The Living Tree

There once was a town. In this place, there was a moving, living tree that terrified and disturbed all the children. The living tree, of course, was the name given to the ancient, bark skinned, and make up wearing old lady. Her name was probably Phyllis or Lucile. Smoking like a chimney, she left an ooze and odor the like of gasoline and a bon fire in her wake. The looming; ominous abode in which she dwelled was reminiscent of the ghost stories of our youth. Exuding a feeling of dread and horror, this was truly a fortress of evil and not a simple, run-down and colonial style rancher house. Here, The Living Tree spent her nights perusing her books, taking care of her 18 and a half cats and generally being a normal, quiet citizen. But when all in the town were sleeping, then came the cackles, and the booms and bangs, and the dreadful, colored mists that gave strange effects to all who dared enter their long, swirling fingers. One day, as all the people of this place had had enough of her late night experiments or "witchcraft", as they called it, they all converged on this mountain of darkness in an otherwise bright sea of utopian sprawl. Gaining the courage to take that last step, the leader of the lynch rose to the door, softly pushed it open and entered. He was never seen again. Nor was any other resident of this town, for as swiftly as he had entered a fell chanting rose from the living tree atop her mountain of shadow. In this instant, all went silent, and a tremendous tremble came through the ground, sinking the city far underground. Forgotten through the ages, another prosperous was built over this once vibrant graveyard. This town was named Penticton and over the mountain of the living tree, there was built a school. Princess Margaret it was dubbed.