The Twisty Tree of Ide

Long before the lanes of Ide were paved, when its cottages wore thatch and the nights hung heavy with the scent of woodsmoke and rain, the village was said to have harboured something far older than its stones and timbers, a restless shadow bound to the gnarled roots of a lonely oak. Some say the trouble began with soured milk, others with quarrelling neighbours or unseen hands tugging at skirts in the dark, but all agree the curse ended the night a scholar from Oxford trapped the spirit in the twisting heart of that tree. And so the years passed, and the bark coiled tighter, and the whispers grew fainter, but even now, when the moon hangs thin and April winds sour the air, the folk of Ide still pause by that old oak, and listen.