The Hanging Tree.
A morbid name for such a spectacular living monument.
The rising sun is barely visible over the brow, sending a blend of orange and red cascading across the sky. Wow, it’s a beautiful morning, made even more glorious by the glistening dew on the grass.
The kettle clicks off, but Graham doesn’t make a move to pick it up because his eyes catch sight of something at the top of the hill.
No. Never mind. It’s nothing.
His eyes are still puffy and full of sleep, and he’s yet to officially wake up. He’s seeing things.
He has no plans for today, other than to dig over part of the vegetable plot that’s now mostly weeds. Clearing it now, pulling up the roots, will mean it’s in the best condition come spring for him to be able to start afresh. He also wants to find out more about Sophia Hammel, but after sleeping on it, he wonders if diving headfirst into another small-town mystery is the best use of his time these days. He’s over that now. He’s got nothing left to prove.
Wait …
There’s something in the tree again …
No way. It’s not possible.
Without grabbing an extra layer to keep him warm, he yanks open the back door and makes his way up the hilltowards the tree. His breath dances on the icy wind which rips around his body, but he isn’t cold. Not yet.
He keeps his eyes fixed on the tree as he walks and the closer he gets, the more he doesn’t believe what he’s seeing.
Another scarecrow hangs in the same place as yesterday morning, dressed in the same overcoat. There’s no frayed rope around the tree branch where he cut it yesterday. It’s like it has been there the whole time and he never removed it.
But it isn’t possible. Because he did. Remove it. Didn’t he?
This time, yesterday morning, he had cut the scarecrow from its rope, dragged it down the hill and stored it in his garage, ready to chuck on the next bonfire he lit. He usually has one every few months to burn through the rubbish and cuttings from the garden. The scarecrow had spent the night locked in his garage, along with the ladder and numerous other boxes and items he has in there.
Yet here it is. Back in the tree.
Graham reaches the bottom of the trunk and cranes his head backwards. He then turns and scans the horizon, looking for anyone passing by, but it seems no one is up at this time of morning, not yet anyway. Someone is playing a trick on him. Some local kids are pulling a prank on an old man, just like Frank Hammel had said. Last night, no one had seemed in theleast bit concerned about him finding a scarecrow in the tree. But why is it back here?
His body shivers against the cold. The wind is stronger up here than below in the valley, so he turns on his heels and heads back down the hill to his cottage. He bypasses the back door and walks straight to the garage, pulling the keys from his pocket and unlocking the door.
He flicks on the light.
The scarecrow is gone.
But the ladder is there.
Graham chuckles as he rubs the back of his neck. Is this the start of him losing his memory? It’s his worst nightmare, the idea of losing who he is, of him forgetting everything that’s happened in the past. Is that what’s happening? Or have some local delinquent kids somehow broken into his locked garage, dragged the scarecrow back up the hill and hauled it up into the tree to mess with his head?
Neither scenario seems likely, but he does have proof that something happened yesterday.
His aching body. And the two pieces of paper in his pocket.
Graham slams the garage door shut, locking it. Double checking the bolt.
He looks up at the tree and sighs, the thought of repeating the retrieval process filling him with dread. No. The scarecrow can bloody well stay there this time.
Graham decides to go for his morning walk to clear his stuffy head and loosen up his stiff muscles. He usually finds his strolls calm and enjoyable; a time he can spend listening to the birds and admiring the beautiful scenery. Today is different. As the ground passes beneath his feet, all he can focus on is the damn scarecrow in that damn tree and what the hell a possible missing teenage girl and a drawing from a hundred years ago have to do with it.
It doesn’t make any sense and, the more he thinks about it, the more confused and frustrated he gets. There’s no logical explanation for how he had brought the scarecrow down from the tree yesterday morning, locked it inside the garage to be dealt with later, but then the next morning it was back up in the tree, with the garage still being locked.
He laughs. Perhaps he really is getting old. Is this truly the start of his downhill decline? He isn’t old enough to have dementia yet … is he? The thought crosses his mind and then he can’t get it out again. Maybe it’s the start of something. Perhaps a visit to the doctor will provide some answers. Hell, maybe he’d been sleep-walking, even though he’s never done that in his entire life and it hadn’t happened during the night, but in the morning.
In his mind, he has two choices: either he goes to visit Frank Hammel and asks him questions about his daughter, questions he doubts he’ll get answers to, or he goes back home and minds his own business. There is a third option: calland ask the one person who has the right mental capacity to deal with these sorts of conundrums, someone who thrives on complex and strange occurrences.
