Suddenly, a scream. It is piercing, shrill and worst of all, useless. No one in their right mind would be on that riverbank, behind that hill, near that tree, at this time of night on that full moon. With no one to hear the scream…that scream that ends abruptly. The sounds of wildlife fall away, giving life to the soft squish of a knife entering the heart, sliding perfectly between ribs that no longer cage stagger breaths. A second cut, the neck, too, being sliced open in a swift almost practiced motion. There’s a soft thud, a now lifeless body hitting the floor. 

A life taken.

Grunts fill the too-still air before more thudding and crunching. The sound of a shovel digging into the earth, a space between the base of that old willow tree and foot of the hill—

Thud…thud…thud…

The only sound that carries into the night air. A pause, a new sound, that of the limp corpse being dropped into the freshly dug grave at the base of that tree. The sound of the shovel returning, only now it fills the hole. It covers the body of the girl. 

Her soul will never really know rest; she was taken from her home by a man much larger than her who was concealed in shadows, much like he is now, covering her body, a body that shall never be found. After all no one would be on that riverbank, behind that hill, near that tree, at any time day or night. After all, it is said that on that river, near one of the old trees, around that hill bad things have happened. 

Voices heard. Arms touched. People missing. No one would go near that tree, well no people born in the town a few miles from the edge of the river upstream away from the tree. 

 As the man relays the grass and looks over his…handiwork, the limbs of that old weeping willow tree crack and begin to sway against the wind, the leaves sway and bend in odd ways; it is almost as if the tree is alive. As the man plunges the shovel into the newly disturbed ground the cracking grows louder. A strangled gasp fills the still too quiet night, though it does not last for more than a second as the old willow tree grabs him and pulls him to the high branches. He will not be seen again as the rumors of the old tree have come from somewhere. The tree itself is alive, a kindly old man who was laid to rest before the tree stood. A man whose body has been tangled in its roots. A man who does not take too kindly to the scum of this world. 

While the woman will know some small inkling of peace, the man who has taken her life, will not. His soul shall be tangled in the branches, he shall be forever forced to suffer. He is not alone in his newly found suffering, but he shall never know that. No soul taken in the branches of that tree behind the hill on the riverbank will know of the ones before or after. The man in its roots does not like cruel people, and the woman at its base shall make him a deal. 

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞ 

A few decades later a woman sits in her car. She needed to buy more concealer yet again. It seems that she runs out of it faster and faster nowadays. 

It wasn’t like this before; he was nice. Charming even. He seemed to be a blessing, a light among the darkness that followed her. After all, what good is it to go through life without a partner, right? People grow up being told being alone is to lead a sad life, a pointless life. She has a husband now, so she should be happy, right? Maybe she would have been had there never been a flip. Before the ring was placed on her finger forever more tethering her to him, before she had to cover marks of black, blue, and red with makeup, before she had lost her real smile. 

As she sits in the car, looking into the rearview mirror carefully applying the color corrector before she needs to add that damned concealer again, she thinks back to before. Back when she saw him the same way the town sees him; a man from out of town, new owner of one of the many old homes after the long-standing owner and community member had passed away in his sleep. 

She worked in the coffee shop, the best in town. The two fell so fast for one another. He was like her prince charming who came to sweep her off her feet and into a more grand and exciting life. The wedding, god that picture perfect wedding, that flowing snow-white gown, the whole town in attendance crowded inside the old barn that took three weeks to fix up. The light purple and pastel yellow color scheme was magical, grand, and perfect. The slow walking up with her father, walking up to the man of her dreams. It all felt like a dream come true, it was all so perfect. It was all too perfect. 

For when she let that ring slip on her finger things would change. That golden, diamond studded band became nothing more than a luminous collar, gold leash, and the truest colors of the man she has now tied herself to. She learned in the weeks that followed just how dark a person’s true colors can be. Now, she pours her money into covering marks, new and old, letting her mind wander to what could have been if she never asked him to stay. 

She shall take a breath and begin the drive home, she knows that at the moment he is not home, so she will have the time to clean things up. He was not happy the night before or in the morning that followed. Broken glass, a cracked table, new blood stains to clean, although that was nothing new. Not in that house. Blood has seeped into the floor of the kitchen, the floor and walls of the living room, and the floor, walls, bed sheets, and mattress of the bedroom. Unfortunately, at this point she has gotten used to cleaning up his bloody messes, after all in a town that sees this man as a dream as she once did would never believe that he would be capable of anything that she has been witness to and had happened to her.  

It was reaching midnight, he still had yet to come home. That too was not out of the ordinary, he was never a faithful man, and most nights he would not be back until either early morning or late afternoon, and it was all really a gamble on her part. Risk sleeping in hopes he would return later or wake up before the sun and make food that might not even be eaten. 

Before she could make any sort of choice there appeared the form of woman before her. A half-faded image in the middle of the living room a few feet from the wife of the man. This woman, no girl, did not touch the ground. Despite the odd sight the woman did not panic, she has heard stories of a ghost who seeks out the ghost that will seek out those who have been hurt and wronged. She looked at this figure before her about to speak, wanting to ask so many questions, and yet as she goes to open her mouth to ask a soft voice that is not her own rings in her head. 

“You have been wronged. You have been hurt, wounded, and broken. The light that once shined within has been smothered and killed. If you seek a way out, follow me to the place where I rest. To a place that can free you.”

The woman nods, she knows she has no need to speak to the ghost. There has been a part of her that prayed for the stories to be true. She follows the girl out of the house and to the river. 

While all stories say one should never follow it downstream to the hill, to the oldest willow tree, there is something in her that says this is the path she must take. It will end with her freedom from that ring. A way to break that golden leash that binds her to a man who never wanted a wife, but a maid and slave. Be it her own death or his that brings her this freedom she will pay that price. After all she is not the one cashing that cost, there will be no blood on her hands, no guilt to haunt her mind.  

The following morning her husband returns to the house, he smells of another woman—not uncommon for him—The wife is currently making breakfast, over easy eggs, bacon, pre-buttered toast and a hangover cure in the fridge just in case he drank too much at the bar. She sits at the table; having eaten before he came home. She waits for him to begin eating before bringing up going for a walk along the river. He loves being outdoors despite his near nightly wanderings to bars and motel rooms. He agrees to walk with her, after all one must keep up appearances of the happy husband and wife living the perfect life.  

They leave the house about noon. Down the riverside, behind the hill and below the tree. There is no trail, not this close to that weeping willow tree. The wife walks up to the tree and puts her hand on it. She closes her eyes and feels herself fade from her own body as something takes hold of it, just for this moment.  

Her eyes open and she looks to the man, her eyes have a faint glow, 

“You have hurt this woman. You made it impossible for her to feel happiness. Made her feel unlovable and dirtied her soul with pain and bitterness. This day is the last. You will let her go. You will leave this town for good, no one shall ever be harmed by you ever again,” with that the glow fades from her eyes. 

The wind begins to blow, and yet the tree’s limbs bend in the wrong direction. They move to the man who is too flabbergasted to say or do a thing. The limbs of the tree snap and bend in odd ways as they prepare to snatch up yet another corrupted soul. As the man snaps from his confusion he goes to speak, and yet not a single word will ever reach the air as the tree grabs him by the neck and yanks him up. To say the sound of a snapping neck is a song would be odd, but to the wife who’s chain has been broken for good it was truly a freeing noise if a tad sickening. In the high sun the woman thanks the tree and the girl below her and walks back to town, another freed soul. Now she can prove that he was everything she once tried to call him.

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

The small town by the river has been rather quiet, as the woman and the tree have helped all the souls that have been crying out, maybe it was time to try going beyond. Try to go past the edge of the town to the loud crying that falls on deaf ears. A scream that has been crying out for some time now. A man’s voice. It is in that morning when the girl wanders beyond the town’s edge to the unknown sobs of a lonely, broken man.

This man sits alone in his study, half finished paintings, drawings, and half made sculptures. The artist Has lost his spark, and yet it was the only thing that made him money. How can one make bright and playful paintings when they no longer feel real joy, the mask he would wear is in tatters and cracked. If this keeps up he might just snap if the mask was to truly shatter. He has tried to get help, reached out to people around him, but it was always the same story. 

Always disregarded, because, “how could that tiny woman hurt you?” “Are you sure it’s abuse?” “If she was hurting you, why aren’t there marks?” “You’re a big guy, you could just walk away if that was true,” “If I had a woman like that I’d keep her,” “Big man has a freak, bet she’s fun”. 

No one believes that this smaller woman could cause that much pain, or any at all really. Why would they? No one would ever see just how bad the mental anguish she causes could be. They’ve only been together for three years and he already feels trapped. A songbird in a cage. While the more appetite term would be to call him a cannery in a coal mine, only the minor no longer cares if he’s stopped singing from her smog. It’s been three years and his wings are sore, not clipped. 

He knows he could leave, but no one believes him. No one will ever believe him. He looks to the beginnings of a portrait, her portrait. He has tried to finish it, as she wants it made. She wants it done to show off to her friends, after all she is dating an artist she should have something to show for it. He has tried, he really has. But how can one paint a woman in a kind light when all he sees of her is a dark suffocating and looming shadow. He just can’t get the eyes right. 

The light she once had around him and still has with others he no longer sees. Every time he has started to paint her eyes they are dark, cold, void of real feeling. So many times he has tried, and so many times he has failed. Broken brushes, torn canvas, shattered models, all signs that he has started to leech off her dark emotions. He just can’t paint that gorgeous, bright, wonderful person, because that was never real. So as he sits alone in the last room he really feels safe, he has a few hours before she gets off work and comes home. 

He prays to whatever kind god will listen that her day is good, things are good on good work days. They are so bad on poor work days. On bad days the house feels dark and cold, all the warmth that could be inside is sucked out the second the car’s door slams shut and the home’s door is all but kicked open. 

On those days he wished he could crawl into one of his many paintings to just hide until she leaves the house once again. But, if today is a good day everything will be okay, she won’t scream and yell and cuss and throw and hit. It will be a good night, and a good morning. As long as he doesn’t cheat in her dreams. 

For now he sits looking at another blank canvas, the art block shadow looms over him, almost just as large as her’s. He plays with the pencil looking into the blank white space, while once it would have given him many ideas, now it brings a sort of comfort. A calm light void of nothing. Nothing would be nice. No more suffering, no more thinking, no more worrying about the bars on a cage that was made from one sided love. Nothing would be really nice. 

He opens his eyes to see one of his older paintings on the easel before him. It’s odd, because he was just looking at a blank slate now he is being stared down by his own art. That was not there before. He looks a bit closer as something feels off, looks off, the colors too bright, the canvas seems to be pulling away from the wood. It blinked. At this he backs up and falls into his chair. He should run, the stories on the town say that the ghosts like to roam, they will take a person and they will never be seen again. A ghost is hardly a good thing in this town. 

Despite his racing thoughts he can’t move, or rather something tells him he is safe. This thing is making him feel safe, he hasn’t felt safe in almost three years.

“You have been wronged. You have been hurt, wounded, and broken. The light that once shined within has been smothered and killed. If you seek a way out, follow me to the place where I rest. To a place that can free you.”

The voice sounds a little inhuman, though it is a welcome change among the single dark and heavy female voice he hears the most. He looks at the painting, trying to understand what it means by follow. 

That is until the painting begins to shift, a path from his front door, down the street to the riverbank, downstream to a large old willow tree that stands alone behind a hill. That old willow tree. 

The tree that has haunted the town legends and ghost stories for years, he has been told to never wander down the river from childhood, but the strange being in the painting makes it seems as though he will be safe; that all good people will be safe. He watches the painting shift back to its original form and float back to the space it once resided. He sits back in his chair looking out the window slowly forming a plan on how he could get his girlfriend to get to the tree, she hates being outside for too long and would surely fight him on this. Not if it was to paint her.

The following morning he waits for her to be done eating before he requests for her to join him on a drive. After narrowly an argument about going near the river and getting to explain that he wants to paint her under a tree he’s seen she agrees, if only for the fact that she will get her painting. 

In the late afternoon he takes her to the river bank and they walk to the tree. He starts to set up his painting setup when the wind blows all his paper up the hill, but the branches of the tree sway in the opposite direction. As he runs to grab his papers she is grabbed and pulled up into the tree. By the time he turns back to look around, he is alone. He calls out for her, but hears nothing in response, other than a paper falling from the tree with a message.

I am sorry that she hurt you in the ways she had. She is gone now and you are free to be as you like. I know it will take time to heal from the wounds she inflicted on you, but do not let this one horrid person ruin the spark inside of you. You can do many wonderful things. We wish you well on this healing journey, goodbye.

He holds the paper in disbelief, the tree has taken the smog left by his girlfriend will take time to be lifted, though he will always have trouble singing but he is no longer caged by her wrath. He looks up at the tree for a long while before he packs up what little he had set up. He looks up at the tree one last time before he turns and walks home, his wings are unbound and the sky is his once more. 

∞∞∞∞∞∞∞

Many days pass and the small town has begun to find itself without souls calling out in pain. All seems calm once more, the woman and tree are no longer needed. As the sunsets on yet another quiet day the ghost of the woman whose name has been lost to time watches the sunset over the water, while the town the two look over is quite the towns around the little one have souls that have started to call louder. The girl looks to the tree “It seems others beyond the town are in need of help. Maybe it is time we branch out and seek them out as well. What do you think?”

The tree’s branches will sway to the loudest soul in response to the question, a clear yes. With that the girl will nod and begin her journey to find others in need of help, walking to the water, into the setting sun.

---

featured image graphic by EMILY STEPHENS