Chapter 1 - The Power of the Tree

It started out like a normal Saturday morning.  Maggie and Stewart set off with their two dogs on a 50 mile journey from their home in Withyshire to a large, open air market on an old airfield in the small county of Bishopshire.  Part of the journey was along the busy M47 motorway and even at the early time they were travelling, it was getting busy.  They noticed the traffic in the opposite direction was particularly heavy and it was moving very slowly.

“I hope that’s improved for our journey home.” said Stewart.  

“We can always find an alternative route home.” Maggie replied, safe in the knowledge their satnav would guide them.

They arrived at Wellesthorpe Market at a little after 10 a.m. and were pleasantly surprised that it was dry and sunny, if a little breezy, despite the unpredictability of Autumnal weather.  They bought a few things they needed, and quite a few more they did not.  As usual, their two dogs, Bobbin and Petal, got a lot of attention, which they lapped up.  Before they left, Stewart bought ice-cream cones and Bobbin and Petal were riveted, never once moving their gaze away from their eagerly awaited treat, and were rewarded with the bottom of the cone with a bit of ice cream in return, much to the amusement of passers by.

After more than two hours walking around the market, it was time to head back home.  Stewart said they would have a slightly late lunch but it wouldn’t be too bad.   Their return journey started well, right up until what they saw ahead made both of their hearts sink.  A two-mile long queue to join the motorway lay before them.   At first, Stewart was prepared to trundle along with the flow, but it got slower and slower until it stopped altogether.  They could see that nothing appeared to be moving in front, so Stewart waited for a gap in oncoming traffic, and as swiftly as he could, did a three-point turn and headed back in the opposite direction.  The car’s satnav didn’t want to play along nicely and kept stating that they should “Do a U-turn where possible”, which, of course, was ignored.  So without the help of their trusty device, they did things the old way, and followed their instincts and, of course, the road signs. 

After a mile or so, they came upon the small village of Mowshall.  It was quite an unremarkable little place they’d not heard of before.  That was, until Maggie spotted a tree.   A huge, towering Monterey Cypress which  was located at the corner of a junction.  From a distance, at first, she found it amusing that it’s domed crown looked like a leafy umbrella.  But as they got closer, she began to feel odd.  She couldn’t explain the feeling, but became anxious, nervous and certainly had the feeling that something wasn’t right.  Stewart noticed a change in her posture and asked her what was wrong.  Without thinking, she just blurted out the words “That tree is pure evil”.   The closer they got the more tense she became.  She was almost trying to shrink away, out of sight of that tree.   As they neared the junction, the traffic slowed down, presumably because many others were attempting to detour away from the traffic hold-up. 

Maggie began to panic.  She could feel her palms, cold and clammy, and her heart was pounding.  “I’ve got to get away from that!” she exclaimed, and just as she was about to open the door to get out of the car and run as fast as she could, the traffic began moving and within seconds, the tree and it’s evil presence was behind them.

However, to make matters worse, the satnav was still trying to steer them in the direction of the queue they’d given up on, and when they within sight of a junction  with a main road, again, there was a line of traffic waiting to turn right.  Stewart muttered about doing another U-turn but that would have meant going back through Mowshall village - something which did not bode well at all with Maggie.  However, the line of traffic started to move and they reached the junction, but then realised it was the same road they had initially been on, and the queue was longer than before. So, Stewart turned left, once again heading back to where they’d started from, but this time, carried on to the next main junction and turned off.   Most annoyingly, the satnav was still trying to get them to go back toward the motorway, so they carried on following signposts, looking for town names they recognised, and continued to head in a North-Westerly direction.   Eventually, they came to a road that they recognised and were able to continue their journey home.   It was after 3 p.m. when they arrived home.  They decided at that time it was way too late to bother with lunch.

Maggie just could not get that tree out of her mind.  Every time she though about it, she felt a chill run through her.  Eventually deciding to do some research to see if she could find out what had triggered  such strange and vivid range of emotions.   Firstly, searching for any anomalies that may have been recorded about the village, and although initially nothing came up, she tried again, but added “tree” to the  search criteria.  There it was.  That tree that had, as Stewart had said “Creeped her out” was there. What she was reading told her that it wasn’t her imagination playing tricks at all.

Centuries ago, the tree was used for public hangings.  Up until the 16^th century, all hangings were carried out at the gallows in the nearby larger town of Oakwood, but in 1543, the Sheriff of Oakwood, Winstanley Creighton, decreed that they would no longer offer the town’s gallows and the services of their hangmen to any outlying villages.  This proved a popular decision with the town’s residents as although they loved the entertainment of watching them, they objected to outsiders using their facilities.   So, from 1543 until the cessation of public hangings in 1868, the village folk of Mowshall made use of the large, overbearing tree that stood on the corner of the lane in the centre of the village

Chapter 2 - The History Of The Tree

Mowshall is a quaint village in the heart of the English countryside, and is known for its picturesque landscapes, rolling hills, and tight-knit community. However, beneath its idyllic facade lies a chilling history that has been passed down through generations - the story of the infamous Monterey cypress tree, known simply as "The Hanging Tree."

A village frozen in time, where the rhythm of life is marked by the changing seasons and the slow passage of years. Surrounded by a patchwork of lush fields and meandering streams, the village consisted of quaint cottages with thatched roofs, cobblestone streets, and a charming village square. The heart of Mowshall, both geographically and historically, was its village green, just a few yards away from Main Street, the small road that winds through the village and the village square itself.  On the corner of a crossroads stands the imposing Monterey cypress tree.  The tree was a towering sentinel, its gnarled branches stretching towards the heavens, it’s top branches and canopy forming a surreal umbrella like appearance.  The landmark of a different era. Its dark, sinuous bark had witnessed centuries of village life, its branches rustling with the secrets of the past. Despite its awe-inspiring beauty, there was an undeniable sense of dread that surrounded the tree.

The villagers believe that the tree is cursed, its branches a grim reminder of a time when justice was swift, merciless, and often brutal. For centuries, The Hanging Tree had served as a gruesome symbol of Mowshall's dark past - a past intertwined with public hangings.  Long before the rule of law and modern justice systems, Mowshall had its own way of dealing with criminals. Public hangings were a grim spectacle that drew villagers from miles around. The accused would be brought before the village square, where a makeshift gallows was erected beneath the ominous cypress tree. The villagers would gather, their faces contorted with a mix of morbid curiosity and grim satisfaction.  The trials were swift, often conducted by a village elder known as the "Hanging Judge." Justice was dispensed without the complexities of legal proceedings of the modern day. A verdict was reached quickly, and the condemned were led to the tree, their hands bound and their fate sealed.

The hangings usually took place just before sunset, long shadows were cast across the square making the spectacle even more dramatic. The eerie silence would be broken by the creaking of the wooden gallows. The condemned would ascend the gallows steps, their hearts heavy with dread. Spectators watched in hushed anticipation as the hangman placed the noose around the neck of the accused.  A hushed prayer would be offered, and then, with a sickening thud, the trapdoor would open, sending the condemned plummeting to their doom. The silence would be replaced by gasps and whispers, punctuated by the swaying of the lifeless body, suspended from the gnarled branches of the cypress tree.

For centuries, The Hanging Tree bore witness to countless executions. It became a macabre symbol of justice, a stark reminder of the price one paid for transgressions in a time when the law was unforgiving and retribution swift.  As the centuries passed, Mowshall and its villagers evolved. Public hangings ceased during the latter half of the nineteenth century, and the gallows beneath The Hanging Tree fell into disuse. The village's legal system had transformed, embracing fairness, due process, and rehabilitation. The eerie silence that once accompanied the grim spectacles was replaced by the laughter of children playing on the village green.  Yet, The Hanging Tree remained, a sombre reminder of a bygone era. Its legacy cast a shadow over Mowshall, a weighty reminder of a history the villagers were not eager to forget.

Despite the passage of time and the village's efforts to move beyond its dark history, Mowshall could never fully escape the haunting presence of The Hanging Tree. It is said that on certain moonlit nights, the spectres of the condemned could still be seen swaying from its branches, their anguished souls forever trapped in the ethereal realm.  Those who were more attuned to psychic energies, and even some who are not, feel the weighty presence of those souls, as if their darkness has seeped into the very core of the tree.

The villagers, though they no longer condoned public hangings, could not escape the eerie sense that justice had not been fully served. Some believed that the tree itself held the spirits of those who had met their end there, and that their restless souls still lingered, seeking redemption.  Mowshall has become a hub for historians, tourists, and ghost hunters alike. The Hanging Tree, though chilling in its history, has become a symbol of resilience, a reminder of how far the village had come from its dark past.

Efforts were made to preserve The Hanging Tree and its historical significance. It was designated as a protected landmark, its branches carefully pruned to ensure its longevity. Tour guides would recount the chilling tales of public hangings, taking visitors on a journey through Mowshall's dark history.