The black tree (standard:horror, 2472 words)
Author: Lev821	Added: Jun 13 2015	Views/Reads: 2533/1834	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
What will he discover the more he investigates his family tree?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

It took three buses for a journey of two hours, but eventually he found
the place perched near a rocky outcrop overlooking the sea. It had been 
renamed 'Bockford lodge', and looked to have been built fairly 
recently, not 1910, but he guessed that was probably because they 
regularly decorated and repaired the place. He had brought the pictures 
and booklet to hopefully have their records opened up for more 
information about Henry, and he entered the spacious, bright lobby and 
saw a happy looking nurse behind the reception. 

He was surprised by how easy it was for them to bring up the files. He
half-guessed he would have to cut through red tape for them to even 
acknowledge that Henry Burns was a resident, but the receptionist was 
only too pleased to have someone go down into the basement and find the 
files. The nurse and a few others were fascinated by the old booklet 
and crowded around it with fascination, while Leopold sat alone in the 
small waiting area consisting of a low table surrounded by three 
armless chairs. 

It wasn't long before he was reading through general information and
records for ex-residents, and he came across a few notes typed on a 
standard typewriter: 'Henry Burns, incarcerated for the murders of his 
boss and his two friends at the timber-yard where he worked. He took an 
axe to them and tried to chop them up. When he was detained by other 
workers he simply stopped and cried, collapsing. He did not put up any 
resistance, and when questioned later simply said that they were 
ignoring him, weren't paying him enough attention. He has since tried 
to attack several of the nurses in the institution for the same reason, 
but with medication he calms down. It seems this state may have been 
temporary however, as the medication was gradually reduced and he has 
since become calm and not violent. He tends to sometimes get frustrated 
when ignored, but instead he cries, and does not lash out anymore. 
Henry Burns can never be released'. 

Further down he read that he died at aged 68 due to 'medicinal
complications' and is buried in the institution grounds. He also read 
on one of the forms where upon admittance the next of kin was his 
mother and father Jean and Ambrose Burns. 

He tidied the files away and asked about where he could find information
on them and after much wide-eyed lack of knowledge, and a few 'Im not 
sures...' it was a patient, shuffling along, minding his own business 
in dressing gown and slippers that told him. "The church records at the 
local parish, they should be able to tell you" he said, pointing in 
it's general direction, then he continued on his way. 

An hour it took him to find the church, even though he realised it could
have taken half that. Behind the main church there was a small block of 
what must have been offices and he had to knock several times before a 
thin, young man in his late twenties answered and Leopold had to 
explain. The man simply looked at him for a few moments, taking it in, 
and smiled when he understood. 

"Oh, family tree research, ok, we get quite a few asking about that" He
took from his belt a bunch of keys and stepped out, closing the door 
behind him. "Come with me," he said, walking further along to another 
office. He took a few seconds to find the correct key and opened the 
door when he did. The room was small, like a garage, but files and 
boxes covered two of the walls, and near the centre was a computer on a 
small table. The man walked across to it and turned it on. "This is an 
old computer," he said,"but still works fine. It's only used for this 
purpose. It's not connected the net. People usually book appointments 
to search the records but there's no-one here until tomorrow morning". 
"Sorry, I should have rang ahead". "It's alright," the man said as the 
screen lit up. "Here we are. What was the name of the person you were 
searching for?" "Ambrose Burns". The man typed on the keyboard, saying 
nothing for a few minutes. "Here we are, we have three of them". 
Leopold looked and saw that the date of 1856 would match who he was 
searching for. "Him," he said, pointing at the screen. "That'll be 
him". Next to it was a code: P0114. "P zero one one four," the man 
said, standing up and crossing to the wall on the right where there 
were numbered boxes. He rummaged around and soon came back over with a 
floppy disc. "You were right about the computer being old" said 
Leopold. "Yes, we need to upgrade but can't get any volunteers to 
transfer everything to digital". He slotted the disc into the computer 
tower, and then heard it whirl and churn and eventually the information 
came up on the screen. "There you go," he said "I'll leave you to get 
on with it. Let me know when you finish and I'll lock up". "Thanks" 
said Leopold as the man left, leaning his cane against the desk. He sat 
in front of the screen and searched through documents until he found 
what he sought. 

It was prison records. He looked through the general information, name,
age, complexion, trade. He saw Ambrose had been a British army soldier 
who had fought in the Crimean war, but when he came back was 
immediately incarcerated for the murder of six of his fellow soldiers 
whom he felt did not respect him as much as he would have liked. In 
prison he discovered he tried to murder two of his cellmates because of 
the same reason. Not enough respect, but soon he settled into prison 
life and served 52 years before he was murdered by another inmate. 

Leopold sat back, wondering for a moment. If I go back further, he
thought, I think I'm going to find that my ancestors were insane. I 
come from a line of psychopaths, and Leopold wasn't sure whether to be 
disappointed or content at that. 

His own father had at one point served three years for non-fatally
stabbing his first wife's brother for ignoring him. Again, when he was 
in a pub, not drunk, he smashed a pint glass and used the jagged weapon 
to slash his friend's face when he offered to buy the bar-maid a drink, 
and not him. Needless to say, he wasn't his friend anymore. Yet, after 
that, any violent tendencies were non-forthcoming and for the rest of 
his life he was quite uptight and impatient, but never hostile towards 
his wife or Leopold. 

Well, he thought, switching off the computer and standing up, obviously
the line has ended now. I know I am perfectly of sound mind. I am not 
insane. He stood there for a few more moments, looking at the computer, 
then turned, picked up his cane, and left. He returned the key to the 
man and asked him where he could find records that go further back. He 
was told the council records office in the town centre may be able to 
help. Leopold thanked him, and said he may be back for further 
research. At night, before his allotted 12 midnight bedtime, he stood 
looking at himself in the dressing table mirror, in his pyjamas. I'm 
the only sane one of my lineage he thought, the line has ended here. 

He wondered about researching his mother's side, and deciding that he
would, climbed into bed and curled up in the foetus position. A slow 
journey of 45 minutes took him to a building which was mainly for 
council and government enquiries and when he went in there were dour 
faced people on chairs with documents in hand waiting for their names 
to be called by dour faced employees. He was glad he didn't have to 
wait in the queue as he went to a different department to enquire about 
the father of Ambrose Burns. 

They were fairly helpful, but not enough, and he found himself sifting
though files and documents in a small room with two other people doing 
something similar. There was a large window through which were council 
employees keeping one eye on them, and two cctv cameras in the corners. 
It didn't take him long to be looking through photocopied newspapers 
from the early 1700's, and in particular: 'The island chronicle', a 
side bar news story on page 5 about a man, a Mr Burns who had taken to 
killing all the animals on a farm because the farmer had raised the 
price of milk and showed certain people favouritism by giving them 
extra meat portions. He felt left out, unwelcomed, treated like an 
ordinary stranger, and he didn't like that. 

The farmer had got together a few of his friends, found Mr Burns and
dragged him to the nearest tree and tied him to it. They then set him 
on fire. The men handed themselves into the local police who simply 
gave them a caution that came with a nod and a wink, simply procedural, 
meaningless. 

It seemed he was the local outcast, but had married and had three
children, appearing fairly normal but with a developing paranoia where 
his family left him and he simply became the village misfit, 
culminating in the killing of the farm animals. That was it then, 
thought Leopold, I have a lineage of psychopaths, but with me it has 
stopped. 

He thought about it all the way home, and even when he was eating
takeaway pepperoni pizza. He believed he was of perfectly sound mind, 
and thought about it during television programmes he tried to watch 
that night, but without concentration. 

As he stood in his pyjamas, looking at himself in the dressing-table
mirror at 12am, bed-time, he still found himself thinking of his 
ancestors. 

He climbed into bed and curled into the foetus position, between the
corpses of his parents whom he'd murdered 34 years ago because they 
wanted him to sleep in his own room. 

Yes, he thought, the lineage of my psychopathic ancestors has ended
here. 


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