 As heard during the podcast, that are not in my voice are placed by third-party agencies outside of my control and should not imply an endorsement by Weird Darkness or myself. Stories and content in Weird Darkness can be disturbing for some listeners and is intended for mature audiences only. Parental discretion is strongly advised. Welcome Weirdos, I'm Darren Marlar and this is Weird Darkness. Here you'll find stories of the paranormal, supernatural, legends, lore, crime, conspiracy, mysterious, macabre, unsolved and unexplained. While you're listening, you might want to check out the Weird Darkness website. At WeirdDarkness.com you can find paranormal and horror audiobooks I've narrated, the Weird Darkness store, streaming video of horror hosts and old horror movies. Plus, you can visit the Hope in the Darkness page if you're struggling with depression, anxiety or thoughts of suicide. You can find all of that and more at WeirdDarkness.com. Coming up in this episode of Weird Darkness, I'll begin with a story by January Nelson called The Abandoned Drive-In Theater. Then Thomas J. Sotvet brings us his creepy pasta he showed up to work after his funeral. And our third story is a long one that will save for last. Submitted anonymously, it's called The Black Tree in the Woods. One of the things I like about the creepy pasta episodes is that I'll often go into them cold. Meaning, I find them online but I'll often not read them before I click the record button. I like to be surprised just as you do, hearing them for the first time as I do the narration. I feel it gives my interpretation a bit more of an authenticity, because the emotions and reactions are actually genuine in some cases. I've actually found my heart racing, muscles tensing and even sweat beads popping on my forehead after a particularly intense story that I simply wasn't prepared for. Of course, because I don't know what to expect, there have been more than a few occasions where I've had to stop and chuck a story to the trash bin when I realize halfway through that it's just not right for weird darkness. But that's part of the fun for me. It's kind of a game of chance to see if I've randomly drawn the right creepy pastas or not. So, how did I do this week? I don't know yet. Let's find out together. Now, bolt your doors, lock your windows, turn off your lights, and come with me into the weird darkness. The Abandoned Drive-In Theater by January Nelson. I moved down south because houses in New York were impossible to afford. Even apartments cost 2,000 a rent with the most basic necessities. I figured it'd be easier to make a living in North Carolina, so I packed my bags and moved away from the town where I'd been born and raised. I didn't bring any friends or family with me. I traveled on my own and rented a place of my own. I was completely independent for the first time in my life. I spent most of my weekdays working, but I hadn't got to know my co-workers well yet, so I had nothing exciting to do during the weekends. I mostly rode my bike around to see the sights and fit some form of exercise into my schedule. About a month after making the move, I stumbled across an old abandoned drive-in movie theater. It must have been shut down for years, decades even. Weeds were growing through cracks in the cement where cars used to park. The screen had small rips and tears. The poles which used to hold speakers were bent and smeared with mud. I shoved down my kickstand, popped off my bike and explored the place. I'd always wanted to go to a drive-in theater, but they'd pretty much disappeared in the modern age. My grandmother used to tell me about them, though. She said her parents would let her sit on the hood of the car and watch movies. They'd even be a playground nearby where she could swing during intermissions. I walked through the field, staring at the massive screen, thinking of all the families who'd been there, most of which were long dead now. All of a sudden I heard a noise, a car revving. I whipped around, assuming a cop had pulled onto the property to arrest me for trespassing or a criminal had pulled onto the property to mug me. I didn't see any flashing lights or trucks, but the engine revved again. I swiveled my head, searching the area. It took me a moment to realize the sound was coming from the screen. Beneath the crust of dirt, a film was playing. A man was in the middle of a car chase, revving his engine at swerving highway lanes. A woman was in the passenger seat, pistol in hand. I wasn't sure if they were meant to be Bonnie and Clyde, but they had that vibe. I sat through the film for 20, 30 more minutes. When it ended, I picked up the speaker closest to me. It was smashed like all the others, broken beyond repair. It couldn't have been producing the sounds I'd heard. I searched behind the screen and found the same issue. The wiring was snapped, dead. There was no way the screen could have worked, but it did. I saw it myself. I told my co-workers about the strange phenomenon the next morning. A few of them called me a liar, a few of them called me crazy, and a few believed me. They said the place closed down after some type of explosion and a bunch of workers died. They said they wouldn't be surprised if the place was filled with ghosts, wanting to watch one last film. I'm a man of habits. Okay, truth be told, my bride says I'm boring. I like the same stuff, and that's what I stick with. And that includes what I eat. Even for breakfast, I used to opt for a leftover pizza, hot dogs, hamburgers... Did I mention pizza? Anyway, now that I'm trying to lose weight and cut back on the carbs, I've had to make changes for breakfast. Now, instead of a big, heavy breakfast, I just grabbed one of my built bars, the best-tasting protein bar on the planet. Built bars satisfy my hunger with up to 19 grams of protein and also satisfy my sugar craving, despite being less than 3 grams of sugar. And at only about 150 calories per bar, if I'm really hungry in the morning, I can grab two of them and still feel good about it. Try replacing your dessert, or even a meal, like breakfast, with a built bar. You won't even know it's not really a candy bar. Visit WeirdDarkness.com slash Built and build a box of your own. Use the promo code WeirdDarkness at checkout and get 10% off your entire purchase. That's WeirdDarkness.com slash Built promo code WeirdDarkness. This happened to me a few years ago when I was working for a small-time administration office as a security guard. The building had just been purchased by the company and was in a sad state of disrepair. So, while there were no actual employees working in the building at the time, we had to be there to oversee some of the contractors that were working on the place. It was a small team, consisting of Jake, Miguel, and myself. While we didn't know each other prior to working there, the long hours meant that we got to know each other pretty quickly. Jake would tell us about his wife and kids, and Miguel would talk about his life growing up in Colombia. All in all, they were really cool guys. Heck, we even met up for beers on the weekends sometimes. It was six days to Christmas when Miguel and I received a call from head office. I told us Jake wouldn't be coming in because he'd been taken to the hospital the previous night with chest pains. Since he was only in his early 30s, Miguel and I assumed it was just a panic attack or something, but then later that day, we got the news that he'd passed away at the hospital from a massive heart attack. The rest of the day was glum to say the least. We asked if we could go home early, as we both had become close to Jake, but we were told to stay until the plumber left. Two days later, I called Jake's house looking for funeral information. The day after that, both Miguel and I carpooled to the church to attend. The ceremony was deeply Catholic, which was a little strange and foreign to me since I've always been an atheist, but Miguel seemed to be right at home so I kept it to myself. When the funeral was over, we went to the graveyard and watched them lower Jake's casket into the ground. Then, after giving out condolences to his grieving widow and children, returned home. That night I had trouble sleeping. I always do when I drink heavily before hitting the hay. Weirdly, I kept having dreams about our weekend bar visits with Jake, and even though everything about it was normal, Jake included, I knew in the back of my mind he was dead and therefore the whole situation was wrong. As if to assure me that everything was fine, in the dreams of Jake was super attentive to me. What's wrong? You don't look so well, he'd say. The next day I considered phoning in sick due to the hangover, but decided against it because I got word that Miguel had already called to say he'd be staying home. I knew that security guards were easy to come by in the current economy, so I went in to save face. With Christmas drawing near, there was unlikely to be any workers scheduled to come in, so I stopped for a coffee on my way. When I arrived, I was surprised to find another car in the massive parking lot. It was snowing pretty hard, so I didn't get a good look at it until I parked myself and approached the building. It was Jake's car. Even though it was strange, I shrugged it off. After all, I figured it was just Jake's wife, maybe here to collect some of his work things. Through the haze of the hangover, that seemed as likely as anything. But when I found the building locked up tight, I did steal a glance back at the car before pushing into the main entryway. It was dark, as all the lights were off except for an exit sign which cast a red glow over the scaffolding and tools strewn about. I moved behind the security desk and booted up the system so I could take a cursory look at the cameras. While I booted up, I took my jacket off and hung it up on the back of my chair and began to sip at my coffee. Once the ten different views popped up on the screen, I began to scrutinize them one at a time. About half way through the various views, something moved on to the last camera sites and then quickly out again, and I barely caught it out of the corner of my eye. The last camera was set up in our shipping and receiving warehouse at the back of the building which was a small track down a long hallway with no windows or doors and around a corner. Sighing, I got up and turned the light system on, journeyed down the hallway with my coffee in hand. The shipping room was a total mess from all the construction garbage that they had been loading into dumpsters in the back of the building and there was less light due to the reliance on the large windows and the dreary morning. I moved in a full circle around the room looking for a raccoon or something that may have slipped in to get out of the cold. But what I found was a whole lot of nothing in a microwave the workers had set up for reheating their lunches. �Hello?� I called out for good measure. �Mrs. Galloway?� I added that just in case it was, Jake�s wife. When there was no answer, I was about to turn around and leave when I heard footsteps coming toward me down the long hallway. Thinking that it must be a worker or maybe Jake�s wife answering my call out, I moved back that way. As I reached the end of the shipping and receiving doors, a figure moved around the corner from the long hallway. I couldn�t believe my eyes and neither could my hands apparently as the coffee just slipped right out from my grasp, splashing the hot liquid all over my sneakers. There, standing in his security uniform, was Jake. He was pale, even without the help of harsh fluorescent light and his normally bright blue eyes were glazed over and unfocused. I opened my mouth to make a noise of astonishment but my voice caught in my throat as his mouth fell open. His tongue lulled down over his bluish lips, wiggling like a worm and his eyes suddenly snapped to focus on me. �What�s wrong?� he slurred like a drunk man. I began to tremble and instinctively move backwards as the smell of rot and compost hit my nose. Jake�s tongue retracted slowly back into his mouth as his face began to droop on the right side. His nostrils flaring up to triple their normal size. �You don�t look well� he stammered in a desperate almost yelling tone as he took a shaky step towards me. � Jake! Jake! You�re dead!� It was all I could manage in a shaky whisper. �What�s wrong?� he asked again, picking another shaky step as his face began to droop more and more. I tried to scream but it came out as a low groan as Jake drew closer, his face looking more like a loose-fitting Halloween mask than an actual face. He reached his hands out for me as if to embrace me in a hug as he gargled, �You don�t look so well�. I ducked as his hands closed in and sprinted past him and out of the room. Although I didn�t look back until I was in my car and speeding away, the whole way down that hallway I could hear his voice as if it was right behind me. �What�s wrong? You don�t look so well�. I quit the job that night and advised Miguel to do the same. When I looked into it I discovered that Jake�s grave was untouched and that his car had never left the driveway where he left it at home. I still don�t know what he would have done if he had grabbed me. After all, we were good buddies and I can imagine that he would do anything to hurt me. I worried to this day that he was actually the one in pain, scared just reaching out for a familiar face. But I don�t regret running. I�ve made it a habit of leaving flowers on his grave every year around Christmastime. Generally, the day after I have had that same dream of the three of us back in the bar. While seeing him every year like that makes me uneasy. I am just happy that his face is back to normal. When Weird Darkness returns, I have a creepy pasta so strange that the author refuses to take credit for it. It�s called The Black Tree in the Woods and it�s coming up next. Sometimes you feel a bit nutty, especially if you�re a weirdo. If that feeling transfers to your taste buds as well, I�ve got some great news for you. Weird Dark Roast Nutty Mummy coffee. Wrap your taste buds around this medium dark roast blend with shrouds of almond, honey and chocolate. Each bag of nutty mummy is exclusive to Weird Darkness and is roasted to order. Then bandaged, I mean bagged specifically for you to ensure a maximum freshness for you, your mummy and anyone else you share it with. Entomb your old coffee and bring your taste buds back from the dead with Weird Dark Roast Nutty Mummy at WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. That�s WeirdDarkness.com slash coffee. We really didn�t know what we were getting ourselves into. I wish we had. When Jimmy Satch and I were 9 years old, two 6th grade boys walked into the school bathroom and turned off the lights. The three of us, along with what seemed to be half the school, waited outside with bated breath. In a strange way I think everyone wanted it to go wrong. See, these two youngsters were taking part in a game which to this day astounds me with its stupidity. They were to stand in darkness before a mirror. They would repeat an incantation three times. Then, if all went as desired, a malevolent being from the unseen world would come through the mirror. I�m not sure what the plan was supposed to be at that point. Of course the game never actually works. I�ve since learned that it goes by many names, Bloody Mary, the Candyman, but in our school it was known as Skeleton Jack. Legend had it that over 300 years ago a pirate named Jack washed up on the shores of our Massachusetts port town and after Jack committed some unspeakable crime or another, the townspeople sentenced him to death by skinning. They flayed him alive and they square one day and gosh how he screamed. He screamed even after all his skin was gone. Well, the townspeople weren�t sure what to do. After all, nobody has really survived an entire flaying before, so they started cutting away his muscle, his fat, his cartilage, his tendons, his guts, everything but his bones and when they were down to his bare skeleton, Jack was still screaming. The mob was so unnerved that Jack was eventually able to escape, fleeing into the 100 acre forest at the outskirts of our town. It�s sad that if you are alone in those woods at night and you listen very carefully, you can still hear him screaming in agony and prowling for revenge. It�s not a very believable story to say the least. Our town never skinned people alive for one thing and if they had, nobody could possibly scream with their throat ripped out, but for a grade schooler it had the desired effect. That�s why a deafening hush fell over the crowd outside when those two boys began their seance in the bathroom. Jack, Jack, Skeleton, Jack. Jack, Jack, Skeleton, Jack. Jack, Jack, Skeleton, Jack. Then nothing but silence. A wave of relief seemed to wash over the crowd of students waiting outside. We had all resigned ourselves to disappointment when, all of a sudden, the most frightful scream I�ve ever heard reverberated through the halls. It was coming from inside the bathroom. Things had gone wrong after all. The crowd dissolved into pandemonium. The screams from the bathroom got louder, more intense, more agonized. People suddenly wanted to get as far away as possible. Like I said, I�m not sure anyone knew what the plan was supposed to be in the event of the game�s success, but we were all in too deep now. Skeleton, Jack would burst through that door any second. Teeth bared in a bony snarl and ready to separate every last one of us from our precious skin. There are some moments in life that you just never forget. I�ve never forgotten the sound my first car made, the crunch when it slammed against a highway wall at 50 miles an hour. I�ve never forgotten the look on my wife�s face when she got the news that her mother had died. And until the day that I die myself, I remember those two boys tripping over each other in their scramble out of the bathroom, clothes torn and flesh covered in deep, bleeding gashes. Like Jack, they were still screaming, �Let�s go, you jack-offs!� Satch and I stumbled through the thick brush, struggling to keep up. Jimmy was faster than us. In fact, he would become a very good distance runner someday, and he was growing impatient. We were at least a mile away from the frontier road, which was where our town ended. The last person we�d seen was old Buck Billings, who threw us a friendly wave from his porch as we walked. That had been about 30 minutes prior. By this point, grass and bushes to our waist surrounded us, lots of them prickly. Poor Satch decided to wear shorts on this adventure, and I could see a couple drops of blood already trickling down his leg. Another hundred yards in front of us was our destination for the day, the forest. I pressed forward, breaking even with Satch. �Come on!� I muttered to him. �Sooner we get there, sooner we can go back. �This is bull, man� Satch replied, breathing heavily. �We�ve been walking for two hours straight.� It was true. None of us would be old enough to drive for another seven years, so we had to walk the whole way. We practically staggered into Jimmy, who was waiting for us at the edge of the forest. �Jeez, you guys are slow!� he said gleefully. Jimmy was a nice guy, but he couldn�t stand being second best at anything. You could tell him it only took you 15 minutes to finish your homework, and Jimmy would do his again, do his homework again, just so he could say that he did it faster. Satch, on the other hand, was a slow kid. Truth be told, I probably could have kept up with Jimmy, but I was better friends with Satch, and I didn�t want him to feel bad. His dad was an absolutely hulking black guy who nearly became a pro baseball player, and he wanted his boy, named after the great Satchel Page, to follow in his footsteps. But Satch had asthma, and he was about as athletic as a dirt-clawed. As I watched him take a pull from his inhaler, I couldn�t help but feel sorry for him. He could had always felt like a disappointment to his old man. The three of us stood on the edge of the forest, the cusp of legend. This was the last place where the bones of Jack the pirate were ever seen. �Man, this is it!� Jimmy said, hands on his hips and surveying the imposing woods before him. �He�s in there! Skeleton Jack!� �Duh, he ain�t� Satch said, gasping for breath. How would he even move without any muscles? �Get bent, man!� Jimmy said with a dismissive wave of his hand. �I want to see it for myself.� And with that, Jimmy took his first step forward into the shadows. I looked at Satch reluctantly, and he looked at me the same. Neither of us wanted to follow Jimmy, but we followed him anyway. Of course, none of us were really expecting to find Skeleton Jack. The day after the bathroom incident at school, the principal went around to all the classrooms and explained the �blood� those boys were covered in when they ran from the bathroom really wasn�t blood at all. It had been an elaborate prank, and neither of the boys would be returning to school for the rest of the week, or the week after. Myself, I thought the prank was brilliantly effective. So did Satch. But when the principal visited our classroom, Jimmy just looked put out. The rest of us had merely been thrilled by the prank. Jimmy had actually been excited. I suppose it was at least a little exciting to be a part of something like that, and I suppose that�s what got me and Satch out in the woods that day, two months later, struggling to keep up with Jimmy on his undying quest to scare the crap out of himself. The kid was an adrenaline junkie, and it was the beginning of summer. He needed an adventure, so it fell on us, his two best friends in the world to help him find one. This was all for fun. None of us actually believed in Skeleton Jack, but the moment I stepped into that forest, the moment I began to feel the dank and suffocating air within, I believed a little bit more. I looked at Satch, and despite our rapidly darkening surroundings, I could see on his face that he wasn�t ruling out an encounter with Skeleton Jack either. Jimmy was only a few feet in front of us, but we could barely see him. There was no path to speak of in those woods, just wild, untamed growth, boulders to climb over, roots to trip on, and the darkness cast a great tint on even the greenest of leaves. It was little wonder that everyone in town seemed to avoid this place. I gazed nervously upward at the thick ceiling, a foliage through which the sun was just barely visible. �How are we going to find our way back?� Satch asked. �I looked behind me. We�ve been in the forest for a mere two minutes, and already the outside world seemed like a memory. �I wondered how far Jimmy intended to go. �Let�s catch up, I said. We need to stay together.� I picked up the pace, and Satch reluctantly followed suit. But by the time he reached Jimmy, Satch was at the very end of his very short rope. �Dude, it�s creepy as hell in here!� he gasped. �Stop walking for half a second, will you?� Jimmy stopped. There were no birds chirping. No crickets cricketing. Nothing except the sound of our own heavy breaths and the crunch of our footfalls. We were alone, surrounded in gray, and the eeriness was almost palpable. �Maybe we didn�t think this through,� I said to Jimmy, trying to be diplomatic. �There�s nobody out here, not Skeleton Jack, not anyone else. Which means that if we get lost, there won�t be anyone to help us. �You really want to spend an entire night out here?� �Maybe more.� Jimmy turned and pointed. �All we have to do is keep walking back the way we came, and we�ll get out of here.� He said, his tone half indignant, half pleading. �I�ll slow down, though. �And Skeleton Jack comes for you.� He looked pointedly at Satch. �I got you back.� �I ain�t scared, man� Satch said and marched ahead. Jimmy, smiling, followed. �I didn�t speak, but I should have. I should have told them to turn around that something was wrong, that we weren�t supposed to be here. I should have told them that despite our apparent solitude, I felt like somebody was watching us. But I didn�t. I just walked behind Jimmy, eyes trained on the ground, willing myself not to wuss out. There�s some shame a nine-year-old just can�t recover from. We walked for what felt like another hour before I had the guts to speak up again. I finally became more scared of dying out in that forest than of receiving a disapproving glare from my friend. �I looked pointedly at Jimmy. We�ve gone far enough,� I said, hoping I sounded much braver than I felt. �We�re not even supposed to be out here in the first place. If we don�t make it back before dark, then we�ll really be in trouble.� Jimmy paused, contemplating the wisdom of my argument. He seemed almost ready to give up on our adventure when I caught something in the distance. �The heck is that?� he muttered as he walked past me. I turned around. I could see what he was looking at, a tangle of jet-black branches off in the distance. I sighed. �Come on,� I said to Satch, who looked almost delirious from exhaustion. A minute later, the three of us stood for a tree that was unlike any we had ever seen. In contrast to the grand oaks which surrounded us, this one was short, frail and withered. It grew no leaves. That would have been unthinkable. It was solid black throughout, a dark black if there is such a thing. I learned from a science class a few years ago that black is not actually a color. Rather, it absorbs all colors and reflects none of them back to the eye. But if I had not seen this tree, I never would have fully comprehended such an idea. For while all other trees within this forest were brimming with life, this one seemed to absorb life, to steal it. Even the air around it felt darker. �Holy crap!� Satch whispered, almost reverently. Jimmy let out a low whistle in agreement. �You seeing this, man?� he asked me. I didn�t answer him. I had heard something and I was listening intently, trying to hear it again. �What�s he doing?� Satch asked Jimmy, who shook his head. Shhh! I hissed at them. I tapped my ear to indicate that I was listening for something. Everyone was quiet for a few seconds, but whatever I had heard seemed to be gone. �I don�t hear nothing, man!� Jimmy giggled. �You must be losing your marbles. �Losing your marbles!� Satch repeated, perhaps grateful to not be the butt of this particular joke. But I didn�t care. I was too mystified by this other worldly tree. I found myself wanting to investigate it and run from it at the same time. We all gazed at the tree for another moment or so. Finally, Satch broke the silence. �Day ye to touch it!� he said. Jimmy�s eyes lit up. This was what he would come out here for. Myself, I became more frightened of this tree with every second we remained near it. Something about it just seemed mean, malevolent even, and I had heard something before, and I still felt like we were being watched. I cringed as Jimmy approached the tree, but I knew better than to say anything. He was going to touch it, no matter what. The only question was whether I would get out of this situation without seeming like a scary cat. Jimmy reached his hand out, placed his palm on the surface of the tree, and nothing happened. Satch let out a breath. Even Jimmy looked a little relieved. I myself began to loosen up a little bit. �Have fun, dummy.� But then I heard it again. Breathing. Nearby. Angry. �You guys hear that?� I asked. The panic now unmistakable in my voice. �Hear what?� Jimmy asked with a sigh. I paused and strained to hear the breathing, but it was gone. �I heard breathing,� I said, sheepish. �I think there�s somebody else out here. �Yeah, and I think you�re hearing things.� Jimmy laughed. He pulled out a small pocket knife and handed it to me. �Carve you naming the tree,� he said. �I dare you.� I had been dared. You might as well have held a gun to my head. The social pressure of dares among nine-year-olds is nothing short of enormous. I gritted my teeth, took a deep breath, and walked toward the tree. It looked even stranger up close. Its edges seemed not quite solid, almost fuzzy, like a picture taken by someone who wasn�t holding still enough. �I can only form one thought. I should not be here.� I threw a pleading glance toward Satch. He tried to help me out. �Hey, it�s getting dark,� he said. But Jimmy hushed him. His eyes were trained on me. He came out here for an adventure, and, well, he wasn�t going to leave without one. Reluctantly, I raised my arm to the tree, remembering what I had told Satch earlier. The sooner I did this, the sooner I could leave. But as I pressed the blade against the almost ceramic surface of the tree, I heard it again, breathing, right in my ear. I whirled around and ran from the tree at a full sprint. I blew past Jimmy and Satch and ran for my life. I barely heard them chasing after me, calling my name. I didn�t even begin to care about the social repercussions of my actions until I stopped almost half a mile from the tree, from that breathing. Jimmy was laughing when he reached me. Even Satch had an amused look on his face. What a wuss! Jimmy shrieked with mirth. Like I said, there�s some shame a nine-year-old just can�t recover from. After two weeks of merciless teasing, and yes, I mean merciless, if you�d known Jimmy, you�d understand, I decided to do something drastic. That�s how I ended up by myself, in the middle of the night, at the edge of the forest, with little more than a flashlight and thin jacket to keep me company. The sky was deep and full of clouds, only illuminated by the partially concealed full moon. A thin mist hung in the air. It was a dark and not so stormy night. Over the course of my life, I�ve noticed that bad decisions come far more easily to me during the hours when I should be asleep. The night in question was my first inkling of that truth. For as I stood on the edge of disaster, waiting to take my first step into the jaws of hell, adrenaline coursing through every vein in my body, I did not feel scared in the least. I felt alive. I coolly walked into the shadow, not having any idea how I would find the tree and not caring in the least. The absolute silence of that forest should have unnerved me then. It unnerves me now to think about it, but nine-year-olds just aren�t equipped to notice some things, I suppose. Now, I walked obliviously through those woods, leaves crunching and twigs snapping beneath my feet, and not one cricket sang to me, not one owl hooded. That should have been enough to get me to turn around. But, of course, I didn�t. I was determined to rid the word wuss from Jimmy�s vocabulary once and for all. So I pressed on, and even with my adrenaline high and my inhibitions low, I began to realize something. I was being led. Led by what? I didn�t know. But as I stopped to gather my bearings, I looked around at my surroundings. I had not the faintest of ideas where I was, yet remained perfectly sure I should head in a southwestern lay direction. I felt as though I were being guided by some unseen force. That feeling gave me pause. I could turn back, yes, and nobody would know I had chickened out yet again, but I would know. Even worse, my friends would never hear of the courage it took to get me to this point. This would have all been for nothing. I kept the taunting faces of Jimmy and Satch in my mind as I marched onward, doing my best to ignore the growing suspicion that something wanted me there. The final 15 minutes of that walk was harrowing, to be sure, but when I finally came upon the tree, nearly invisible in the dead of night, I was filled with the deepest sense of dread that has ever played to me. And as the breathing began to surround me once again, and as the breaths turned to indiscernible whispers, I shook with fear. I could do this. I was just imagining things. I pulled out my pocketknife and stared at the tree with fierce determination. Run there, carve, run back. I was fast. Not Jimmy fast, but I was fast. I could outrun something if I needed to. I took a deep breath. It's now or never, baby. Before I even knew I was going to, I began a mad dash toward the tree. Just before I reached it, my ankles caught on something and I hit the ground hard, putting my hands in front of myself to brace my fall. The knife twisted for my grip, and its blade ran a deep slice down my palm. The pain was instantly blinding. I curled up on the ground holding my hand, but when I heard the whispers around me grow louder, I scrambled to my feet. Blinking back tears, I grabbed the knife, used my bloody hand to brace myself against the tree, and began to carve. The wood gave easily, as though I was slicing into a piece of fruit. I was done in seconds, and I had no interest in admiring my handiwork. I turned to run, but I couldn't. My bleeding hand was suctioned to the tree, and I felt the blood pulsing from it at an alarming rate, as though it were being sucked from me. I tried to pull my hand away gently, but the pain was too great. The whispers around me turned to laughter. Quiet at first, but the longer I was stuck to the tree, the louder it became. A woman, hysterical, eventually I felt as though she were cackling right in my ear. An exquisite panic, pain be damned, I yanked my hand away from the tree, freeing myself and tearing off a huge chunk of my palm in the process. I howled in agony, and turned to run. I fully expected something to stop me. What, I'm not sure. I didn't care then, and to be honest, I'm not sure I care now. All I cared about in that moment was getting as far from that tree and that forest as possible. And luckily whatever else was in there with me allowed it. Blood dripped from my palm as I fled through the woods. I only stopped running once to pull my shirt off and wrap it tightly around my hand. Nobody had taught me to do that. It was purely instinctual, a biological yearning to keep my blood inside me. I wept without knowing it until I reached the edge of the forest. It was only when I finally came to the vast open field at the outskirts of town that I relaxed enough to turn back toward the woods, which had held me hostage, smiled, and raised the middle finger of my not-bleeding hand. Despite my best attempts to stay quiet when I got home that night, my father heard me fumbling around and came downstairs. He was of course concerned about my mangled hand and promptly disinfected and bandaged it. Then when I was no longer in immediate danger, he demanded to know what the hell had happened. I hadn't had enough time to think of an excuse. So I told him the truth, the whole truth from Skeleton Jack onward. His face, angry when I started, looked nothing short of terrified by the conclusion of my tale. I fully expected to be grounded or even have my ass whooped for lying, but my old man hung on every word I said. He didn't even interrupt me, although he let out a despairing groan when I first mentioned the black tree. He was silent for a long time, even after I'd finished. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts. Finally, he spoke in a quiet, measured tone. Son, you didn't know you couldn't have. Not what I was expecting. Didn't know what, I asked. That tree, his voice trailed off. My father lived in this town his whole life and his father before him. But I was very little, maybe even your age. My grandfather told me a story. What was the tree in it? I asked, suddenly fascinated. He nodded. Your Skeleton Jack story is nonsense, as you know, but it's loosely based on something that actually happened. You ever heard of the witch trials? I shook my head. Many, many years ago, before America was even a country, most people around here weren't as reasonable as they are now, he explained slowly. They were superstitious, scared of a lot of silly things. One of the things they were most scared of was witchcraft. It's very sad to us now, but in those days many women in this part of the world were killed because they were accused of being witches. But witches aren't even real, I said indignantly. I think for the most part you're right, he said. People usually accused a woman of witchcraft when they didn't like her. Most of the girls who were killed didn't have a drop of actual magic in their blood. But you think some of them did? I asked, eyes wide. Yes. One of the women killed in this town was named Jacqueline Strong. I read the journal entries about her myself. You can too if you go to the library. Folks said she was the most beautiful girl they'd ever laid eyes on. But even the most rational thinkers in the town believed her to be evil. Why? I asked. Because she was, he said simply. She came from out of town, just showed up one day. Once she did, strange things started to happen. People got sick, people she didn't like. The crops of a man who made a pass at her withered overnight. Snakes began to appear everywhere in town, even poisonous snakes that don't usually live in Massachusetts. So they killed her, I said. They killed a lot of other women for a lot less, he said, especially over in Salem. There wasn't much of a justice system in those days. Folks didn't hire lawyers and go to court and have a judge tell them if they were guilty or not. It was all decided by the people. Eventually enough of the town became frightened to Jacqueline. They marched her out into those woods and strung a noose up in a tree. I gasped. I knew exactly what tree Jacqueline Strong had been hung in. Before they dropped her, she looked her executioner in the eye. He later wrote in his journal that she was so beautiful he could hardly bear to carry out his task, that he wished he could follow her into hell. He ended up taking his own life at that very tree a week later. Before he hung her, she told him, I could stop you if I wished. The executioner asked her why she didn't. She just smiled at him and said, I have a better idea. He dropped her, but she didn't die. My dad continued. Her neck had broken, but she just hung there, eyes open, blinking at the townspeople, a smirk on her face. They picked her up and dropped her again. The rope even scraped most of the skin from her throat, but again she didn't die. She just stared at all the townspeople, smiling calmly. This scared them all so much they eventually just walked back to town, leaving her at a hang overnight. But when they went back in the morning, she wasn't there, my dad went on. Neither was her rope. All they found was the tree they had hung her from, black and withered and filled with evil. My dad may be swear not to tell Jimmy and Satch about any of this. There's still a chance nothing will happen, he'd said. But he refused to elaborate much further. I wanted to honor his wishes, I truly did, but not sharing my bravery with my friends was simply too much to ask. Jimmy, always ready for an adventure, was enthralled by my tale. Satch less so. I think he felt somewhat responsible for what had happened to me. He wasn't as bad as Jimmy, but he had teased me as well. Still, both of them agreed to help me search in the library for information regarding the death of Jacqueline Strong. So at the end of our summer, all three of us found ourselves pouring over books a few days earlier than we'd expected. The library was the oldest building in the area, and it contained a dizzying amount of information about our town's history. Sarah Sales, the assistant librarian, was an exceptionally pretty lady. She also loved to see children in her library. It was a slow day, so she was eager to help us. What are you trying to find? She asked, eyeing the stack of photocopies on our table. We're looking for information about the witch trials, I said. A lady named Jacqueline Strong was killed back then, and we heard some crazy stories about it. A flicker of recognition and perhaps fear crossed her face, but she forced it away. The subject matter was macabre, but we were interested in learning. Perhaps she was motivated by her love of teaching and of children, as she smiled and said, well, then, let's get to work. We were glad to have her. To us, the writing was almost illegible. But strange penmanship and even stranger spelling was no obstacle for Mrs. Sales, who would soon become herself a victim of this ultimate wickedness. We didn't learn much more than bits and pieces, but it was enough to string together an idea of the secrets the tree held. Evidently, Jacqueline Strong's executioner wasn't the only person who died at that tree. After his body was found, slumped at its base, a string of suicides followed. Hangings. The overwhelming sentiment was that the men who strung themselves up in that tree were normal, every day good men. The shock and sadness of the townspeople permeated the pages we read. One instance was particularly intriguing. Catherine Keane, wife of the recently deceased Christopher Keane, wrote of her husband's last days that he had seemed distant, less affectionate, and she feared he had been taken by a woman more beautiful than she. We also learned that when the executioner's body was discovered at the tree, wrists cut vertically, any trace of his blood was conspicuously absent from the scene. One superstitious town leader suspected vampires, sucking his blood in the dead of night. I thought that particular theory unlikely, but still half-consciously traced my fingers over my bandaged palm. After a while, Mrs. Sales seemed to realize that researching suicide with nine-year-olds was probably not the best use of her time, so she bit us farewell. But as she walked away, she turned back around, perhaps eager to justify our morbid studies, by delivering some semblance of useful education. History is an amazing thing, kids. Never lose your passion for it. Without it, the past would be completely forgotten. Then almost as an afterthought, she added, that tree is still out there, you know, she said. Yeah, I replied, we know. Jimmy, Sacha and I made a sacred pact to never enter the forest again. Still, the horrors began anew on one chilly September night, just weeks after school had resumed. Old Buck Billings, always armed with a smile and a wave, suddenly went missing. Nobody could find him for three days. Probably fell down and got stuck somewhere. My father theorized one day. Somewhere nobody's thinking to look. You really think that? I asked him. I had an image in my mind of poor Buck, all strung up at that ungodly tree. The wind swaying him back and forth. Back and forth. Good a guess as any, my old man replied. But he looked worried. When they found him, the town was in shock. Old Buck was the last one you'd expect to off himself. Something wasn't right and I think people could sense it. The night after they found Buck, Clint Redding rolled out of bed and told his wife he'd be right back. She woke up at about four in the morning to snakes slithering through her sheets. She screamed bloody murder. But of course her husband did not come because he wasn't there. I don't think I need to tell you where he was. By this point the town was in a panic. They even held a meeting somewhere and I think most of the grown-ups were invited. I know my dad went at any rate. At the meeting there was little, if any, mention of the supernatural. It's funny how different kids and adults are. At school a natural explanation for this suicide epidemic would have been laughed off the playground in derision. We knew what was up. At the meeting, a recent college graduate named Timmy Fletcher volunteered to stand guard in a night shift by the tree last another citizen fall preyed it was branches. Apparently this seemed like a good idea to everyone involved, but the next morning I'll be damned if John Roberts and Verne Sales weren't strung up in that tree from the very same limb, along with Timmy Fletcher, of course. Next night there was a knock on our door. My father answered it and then called for me. The expression on his face was grave. It was Sarah Sales, the beautiful librarian recently widowed. If any woman in town could have seduced her husband away from the wiles of Jacqueline Strong, it would be her. No question about that. Tears soaked her face and she spoke to me in desperation when I appeared in the doorway. You knew, she said through sobs, you knew this was going to happen again, how did you know? My father gently nudged me aside. Come in Sarah, he said. I'll explain everything. Emotion for me to go. This was not a conversation for children, or perhaps both of them being recent widows. My mother had unexpectedly passed a couple of years prior. He hoped they would find comfort in each other. I hoped that too, a little bit, but it was not to be. For one, blessed week, the suicides stopped. People started to breathe a little easier around town. Things started to get back to normal, if there is such a thing. Despite what was quickly becoming an overwhelming guilt, I even remembered feeling a little normal myself. But as I slept one night, near the close of my fall break, a sound woke me. My father was out of bed, stumbling around in the dark. He'd knocked something over, I'm not sure what, but it must have been rounded because I heard it rolling around on the floor. Whatever it was, he didn't pick it up. I rubbed my eyes wondering what he was doing. I squinted at the door of my bedroom, which was open just a few inches, so that I could see into the dark hallway outside. The moonlight pouring in through my window gave only the slightest illumination to the shadows. I heard whispers, indistinct. I tried to sit up, but I couldn't. I felt as though I were tied to my bed. I sat there, paralyzed as the whispers grew louder. Come with me. Come with me. I'm lonely too. Footsteps. Only one pair. My father's boots, I could tell. So who was he talking to? Who was whispering? A need not wander long, for at that moment, the shadow appeared on the floor in the hallway. I could do nothing but watch in horror as the silhouette of a woman stepped in front of my doorway, looking directly at me, only lit by the feeble moon from my window. She was overwhelmingly beautiful. That was true, but she radiated such evil as to be completely unattractive. Her head perched to top her neck at the most unnatural of angles. I tried to scream, but could make no sound. She smiled cruelly, raised her finger to her lips and walked silently down the hallway. Footsteps followed her. My father walked down the hall, passing my door without even glancing inside. He was holding a length of rope. Silent tears streamed down my face. I was powerless to do anything except watch as my father followed Jacqueline Strong into the forest. My father was the last one. When he was discovered I told the authorities everything. They, of course, were skeptical or at least acted like they were, but it felt better to be safe than sorry. They asked me if I wanted to watch. I told them I did not. Later that day six men, very brave men, I thought, rode out to the edge of the forest with axes and picks and shovels. They walked to the black tree and chopped it limb from limb. They dug out the roots and carried the entire wretched thing away. That night they burned every last piece of it in an old industrial furnace, and thus ended the terror Jacqueline Strong wrought on our small port town. Or so I thought. You see, I am a grown man now, with a wife and children of my own, and after many years of avoiding this place I took them all on a vacation to see the town where their father grew up. I showed them the baseball field I played on, the school I went to, and even the edge of the forest where Jimmy, Satch and I hunted for a silly myth rooted in a terrible reality. I never told them the real story of how my old man died, and I never intend to. But as I say, there is some shame that no nine-year-old can ever recover from. Six men died years ago in this town, and if you had to pinpoint a responsible party, well, it would probably be me. That is why I walked out into the woods last night. I wanted to see the place where the tree used to be. I wanted to know it wasn't there. I needed that closure. It was like riding a bike for the first time in a long time. I knew the way. I felt the way. And when I reached my destination and stood in the place where my father and so many others had met their end, I knew I stood before evil. I was baptized in fear on that spot. For there, protruding from the cold, unforgiving earth, grew a small tree. A sapling, fragile, less than a foot high, and as black as a raven's wing. If you made it this far, welcome to the Weirdo Family. If you liked this episode, please share it with a friend or family member on social media, or just tell somebody about the podcast. And I greatly appreciate you leaving a review in the podcast app you listen from. That helps the podcast get noticed. Do you have a dark tale to tell of your own? Fact or fiction, click on Tell Your Story at WeirdDarkness.com and I might use it in a future episode. All stories in creepypasta editions of Weird Darkness are obviously fiction. You can find source links or links to the authors if available in the show notes. We are Darkness Theme by Alibi Music. Now that we are coming out of the dark, I will leave you with a little light. Matthew 6 verses 26 and 27. Look at the birds of the air. They do not sow or reap or stow away in barns, and yet your heavenly father feeds them. Are you not much more valuable than they? Can any one of you, by worrying, add a single hour to your life? And a final thought from Marcus Aurelius. The happiness of your life depends upon the quality of your thoughts. I am Darren Marlar. Thanks for joining me in the Weird Darkness.