The tree is dead, and I have killed it.
Outside of Moore Farm, the tree has stood for generations, as has the house. The tree and the building have seen the family thrive since the early 1800s, and I know what it has sustained itself on. Violence and damnation have been the Moore family’s meat and milk. It has helped the family to grow fat and prey upon the town of Cross.
One night, I had enough.
It was a simple event which sent me to the door of the home. One of my dogs was missing. It was 1949, and the family knew well enough to leave my dogs alone.
They did not.
One of them felt the urge to snatch the dog off my land, and to bring him home to feed to their own dogs.
When I knocked on the door, the youngest son, William, thought it would be a wise idea to invite me in and allow me to see what had happened to my pup. The entire family, seventeen people representing three generations, were gathered in the den, watching with glee as their dogs fought over the remnants of mine.
Only the grandmother’s expression changed when she saw me. She knew what was to come and before she could warn her kin, I cut her throat out.
It was bloody work that next fifteen minutes, and I was injured more than once. By the end of the time, all the dogs were dead, as were three of the Moores. The other fourteen died on the tree. I hung them by their feet and opened their veins, then drove copper and iron deep into the roots.
The house is empty still. As dead as the family which once lived within its walls.
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