a tree so ancient it almost seemed to be made of the same stone as the church.
He only knew it was a yew because his mother had told him, first when he was little to make sure he didn’t eat the berries, which were poisonous,
and again this past year, when she’d started staring out of their kitchen window with a funny look on her face
and saying, “That’s a yew tree, you know.” And then he heard his name again. Conor.
Like it was being whispered in both his ears. “What?” Conor said, his heart thumping,
suddenly impatient for whatever was going to happen.
A cloud moved in front of the moon, covering the whole landscape in darkness,
and a whoosh of wind rushed down the hill and into his room, billowing the curtains.
He heard the creaking and cracking of wood again, groaning like a living thing, like the hungry stomach of the world growling for a meal.
Then the cloud passed, and the moon shone again. On the yew tree.
Which now stood firmly in the middle of his back garden. And here was the monster.
As Conor watched, the uppermost branches of the tree gathered themselves into a great and terrible face,
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