As romanticized as the concept of nostalgia is, there is a relatively rational explanation for it. Just as our bodies heal, so do our minds. Most of our wounds are cured by the most efficient and proficient doctor of all; time. So skilled is he at this task, that only the direst of afflictions will leave a scar, while the rest will simply fade away into nothingness, lost to a void that can’t be traced back. In that same way, every bad day we have becomes blurred and eventually becomes another victim to oblivion, deluding us into believing that our past was wonderful, perfect, idyllic and unrepeatable. But as most forces, nostalgia has its limits, and there are events which cannot be erased by its omnipotent hand. As such, every time I recall those few at times unpleasant, mostly bucolic years I spent with my grandfather in that small village, my mind is immediately assaulted by a stain which cannot be scrubbed away, no matter how much my brain tries. I have grown accustomed to its presence, another small imperfection in a pristine glass that could account for the deceases of several birds were it not for it.
However, as much as I try to tell myself that I’m no longer bothered by it, deep down I know it will haunt me for the rest of my life. Perhaps, expressing it to someone else outside of my closest family will help me. At this point I don’t know what else to do.
And, by the way, don’t take these as the ravings of a poor traumatized lunatic with nothing to his name aside from a few stories. I consider myself fairly successful, on a small scale at the very least. I have a job which at worst I tolerate and at best I love, my own apartment, some friends and a family who despite its fair share of hardships has managed to pull through. The “partner” business is still pending, however.
However, I cannot say the same for my parents, at least, when I was a kid.
I was born in Cadiz, a large city of Andalucía, located on the southern Spain, several decades. My parents were a struggling young couple, who despite being in excellent and loving terms, could barely contend with their economic needs, which with the added weight of a baby threatened to collapse on them like a water logged ceiling. Despite the occasional bouts of hunger they endured for my sake, they pushed on. They had no close relatives nearby, friends with neither the necessary free time nor the money to hire a sitter, which led to my mother quitting her job so she could take care of me while my father did many overtimes.
Finally, at the age of ten, the situation reached its lowest point, when my father lost his job, rendering us living on borrowed time with a rent neither of them could afford. This led to a drastic decision which caught me completely off guard.
My parents decided to send me to live with my mother’s dad all the way up north, in a rural town, while they sorted out their monetary struggles. I had only a diffuse idea at the time, but we were going to be evicted, and neither of them, God bless them, wanted to subject me to homelessness.
The bus ride was long, tedious and uncomfortable. While my mother was a surprisingly optimistic woman given our situation, I could intuit she was not happy to leave me with her dad. The only reason why I knew at all that I had a grandfather had been because I had asked my parents on one occasion, and the subject was never brought up again.
When we arrived at his town, I was blown away by what I saw. I had lived on the coast my entire life, with no experiences worth remembering out of my home city. We had the beach right there, so why go elsewhere. That and, well, our finances. Either way, his home was cloaked by trees, a dense forest surrounding the town. His house was even more isolated that most, on the outskirts of the population, colliding with the grove by a few meters.
I remember running around the grass, amazed by every little insect I saw, while my mother discussed with her father. I can’t recall the exact words, or much of the general idea at all, but I do remember that he agreed to take care of me for as long as they needed while they sorted out our dreadful situation.
My grandfather was vastly different from my parents, and I learned it rather fast. I correlated it with the climate then, and I’m not entirely sure I wasn’t wrong now. The Basque Country was much colder than Cadiz, for starters. The sun made its presence known demurely, and the rain was a weekly event, a daily one at times even. For a sun tanned young boy it was a rather abrupt change. But that was nothing compared to the man in whose custody I had been placed.
My grandfather was rough, serious and diligent. He tolerated very little nonsense, if any at all. Each morning he woke me up banging the door before school and despite making me breakfast the first week, afterwards I was tasked with taking care of it myself, since I was "supposed to mature at some point". He spent the mornings and most of the afternoon outside, working.
But the strangest thing of all was a routine which I now might understand, but back then just seemed strange, if not cruel.
Every night, right after dinner, he’d tell me to grab a coat and follow him. We’d walk the surrounding forest, looking for… something. He would wield his shotgun in one hand, and hold my own in the other, as we wandered through the woods, the crunching of branches marking our solemn march.
Whenever I asked what we were doing, he told me that going for a walk and taking in some fresh air was good for digesting, and he never elaborated further than that. I was too afraid to query about the gun.
Our routes changed constantly, I suspect because he had no clear destination in mind, but on one particular instance, we saw something which I stuck with me, if anything, because it was my first, yet not last, encounter with the Hanging Tree.
I must make a parenthesis here and add that that name is just a translation for the benefit of the English speakers who are reading this text. The tree itself had been bestowed upon many names by the inhabitants of the town through the years. “El Árbol del Colgao” was one of the most picturesque, although it had a few more. “Rincón Del Cadalso” or, “Gallows’Corner” was also popular. One of my favorite was “El Árbol de Navidad” or, in case it needs to be said “The Christmas Tree”. I took me longer to get it than I’d like to admit.
Either way, we came across the Hanging Tree on an August night, and it really left an impression. It was an ancient oak, and extremely tall. Its bark so dark it was hard to make out under the pale moonlight, and so deformed that it looked like a claw that had risen out of Hell itself, as though the Devil was groping for the moon in an attempt to get a hold of something to escape from his prison. As I scanned it with my eyes, I could see a strange phenomenon that befell the tree, and that was that, despite it being entirely absent of leaves on the first branches, the higher it went the more abundant they grew, until, near the top, they were just as dense as those of its surrounded wooden siblings, blocking out the moon’s silver gaze.
I tugged at my grandpa’s long sleeve, and asked “What is that?”
He grunted, and I distinguished the muttering of the word “Nothing”. I looked up to see him and his irritation scared me. However, it wasn’t directed at me, rather, at the tree. But what frightened me the most was the glint of fear I discerned in his usually stern eyes. I tugged harder, urging us to leave, and for a moment he shot me a strangely compassionate gaze, before fulfilling my silent plea and turning around without sparing a second look behind him.
While at the time unsettling, I wouldn’t have thought much else of the event, had something else not transpired that very night.
Already in bed, but boots laid under my bed and my feet hurting, I fought to fall asleep through the ruckus caused by the shaking of glass and creaking of wood emanating from my window. The moon projected herself through the stained crystal, reflecting on my wall and invoking all kinds of crooked shadows that helped not my sporadic case of insomnia.
I closed my eyes as tightly as I could, trying to banish those images from my mind, when I heard them, ever so faintly, like mariners at sea screaming as they struggled not to drown over a raging storm.
As the wind relentlessly assaulted my window, I could barely make out voices entering the room, through the crack of the window. As curious as I was terrified, I paid close attention to the sound, praying I was mistaken.
“Innocent. Please. I’m innocent.”
I clutched my covers tightly, up to my nose. My teeth chattered, but I was, at the time, just as afraid of the man I was living with as I was of the invisible yet loud intruder.
I covered my ears, which helped somehow to keep the pleas at bay. However, they never ceased, never relented until by some miracle I was able to fall asleep.
I spoke no word of that night to anyone. The last thing I needed when creating first impressions at a new place was to sow the fame of the kid who heard voices at night.
As the nights went by, I learned a pattern. On every walk, if there ever came strong winds, I could be assured that the voices would return.
They were never the same, varying in age, gender and words.
Some proclaimed innocence. Other cried for mercy. Some were just confused, and lost.
“It’s cold up here.”
“Cut it loose, please, let me fall.”
“Thirsty, so thirsty.”
“I miss my shoes”.
I feared I was falling prey to the clutches of insanity at first, but soon after realized the wind pattern, I assumed it was a peculiarity of the village. I took refuge in willful ignorance, and eventually, I learned to live with it. And I never bothered anyone with my problem; first, out of fear of being committed, and later, because out of habit it stopped being an issue, save for the sleep it took away from me, of course. Just another log of wood to charge upon my back.
Months passed by going to school, exploring the town, making friends and of course, receiving a call from my parents every week to tell me about their endeavors and ask me about my situation. Not an unflattering word ever left my lips; they deserved as much.
I dared to timidly ask around about the tree, suspecting a correlation given the first appearance of the voices only after we stumbled across it, but aside from the names I didn’t get much more information.
An effect it did have, however, was awakening an interest in the strange and supernatural that I never knew I had.
That finally came to fruition with the arrival of Luis, a kid who moved to the village from Madrid.
He was a great guy, who, despite keeping mostly to himself, was an extremely amicable person who could get along with practically everyone. We were on different classes, which was unlucky for me considering how small the town’s school was. However, as the new kid, and in a place where not much ever happened, he, during the first couple of weeks, was the center of enough conversations that we might as well have shared a desk, accounting on how much I learned about him. Some girls crushed on him, of course, which wasn’t surprising given his good looks, and he became one of the first kids to be chosen to play sports, in no doubt aided by his physical prowess. Even the teachers appreciated him thanks to his bright mind, constantly on the lookout for questions and mysteries. He had a fascination for the morbid and the strange, which was relatively uncommon in the area. Most people here preferred to focus on their most immediate problems, and given the fact that they had lived here most of their lives there wasn’t much to fascinate over.
But Luis was an outsider, and as such, he could not stay sat down and quiet about his surroundings. I will admit that the main reason why I chose to befriend him in the first place was because of that attribute; his status as a foreigner. Being one myself, I thought that he would appreciate the outlook of someone in a similar situation to his, although deep down I too was just looking for someone that I could relate to.
Being the way he was, we were quick to become relatively close. He liked talking about legends and monsters, especially those related to forests. He even told me that once he was made known that he’d be living near one, he focused his reading and “studies”, hoping to learning more about these. I was surprised by his enthusiasm, no doubt about it.
He spoke of werewolves, nymphs, ghosts, demons, succubae and the like.
When I asked him what a succubus was, he looked at me awkwardly and told me that he’d let me know later, with an irritatingly patronizing tone. I should mention that he was thirteen at the time, while I was just eleven.
We also saw plenty of horror movies together and read worth mountains of horror tales, mainly belonging to his collection.
Over the many times we were at his place I got to meet his dad on a few occasions. Those days, horror stories had a greater effect on me than usual. I never saw his dad do anything bad per se; he barely even traded any words with me, but his gigantic frame, small eyes, darting gaze and clenching fists gave of a sensation which was not pleasant in the slightest.
Over time our exuberant friendship grew fainter as a result of the lack of more than one common interest to discuss, as well as the rapidly diminishing horror related material that was available for us. Our kinship, rooted on our common origins as outsiders, was rotting like a flower under a cloudless sky. I was an easily distracted kid, a novice in friendship, and as such, over the months we spent together I had completely neglected the rest of my friends, who had grown increasingly irritated with my lack of attention towards them. As the stubborn bunch they were, I knew convincing them to take me back into their group wouldn’t be an easy task. Thus, I needed to keep Luis at my side, no matter what it took. To this day, I regret what I did then.
My walks with my grandfather had continued on, no matter how much I protested over how boring or, less explicitly quibbled, frightening they were. Each night, gun in hand, he took me around the forest, going in so deep that the light could not penetrate the trees, before turning around and going back home, with nothing accomplished save for a slightly less full bladder. At times I wondered if this was some sort of punishment for an uncharted affront against him, but no matter what I did we always went on that dirt path with no direction in mind.
I had noticed a slight difference in our trajectory, however, and that was his meticulous avoidance of whichever route would take us to the Hanging Tree. It wasn’t obvious, and it took many walks for me to notice, but once I realized that not even once had we stumbled across it ever again, the more obvious the abrupt turns my grandfather took whenever he felt we were drawing too near became.
Armed with the approximate location of the tree, on top of how it managed to make my unflinching grandfather hesitate, I, of course, realized the significance that such a place could hold for my horror addicted friend.
Sure, I was reluctant to going there, no matter what was at stake, but it wasn’t until the day in which my fears began to confirm when after paying Luis a visit his father waved me away after telling me that he had met up with some other friends that I took the brisk decision of indulging him with one of my most feared treasures.
It was a Friday when I asked him, during recess, if he had heard of The Hanging Tree. He confirmed, and then proceeded to prove to me how much more knowledgeable about my supposed “secret” (which everyone on town knew about, I might add) he was than me. Luis explained that, after doing some digging, asking the neighbors and reading the town archives on the local library, he had found out that the village was extremely old, dating back to medieval times, maybe even further back. And even then, people knew about the tree, and those people had in fact granted it its title.
It had been used for years as an execution tool, to hang criminals of both earthly sin as well as religious. Thieves, murderers, rapists, adulteress, all had hanged from its branches like an assortment of macabre bells. The bodies would be left up there, toys of the wind, to warn anyone who dared partake in any sort of nefarious activity. However, that wasn’t the worst of it. The tree had witnessed the choking of far more sinners of graver crimes, at least, for their time period. Witches, blasphemers, Satan worshipers, all had found death at the end of a rope, their corpses left to feed the crows, as well as the fear of the town citizens. The most notable legends about the tree were the following.
It was noted that during the 17th century, a burst of mass panic related to crimes of witchery had started on the area, and that had led to a fateful night in which every single branch of the tree was forced to bear so many corpses that a few had snapped. The Inquisition itself sent an emissary and judge to evaluate the situation and take control over the crazed crowds, finally putting a stop to the massacre by tightening the requirements needed to condemn someone for the crime of witchcraft. This random spout took place once, and never again.
A more famous case, the last time that the tree saw any usage before its location was consciously erased, or attempted to at least, from the collective memory, was an instance in which a serial killer was caught, a man who had been terrorizing the area over seven months. This man claimed to be Satan reincarnated, although at times he flip flopped his testimony to being an agent of Lucifer himself sent forth do to his bidding, always under his protection. Although an exorcism was attempted, the man was condemned to be hanged from the tree till death. However, he managed to survive for a total of three days hanging from the neck, a disgusting smile plastered on his face, reddened and wet with tears and saliva, until he finally died of dehydration.
That finally put an end to the tree’s use among the townsfolk, who decided that once it had been tainted by a devil’s servant, it could no longer guarantee that its victims would be judged fairly by the heavens.
I was in awe at what Luis told me, and asked him whether he believed it or not. He shrugged nonchalantly, but from his expression of mirth I could tell he was extremely excited about it.
Of course, I could not back down now. I asked him if he wanted to see the tree, to which he responded affirmatively, but lamented not knowing where it was not having been told where to find it.
With a smile of my own, I revealed to him that I did know its location, which he received with the enthusiasm I expected. I told him that I could show him that very Saturday, and of course, he agreed.
The day could not pass fast enough, but before I knew it, I was getting ready for my daily walk with my grandfather. We did the usual, but this time, instead of entertaining unknown and nonexistent horrors, I focused on each individual step that we took; paying close notice to our turns, stops and meditations, as he meticulously chose where to turn to next while avoiding the dammed tree.
I had considered that finding where to go by picking on where we didn’t go would be far harder than it actually was, but after following those tracks over three hundred times I might have been able to walk there with my eyes closed.
After returning home, I lay awake on bed, the moonlight glistening on my wrist watch as I counted the seconds, waiting for the hour in which Luis and I had agreed.
The time finally came, and, as cautiously as possible, I snuck out of bed, slipped in my boots, put on my coat, grabbed my flashlight and walked out of the house, silent as a shadow.
Out of the house, after glancing attentively in the dark, I managed to spot Luis sitting in a nearby stump, swinging his legs back and forth in boredom. His brightly green football shoes gave him away immediately; I was impressed by how clean of dirt they were, considering where we were. Then again, we were standing on chipped wood and rocks.
Once he spotted me he immediately got up, dusted his pants off and approached me in a sprint, his anorak shinning under the silver light.
There was no time for helloes, salutes or any cordialities; Luis grabbed me by the shoulders, boiling with trepidation as much as a teapot bursting with steam, and asked me to show him the way.
I wasn’t too bothered by this, for it was just then dawning on me just how afraid I truly was of venturing into the woods without a gunman by my side. At that moment, I considered sneaking into the house to retrieve the shotgun, but I was certain that the sun would come out before I could find something so prized for my grandpa, not to mention dangerous. He was many things, but careless about my safety was he not.
And thus, we walked into the woods. Luis looked around expectant, impatient, excited and a little bit frightened. Even though I was his guide, I felt just as lost as him, constantly on the lookout for a pursuer I couldn’t even give a name or a form. If my grandfather had required a gun to walk these parts, what were two children to do if they ever stumbled across whatever had him so worried? I pushed those creeping thoughts out of my head and looked at Luis, hoping to find comfort in his nonchalance and vigor in whatever concerned horror. However, ever since I took my eyes off him, his confidence had diluted in a mixture in which fear bubbled more and more prominently to the surface. He returned my gaze, and the inquisitiveness within his eyes revealed to me, clear as day, that he wasn’t worried about whatever beasts might lurk in the woods; rather, he feared that I might get us lost.
Emboldened and stubborn, I looked away, focusing on finding our destination, hoping to both assure him as well as to prove him wrong. I had a feeling at the moment that after this adventure, we wouldn’t be friends for much longer, and if that was irremediable, then I sure as hell would provide him with something to remember me by.
Just as my resolve grew, I started to make out a most familiar form in the distance, something which filled me with both happiness, as well as uneasiness. The tree. We had found The Hanging Tree.
Without even thinking, my feet had brought us there. I couldn’t help but be amazed at my own muscle memory, but without having another second to think Luis rushed past me and ran towards the tree, the loud cracking of leaves marking his way.
I followed suit until I stood a few meters away from the oak. It filled the clearing with its presence from the distance, but from up close it was even more astounding. Nothing but black bark and leaves, and yet something more, lurking beneath the surface, like a colony of malicious termites.
I doubted a mere bug would be able to sink its teeth into this particular meal and live tell the tale, though.
As I stared in amazement at the thick yet twisted branches, the bodies hanging by the noose as real in my mind as though they were actually there, Luis kept himself entertained by walking around the tree, fascination sparkling from his eyes so fiercely I feared they might set the woods on fire.
He whistled exhaling pure awe as he dared touch the absolute blackness of the bark, cautiously, as though he expected to be swallowed by it as if it were tar.
Luis giggled stupidly at the touch of the three, first with his fingertips, then with his entire palms, caressing the entire surfaced as he circled around it.
I simply stood there fidgeting, my gaze fleeting as the moon and Luis reclaimed its attention alternatively. The silence was deafening, my only life vest being my heavy breathing, the realization of what a bad idea this had been inching closer, escalating my back with its sharp claws, coming closer to my ear to whisper me to run.
I was about to ask Luis to leave, uncaring of whether he got mad at me or not, when he cut me off before I uttered a single word.
“Check this out”, he told me. I approached whatever was holding his gaze with an almost hypotonic power, hesitation lumbering over my every step.
After scratching away a thick layer of dead moss, whose sole existence at the time surprised me far more than it should have, for I couldn’t even conceive that that tree could give way to life, he had uncovered something strange. I gazed intently at it, trying to understand what it was exactly, but there wasn’t much to analyze; the answer was obvious.
Fissures, tens upon tens of them, so closely engraved together that they appeared as one. But I could see their limits if I squinted hard enough. My eyes followed them, up and down, and there were far, far more up there. My flashlight directed its only eye upwards, revealing even more of them. I circled the tree, Luis’s eyes following the flashlight’s, all the way around. I hadn’t seen them until know, diffuse and less clear than those under the moss’ protection, yet visible. The trunk was large, and its thickness well over corresponded with the branches.
I couldn’t even begin to describe how many there were; probably thousands.
Their size varied, hinting at the fact that many different knives has been responsible for them.
We looked everywhere, staring around inquisitively, searching an empty spot. I ignored Luis’s reasons; mine were out of guttural sense of desperation I couldn’t quite explain, not yet.
Luis was faster than me, and pointed it out. Higher than we could reach with our arms, on top of the lowest branch, which might have sprouted about three meters off the ground, was the only blank space we could distinguish.
We looked at it in silence for a second, before Luis’s eyes lightened up. Without uttering a word, he began climbing the tree with surprising agility, until his feet touched the branch. Not a hint of hesitation, not a second in which he might have slipped; in a moment he was there, right before the untarnished bark.
He fished out a knife from his pocket, the blade shinning under the moonlight.
“What are you doing?” I whispered frantically.
“I’m going to carve out our names, so everyone who sees this knows we found it before they did.” He explained casually, careless of the volume of his voice.
“Don’t do that!” I exclaimed with as hushed as an indignant voice can be.
“Why not?”
“Just don’t!” I pleaded. My voice was cracking, and I could feel the urge to cry sending tremors through my throat.
I didn’t know exactly why I didn’t want him to do it; I’m not even sure I do now. I doubt I could imagine what would happen; such terrible ideas would have been inconceivable for me back then. But for some reason I knew it was imperative that he didn’t do it.
He shot me a puzzled look, more surprised by my reaction than me, before resuming his labor.
Trying to regain his attention, I kicked the tree’s trunk, but instead, my foot sank into the ground; a soft patch of vegetation at the bottom of the trunk had been hiding a small cavity. I screamed as I fell to the ground after losing my balance, barely avoiding hitting my head against the ground. Luis’s eyes fell upon me, showing fear for the first time in a while, whereas I attempted to free my foot from the cavity which has entrapped it. I continued pulling, feeling my shoe loosening, the impotence and panic bringing tears to my eyes. Luis descended the tree and reached me, grabbing my by the armpits and pulling me out.
I sighed shakily, wishing to go home, when I noticed the cold breeze caressing my sock. My heart skipped a beat; I couldn’t let grandpa know that I had missed one of my boots. Trying not to think about what kind of crawlies might hide beneath a tree, in a second I pulled by boot out of the hole without even looking.
In a hurry I tried to put it on, but it was too big for my foot. Anxious and confused the thought came to me that it might have been broken, and that’s when I finally broke into tears.
Luis looked uncomfortable and just as puzzled as me.
“That’s… not yours.” He said, kneeling down by the tree’s new found hole.
He inserted his hand within, reached in, a deep look of concentration in his face, and pulled. Again. And again.
More and more shoes kept coming out, old and worn, big and small. Some of them… too small to fit my foot. His eyes illumined with trepidation as he continued to pull more and more of them outside of their forgotten hiding place. I spotted my boot and put it on, while Luis continued to grab more. Once he ran out, he stretched his arm as hard as he could, up to his shoulder, inserted into the whole. He could barely touch another with the tip of his fingers, he told me. The realization of how deep that aperture could go, and how many more shoes there could be down there sent a chill down my aching spine. I got up, and by some herculean vigor, born from fear, repulsion and anger I kicked all the shoes down the hole, before standing up and walking home.
Luis watched me and complained that he wanted to see more. Mucus running down my nose I angrily told him that I didn’t, that I was done and that he could either come back with me, the only one who knew the way, or he could sleep outside that night.
His brow furrowed but he relented and agreed. The walk back home was uneventful, silent and tense. My steps were broad as I rushed through the woods, the images of what I had seen clashing against each other in my mind. Even though I was a bit too young to fully comprehend the entire picture, I understood enough.
My house was the first out of the forest; Luis lived all the other way of town. He looked at me, a glint of anger still in his eyes, before guilt overcame him. He hugged me tightly and told me to take care. I asked him if he was mad. He responded that he wasn’t anymore, because he thought he had a decent enough idea of the route by now, and that the following night he would go again, whether I came or not. I declined, which I believe disappointed him a little.
We waved goodbye and he left.
I opened the door only to come face to face with my grandfather, his rage engraved upon his face with the mastery of sculptor.
I didn’t leave the house on Sunday, not even to go to Church. My cheek was sore due to the slap for the rest of the day, as well as those of my posterior would be for the rest of the week.
When I timidly asked my grandfather if we’d be going for our usual walk, he looked at me and I froze. There was just sadness imprinted upon his visage. He told me that it was pointless, for I had learnt nothing from them.
Monday rolled around and I went to school, dismayed at the thought of having to sit down for six hours. On the bright side, I would be able to meet Luis and talk; in the daylight the Hanging Tree enticed my curiosity more than it did my fear, and I wondered what other secrets he might have found.
He wasn’t seen that day. I got worried. Perhaps his dad had found him out like my grandpa had? His dad was definitely stronger than grandpa; a beating from him might have left him in bed for a few days. I trembled at the thought, but then I put it behind me and focused on the day ahead of me.
The following day all children were reunited in the hall, a small room fit for how few we were. Luis had been missing since Sunday. I felt my throat clench so tight I thought my own body was trying to choke me, but I remained quiet. We were advised against coming out at night, and we were warned that from then on we would be under constant adult supervision.
The story received a small amount of media coverage, mostly directed at the region, which was good for me, since I wasn’t in favor of my parents knowing of it.
My grandfather stayed by my side at all times, constantly watching over me, although his harshness was considerably and unprecedentedly softened, showing me a much kinder side, although not as much as a regular parent, and nowhere near my own parents. When they made their call that week, I didn’t tell them about the incident either, lest I make them worry. I knew by then that they had much bigger concerns, and that I staying on the village was for their best.
One night, before bed, I asked my grandpa if Luis would be okay.
He looked me in the eye, his lungs deflating with a loud sigh.
“If you two were where I think you were, we’ll never see him again. I’m sorry.”
I didn’t sleep. I could only lay in bed, eyes stuck to the ceiling like knifes on flesh, just as firm, and just as painful.
That’s when I heard it. It had been weeks since they had last fluttered into my room like a deranged and disgusting moth, but there they were again. The wind blowing against the window, the glass struggling to stay attached to the frame, wood creaking in desperation, but above that racket a stentorian voice, yet nothing but a whisper could be heard. This time, however, I could distinguish it clearly, and the price I paid for that clarity was ice invading my veins and my throat going dry.
Luis’s voice had joined the others, screaming over them, a single word uttered.
My name.
I jumped out of bed, my feet pacing around the room before I even noticed. I opened the window, and a gust of wind struck me in the face, a quick reminder of the pain that ailed my cheek.
His voice only grew louder, more frantic, more scared. I clutched the window frame, splinters sinking into my skin, though I could care less.
The image of my grandfather’s belt popped up in my head, but I could care even less.
I got dressed in an instant, opened the door, and rushed towards the last place we shared, that location my grandfather feared so much.
His voice grew quieter the more I approached, but instead of taking this as a sign that I was heading in the wrong direction, it just invigorated my muscles. Through some unexplainable logic, I knew that the weakness that was enveloping his cries wasn’t a matter of proximity, but of direness.
I arrived much faster than I expected. My feet hurt and my lungs burned, but I was there. I called out for his name, futilely. The shadow of the tree hovered over me. The full moon was high in the sky, so radiant I could see as if it were daytime.
I approached the trunk, my arrival suddenly impeded by fear of what lay before me. It was just as we had found it; I couldn’t detect any change whatsoever.
The Hanging Tree’s branches nodded with the wind, a cruel mockery of a salute directed at me.
I averted my eyes off the well of shoes, a cold sweat forming on my forehead.
I screamed his name again, my voice echoing in the night. I looked up, towards the branch where Luis had stood only a few days prior. I gazed into the untouched wood, somewhat pure despite its creases and blackness, but not as I remembered it.
I squinted, trying as hard as I could to discern what was bothering me; new markings only barely readable under the moon.
Curiosity and concern overcame fear, and with agility I had never called upon before I found myself standing on the branch with surprising ease.
And yet, my limbs went rigid, my jaw clenched shut when I read what had been engraved upon it.
“LUIS QUIROGA”
I covered my face with my hand, revulsion overtaking my stomach. I didn’t understand why, but I knew this was a horrible sign, one of the worst possible sights I could ever contemplate.
Breathing heavily, my hands upon my knees, I tried to regain my composure, until my eyes caught a glimpse of a glimmer, silver light reflecting off a metallic surface.
With a hunch, I descended the tree in a moment, stepping on the dead grass around it. The landing was harsh, and only redoubled the storm that had begun to rage in my insides. With a trembling hand I clasped it, ever so careful not to cut myself. A knife. The same retractable knife with which Luis had intended to engrave our names, to be remembered by those who saw them. After seeing his name on the papers obsessively over the last couple of days, I could have laughed in disgust.
I clutched the handle, excepting some sort of protection from whatever entity wandered those woods, or, as I was suddenly realizing, whatever thing that had assumed the form of that accursed tree behind me.
I stood, knees shaking, tears of terror running, questioning what to do, who to call, where to run. But nothing came to mind; a nebulous blankness enclosed my thoughts in its grasp, no matter how much they clawed in the mist for liberation.
In that silence, not even broken by my breathing, I was able to distinguish a faint creaking. It was gradual, oscillating, followed by a short silence, before it continued. I could not place it, even though it seemed like something I might have heard before, somewhere. I realized then, that it followed the compass of the wind, the noise increasing with its blows, silence only reclaiming its reign once it settled down, only to be assaulted once more.
I looked at the tree, at its high branches, covered by leaves too dense to allow the light to escape. A slight rustling disturbed their quietude, and this one reacted paying no mind to the wind’s wishes. And then, finally, I noticed that the rustling followed the compass of the creaking of wood.
My mind reeled into action, and I averted my gaze, fearful of my eyes confirming what my mind already knew.
I turned, and just as I headed out of the clearing, escaping as the only idea in my mind, the moon, in its generous cruelty, or cruel generosity, gifted me with a new and final sight, the last one caught by red shot eyes before I run away from that cursed place.
Another burst of tears fell down my cheeks when I caught a glint of bright, polished green emanating from the cavity under the tree.
Written by Unimpressive Chaoslord
Content is available under CC BY-SA