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Gallows Hill: Boston [Anitaverse]
Andrew McKinney stumbled along the sidewalk of Tremont Street, angling towards the Boston Common and the shortcut he took every weekend to get home. It was easier to cut through the park to get to his apartment on Beacon Street than it was to go around. And, despite all of the ghost stories his buddies had been telling all night, Andrew wasnt scared. He didnt believe in ghosts. Hed made it to the center of the park, to where the Great Elm had once stood, before the first wave of nausea hit him and his vision began to spin. Retching, he stumbled over to one of the park benches and lay down, closing his eyes against the rising gorge and the spinning, taking slow deep breath.
He didnt realize that he had fallen asleep until he woke up, and he wasnt entirely sure what had awoken him, other than the feeling of being cold. It had been a warm, balmy summers day, and it had still be warm when Andrew and his friends had gone out to one of the many bars south of the Common. But now, as Andrew lay on the park bench beneath the elm tree, it was suddenly freezing. He lay there for a minute, listening to the wind howling, and the sound of the branch above him creaking. Fearing it might break and fall on him, he opened his eyes that was when he saw it the body, black as night, swaying from the branch of a large elm tree that had not ben there when Andrew had laid down As the wind blew, the body swung, slowly turning, until dead eyes stared deep into Andrews soul
In the darkness of the night, Andrew McKinney screamed but the darkness swallowed the sound
When his body was found the next morning, the official cause of death was ruled as exposure. Still, the Officers that found his body couldnt get the look of pure horror that the young man had on his face out of their minds. But scared to death didnt look good on an autopsy report
Boston. Bean Town. The Cradle of Liberty. The Athens of America. The Hub of the Universe. Whatever you call it, its home to over 4.6 million people. Its a town with a lot of history in it, not all of it good. Who knows how many natives were butchered by English settlers. Or how many people the Puritans put to death by hanging in the Boston Common for the crimes of being a Witch. Its a town steeped in history so rich, and so mired in blood and death, that city records dont quite know where all the bodies are buried. It hums with life. It pulses, like a beating heart. There is a subtle energy about it. Just close your eyes, and you can feel it flowing through you around you beneath you
Thump-thump.
Can you feel it?
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Maybe it was this pulse this beat, that drove the writer Edgar Allen Poe to the edge of madness. The pulse of energy. The beating of the hideous heart.
Thump-thump.
Or maybe it is instead the footfalls of British Soldiers, whose bodies were disturbed during the construction of the Boston Metro, still marching on patrol. Their boots striking the pavement as they make their rounds on of the Common.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
Ghost stories dont phase a real Bostonian. Theyve heard them all. And while few people give those stories a second thought, its hard to turn a blind eye when the ghosts of Boston claim another poor soul