The Hanging Tree
Every night at midnight, the hanging tree creaked as if a very large weight attached to a rope had just been dropped from one it’s thick, sturdy branches. Then a shadow would descend. Legend said anyone touched by it would be found hanging from the tree when the sun rose.
The darkness covered everything like a dense blanket. It was suffocating. Disorienting.
I could hear noises in the distance. The sound of pursuit.
Panic spurred me on, but I lost my way. I had strayed into the Deathwoods. No one survived the ancient woodlands alone. My fate was sealed.
The upturned glass moved around the board, unbidden, as it began to spell something out.
Until this point it had only been a game.
The lights flickered.
Still the glass moved.
The air went cold.
I shivered as I realised what had been spelt out.
The Abbey Ruins
The full moon cast an eerie glow over the abbey ruins, lighting up the yellow stone work in shades of pale gold.
Through the empty doorway a shadow moved, indistinct, but with purpose, an unfulfilled mission, centuries old, repeated each night, over and over, on a quest for peace.
They weaved in and out of his perception, as they had always done. But he had struggled and fought to control it, ignore it. Them.
He didn’t want to see the dead, nor hear them. He didn’t need them.
But they had other ideas. They needed him. They always would.