The Hanging Tree Read online

  THE HANGING TREE

  A Novella

  Michael Phillip Cash

  Disclaimer

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Copyright © 2013 Michael Phillip Cash

  Published in the United States by

  Red Feather Publishing New York – Los Angeles – Las Vegas

  All rights reserved

  ISBN-10: 1-947188-96-8

  ISBN-13: 978-1-947188-96-9

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2013915991

  Dedication

  To Hallie & Cayla

  Make it count.

  - Michael

  “It is our choices…that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities…”

  J.K. Rowling

  Follow Michael

  @michaelpcash

  www.michaelphillipcash.com

  If you find this book enjoyable, I really hope you’ll leave a review. If you have any questions or comments, please contact me directly at [email protected].

  Praise for Michael Phillip Cash’s debut book, Brood X: A Firsthand Account of the Great Cicada Invasion

  Simple, straightforward, flashlight-on-the-face campfire tale meant to induce nightmares.” - Mark McLaughlin - ForeWord Reviews

  “Cash has written a harrowing tale of survival against all odds of a supernatural nature. As summer gets hot, Brood X will cool you down by sending chills down your back.” - Nina Schuyler, Author - The Translator

  “Part creature-feature with all of the traditional elements of the great 50s films…part homage to the fairly recent genre of found-footage horror films-- Brood X is a quick, fun read.” - Michael R. Collings - hellnotes.com

  “A Twilight Zone-like horror story of biblical proportions.” - Mark McLaughlin - Foreward Reviews

  “Horror at its best…up close and personal, and inflicted with ways that address humanity’s inherent fear of and disgust for bugs.” - Mark McLaughlin - ForeWord Reviews

  “Breathing new life into a genre that has been occupied too long by the usual suspects: sickness, the undead and global warming.” - Kirkus Review

  •Critics love Cash’s paranormal romance novel, Stillwell: A Haunting on Long Island

  “Cash easily draws readers into the story by creating three-dimensional characters who are easy to care about…thriller meets love story in a novel where characterization shines…with strong characters and a twist unexpected in a thriller, this book is an enjoyable beach read.” - ForeWord Reviews

  “Michael Phillip Cash is creating a niche in the pantheon of successful young writers of the day.” – Grady Harp, Top Reviewer

  “Stillwell has all the gothic type elements of the old great books with some of the new and satisfying elements that make it very readable and enjoyable.” – The Gothic Wanderer

  “A great read! Mr. Cash, I foresee more fast paced, thrillers in your future. A well written story with engaging characters.” – MyBookAddiction Reviews

  “Stillwell is a book that will keep you on the edge of your seat all the way through…it is one of the best books I have read in years.” – Chronicles from a Caveman

  “A horror tale with well-developed characters…” - Kirkus Review

  “I do not see what would stop Michael Phillip Cash’s horror masterpiece from becoming a bestseller.” - pjtheemt.blogspot.com

  Arielle

  Oyster Bay, Summer-2013

  The bark bit into the delicate skin of Arielle’s back. Stars twinkled above her, dancing in the reflection of Chad’s eyes. “Stop, really. Stop.” She pushed at Chad’s shoulders as he resisted her, his lips caressing the side of her neck. “I don’t want to.”

  “Arielle, you promised,.” Chad whispered, assaulting her lips. “I thought you said you love me,” he wheedled.

  Arielle looked at the leafy canopy. “I do. I really do, but I…I don’t know if I want to do this. Especially here,” she added practically.

  Chad wheeled away, clearly annoyed, and bounced to his car door. The car was his pride and joy, a gift for his eighteenth birthday, a Camaro, light blue and totally awesome. It was a chick magnet, and for a minute he wanted to share that with Arielle. They had been dating for almost six months, and he was more than ready to take it to the next level. It wasn’t his first time, and there were plenty of girls interested in him if Arielle wasn’t. Pulling a pack of cigarettes out of the console, he flipped a Zippo expertly, lit his cigarette, and inhaled deeply.

  Arielle walked over and leaned against the car door nearby, moving close to him, trying to feel his moist body heat in the cool summer air. Crickets chirped nearby, and they watched traffic pick up on the road to the left of them.

  “Looks like the movie ended,” Arielle offered up some conversation.

  Chad nodded but didn’t respond. The silence stretched before them, anxiety building in her tight chest. She loved him, but this was big, huge; she just wasn’t ready. She considered the spreading oak tree before them. Everybody was mad at her, everybody in the world. She knew she was going to be in hot water with her dad that night. He was pissed when she had walked out. She looked at Chad’s profile in the dark, his features limned by the streetlamp. He was tall with sandy blond hair worn long and loose. It caressed his high cheekbones, and he was always brushing it from his warm, honey eyes. When he looked at a girl, she felt special. Well, he wasn’t looking at her now, so she tried again. “They say the tree is haunted.”

  “I’m not afraid of ghosts,” Chad declared, his wide mouth scowling. He wanted to punish her. There had been the promise for so long; he wanted to tell her to put up or he was out of here. She was one of the prettiest girls in the school, with hips that moved so gracefully he couldn’t take his eyes off of her. The pale oval of her face gazed up at him, and he brushed her soft lips with his finger. She had the bluest eyes fringed by black lashes. Those eyes lit up with pleasure, and she rubbed her cheek against his knuckles. Picking up a light brown curl, he twined it around his fingers.

  “Where’s your penknife?” Arielle asked.

  Digging into his back pocket, he handed it to her. She walked back to the tree, propped her foot against a large boulder at the base, and started to carve their initials into the chapped bark. She began with the C, but the surface proved resistant, and she broke out into a sweat, working hard to carve their names. Time stood still as the moon reached its zenith, clouds parting to let the fullness coat the earth with light. Leaves rustled as the wind skipped through the branches. Arielle heard a low hiss and stopped, looking over her shoulder. She scanned the deserted Long Island pavement, sighing gustily, and went back to her carving.

  “So, Goody Bennett?” Arthur, a dapper man dressed in preppy clothing of another century asked softly from a lower branch, his voice the barest whisper. “Is she gonna give it up tonight?”

  “What do you think, I’m a witch?” the ghost cackled, and the branches shook with mirth.

  Laughter echoed in the still air, and both teenagers looked at each other. Arielle dropped the knife and ran to the safety of Chad’s arms.

  “Did you hear that?” she whispered, her face bleached of color.

  Chad held her tightly in the security of his arms, liking it. “Must be coming from somebody’s car further down. It’s nothing,” he replied more confidently than he felt.

  “Let’s get out of here,” Arielle said, taking his hand, and tried t
o drag him to the car.

  “Can’t. Leo Manning said he’d swing by later. I have to wait for him.”

  Arielle frowned. She didn’t like Leo. He was wild, drove fast, and had a bad reputation.

  “Seriously? Leo? Why?” Arielle demanded.

  “Why nothing.” Chad threw his spent cigarette into the grass.

  “I said I would wait, and that’s what I’m gonna do.”

  Arielle pouted as she walked back to sit under the tree, her shoulder resting against the comforting support of its trunk. This wasn’t going the way she expected. Chad was being weird. The whole night was strange. They were supposed to go to a movie then grab something to eat. Instead, there they sat, in the dark, waiting for Leo, of all people. She had defied her father even going anywhere that night. There were heated words, some raised voices, but she grabbed her new Louis Vuitton bag, a gift from her mother’s boyfriend, and ran out the door. Her father didn’t like Chad, didn’t trust him, and had warned her he was not the guy for her. Arielle usually had a great relationship with her dad. He was the one she lived with, choosing to stay with him after the messy divorce. Her mom had run off to be with her boss, a rich Wall Street broker. Her father, a fireman with bum knees and close to retirement, was always there for her. She and her little sister, Charity, were his special girls. No matter how many great things her mother was able to buy her now, it was no match to the long hours her father had put in for school projects, cheerleading practice, and the rest. It was just… Arielle bit her bottom lip. She didn’t like his new girlfriend, Belinda. Oh, sure, she was nice—you know that super-sweet, high-pitched-talking nice—but Arielle and her dad had less time together now. And Belinda acted like Arielle was always telling her the most amazing things on earth. Huh! She had the same expression for Charity and Grandma as well…so much for that. After all, Arielle understood that while her stuff was interesting, you could hardly say the same for her little sister or Grandma. That didn’t translate well for ol’ Belinda, she thought. So if he chose to be busy with someone Arielle didn’t like, well, what did Grandma say? Something about sauce for the goose was good for the other goose or something like that. It all meant the same thing. She didn’t have to like his choice, and he certainly didn’t have to like her choice either.

  “That wasn’t very nice,” a girl wearing a Gibson dress from the nineteenth century said as she peered down from her perch, looking at the top of Arielle’s brown-haired head. She was timid and hid behind the foliage. “She’s got nice hair. I wish I still had mine.” She pulled at her shorn locks. They had cut her hair when she was ill and insensible. After the ‘incident’, she remembered the parch burn of the fever, but she had to admit her memory of everything was hazy at best. She did recall the doctor’s serious voice urging them to cut her hair as it was suffocating her, and perhaps that would save her from the heat of her temperature. Cringing, the young girl recalled the sound of them shearing off her auburn braids. It was a best feature, she thought ruefully. It made everyone sad, she could still hear her mother’s mournful cries. Of course, nobody thought she could hear anything. She had been quite unconscious from the time they brought her broken body home.

  “He’s not being nice because he thinks she’s holding out on him,” Martin’s boyish voice added from a distant branch interrupting her pensive thought.

  “How do you know that?” the girl responded.

  “I’m a guy.”

  The girl sniffed at this, rolling what used to be baby-blue eyes, and he finished. “Well, I was a guy.”

  “That was a very long time ago, Martin. I do miss those days,”—this from the same branch of the tree, where the leaves grew more abundant. Sometimes you couldn’t tell which one of the boys was talking. They even sounded alike with their clipped, New England, posh-school accents.

  “If anyone shouldn’t remember life, it should be me,” Goody Bennett wheezed. “I’ve been here the longest. Coming onto three hundred and seventy years. I remember it like it was yesterday.”

  “Tell me about it,” Gibson girl asked while she twirled a tight curl close to her head. She didn’t want to think about the bad times, her bad times. “Goody, please tell me your story again,” she pleaded, her voice sweet and youthful.

  “Oh, no, not again,” a new voice groaned. It was a female voice, world weary, beyond tired. It was a sad, raspy sound, as if the windpipe had been crushed and never repaired. Gibson girl had trouble remembering exactly which one of her tree mates it was. Let me see, she thought. There’s Goody Bennett, the old cunning woman, Marty, and Artie, only they refuse to answer to that. Mists cleared, and one could see they were a tangled mess, their legs twined together on the branch as if they were conjoined twins. You could tell them apart only because one wore a raccoon coat and the other a pair of goggles and a straw boater. Who was that other spirit? she pondered. She was distracted by Goody’s voice.

  “Let me think.” Goody Bennett scratched her pointed chin. She had a dark mole on the tip that must have caused her major damage in her lifetime, Gibson girl thought. “It was the summer of forty-three or so when the problems began. Charles the First was king. He wasn’t supposed to be…had an older brother who died. He was a weakling. Had no…what’s that word?” she asked the other denizens.

  “Charisma?” Arthur offered silkily.

  “Exactly. Didn’t know how to talk to people. No sense of style. Married a Catholic girl, he did. Made a lot of the people mad. Catholics…Protestants…doesn’t matter much now, I know, but back then, whew…it was a whole different kettle of fish. Got his head chopped off too!” Goody laughed so hard she started to cough. “Now Charles the Second made a good king, sexy, had a fun court. Had lovely legs, that man…” She looked at Gibson girl’s eyes glaze over. “That’s not a story for you, gel. Let me go back to Charles the First. They were a stupid lot, especially his father, James the First. Hated witches. Wrote a book on them called Daemonologie. Stupid cur, caused a lot of trouble; that’s why we left home.”

  The sky brightened and darkened, clouds moving backward, the sun speeding crazily in the sky. However, only the inhabitants of the hanging tree could actually see it.

  Goody Bennett

  Oyster Bay, Summer 1649

  “Get thee blackberries, girl.” Goodwife Bennett pointed to a patch of blue fruit growing under a ridge of bushes.

  “Mayhaps there’s a snake there, Grandmam. I am afraid.”

  The older woman pursed her wrinkled lips together, her mole more noticeable. “I’ve told thee many times, Claire, the snakes here cause no harm. They are our friends.”

  “Our friends!” the fifteen-year-old held her hand to her rosy cheek. “Surely not, Grandmam. Snakes can never be our friends. Think of Eve and what he made her do,” she added in a shocked whisper.

  Damn Reverend Harmond, the old woman thought angrily at the close- minded thoughts he was pounding into the young congregation’s empty heads. “All God’s creatures deserve respect.” As if on cue, Remedy, her black tabby, agreed with a loud meow. Goodwife Bennett watched her granddaughter shudder and thought for once, Why did my son’s wife have to die and leave this child in my care? They had left England four years ago, landing in this new community, her son succumbing to the fever almost immediately; her daughter-in-law passed eight months later, taking along the babe that refused to enter this new, wild country. They had left their small Dorset village among rumors of witchcraft, but whatever her healing power, it failed her dismally with both of them. She was a cunning woman, a healer. Her mixtures brought relief to the many people living nearby. They rummaged for herbs; she midwifed the people in their small town and in exchange had just enough to eat through the winter season. In summer they relied on the fish in a nearby brook and the small patch of vegetables that grew near the tiny stone cottage where they lived. The cottage had been abandoned by the previous family, who had been killed by Indians. A goat had wandered back, and so now they had a mean cottage with a scrawny goat that gave slight
ly sour milk.

  “Be gone,” Claire hissed to the cat, who calmly ignored her and walked on its feet daintily toward the underbrush.

  “Like you the mice and vermin that come to share our very food?” Her grandmother banged her staff angrily. “Thanks be to have Remedy to rid us of pests.”

  “She’s a foul creature, Grandmother. I do not like her.”

  “Go pick us some fruit now, child!” she ordered, following the younger girl as she skipped ahead. She did not have the strength to fight the ignorant girl anymore. Fanning herself with a leafy frond she picked from a tree, she wondered if she should just ask Adam Babcock if he wanted Claire for a wife. He stopped by often enough, and she observed his eyes follow her granddaughter around the room of the cottage. Mayhaps she should talk to him and see if she could get her married and off her hands.

  The sun beat down unmercifully, the rays persistent though their dark clothing. They walked down a steep ridge, where a giant oak tree shaded the scorched earth. A boulder had been rolled beneath the branches and Goody Bennett sat down, watching Claire roam the meadow looking for ripe fruit. Raising her thick skirts above her knees, the older woman enjoyed the refreshing breeze while her granddaughter picked happily at the blueberries. She was a pretty chit, Aye, Goody thought to herself, I was just as slim and pretty too. Pretty doesna last forever, she frowned looking at her own round belly, now resting comfortably on her lap. Glancing at misshapen, swollen ankles, she chuckled remembering them slim and attractive. Not so pretty anymore, eh? She thought to herself. Mayhaps it’s a good time to talk marriage with that young Adam Babcock before someone else notices empty headed Claire. Butterflies floated on the sunbeams, birds chirped merrily, and she heard the familiar clip clop of a shod horse.

  “Good morrow, Goody Bennett.” The most honored rector tipped his black hat. He was a tall man; most thought him handsome. Goody Bennett found him whey-faced, but, she admitted ruefully, he had an amazing voice, booming like a deep kettledrum. He could be heard to the last pews in the church. A voice of warning, it stopped all traffic when he chose to use it.