The Head of the Harbor

Once, on Long Island, there lived a girl named Mary.

Her mother died while birthing her and her young father was torn with grief, believing Mary to be responsible for his wife's death.

Soon enough, Mary was a teenager now, and boy she was beautiful.

Every time her father looked at her, he saw his beloved wife's face.

Though he was a respected priest, you always long for what's prohibited the most.

The first time he had her was by the springhouse, where the water runs fresh and still today.

The next time, he moved her into his bed.

Every night, the neighbors heard animalistic noises from the mansion, but didn't think anything of it.

Eventually, Mary went mad. One day, she went into the forest, where she was a regular visitor.

She took the hatchet that was always there and called the animals to her.

With the hatchet, she ripped them slowly limb by limb.

Then she wandered into the mansion, hatchet tucked into her dress, and slipped into bed with her father like she did every night.

While she was standing above him, she took the hatchet and swung.

Once.

Twice.

Again and again.

Then she slipped into the bed besides the bloody corpse and slept.

The neighbors hadn't seen her father in weeks, so they broke into the house.

They found Mary sleeping peacefully besides a rotten and bloated corpse, hatchet in her hand.

It was a crime, so they hanged her in a tree besides the mansion. It's still there today.

It's said that if you're brave enough to pee on the tree, you'll return to the car and find it won't start. Then, on the curves on the road back, you'll be driven off the path by a screaming woman in white.

If you look into Mary's house in the dead of night, you'll see a light burning. And Mary stands in the window, holding a bloody hatchet, looking out at the tree where she met her death.