In round my hometown there was the Grabapple tree. At night they crawl about like a 'noctopus on their root-like legs and plant 'emselves in the yard of some home what never had an apple tree before. It took a right sucker to fall for that one, but then the world's full a suckers aint it?
Little Timmy Wilkinson disappeared one day after telling his mom he was gonna go pick apples on Henderson's Corner. The neighborhood got all up in a hurly-burly and even called the police who went door to door and looked sternly at any strangers an' suspicious looking individuals.
No one would listen to me when I told 'em there weren't no apple trees on Henderson's Corner. There wasn't neither I checked, but it'd already slithered down the bank into Bosky Creek where I'd seen it before. So I took a gas can and a book of matches down to the creek and standing up on the bank I sloshed gasoline on the grabapple and said "Let 'im go!"
I never knew if it understood me or if the gas made it sick, but either way it gives me a resentful look and spits up ol' Timmy like a hairball all covered in sticky goo. Folks said later he was "found in a tree" which is true enough I suppose. Timmy grew up fine, but couldn't never stand the thought of apples after that.