The Bunn & Crust Supernatural Investigations Agency

Mrs Hortensia Bunn regarded her garden with satisfaction.

“There! What do you think, Delia?” she asked her friend.

Delia looked at the lush grass and vibrant flowers, and nodded approvingly.

It was a perfect afternoon for two widowed friends to spend time outdoors, pottering round the garden.

“Beautiful, Hortensia, dear,” she murmured.

As far as Mrs Bunn was concerned, there was just one blot on the landscape.

She frowned.

It towered above the rest of the garden like a dark sentinel, an ominous presence.

The weeping willow.

It wasn’t even a nice one, either.

It seemed to blot out the light from all directions and starve the plants around it of nutrients, the nasty thing!

Hortensia had had enough of looking at the ugly article!

She made her decision then and there.

“Do you know, Delia, I’m going to have that monstrosity of a willow cut down,” she said.

Delia gaped at her friend.

“Oh no, Hortensia! I really don’t think that would be a good idea at all,” she said, emphatically shaking her head.

“Why ever not, Delia? Look at it! It’s horrible! Towering over everything else like that! It’s blocking out the light!”

“You shouldn’t cut down weeping willows! It’s bad luck!” Delia insisted, her tone stubborn.

Hortensia looked fondly at her friend.

Delia was a dear, but she had the most peculiar ideas!

Bad luck!

Delia wasn’t finished yet.

“There’s a story that whenever a weeping willow is cut down, it sings a lament and bleeds,” she said, her eyes huge and round.

“Honestly, Delia! A lament! That’s so quaint! Why don’t we forget about the horrid thing for the moment and have a nice cup of tea,” Hortensia encouraged her fanciful friend, leading her back indoors.

A lament! Bleeding! Really!

Hortensia’s mind raced as she busied herself with the tea things.

She thought she knew just the person to deal with her tree-shaped problem!

Laments be damned!

“Shouldn’t be a problem; a full day’s job, mind. That’s a big tree,” Steve told her, squinting up at the willow the following day.

“That’s fine. I just want it gone. When can you start?” Hortensia asked, already envisaging all the lovely plants she had planned for the space where the willow stood.

“Next Tuesday, I reckon,” Steve replied, and so the date was set.

The funny thing was, the closer the date came, the more the dratted tree occupied Hortensia’s mind.

When she had been weeding the beds the other day, she thought she had heard what sounded like whispering.

Probably the neighbour’s children, she thought – except that when she had peeked over the fence, the garden had been quite empty.

How strange.

It seemed to take an age for Tuesday to roll round, but finally the blessed day dawned.

Hortensia woke up rejoicing at the thought that after today she would never have to look at the wretched willow again.