The Hanged Lady (standard:fantasy, 1770 words)
Author: Hulsey	Added: Jun 17 2002	Views/Reads: 4717/2705	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
What secrets do Primrose Wood have for the two children?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

I turned and ran, looking back over my shoulder to see Wendy, who was
staring up at the lady. 

“Wendy, run! Run, Wendy!” 

She never heard me, and so I returned. I took her hand and led her out
of the woods. 

We returned with our father, and loped swiftly ahead of him, eager to
show him our discovery. We stopped and gaped upwards, open-mouthed, for 
the lady was nowhere to be seen. We remonstrated with our father, but 
his mood was one of anger. He moaned about how valuable his time was. 
His anger was more forthcoming, after discovering that his wood saw was 
missing. We were grounded for a week, and so decided to tell nobody 
else of the lady. It was to be our secret. 

One year passed to the day before we saw her again. The butterflies as
ever were present, but this time, we never ran. We were certain by now 
that she never meant to hurt us. We sat on the ground and ate our jam 
butties, swatting away the hungry flies and watching the beautiful 
butterflies swarming around the lady, as she swayed gently. 

“Who do you think she is?” I asked. 

“A ghost, what else.” 

“A g...g...ghost. That‘s not funny.” 

Wendy bit into her butty. “Of course she's a ghost. She was hanged in
the seventeenth century.” 

“You're making it up.” 

“No I'm not.” 

“Are so... How do you know?” 

“I just do.” 

We felt a gentle breeze caress our faces and looked up to the lady. Her
eyes opened and I got to my feet. I ran as fast as I could before 
hiding behind a tree. Wendy remained seated on the ground, looking up 
at the strange lady and nodding her head, as if she was listening to 
her. Eventually, Wendy joined me and we walked home, silent, each of us 
deep in thought. 

I grimaced when my grandfather clipped his toenails, much to the
annoyance of my mother. She was watching one of her soaps, whilst Wendy 
and myself played with my football figures on the carpet. She annoyed 
me by disrupting my game, so I punched her arm, but received a more 
powerful punch back. 

“Mum! Wendy punched me!” 

“He punched me first.” 

“No I didn't.” 

I relented and sat beside my grandfather. I looked teasingly over to my
sister and asked, “Granddad, do you want to know a secret?” 

Wendy silently mouthed, “no,” but I was out for revenge. 

“Secret? Go on then.” 

“We know where there's a ghost.” 

“Is that so?” asked Granddad. 

“Yes, in the woods. A hanging lady.” 

Granddad frowned and turned his head towards us, when Wendy kicked me. 

“A hanging lady?” 

“Yes. We saw her today, and on the same day last year.” 

“Are you telling fibs, Barry?” 

“No, honest... Wendy says she was hanged in the seventeenth century.” 

“Hasn't your father warned you to stop telling fibs?” moaned my mum. 

“No, wait a minute Joan,” said Granddad. “Wendy, who told you she was
hanged in the seventeenth century?” 

“She did.” 

“And did she tell you her name?” 

“Yes. It's Molly.” 

We watched as Granddad turned a sickly shade of white, and almost choked
on his false teeth. 

“Are you okay, Dad?” asked my mother. 

“I'm fine... Who told you two about this story?” 

“It's true, she was in the woods,” I insisted. 

“Poppycock. Someone must have told you about Molly.” 

“You know about her? Please tell us Granddad.” 

He sucked on his pipe and settled back. “So the story goes, it was
indeed in the seventeenth century. An elderly squire, John Graves owned 
all of the land around here. He grew to be a powerful man, but was not 
a happy chap, as his wife died of the yellow fever. The squire was on 
the lookout for another wife and came across young Molly Keats, the 
daughter of a woodcutter. He threw himself at her in an attempt to win 
her heart, but he repulsed her. You see, he was not a handsome man; in 
fact, he reeked and was downright ugly. The other villagers laughed 
behind his back, as he was rejected time and time again, so he decided 
to get his revenge.” 

“Dad, you'll give the children nightmares with such stories.” 

“Nonsense. Now where was I? Ah, yes. He invented a story, saying that
Molly was dabbling in witchcraft. He planted effigies and made a 
witch's circle in the woods, claiming that he saw Molly inside the 
circle. He went to the authorities with his story, but Molly was found 
to be innocent, and so once more, Graves was ridiculed... A year passed 
before the squire assembled a group of his loyal workers and carried 
Molly to the woods. They hanged her, as only the highest authorities 
could sanction burning. He produced several witnesses, swearing that 
they saw her worshipping Satan... Now, who told you this story, 
children?” 

“What about the butterflies, Granddad?” I asked. 

He opened his mouth to speak, but Wendy beat him to it. “Molly used to
collect butterflies. She loved them.” 

“That's right, Wendy, but how...?” 

“Right children, time for bed. And you should have more sense than to
tell such tales,” moaned mum, pointing at Granddad. 

The next year, early in the morning, we sat in the same spot, in
anticipation of her appearance. We had our very own Lady of Lourdes. We 
did not have to wait long, when the butterflies made their appearance, 
fluttering their vibrant wings. The lady once more opened her eyes. It 
was as if she was pleading with us. 

Wendy clambered to her feet and walked over to the large oak tree. She
spit on her hands and proceeded to climb the tree expertly. 

“Wendy, come down please,” I pleaded. 

It was pointless; she never heard, or chose not to. She reached the same
branch as the rope was tethered and edged along it, her skinny legs 
astride the limb. She was close enough to the lady to have touched her, 
and I saw Molly's eyes swivel towards Wendy. I backed up, pleading for 
Wendy to come down, but she ignored me. She produced a penknife from 
the pocket of her dungarees and proceeded to cut away at the thick 
rope; her presence almost invisible with the presence of the 
butterflies. 

After several minutes, the rope gave way and Molly fell towards the
ground; only she never crashed to the earth, but hovered, as if being 
held up by the butterflies. She smiled at me and the colour returned to 
her face, her beauty now apparent. Wendy dropped to the ground and 
joined me. 

Molly came towards us, not walking, but hovering. My first instinct was
to turn and run, but Wendy held my hand in a firm grip. Molly 
approached and she was now so close, her face radiant and at peace. The 
butterflies surrounded her and I closed my eyes. I felt a wonderful 
tingling sensation as Molly passed through us both. 

We giggled and turned to see Molly soar into the air, as if being
carried away by the butterflies. She turned towards us and appeared to 
mouth, “thank you,” before turning again and rising towards the clouds. 
We watched until she had disappeared, with tears streaming down our 
eyes. We hugged each other and I acknowledged that Wendy had done 
something so wondrous. Molly was on her way to heaven. 


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