The Strangler’s Beech
And the lane lies silent, save the prolongued slight rain that falls, soaking everything, reducing what remains of the autumn leaves to a foul, slippery brown mush.
Smoke billows yet out of the chimney of No. 57, but it goes undetected, since all the neighbouring doors and windows are closed for warmth.
A howling midnight wind blows, quivering the bare limbs of the apple trees.
Over the tumbling grass of the common, a mist is settling. It hangs in the air like a ghostly memory, glowing in the moonlight.
A figure weaves along the path through the trees. The mist remains undisturbed as the figure steals by under the lamp and into the clearing toward the strangler’s beech.
History stirs this night, in this place, an echo of an incident which occurred twenty years prior.
———————————
A similar figure wove along the same path through the trees, and passed under the same lamp. The figure parted the mist in his wake, like waters past the bow of a ship, and crossed into the clearing, toward the centre of the common where stood the lone tall, twisted beech tree. On these winter nights, he fancied that its branches resembled murder.
A lone vagrant slept under the tree that night, a forgotten person with no friends or relatives; he was nobody.
The vagrant remained peacefully asleep as the dark presence loomed over him.
He only woke when the figure wrapped its freezing hands around his throat and stopped him from breathing or making a sound.
The more he struggled, the more he lapsed, floating out of consciousness; the stranger was far stronger than he.
After several protracted moments, the vagrant stopped moving. Several protracted moments after that, the figure relinquished its grip of the vagrant’s throat, and then, coolly, proceeded to hoist the cadaver up onto a tree limb using the sleeping bag.
By midday the whole of the common was a crime scene and the story was all over the local news:
Man Strangled in Leadley Common, Killer At Large;
Leadley Common Crime Scene, Strangler On the Loose;
Horror In Leadley: Strangled Man Found in Tree.
The victim could not be identified, and the culprit was never found.
The tree became known around town as ‘strangler’s beech’, and was thereafter rumoured to be haunted.
———————————
The pristine, unbroken mist obscures the figure that walks now toward the tree, who vanishes from the sight of the second figure that presently appears, striding blindly into the darkness, tripping over the clumped-up soil, and tearing the mist apart like a most delicate gossamer veil.
The first figure stands silently under the tree in esperance.
The second figure falls and swears savagely, clambering upwards and groping on in the dark.
The tree comes into view and he freezes, “strangler’s beech...”
His breath condenses and carries his words off to join the mist.
Strangler’s beech, the thief’s voice confirms, as his shape distinguishes itself against the trunk.
“What are you going to do, kill me?” There is such exhaustion in his tone.
The figure advances upon him. He makes to get up, but the thief’s firm hand is already on his shoulder, half-transparent.
I promise, Mr. Billingdon, he says slowly, deliberately, this is the last thing I will ever steal from you.
His hands slide around his throat and tighten, pushing Mr. Billingdon down against the grass.
The last thing he sees are the wicked branches of the beech, silently cackling.
Something changes in the darkness. Life leaves one breast and enters another. Mr. Billingdon lies still on the grass, and the figure sweeps briskly away, churning up the mist, and finally relishing sensation, as the cold rain bites his face.
Nobody stops, mid-conversation.
“What?”
Something’s not right. He sniffs the air. Did any of you burn anything?
There is a general shaking of heads and of vague shadowy silhouettes in lieu of heads.
Hmm...
Everyone resumes their conversations.
Mr. Billingdon, who is dead, looks ghastly, all contorted in the grass, and so remarks Mr. Billingdon, for whom, in his shocked and disoriented state, the penny has not yet dropped that he is, in fact, dead.
He looks about himself in a dream-like daze, and a bright light further stays his penny.
The light seems to pull him nearer, increasing in its warmth and its urgency.
In a flash, he disappears into a shadow and immediately emerges in front of No. 57 Olive Lane. The light dissipates, but he can see many people gathered inside.
He scrunches up his face in astonishment.
Nobody stands up and walks through the crowd to the bay window and looks down the street toward the common.
He stands there for several protracted moments, remaining utterly still and calm, while people talk in the background.
“I heard McNair secretly has a living cousin,”
“Yeah, well good for him.”
“I always wanted to know what it would feel like to have a living relative,”
“Me, too,”
“Oh, please. I’ve got seven and trust me - they’re overrated. I would give you some, but you know, I can’t.”
“Yeah... I wish I could have the peace of mind of being the last of my bloodline.”
“Oh that’s not what I meant.”
“Wouldn’t you prefer to just be alive yourself?”
“I guess, yeah.”
“No.”
“Why not?!”
“Too much commitment.”
“Oh, what the-”
Stop talking.
Nobody’s silent voice cuts through noise like butter. Someone is coming.
Some others gather around, and together they examine the secret man standing awkwardly on the pavement, staring at them in open bewilderment.