Black Anne
By Andy Morris
If only I hadn’t gone up into that old rickety treehouse, I may never have lost my little brother; Harry.
For Harry and me, staying at Gran’s cottage was the highlight of every summer holiday. But now I try to forget those joyful carefree days. Those idyllic rose-tinted memories, warmed by the sweet smell of freshly cut grass, quickly dissolve into the horror of what happened that night in the wood.
Harry, me and our cousin Fynn, who lived near Gran, would play for hours in the wood. It was full of adventure and imaginary danger. According to Fynn; a witch named Black Anne dwelled in the wood. She prowled around at night looking for children to snatch. A long time ago a child hadactuallygone missing in the wood and that’s why none of us was allowed out there after dark.
Fynn loved trying to scare Harry with his ghost stories and I have to admit it was funny. Yet as Harry's big brother, I couldn't let it go too far. Don’t get me wrong, Harry wasn’t a scaredy-cat: When it came to climbing tree’s he was always the first to try it. In fact, he was always the one that wanted to climb that tree and explore that tumbledown treehouse at the top.
The mysterious treehouse had perched up there for years. None of the kids knew who built it and no one had ever been inside because it was just too high up to climb. The tree itself was quite spooky as well. I used to get the feeling that it was somehow watching us whenever we were near it. I didn’t like it’s twisted, crooked branches either. They made it look as if it belonged in the grounds of a haunted mansion. Fynn liked to point out areas of deformed bark that looked like human faces. He explained these were Black Anne’s victims; trapped inside the tree forever.
I knew Harry never liked this topic so I always fulfilled my duty as a loving big brother and changed the subject to Formula One cars. Harry and I could talk about this for hours. Up until that terrible day we’d wanted to become Formula One drivers. We loved fast things: Cars, bikes, running.
We’d been running that evening in the woods. Only we’d been running for the wrong reasons.
It had been a really hot day. We’d been splashing around in Gran’s paddling pool and jumping through the garden sprinkler all afternoon. As evening approached, carrying with it the mouth-watering aroma of barbequed sausages and burgers, we decided to go into the woods for a game of hide-and-seek with Fynn and some of his friends. Harry was counting so the rest of us had sprinted off through the trees to hide.
That was the last time I ever saw Harry.
I went deep into the wood and found myself at that odd tree. I crouched down beneath its misshapen branches and waited; listening to the sounds of the others shouting and laughing.
They’ll never find me here; I’d smiled to myself proudly. I didn’t notice at first but their voices were getting fainter like they were moving farther away. As I strained to listen to them I became aware of rustling behind the tree. I remember the prickling sensation on the back of my neck as the realisation dawned on me that it wasn’t any of the other kids. Fynn’s ghost stories filled my head like a flock of crows and I suddenly felt very alone in the gathering dusk.
I couldn’t hear the other kids anymore but I knew someone was nearby. The air around me had become charged as if a thunderstorm was imminent. The tension built and my heart hammered. The pressure was almost unbearable and I nearly bolted there and then. But at that moment, a girl’s voice called down to me from inside the treehouse. She had a rope ladder and was inviting me up to join her. Guessing she was one of Fynn’s mates I climbed the wobbly ladder all the way up to the creaking treetop hideaway, high in the uppermost branches.
Once inside, the first thing I noticed was the pungent smell of old wood and cobwebs. Flickering candlelight danced across the walls cloaking my companion in shadows. She was crouched in a corner giggling to herself behind her hands in typical schoolgirl fashion. But, as my eyes adjusted to the gloom I realised she wasn’t a girl at all.
She looked like an old lady: Her scraggly grey hair, matted with twigs and leaves hung like a thin curtain, partially hiding her single yellow eye. Her haggard features were extenuated further by the gaping black hollow where her left eye should have been. She abruptly stopped laughing and fixed me with a penetrating stare. I froze; unable to look away or cry out, not even as she leapt upon me. It happened so fast I hardly saw her move at all.
The other kids and their parents spent the rest of that night searching for me. When they did find my body it was hanging from the tree with the rope ladder tightly wrapped around my neck.
An empty sadness descended on the woods after that. Gran and Fynn’s family all moved away and no one came here for a long time.
Eventually, though, someone moved into Gran's old cottage and village life slowly returned to normal. People started coming back to the woods and children began playing here again.
I listen to their carefree laughter and I try to warn them to stay away. They can’t hear me though, for I have no voice. My mouth is now just a crack in the deformed tree trunk. I can only watch through eyes that are no more than whorls of knotted bark. I pray the children don’t linger here too long: For Black Anne is still up there in the treehouse; silently watching them as well.
For Harry and me, staying at Gran’s cottage was the highlight of every summer holiday. But now I try to forget those joyful carefree days. Those idyllic rose-tinted memories, warmed by the sweet smell of freshly cut grass, quickly dissolve into the horror of what happened that night in the wood.
Harry, me and our cousin Fynn, who lived near Gran, would play for hours in the wood. It was full of adventure and imaginary danger. According to Fynn; a witch named Black Anne dwelled in the wood. She prowled around at night looking for children to snatch. A long time ago a child hadactuallygone missing in the wood and that’s why none of us was allowed out there after dark.
Fynn loved trying to scare Harry with his ghost stories and I have to admit it was funny. Yet as Harry's big brother, I couldn't let it go too far. Don’t get me wrong, Harry wasn’t a scaredy-cat: When it came to climbing tree’s he was always the first to try it. In fact, he was always the one that wanted to climb that tree and explore that tumbledown treehouse at the top.
The mysterious treehouse had perched up there for years. None of the kids knew who built it and no one had ever been inside because it was just too high up to climb. The tree itself was quite spooky as well. I used to get the feeling that it was somehow watching us whenever we were near it. I didn’t like it’s twisted, crooked branches either. They made it look as if it belonged in the grounds of a haunted mansion. Fynn liked to point out areas of deformed bark that looked like human faces. He explained these were Black Anne’s victims; trapped inside the tree forever.
I knew Harry never liked this topic so I always fulfilled my duty as a loving big brother and changed the subject to Formula One cars. Harry and I could talk about this for hours. Up until that terrible day we’d wanted to become Formula One drivers. We loved fast things: Cars, bikes, running.
We’d been running that evening in the woods. Only we’d been running for the wrong reasons.
It had been a really hot day. We’d been splashing around in Gran’s paddling pool and jumping through the garden sprinkler all afternoon. As evening approached, carrying with it the mouth-watering aroma of barbequed sausages and burgers, we decided to go into the woods for a game of hide-and-seek with Fynn and some of his friends. Harry was counting so the rest of us had sprinted off through the trees to hide.
That was the last time I ever saw Harry.
I went deep into the wood and found myself at that odd tree. I crouched down beneath its misshapen branches and waited; listening to the sounds of the others shouting and laughing.
They’ll never find me here; I’d smiled to myself proudly. I didn’t notice at first but their voices were getting fainter like they were moving farther away. As I strained to listen to them I became aware of rustling behind the tree. I remember the prickling sensation on the back of my neck as the realisation dawned on me that it wasn’t any of the other kids. Fynn’s ghost stories filled my head like a flock of crows and I suddenly felt very alone in the gathering dusk.
I couldn’t hear the other kids anymore but I knew someone was nearby. The air around me had become charged as if a thunderstorm was imminent. The tension built and my heart hammered. The pressure was almost unbearable and I nearly bolted there and then. But at that moment, a girl’s voice called down to me from inside the treehouse. She had a rope ladder and was inviting me up to join her. Guessing she was one of Fynn’s mates I climbed the wobbly ladder all the way up to the creaking treetop hideaway, high in the uppermost branches.
Once inside, the first thing I noticed was the pungent smell of old wood and cobwebs. Flickering candlelight danced across the walls cloaking my companion in shadows. She was crouched in a corner giggling to herself behind her hands in typical schoolgirl fashion. But, as my eyes adjusted to the gloom I realised she wasn’t a girl at all.
She looked like an old lady: Her scraggly grey hair, matted with twigs and leaves hung like a thin curtain, partially hiding her single yellow eye. Her haggard features were extenuated further by the gaping black hollow where her left eye should have been. She abruptly stopped laughing and fixed me with a penetrating stare. I froze; unable to look away or cry out, not even as she leapt upon me. It happened so fast I hardly saw her move at all.
The other kids and their parents spent the rest of that night searching for me. When they did find my body it was hanging from the tree with the rope ladder tightly wrapped around my neck.
An empty sadness descended on the woods after that. Gran and Fynn’s family all moved away and no one came here for a long time.
Eventually, though, someone moved into Gran's old cottage and village life slowly returned to normal. People started coming back to the woods and children began playing here again.
I listen to their carefree laughter and I try to warn them to stay away. They can’t hear me though, for I have no voice. My mouth is now just a crack in the deformed tree trunk. I can only watch through eyes that are no more than whorls of knotted bark. I pray the children don’t linger here too long: For Black Anne is still up there in the treehouse; silently watching them as well.