, he realized there was a rhythmic thumping echoing around him, as if the woods had a heartbeat. He didn ’ t see the man with the shovel until he was already to the trees. 
 
 “ Welcome to my grove, ” the man half-way sang in a high-pitched voice that sounded entirely unnatural. The wind whipped past Jimmy as he stood with the baseball bat at his side. The wind carried with it a faint howl that seemed to linger even after the wind had died away, almost like the ground was screaming. 
 
 “ Hi, ” Jimmy said, trying to get a look at the man ’ s face. Even though it was a full moon, the man wore a sweatshirt pulled up around his face, obscuring it in darkness. He crouched in the shadow of the shortest apple tree, a seventh tree. The trees stood in a perfect row, each one along the row taller than the last. “ So you planted these trees? ” 
 
 “ Yes, ” the man said in his sing-songy voice. “ Oh, yes. You could say these trees are my children. ” 
 
 “ I ’ m sorry, then, ” Jimmy said, twisting the bat into the ground, which still screamed ever-so-softly beneath him. “ Sometimes I come here and hit the limbs with my bat. ” 
 
 “ Do you like the number eight? ” the man asked without the hint of a pause, his voice suddenly flat and grating. 
 
 “ Well…yeah, I guess. ” 
 
 “ I ’ m thinking of planting an eighth tree. Would you like to help me? ” 
 
 “ Umm, sure, ” Jimmy said. 
 
 “ Good, good. Eight is my favorite number. I ’ ve been itching to plant an eighth. ” 
 
 Jimmy walked toward the man and saw that he already had the hole dug for the next tree, far bigger than it needed to be. The tree itself lay next to it. 
 
 “ What do you need me to do? ” Jimmy asked. “ It seems like you ’ ve already done most of it yourself. ” 
 
 “ Oh, no, no, ” the man cooed. “ You ’ ll be doing most everything from here. ” 
 
 The ground still screamed below him as a storm erupted in his head. When he blinked his eyes open, he lay at the bottom of the hole, the ground now screaming beside him. He rolled his head to the right and tried to reach for the baseball bat, but his arm wouldn ’ t move. He tried to wiggle his toes, to flex his fingers, to shift his legs so one didn ’ t lie on top of the other…nothing. He didn ’ t even feel it when the dirt landed on his chest—he might not have even noticed if some hadn ’ t fallen into his mouth. 
 
 The man with the shovel leaned over the edge of the pit, the hood of his sweatshirt hanging away from his head. 
 
 “ My, my, my, ” he said, once again nearly singing. “ Number eight really will be my favorite. Now one of my children will truly be one of my children. ” 
 
 Jimmy looked up at the man, disbelieving. His mom had always warned him about strangers, but…he never thought… 
 
 “ Dad? ” Jimmy said as the man placed the eighth tree on his chest, and the ground continued to scream beside him.
