“Leave me alone!” Bibi Blundermuss cried, twisting in her sleep and kicking a dictionary-size book off the edge of her mattress. It landed on the wooden floor with a slap.

Bibi snapped upright in the drape-darkened bedroom, breathing hard and fast. She swatted her tangled brown hair out of her eyes, listening to the howl of the wind as it leaned into the house. Her whole body ached, as if she had truly been fleeing from the trees—not just dreaming about it.

“Another nightmare,” she said. “Not real.” Listening to her breath, she tried to slow it down. Inhale. Exhale. That helped, a little. She waited for her heartbeat to return to normal, and for the sweat to evaporate from her palms.

As always, her memory of the nightmare was hazy—obscured, as if behind white mist. She remembered the trees—trees that moved, chasing her with clawlike branches, which opened and closed with a tok, tok, tok. But the other details faded fast, as if drawn in disappearing ink. The more Bibi worked to remember, the quicker they vanished.

She squinted around the room, listening to the lonely wind, and hoping to see her little black cat somewhere in the gloom. She tried her usual greeting, the Zulu word for “hello.” 

“Sawubona, Eek?”

Eek’s usual response—“Sawubona, Bibi!”—didn’t come.

Where was she? Bibi put on her green-rimmed glasses. “Sawubona, Eek?” she said again, louder, trying to ignore the groans of the real trees as they swayed in the wind outside. She shivered and got out of bed, putting on her green T-shirt and jeans, her smartphone heavy in the pocket. She stumbled over to the door and peeked down the murky hallway—first one side, then the other.

“Sawubona, Eek?” she said.

No cat. No anyone. Bibi frowned. Had Eek already gone downstairs?

She went back to the bedroom. The book she had kicked out of bed still lay on the floor. Bibi squatted, tracing a finger along one worn edge. She stared at the title—An Encyclopedia of Fear—printed in embossed red letters. Not the best book for a twelve-year-old, Ms. MacTavish had said, but Bibi had checked it out anyway.

Picking the book up and carrying it into the adjoining bathroom, Bibi flipped on the fluorescent light with an elbow. She set the book on the counter—next to the bottle of anti-anxiety pills she was supposed to take whenever leaving the house.

The pills. She made a face and pushed them away. She knew the right ones would help, but these didn’t. Not without making her forget things. She’d ask for a better kind, next appointment.

Brushing her teeth, Bibi flipped through the book’s pages. “Haphephobia,” she read aloud through a mouthful of toothpaste, unsure how to pronounce the word. “The fear of being touched. Heliophobia, the fear of the sun. Hippophobia, the fear of horses.”

Weird fears, all right—but not as weird as hers. She thought of the whispers she had heard in her school’s hallways. Mostly from Ellery Finley, or one of the other eighth-graders. You won’t believe what she’s scared of. She bit down on her toothbrush, cheeks going red.

After spitting and rinsing, Bibi wiped her mouth and hands.

“Hylophobia,” she said when she found the passage, marked with a Post-It. “The fear of trees or forests. Often beginning in nightmares.”

Ugh. Her nightmares had started six months ago. After she moved to this woodland house with her mom and dad. After they vanished. Bibi thought the nightmares had something to do with the forest that began just beyond the side door and went on for miles. Why had her parents wanted to move here? Bibi had been happy back in Portland. Now her parents were gone, and she was scared to death of the stupid trees.

The wind sent twigs and debris skittering across the roof. Bibi looked up, bit her lip. Inhale. Exhale. Furrowing her brow, she returned her gaze to the book.

“Sometimes prompted by the mere sight of a tree,” she continued, “and made worse by physical contact with one, hylophobia is a rare condition that is poorly understood. It progresses through a range of symptoms—beginning in nausea, and moving to dizziness, seizures, and ultimately a comatose state—”

Bbbrrriiinnnggg!

Bibi jumped, slamming the book shut as the sound of the old-fashioned downstairs phone cut through the howl of the wind. You won’t believe what she’s scared of. She would stay inside today, with Eek and Grandma Ivy—shades down and curtains closed, to keep out the sight of the forest. It was Saturday, after all. Breathe.

The ringing continued, and Bibi turned off the bathroom light, scrambling to the bedroom door. “Grandma Ivy!” she called. “Phone!”

Clutching the book to her chest as a shield, she headed downstairs.