Everyone in Bellweather knew you didn't pick the last apple.
Not because it was illegal.
Not because the orchard owners would chase you off.
You simply didn't.
Every October, after the families had gone home with their cider and their paper bags of Honeycrisps, after the hay wagons were parked and the pumpkin field had been picked nearly bare, one apple remained somewhere in Whitmore Orchard.
Sometimes high in the branches.
Sometimes hanging low enough for a child to reach.
Perfectly red.
Untouched.
"For winter," my grandmother always said.
I believed her until I was twelve.
"Winter doesn't eat apples."
She looked at me across the kitchen table.
"No."
She went back to peeling potatoes.
"But something does."
My grandmother had a talent for saying horrifying things and then continuing whatever she was doing.
"What does?"
"Nothing you need to worry about."
This was obviously unacceptable.
"An animal?"
"No."
"A person?"
She stopped peeling.
"June."
That was how Grandma ended conversations.
One word.
My name.
A warning.
But before she looked back down, I saw something in her face I'd never seen before.
Fear.
So naturally, I became obsessed with the last apple.
Whitmore Orchard sat just beyond the northern edge of town.
In October, it was beautiful.
Rows of apple trees climbed the hillside beneath orange and red woods. Families came from three counties away. There were cider donuts, hayrides, caramel apples and a little store selling jars of apple butter with gingham fabric tied around the lids.
Nothing about Whitmore Orchard was frightening.
Until closing time.
At five, a bell rang.
At five-thirty, the gates were locked.
And by six, even Mr. Whitmore was gone.
Nobody stayed after sunset.
Nobody.
Every October, my friends and I tried to figure out why.
Ghosts were the obvious answer.
Murder was Claire's theory.
Maggie believed Mr. Whitmore was running some sort of criminal operation from the cider barn, although none of us could explain what kind.
"Apple drugs," she said.
"That's not a thing."
"You don't know."
We were thirteen.
Logic was still developing.
The year we turned sixteen, we decided to find out.
October twenty-ninth.
The final weekend of the season.
We hid behind a stack of wooden crates inside the equipment shed at 4:55.
The bell rang at five.
Cars disappeared down the gravel road.
Employees cleaned the store.
At 5:47, Mr. Whitmore's truck rolled through the gate.
He stopped.
Got out.
And walked back toward the orchard.
We watched through a crack in the wall.
He carried a lantern.
"He's going to the apple drug lab," Maggie whispered.
I elbowed her.
We followed.
Mr. Whitmore walked farther into the orchard than customers were usually allowed.
Past the rows of Honeycrisp.
Past the Granny Smiths.
Past a weathered sign that read:
PRIVATE.
The trees became older there.
Their trunks twisted together, branches reaching across the path like crooked fingers.
The sun had nearly disappeared.
Mr. Whitmore stopped beneath one tree.
He raised his lantern.
And there it was.
One apple.
Bright red.
Perfect.
The last apple of the year.
Mr. Whitmore removed his hat.
Then he said something.
We couldn't hear.
He stood there for another moment before turning back toward the farm.
We ducked behind a tree.
He passed without seeing us.
When his lantern disappeared, Maggie whispered:
"Well."
Claire looked disappointed.
"That's it?"
Apparently our great town mystery involved an elderly farmer looking respectfully at produce.
Then I looked back at the tree.
The apple seemed almost luminous in the twilight.
"Don't."
Maggie knew me too well.
"I'm just looking."
"June."
It sounded exactly like my grandmother.
Which made me want to do it more.
I walked toward the tree.
"June."
I reached up.
My fingers closed around the apple.
And I pulled.
Every bird in the orchard stopped singing.
Not gradually.
At once.
Silence.
My friends stared at me.
The apple was cold in my hand.
Far colder than the October air.
"Put it back," Claire whispered.
"You can't put an apple back."
"Try."
Then something moved between the trees.
Far away.
A branch cracked.
Maggie grabbed my arm.
"We're leaving."
Another crack.
Closer.
We ran.
We didn't stop until we reached the equipment shed.
The gate was locked.
Obviously.
Maggie climbed first.
Then Claire.
I was halfway over when something screamed from the orchard.
Not an animal.
Not anything I'd heard before.
I dropped onto the other side.
We ran all the way to Maggie's house.
Nobody spoke about the apple.
Mostly because I didn't tell them I'd brought it with me.
It sat on my dresser that night.
I couldn't throw it away.
I'd tried.
Three times.
Once in the kitchen trash.
Once in the garbage can outside.
Once into the woods behind our house.
Every time, within minutes, I found it somewhere else.
Kitchen table.
Front step.
Finally—
my pillow.
So I stopped trying.
At 2:13 in the morning, something knocked on my bedroom window.
Three times.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
I lived on the second floor.
I pulled the blanket over my head.
Another three knocks.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Then a woman's voice whispered through the glass.
"June."
I didn't move.
"June."
My grandmother's bedroom door opened down the hall.
The whisper stopped.
Grandma entered my room without knocking.
She saw the apple.
Her face went white.
"What did you do?"
She wrapped it in a dish towel.
Put on her coat.
"Get dressed."
"Grandma—"
"Now."
Ten minutes later, we were driving toward Whitmore Orchard.
She didn't speak until we reached the locked gate.
"You asked me once what eats the last apple."
I nodded.
She stared through the windshield.
"I lied to you."
"You said nothing."
"Exactly."
That was not comforting.
She climbed out.
We walked to the old part of the orchard carrying flashlights.
Grandma knew exactly where she was going.
At the tree, she unwrapped the apple.
The branches above us were empty.
She placed it on the ground.
Then she took my hand.
"Say you're sorry."
"To who?"
"June."
Right.
Conversation over.
"I'm sorry."
Nothing happened.
Grandma squeezed my hand.
"Mean it."
I looked at the apple.
At the old trees.
At the dark woods beyond them.
"I'm sorry I took what wasn't mine."
Wind moved through the orchard.
Something shifted in the darkness.
Grandma pulled me backward.
"Don't look."
Obviously, I looked.
At first I saw nothing.
Then something stepped between two trees.
A woman.
Or something shaped like one.
She wore a long dark dress.
Her hair fell nearly to the ground.
Her face—
I couldn't see her face.
She walked toward the apple.
Slowly.
Barefoot.
I couldn't move.
She stopped.
Bent down.
Picked it up.
Then turned toward me.
Grandma's fingers dug into my wrist.
The woman lifted one hand.
And waved.
Then she disappeared between the trees.
Grandma didn't speak until we were back in the car.
"Who was she?"
She started the engine.
"Nobody knows."
"How long has she been there?"
"Longer than Bellweather."
"What happens if she doesn't get the apple?"
Grandma stared at the orchard.
"I don't know."
"But—"
"And that's exactly why we give her the apple."
Fair.
Years passed.
I left Bellweather.
Grandma died when I was twenty-eight.
Whitmore Orchard eventually became mine.
Not because we were related to the Whitmores.
Life is simply strange like that.
Mr. Whitmore's children didn't want it.
I did.
So every autumn, families come.
Children climb the trees.
Couples take pictures.
Cider simmers.
Donuts fry.
And on the final weekend, I walk the rows myself.
I make sure one apple remains.
Always one.
Tonight was closing night.
The last car left at 5:36.
I took my lantern and walked beyond the PRIVATE sign.
The old tree stood against the darkening sky.
One red apple hung from its lowest branch.
Perfect.
I smiled.
"Goodnight."
I turned toward home.
Then stopped.
There was someone standing at the end of the row.
A little girl.
Maybe twelve.
She was staring at the apple.
"Hey," I called.
She jumped.
"I didn't know anyone was here."
"Orchard's closed."
"I'm sorry."
She started walking toward me.
Then she looked at the apple again.
"Why didn't anybody pick that one?"
I considered telling her.
About my grandmother.
About the woman.
About the tapping on my second-story window.
Instead, I smiled.
"For winter."
The girl frowned.
"Winter doesn't eat apples."
From somewhere deep inside the orchard—
a branch cracked.
I looked toward the sound.
Then back at the girl.
"No," I said.
"It doesn't."
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