The History Tree
“They see her...the beautiful Gyselle, when the moon is high in the sky. She walks these oak-lined trails and sometimes pauses to touch the soft moss that drips from the great branches, as if she reaches out for them to touch what is real. In life she was kind and generous. She was beloved by so many. And yet, when brought so cruelly to her brutal and unjust death at the infamous History Tree, she cast a curse on those around her. Those involved would die bitter deaths as well, choking on their own blood, breath stolen from them as it had been from her,” Maura Antrim said dramatically.
The campfire in the pit burned bright yellow and gold, snapping and crackling softly. All around them, great oaks and pines rose, moss swaying in the light breeze. The moon overhead was full and bright that night, but cloud cover drifted past now and then, creating eerie shadows everywhere.
It was a perfect summer night, and perfect for storytelling. She was glad to be there, glad to be the storyteller and glad of the response from her audience.
Maura’s group from the resort—teenagers and adults alike—looked at her, wide-eyed.
She refused to smile—she wanted to remain grave—though she was delighted by the fascination of the guests assembled around her. She had been grateful and pleased to be upgraded to her position of storyteller for the Frampton Ranch and Resort, an enterprise in North Central Florida that was becoming more renowned daily as a destination. The property had been bought about five years back by billionaire hotelier Donald Glass, and he had wisely left the firepit and the old riding trails as they were, the History Tree right where it grew, the ruins of the old plantation just as they lay—and amped up the history first, and then the legends that went along with the area.
Maura wasn’t supposed to be on tonight—she shared the position with Francine Renault, a longtime employee of Donald Glass’s hotel corporation, probably second in command only to the main resort manager, Fred Bentley. The two of them were known to argue—but Francine stayed right where she was, doing what she wanted. Despite any arguments, Donald Glass refused to fire either Francine or Fred, who, despite his stocky bulk, moved around the resort like a bat out of hell, always getting things done.
Fred Bentley had watched Maura at the start of the evening; she thought that he was smiling benignly—that he approved of her abilities as a social hostess and storyteller.
It was hard to blame him for fighting with Francine. She was...a difficult personality type at best.
And sharing any job with Francine wasn’t easy; the woman had an air of superiority about her and a way of treating those she considered to be “lesser” employees very badly. Francine was in her midthirties—and was a beauty, really, a platinum blonde, dark-eyed piece of perfection—and while Maura had turned eighteen, Francine considered all of Donald Glass’s summer help annoying, ignorant children.
The young adults—or “camper” summer help—were fond of gossiping. It was rumored that Francine once had an affair with Donald Glass, and that was how she held on to her position—and her superiority.
Glass was married. Maybe Francine was blackmailing him, telling him that if she wasn’t given a certain power, she’d tell his wife, Marie, and Marie—or so rumor had it—could be jealous and very threatening when she chose to be. Hard to believe—in public Marie was always the model of decorum, slim and regal, slightly younger than Donald but certainly older than Francine.
Teens and young adults loved to speculate. At Maura’s age, the thought of any of the older staff together—all seeming so much older than she was at the time—was simply gross.
Tonight, by not being there, Francine had put herself in a bad position.
She hadn’t shown up for work. A no-show without a call was grounds for dismissal, though Maura seriously doubted that Francine would be fired.
Maura looked around, gravely and silently surveying her group before beginning again.
She didn’t get a chance—someone spoke up. A young teenager.
“They should call it the Torture Tree or the Hangman’s Tree...or something besides the History Tree,” he said.
The boy’s name was Mark Hartford, Maura thought. She’d supervised a game at the pool one day when he had been playing. He was a nice kid, curious and, maybe because he was an adolescent boy, boisterous. He also had an older brother, Nils—in college already. Mark’s brother wasn’t quite as nice; he knew that many of the workers were his own age or younger, and he liked to lord his status as a guest over them. He was bearable, however.
“The Torture Tree! Oh, lord, you little...heathen!”
Nils had a girlfriend. Rachel Lawrence. She was nicer than Nils, unless Nils was around. Then she behaved with a great deal of superiority, as well. But, Maura realized, Nils and Rachel were at the campfire that night—they had just joined quietly.
Quietly—which was amazing in itself. Nils liked to make an entrance most of the time, making sure that everyone saw him.
Rachel had her hands set upon Mark’s shoulders—even as she called him a heathen. She looked scared, or nervous maybe, Maura thought. Maybe it was for effect; Nils set his arm around her shoulders, as a good, protective boyfriend should. They made a cute family picture, a young adult male with his chosen mate and a young one under their wings.
Maura was surprised they were on the tour. Nils had said something the other day about the fact that they were too mature for campfire ghost stories.
“Torture Tree—yes, that would be better!” Mark said. He wasn’t arguing with Rachel, he was determined that he was right. “Poor Gyselle—she was really tortured there, right?”
Mark and the other young teens were wide-eyed. Teenagers that age liked the sensational—and they liked it grisly.
“She was dragged there and hanged, so yes, I’m sure it was torture,” Maura said. “But it was the History Tree long before a plantation was built here, years and years ago,” Maura said. “That was the Native American name for it—the Timucua were here years before the Spanish came. They called it the History Tree, because even back then, the old oak had grown together with a palm, and it’s been that way since. Anyway, we’ll be seeing the History Tree soon enough,” she said softly. “The tree that first welcomed terror when the beautiful Gyselle was tormented and hanged from the tree until dead. And where, so they say, the hauntings and horrors of the History Tree began.”
Maura saw more than one of her audience members glance back over the area of sweeping, manicured lawn and toward the ranch, as if assuring themselves that more than the night and the spooky, draped trees existed, that there was light and safety not far away.
The new buildings Donald Glass had erected were elegant and beautiful. With St. Augustine just an hour and a half in one direction and Disney and Universal and other theme parks just an hour and half to the south—not to mention a nice proximity to the beaches and racetrack at Daytona and the wonder of Cape Kennedy being an hour or so away, as well—Frampton Ranch and Resort was becoming a must-see location.
Still, the ranch had become renowned for offering Campfire Ghost Histories. Not stories, but histories—everything said was history and fact...to a point.
The listeners could hear what people claimed to have happened, and they could believe—or not. And then they’d walk the trails where history had occurred.
“You