Throughout the years, people have referred to these trees as many things, but they are formally known as Swamp-Neck Snap-By trees. They are tall and gangly, with slender boughs that sway in a graceful manner. The viewer is compelled to cast their eyes off the gnarled beings that inhabit these premises. As the viewer gazes upon them for hours, a subtle but unmistakable dread gradually grows in their gut, causing a wretched disposition. However, there are only a few leaves that grace the tips of their branches.
Most people in our community have forgotten entirely about them, and it would not be surprising if the records of the trees are few in the annals of our community. Our nation’s history is not concerned with their contributions, but we are far more content talking about our proud minute contributions and our prize-winning gourd farms. Although our town has known about the trees for decades, people seldom speak of them.
She appears hesitant to share the details, especially when she carefully listens. She may hesitate to try and drag the conversation into some tangential corner. However, you can gently ask her what she knows about the trees. In this moment, she may pause and think. After charmingly recounting several inane tales about her grandnephew and enjoying a couple of tongue-scalding cups of tea, she receives very few visitors these days. If you knock on her door and ask, she will surely go immediately to prepare a fresh pot of tea with her wrinkled smile. It is always on the verge of collapsing, but she remembers a time when there was no Old Mary Sutton’s cottage. It is a small, crumbly thing made of weathered brick and hardwood. Stop at the hill with no grass and take a right turn at Crow’s Fork, then walk down Wending Road for about two miles. There is someone who remembers the story, the one who stops at the hill with no grass and takes a right turn at Crow’s Fork, then walks down Wending Road for about two miles. But, for those who are curious enough to ask, there is someone who remembers the story.
Smith Obadiah was hanged on that day. The people were full of love, laughter, and life. She will continue like this for many years. Keep your trained eyes on her, but give her a moment. If she temporarily tucks herself away in the folds of her past, there will be a pause and a tear in her eye. She used to gather everyone under the shade of those verdant leaves, where they would drink, laugh, and be merry. The events of the harvests and plantings made up the community in those days. Every spring, bright yellow flowers bloomed along the branches of the trees, and the children in the village used to climb up their trunks. The trees were beautiful. The town was more like a collection of huddled cabins along the Blue River than anything else. The church was built and the river was dammed before you can tell the story of how the town came to be.
Obadiah was a dreamer, you see. He was the most accomplished criminal, making no mistakes. However, he detested the idea of hurting another living being to the point of nausea; the sight of it made him faint and he loathed the smell of blood. He was neither a liar, thief, nor murderer. It seemed highly unlikely that he would ever be one. He spent most of his locked days in a room, observing and writing. He was quite intelligent, but he never flaunted his intellect. When he went out into the square village, he always brought homemade biscuits with him to distribute to the children, who often complained about their vicious parents. However, he spoke very little and kept to himself. Obadiah was a young, mild-mannered, and meek man, as evidenced by all accounts.
Obadiah, who was considered normal, had learned to hide himself behind small talk and nervous smiles in the hope that no one would realize he could deceive them. Even though he struggled to understand its meaning, Obadiah found it strange when others discovered him speaking about his early age. Since his birth, Obadiah had been deeply immersed in this world, trying to grasp its essence and connections by morphing and dissipating into various social strata. Mary referred to this connection as a “link,” according to what Obadiah says.
After three sleepless nights, the town elders took action to address the unsettling situation. Both adults and children were affected by the pervasive sense of fear that gripped the townspeople. Gradually, others also started experiencing their own horrifying dreams, which were more abstract in nature rather than being vividly terrifying. The terrifying visions that plagued his mind became uncontrollable and he would scream them every night, as his neighbors desperately tried to wake him. The true extent of the horrors he witnessed remains unknown. Night after night, he endured excruciating pain as nightmares consumed his thoughts. Despite being respectable enough to be disregarded, the nightmares persisted just when he thought he could ignore them. For many years, he managed to maintain a facade to conceal his suffering.
The exorcists from various parts of the country gathered to treat the case of Obadiah, after receiving a message from the Priest, and worked out the evil entity from the man’s shriveled body. In order to prevent further harm to the town, it was necessary to remove the demon, and after a thorough investigation, the Priest determined that Obadiah had been possessed by a demon. The Priest meticulously documented his observations for a week while examining the young man in his isolated dwelling, using a journal bound in leather. Initially unsure of what was afflicting Obadiah, the Priest brought him to his secluded dwelling for examination. They sent Obadiah to a Priest for assistance.
Every night, as well as every other night, the villagers would provide some refuge for him, even though it was several miles away. They understood how infectious Obadiah’s torment was, and they summoned experts from the big cities to create such lasting agony in the minds of those around him. They dragged Obadiah far away from the towns and left him there, hoping that the distance would finally offer some refuge. However, even from several miles away, Obadiah’s nightmares continued to torment the townspeople each and every night. And they returned with a vengeance. The exorcists came back, confident in their ability to solve the problem, only to be humbled by Obadiah’s persistent and incurable madness. But then the dreams returned. For a few blissful weeks, everything was peaceful in the town – no dreams, no terror. The exorcism seemed to have worked, or at least that’s how it appeared.
Underneath the foliage, the executioner gently lowered him from the bough and laid his remains to rest there, once his final breath escaped his lifeless form. If he communicated at all, no one can be certain of the words he uttered, as his speech was in a peculiar and incomprehensible dialect. Obadiah endured an unusually prolonged demise, all the while hurling curses at the onlooking villagers, as documented by the hangman (the sole written record available to support this assertion). The emaciated body of the man was retrieved from the forest and suspended from the trees, ultimately leading the populace to conclude that the only resolution was to completely eliminate Obadiah from this world.
She couldn’t understand what it still was not. Something dark and twisted had happened. She couldn’t even bring herself to approach the trunk. When she tried to climb the gnarled boughs, hoping to resurrect some memories of her childhood joy, she knew something was amiss. She attributed the loss of leaves to the coming winter, but she first noticed the change in the trees the next day, when Mary realized it was the coming of spring.
Perhaps they are still trapped in the branches, waiting to be released. There is something peculiar about something that cannot be explained by a single deed or word, even now. Since they are inaccessible by foot, one can only stand about a hundred paces away and try to make out their features through the fog. Few visit the trees since they settled around Swamp Snap-Neck.