By Andrew Pejack

As I near my 98th birthday, I thought it best to pen these words now, as it occurred to me that I may be the last person alive who knows the whole story; those few friends of mine who also knew of this incredible tale have passed away. Yet even when they were still living, we seldom spoke of it. When we did, it was only with the faintest of whispered voices, lest the trees hear us; those haunted trees of Carob Lane.

Our small town of Los Altos had a railroad station once, in what they call Loyola Corners, and the whistle of the old steam train was as familiar to us as the sun. Just a stone’s throw from the station was Carob Lane, a short street lined with carob trees, tall and proud, like soldiers on the march. I lived just around the corner, in a white English-style cottage, just beyond the reach of the carob tree branches; at least that’s what I had thought.

One late October night, as I rounded the corner, a carob tree lowered his branches, and as quick as a bee sting, seized my body whole, and lifted me high up in the air. Into the crook of a gnarled branch I was placed, as the carob trees howled their ghastly tune, swaying and creaking as if in a terrible wind; but wind there was none. I was too scared to scream or speak but somehow managed to climb down and run, just as another carob tree branch swung low, nearly grabbing me yet again. I could not speak of the incident for quite some time, as even the thought of it set me to trembling.

Old man Jones knew about the trees, and he told me once that the whistle of the old steam train that used to stop in Loyola Corners every day kept the carob trees quiet and content. But when the train station was closed down, the trees became angry. Angry and restless. I don’t know how he knew this, but as soon as I heard him say it, I knew it was true.

Years ago, a stranger bought one of the smaller houses on Carob Lane, just a shack of a house really, and yes, in the shadows of the carob trees. As the story goes, he spoke of cutting down the carob tree right out by his front yard, so that he might park his truck more easily. It wasn’t long before the carob trees did their ghastly work. The stranger was never seen again, and to this day, only a dirt lot remains where the house once stood.

Over the years, we who live here learned to never walk down Carob Lane at night; but if you HAVE to, absolutely gosh darn HAVE to, you must whistle a tune, and the carob trees will leave you alone. Maybe.