Tap, tap, tap.

Came a noise at the bedroom window. Alec glanced nervously at the curtains and then to his brother Reg. This was not the first time he had heard this sound and knew what his brother would say.

“It’s nothing but the wind and a branch of the old chestnut striking the window pane.”

But Alec knew in his bones that this was not right. He had tried to explain to his mum, and when she would not listen, he turned to his dad.

“You are eight son,” he said, “time to stop believing in things that go bump in the night.”

But it was not going bump, it was going tap, tap, tap.

Tap, tap, tap.

Alec pulled the blanket over his head with a sharp tug. Reg stirred but continued to snore.

“It’s just the wind.” Alec repeated in the hope that it might finally sound convincing. It wasn’t, even though he could hear the wind whistling through the loose roof tiles.

The tree had been planted by his grandfather when he bought the house. That was more than fifty years ago and it had grown from a sapling into a gnarled and bent, wicked old witch of a thing. It covered the parlour window in such a deep shade that the electric light had to be kept on all the time. Ever since he was a little boy he could recall his dad looking scornfully up from his newspaper and muttering that something would have to do be done. It wasn’t.

The sapling had been planted at the very front of the small garden that lay between the house and the road. No one knew why. Granddad was a sailor who cared for nothing but ships and the sound of the wind in canvas sails. That was why he moved the family to a seaside town. He wanted to gaze at the sea after he lost his leg to a storm. Day after day, month after month and year after year, he would stare out of the parlour window until the little sapling grew so much that it obscured the view. Then he died. According to dad, he just pined away for the loss of the sea.

Everyone thought that the death of the old man would also see the end of the tree. His dad even bought an axe and a saw from the local hardware shop, but the old man’s will protected the tree. No one knew why.

The tree continued to grow until it reached the top of the house. Its branches stretched out over the road on one side and almost to the window on the other. Almost but not quite and that was strange because the tap, tap, tap did not just happen when it was windy.

Eventually, the council came and told his dad to trim back the branches. The family hoped the warning would be enough to go against the old man’s wishes, but only the branches that hung over the road were cut. The neighbours came to warn his dad that the tree was dangerous. All the weight was now on the side facing the house.

“One good storm and it’ll be down.” They cried but the tree remained.

Ever since they cut half the branches, it would tap on the window, but it was not always windy.

Tap, tap, tap.

The wind was strong now. It was blowing directly from the sea, striking the window and making it rattle. The curtains fluttered as if something was hiding. Alec reached out and took hold of Reg’s arm. Not hard, not hard enough to stop the snoring but just to make sure that he was still there. Alec did not dare take his eyes from the curtain as it ruffled and waved.

Then the rain came. Like little stones striking the window. Pit-pat, pit-pat, then tap, tap, tap, louder and louder. Alec felt Reg stir, then he too was awake, listening to the storm as it battered the house. Tap, tap, tap. There it was again, always just three, no more or less.

Tap, tap, tap, louder and louder. Flap, flap, flap went the curtains until branches and rain, wind and cloth all joined together in a noise to waken the dead. The room lit up, brighter than the brightest day in a cold blue light that ended in an ear splitting crash. The window shattered and the rain dashed in. The wind dashed in and the curtains flapped like the flag on the seafront. Reg and Alec sat bolt upright, staring at the old chestnut as its branches reached through the broken glass towards them. Growing and gnarling in a tangle to catch them in their beds.

The door flew open and a figure, all wet and dressed in seafaring clothes, raced to the window, looked out and then screamed for them to run in a voice that sounded like wind in the guttering. Neither Alec nor Reg needed another warning. Out they raced to the landing to find mum and dad, faces white with fear, arms frantically waving towards the front door. They barely made it to the road when it happened. The lightning streaked like a rocket into the heart of the tree. The old chestnut gave a lurch and a crack and it was down. So was the wall that once formed the boundary of their bedroom. There they stood in the wind and the rain, pyjamas and nighties hung limp and wet whilst they stared at the broken tree and the broken house.

It was months before they were able to return. A huge truck, quite the biggest Alec had ever seen brought back their home that had to be stored whilst the house was rebuilt. It was now good as new, even better. Everything was the same. Everything was the same with one important exception. The tree was gone and nobody wanted to replace it even though it had saved the house from the lightning strike. As mum had said. “If we have to grow something, let’s have a nice tea rose.”

Alec was given the job of putting their books back on to the shelf. It would not take long. Just a bible, a few penguins and a big fat book by someone called Dickens. But there was one that caught Alec’s eye. It was a family photo album. There were several of him and his brother as small children, a family holiday in a place that he could not recall. Mum and dad all dressed up and standing by a church door and one of his granddad. All wet and dressed in seafaring clothes.