That was when it hit me.
This was his old room.
I headed to the wardrobe, desperate for answers of any kind. The double doors were stiff to open, but after a bit of brute force, they finally gave way, revealing several hanging items of clothing, including an old coat, like a farmer would wear. Something about it drew me in, so I pulled it off the wooden hanger and checked it over, noting a rip on the left cuff and a few stains of red. I didn’t return it, but took it with me as I walked across to the chest of drawers. I pulled at the top drawer, which, again, stuck, so I yanked it open.
The surprises kept coming.
In the drawer were several old books. They looked more like diaries or journals than ordinary books.
Setting the coat on the floor, I picked up one of the books. It was old, bound with worn brown leather. Not all of the books were brown. Some were black or grey. The pages of the one in my hand were full of sketches. They were really, really good and were shockingly familiar.
‘Wow,’ I said, taking my time to study each one. They deserved to be looked at thoroughly. The skill and precision were exceptional. The different pencil marks of varying strength, length and size made the sketches come alive before my eyes.
Animals. Trees. People.
The only other time I’d seen similar sketches was when I sat and drew them underneath The Hanging Tree. There wasn’t anything that wasn’t sketched. On every drawing, in the bottom right corner were the initialsJHand the date they were drawn.
John Hammel, my great, great, great grandfather, drew these. A huge smile beamed across my face as I realised I was indeed standing in his bedroom, a room that had been blocked off from the rest of the house, sealing it shut, locking away all his treasured possessions for the past nine decades.
Why would anyone do that?
When John died, his family must have made the decision to board up his room. Had they been ashamed of himor were they trying to hide something? I’d never met the man, but when his soul entered my body when I sat beneath the tree, I didn’t feel angry or sad. I didn’t believe John had it in him to take his own life.
Holding the sketchbook close to my chest, I took a deep breath. ‘What really happened to you, John?’ I asked the empty room. ‘I promise I’llfind out the truth.’
Chapter 19
STEPHEN
Stephen watches Detective Williams move around the farmhouse-style kitchen, finishing preparing dinner. It seems he had already cooked most of it before he arrived. There’s a large wooden table in the centre that acts like the kitchen island, a perfect base from which to conduct his research, so Stephen sets his laptop up there. Neither of them are particular outspoken individuals; both preferring silence to awkward small talk. It works for their friendship if they don’t speak too much.
He doesn’t want to waste a single minute. His mind races with endless possibilities as to the origin and background story of the scarecrow. Weird cult. Strange pagan ritual. Practical joke. Only time will tell, but the detective seems convinced it’s a prank, having been told that by the locals. But if Stephen has learned anything in his time as a journalist, it’s that people lie when they have something to hide. And this village certainly seems to be hiding something. What exactly that is is still open for debate.
His fingers dance across the laptop keys as they fight to keep up with his whizzing brain. He uses his knowledge of keywords to fine-tune his results using the search engine, but the detective is right about one thing; there isn’t a lot ofinformation on the world wide web with regards to the village and its history. It seems he has to search a little closer to home.
‘Here, have a look at this,’ says Detective Williams, chucking a small magazine at him. ‘Page fifteen.’
Stephen reads the front cover first, never one to jump ahead of himself.
The Bethgelert Oracle.
A few baiting headlines pop out, bringing a smile to his lips. Even out here in the sticks, the people love a good catchy headline.
He flicks through the first few pages. It certainly holds a vast range of information regarding the village, its history and the goings on. The yearly aubergine competition makes his lips curve into another smirk. Apparently, when it comes to phallic-shaped vegetables, sizedoesmatter.
He navigates to page fifteen, curious as to what the detective has found interesting enough to warrant his attention.
Death to The Hanging Tree by Anonymous
The infamous tree atop the hill in Bethgelert has long been the subject of many a legend, myth and superstition, but it has also bred a very brutal and real curse. Those of us who have been around long enough, born and raised in the village, have grownup with the tree overlooking us, casting a gloomy shadow across the whole valley.
The time has come to say goodbye. There will be a petition going around the village over the coming months for those of you who wish to save the tree, but come December the first, if enough signatures are not collected, then The Hanging Tree will be set alight and burned.
The families of Bethgelert have lived with the curse for long enough. Our beloved committee member, Frank Hammel, has suffered the most over the years, losing his whole family along the way. He may wish to save the tree, but others may not. I hope you will join me in supporting the removal and destruction of the tree that has tormented our village for most of our lives.
This will be the last year the tree stands high.
May the souls of the dead trapped within its roots be set free.
