Sighing heavily, he plods back down the hill towards his cottage, grumbling under his breath as his knees niggle with the steep decline. Nevertheless, he fetches an extendable ladder from the garage and a pair of clippers to cut the rope, then begins the arduous trek back up the hill, this time balancing the ladder on his left shoulder.
By the time he reaches the tree for the second time, his legs are on fire, his lungs feel like they may explode, and sweat is trickling down his back. He dumps the ladder against the tree, takes off his cap and wipes his brow with it before stuffing it into his jacket pocket. It may be late autumn but tell that to his body right now.
It takes several attempts to place the ladder in the right position. The tree is uneven, and the slope makes it difficult to centre it solidly, so it won’t be at risk of toppling over when he’s on it, but eventually he finds the right location, ensuring its feet are dug into the ground, anchoring it. The last thing he needs is for the ladder to slip either while he’s on it or when he’s up the tree. The idea of having to call the local fire brigade to rescue an old man from a tree is laughable. He’s pretty sure if it happens, he’ll make the local village newsletter headlines.
He takes a deep breath, cursing himself again, before slowly making the climb up the ladder, the shears in his pocket.
Damn it, the scarecrow is higher up than he first thought. How the hell did someone get it up here in the first place? Surely, it must have taken at least two people to do it.
He reaches the top of the main trunk where there’s a natural shelf to stand on, the huge branches stretching in all directions. Even standing on tiptoes, he can barely reach the bottom of the scarecrow, fumbling with the crudely made feet, attempting to get a grip.
He needs to climb higher.
This is ridiculous. A man of his age shouldn't be climbing trees. But he’s come this far. With a sigh, he continues.
Graham grabs a nearby branch and hoists himself up, wedging his left foot into a nook in the tree. He is now level with the scarecrow. It’s an ugly-looking thing, that’s for sure. Its face is made of sticks woven together and it has no eyes. But why does it still feel like it’s staring into his soul? This is what nightmares are made of.
Graham holds onto a branch with one hand and reaches up with the other, holding the shears, stretching towards the rope.
Another two inches and he’ll reach the top of the rope that’s attaching the scarecrow to the overhead branch. His muscles burn with the effort of stretching that far. He’s almost there, but positioning the shears on either side of the rope is proving tricky, considering the rope is bound so tight around the branch. He’ll have to settle for cutting through the rope below the branch instead, leaving a circle of rope wrapped around it.
Damn it, the shears are almost blunt. He hasn’t sharpened them since using them to prune the hedges around his cottage garden a few weeks ago. He uses every ounce of strength and effort to saw away at the rope; his arms stretched to the extreme.
The rope is beginning to fray. Then, with an almighty snap, it breaks, and the scarecrow plummets to the ground, hitting the branches of the tree on the way.
Graham’s shoulders sag with relief as he puts away his shears and starts the steady descent back to the ground. The scarecrow lays twisted at an awkward angle beneath, but the overcoat surrounding it holds most of it together, aside from an arm that’s broken off during the fall.
His feet touch the ground. He takes a steadying breath, straightening his own jacket before bending to take a closer look at the thing on the ground. The overcoat on the scarecrow is a size medium and has a noticeable rip in the arm seam. Whether that’s been caused by the sudden drop, or it was there before, Graham doesn't know. The overcoat is faded too; a very old design, like something you’d find in a fashion museum with garments from a hundred years ago. There’s a dark stain on the right cuff and more staining around the collar. He’s seen enough to recognise what dried blood looks like.
‘Shit,’ he mutters, standing up straight. He shouldn’t touch it anymore, but since the overcoat isn’t on a human body, he decides it’s safe to proceed with caution.
He checks the pockets.
In the left one, he pulls out two folded pieces of paper.
Holding his breath, he opens the bigger of the two.
It’s a faded drawing in pencil. It’s quite beautiful. It’s a sketch of the tree, but it looks different than in real life. Slightly smaller, not as many branches. In the corner of the sketch are initials and a date.
JH – Oct 1925
He turns the paper over, but there’s nothing else.
Someone drew this a hundred years ago, which explains why the tree looks different than it does today. How fascinating …
Graham opens the second piece of folded paper and reads the headline, his eyes widening.
At that exact moment, a cold wind sweeps across the top of the hill, rustling the brown leaves in the huge tree branches above. It sends a cascade of them upon Graham’s head, and a familiar icy tingle makes its home at the back of his neck.
Chapter 4
STEPHEN
He works for three hours straight, barely moving a muscle, to get his latest freelance article written and sent off to the newspaper. That’s the thing about Stephen; he has a highly focused, super attentive mind. Sometimes, it works to his advantage, and he can be the most organised person on the planet, complete all his jobs and goals before midday and still have enough focus and drive to start a new project. Other times, however, it can work against him and cause him no end of stress and headaches. During these times, he can’t focus on anything for longer than a few minutes, or he’ll get to roughly ninety percent through a project, lose focus and have to start something else. It’s a quirk he knows drives his girlfriend insane.
A constant battle is always raging inside his head, and it often feels like he’s being pushed and pulled in opposite directions. His diagnosed ADHD tendencies means he struggles to zone in on something, jumping from one idea to another at the drop of a hat while his OCD forces him to make everything perfect before moving on.
The political piece he’s working on is going to cause a bit of a stir, but that’s why people read his work. He writesthings that are difficult to accept and digest. He writes about topics that others would shy away from for fear of causing a tidal wave. He says it like it is because how else is he supposed to say it? He’s a man who sticks by his beliefs, no matter how uncomfortable they make people feel.
