Post by Sunny on Sept 4, 2012 16:23:18 GMT -5
Here ya go, Lya:
The corpse swayed gently in the breeze. Time had reduced the black dress in which she was enveloped to little more than ribbons, but her face remained as lovely in death even as it was in life. She dangled from her rope limp as a puppet, hands bound in front of her, head bowed as in prayer. She watched the village with closed eyes, the lone resident of Hanging Tree Hill.
The lone resident of Hanging Tree Hill was a young girl of 10 years who had been condemned for witchcraft. According to the villagers every year under the light of the harvest moon the girl wakes from her slumber to play under the Hanging Tree. But lonely is she and so she calls to the village children, inviting them to come and play with her by the light of the harvest moon. However, the children have heard her tale and have wisdom enough to never go near the tree on Hanging Tree Hill by the light of the harvest moon. That is, except for two village youths who on this night decide to push the boundaries of the supernatural and find that the supernatural pushes back.
The night was frigid and the harvest moon was obscured by thin, ribbon like clouds. During the night snow had fallen on the village, leaving everything glistening white. Clad all in black two village youths slip from their respective dwellings and meet in the dead of night. Exchanging apprehensive nods of greeting they proceed to march side by side from the safety of their village. After clearing the last row of houses they strike up a whispered conversation.
“Scared?”
“No way!”
“Me either. That old legend is just a silly story to make children behave. I’m not a child!”
“Yeah, me either.”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“Touch her”
“No way, Adam”
“C’mon Carlock, I thought you weren’t scared?”
“Fine then, I’ll do it.”
The two youths trudged up the hill to meet the girl swinging from her rope and paused.
“Go on, then,” Adam egged as Carlock cautiously walked forward, the snow crunching beneath his boots. Even in the dark Carlock could make out the beautiful face of the girl. Her skin was parchment white, her lips full and red. She had high cheek bones and arching eyebrows that gave her an expression of perpetual curiosity. Her long hair was raven black and glossy as if the years of exposure had done nothing to harm it. As he gazed upon her he noticed her feet were bare. She had lovely feet, small and so white as to almost be translucent, but he also noticed that at the bottoms they were black as if she had recently been walking barefoot across the dirt.
Trembling, whether from cold or fear he did not know, Carlock reached out his hand and ever so gently brushed his fingers across one of the girl’s beautiful feet. Just then there was a rush of air, the clouds shifted and a shaft of silver moon light fell across the girl’s face, causing her milky skin to glow as iridescent as a pearl. Carlock gasped, his finger still lingering on the girl’s foot.
Suddenly, she threw back her head, parted her perfect lips and let out a scream that could stop the heart of a lion. Her hair whipped in the wind like a nest of writhing snakes, and when she looked at Carlock, who was frozen in fear, her eyes blazed like hot embers. Her piercing shriek ended and she began to sing in a voice as harsh as a crow’s laugh:
“Every day
Here I sway,
All alone in the Hanging Tree
Until today
When you came to play
And now here hangs thee.”
Carlock couldn’t move. He felt his bones were turning to ice. The cold crept into his muscles, his veins, and flooded his very soul. He was drowning in cold, being consumed by it and he was helpless to resist. And then all at once, it stopped.
Adam watched on in horror as the corpse came to life before his very eyes. He heard her blood curdling cry and haunting song then watched helplessly as his friend fell to the ground, twitching and screaming as if someone had set him ablaze. After a moment of frozen panic Adam regained enough sense to run, shouting for help as he stumbled through the thick snow that covered the ground. Even as he ran he heard the witch call after him: “I’ll have you to play with me, too.”
He entered the village, screaming and sobbing and ran straight into the arms of the priest.
“Good heavens! What are you doing out in the middle of the night?” asked the priest.
“Help, help! The witch killed Carlock,” cried Adam.
“My dear boy, were you really so foolish as to play with the devil?” said the priest in alarm.
“I didn’t mean to, please, help Carlock,” sobbed Adam, beside himself with fear.
“There is nothing I can do if your friend has decided to play with the devil,” replied the priest solemnly, patting Adam’s shoulder gently. Then, straightening the boy up said, “the only thing to do is to get you home so that you may think about what you’ve done.”
Without the strength to do much more Adam nodded and the priest returned him to his parents. Upon entering his home he collapsed to the floor, exhausted.
“Best to let him sleep,” the priest advised Adam’s parents.
For three days Adam slept. When he awoke he found himself in his bed. It was dark and the village sleeping. Quietly, he slipped out of bed, pulled on his boots and collected a cord from his father’s workshop. The night was clear but fresh snow had erased any footprints from the village streets. As if in a trance Adam retraced the path up to the tree on Hanging Tree Hill. The tree loomed in front of him with its blackened trunk and spidery branches that reached up to snag the stars.
Adam was not surprised to see Carlock suspended from his own branch like some grotesque Christmas decoration, and, without a word, Adam completed the task in which he had come to do. The lone resident of Hanging Tree Hill wasn’t so lonely any more.
Every day
Alone she sway,
High up in the hanging tree.
Until the day
They came to play
And now there hangs three.
The corpse swayed gently in the breeze. Time had reduced the black dress in which she was enveloped to little more than ribbons, but her face remained as lovely in death even as it was in life. She dangled from her rope limp as a puppet, hands bound in front of her, head bowed as in prayer. She watched the village with closed eyes, the lone resident of Hanging Tree Hill.
The lone resident of Hanging Tree Hill was a young girl of 10 years who had been condemned for witchcraft. According to the villagers every year under the light of the harvest moon the girl wakes from her slumber to play under the Hanging Tree. But lonely is she and so she calls to the village children, inviting them to come and play with her by the light of the harvest moon. However, the children have heard her tale and have wisdom enough to never go near the tree on Hanging Tree Hill by the light of the harvest moon. That is, except for two village youths who on this night decide to push the boundaries of the supernatural and find that the supernatural pushes back.
The night was frigid and the harvest moon was obscured by thin, ribbon like clouds. During the night snow had fallen on the village, leaving everything glistening white. Clad all in black two village youths slip from their respective dwellings and meet in the dead of night. Exchanging apprehensive nods of greeting they proceed to march side by side from the safety of their village. After clearing the last row of houses they strike up a whispered conversation.
“Scared?”
“No way!”
“Me either. That old legend is just a silly story to make children behave. I’m not a child!”
“Yeah, me either.”
“Prove it.”
“How?”
“Touch her”
“No way, Adam”
“C’mon Carlock, I thought you weren’t scared?”
“Fine then, I’ll do it.”
The two youths trudged up the hill to meet the girl swinging from her rope and paused.
“Go on, then,” Adam egged as Carlock cautiously walked forward, the snow crunching beneath his boots. Even in the dark Carlock could make out the beautiful face of the girl. Her skin was parchment white, her lips full and red. She had high cheek bones and arching eyebrows that gave her an expression of perpetual curiosity. Her long hair was raven black and glossy as if the years of exposure had done nothing to harm it. As he gazed upon her he noticed her feet were bare. She had lovely feet, small and so white as to almost be translucent, but he also noticed that at the bottoms they were black as if she had recently been walking barefoot across the dirt.
Trembling, whether from cold or fear he did not know, Carlock reached out his hand and ever so gently brushed his fingers across one of the girl’s beautiful feet. Just then there was a rush of air, the clouds shifted and a shaft of silver moon light fell across the girl’s face, causing her milky skin to glow as iridescent as a pearl. Carlock gasped, his finger still lingering on the girl’s foot.
Suddenly, she threw back her head, parted her perfect lips and let out a scream that could stop the heart of a lion. Her hair whipped in the wind like a nest of writhing snakes, and when she looked at Carlock, who was frozen in fear, her eyes blazed like hot embers. Her piercing shriek ended and she began to sing in a voice as harsh as a crow’s laugh:
“Every day
Here I sway,
All alone in the Hanging Tree
Until today
When you came to play
And now here hangs thee.”
Carlock couldn’t move. He felt his bones were turning to ice. The cold crept into his muscles, his veins, and flooded his very soul. He was drowning in cold, being consumed by it and he was helpless to resist. And then all at once, it stopped.
Adam watched on in horror as the corpse came to life before his very eyes. He heard her blood curdling cry and haunting song then watched helplessly as his friend fell to the ground, twitching and screaming as if someone had set him ablaze. After a moment of frozen panic Adam regained enough sense to run, shouting for help as he stumbled through the thick snow that covered the ground. Even as he ran he heard the witch call after him: “I’ll have you to play with me, too.”
He entered the village, screaming and sobbing and ran straight into the arms of the priest.
“Good heavens! What are you doing out in the middle of the night?” asked the priest.
“Help, help! The witch killed Carlock,” cried Adam.
“My dear boy, were you really so foolish as to play with the devil?” said the priest in alarm.
“I didn’t mean to, please, help Carlock,” sobbed Adam, beside himself with fear.
“There is nothing I can do if your friend has decided to play with the devil,” replied the priest solemnly, patting Adam’s shoulder gently. Then, straightening the boy up said, “the only thing to do is to get you home so that you may think about what you’ve done.”
Without the strength to do much more Adam nodded and the priest returned him to his parents. Upon entering his home he collapsed to the floor, exhausted.
“Best to let him sleep,” the priest advised Adam’s parents.
For three days Adam slept. When he awoke he found himself in his bed. It was dark and the village sleeping. Quietly, he slipped out of bed, pulled on his boots and collected a cord from his father’s workshop. The night was clear but fresh snow had erased any footprints from the village streets. As if in a trance Adam retraced the path up to the tree on Hanging Tree Hill. The tree loomed in front of him with its blackened trunk and spidery branches that reached up to snag the stars.
Adam was not surprised to see Carlock suspended from his own branch like some grotesque Christmas decoration, and, without a word, Adam completed the task in which he had come to do. The lone resident of Hanging Tree Hill wasn’t so lonely any more.
Every day
Alone she sway,
High up in the hanging tree.
Until the day
They came to play
And now there hangs three.
