The tree has moved. Clara is sure of it. She presses her nose to the classroom window. 

The elder tree stands at the edge of the playing fields, dark and gangly. Like it's watching them. Yesterday it was near the school gates. Today it is closer to Miss Thorne's classroom. If she didn't know better, Clara would think it had shuffled up the field during the night. 

She frowns and checks the window again. This time Clara can't seem to make out the elder tree at all. She squints through the glass, searching for the tell-tale twisty branches. 

'Clara Hopkins!' Miss Thorne barks as she enters the classroom. 'If you spent as much time concentrating on your schoolwork as you do staring out of that window, you'd be top of the class.'

The girls in the front row titter. Clara's cheeks burn. She dips her head over her book, making a protective curtain of her hair—a shield against the teacher's sharp gaze and the watchful elder tree.

Clara presses her lips together. No matter that nobody believes her. That tree is moving. And she is going to prove it. 

 

 

There is a tall, dark shape in the middle of the playing field that wasn't there before. The elder tree has moved again, continuing its stealthy march towards the school building. 

Crouching near the fence, Clara can't take her eyes from its scraggy silhouette. Damp seeps into her trainers and there is an ache behind her knees, but she won't move until she's seen it for herself. 

Clara swallows. The school grounds feel different in the evening. Empty, of course, but more than that. A heavy sort of stillness hangs in the air. She shivers. It's as though every brick, every blade of grass, is waiting for something.

Across the darkening field, the classroom windows stare blankly. Clara can see the elder tree's twisty limbs reflected in the glass. 

She shifts position, chewing her lip. She'll have to go back home soon, before anyone notices she's slipped away. 

Creak!

Clara's head snaps up. The tree! But when she checks, the elder tree is no longer standing guard in the centre of the field. Clara whirls around. Her eyes sweep wildly across the grounds, trying to locate the gnarled branches. But she is too late. The elder has disappeared again—shifted positions without her noticing. 

Firm fingers grasp Clara's wrist. 

She gasps. 

'Miss Thorne!'

The teacher stands over Clara, eyebrows raised. 'What do you think you're doing on school property at this time of night?' she asks.

'I—that is—' Clara splutters.

'It's a good job I was here late catching up on marking,' says Miss Thorne briskly. 'I'll give you a lift home.'

'No, really. . .' Clara tries to wriggle away. 'I can walk. It's not far—'

'Nonsense.' Miss Thorne is already marching Clara to her car. Funny, she hadn't noticed it parked outside the school gates earlier. 

From the passenger seat of Miss Thorne's car, Clara squints out into the darkness. As Miss Thorne turns the car around, its headlights sweep over the grounds and Clara leans forward, scanning the playing field for a final glimpse of the elder tree. But there is no black shadow in the centre of the grass. No inky shape looming over them. The field is empty. 

 

 

Tap-tap-tap.

Clara turns in bed with a moan. Somewhere in that shadowy space between waking and sleeping, she hears a sound.

Tap-tap.

She sits up now, ears pricked. 

Tap-tap-tap.

It's coming from the window. 

Groaning, Clara shoves off the covers and crosses to the sill. A terrifying thrill surges through her.

The elder tree is here. 

Right outside her window. So close, she can see its gnarled trunk pressing against the glass, can almost feel the deep gashes in its greyish brown bark. The urge to slide open the window is powerful. She twists the catch and heaves it up.

At once the elder tree is upon her. Twigs are tangled in her hair, branches grasping and scratching at her skin. The tree is twisting itself inside her room! 

Clara staggers backward. The elder seems to be growing, sprouting extra limbs; monstrous tendrils that reach for her wrists, her neck, her shoulders. 

'Get off me!' Clara wrestles the tree away. Before it can slither back towards her, she seizes the window and slams it down, hard. The elder tree lets out a rasping scream. One of its branches is trapped beneath the sash. It writhes and thrashes, scrabbling at the sill.

Clara rams the window down harder. The elder recoils, wrenching itself free with a sickening crack. Clara watches, horror-struck, as the tree gives an enormous shudder then retreats jerkily into the shadows. One injured bough hangs limply like a broken arm. 

Trembling, Clara steadies herself against the window frame. There are scratch marks etched across the wood and along the sill. A piece of splintered bark sits half in and half out of the window. A dark, sticky substance pools around it. Clara's stomach churns. It looks like fresh blood. Pushing the remains of the branch away, Clara shuts the window tightly and climbs shakily back into bed.  

 

 

Miss Thorne is late for class. The others are calling and laughing, sitting on desks and chucking things at each other. But Clara ignores them. She peers intently out of the window, scanning the playing field. Her eyes dart around the perimeter fence, her heart thumping wildly. There it is! Back where it should be. The elder tree is in its original position near the school gates. Clara lets out a shaky breath. Even from this distance she can see that one of its branches—on the left-hand side—is badly damaged. Part of it has been hacked off completely, exposing the pale bark beneath like a scar. Clara shudders, remembering the blood on her windowsill. She wrenches her eyes away, tries to focus on last night's homework instead. 

A hush falls over the class—Miss Thorne has finally entered the room. There is something different about her today. She tilts her body away from the class, holding herself awkwardly. The teacher's sharp eyes flick away from Clara's. And suddenly Clara knows. She knows it with a dreadful certainty. But still, she can't stifle her gasp as Miss Thorne shuffles to the whiteboard, her sleeve riding up as she reaches for the pen. And although the teacher quickly tugs the fabric back into place, it is too late. Because Clara has already spotted it. The blood-stained bandage wrapped around Miss Thorne's left arm. . .