The Girl in the Tower

Back so soon, are you, Traveler? I can't say I'm surprised. Truly we are kindred spirits, as you also have a hunger for the macabre. Worry not, Dear Friend, for I have plenty stories left to tell. Settle in now by the fire, and listen well: this one I've prepared just for you.

Many centuries ago, this land was nothing more than farms and villages scattered far and few between. One of the more unlucky farmers was a young man, who recently married his childhood sweetheart. They were a kind, gentle, and loving couple indeed; never having a foul word for their neighbors or a single complaint to voice. Despite their humble living conditions, they wanted for nothing.

Well... make that almost nothing.

The one thing this loving couple wished for more than anything in the world was a child. No matter how desperately they tried, however, the Stork never saw fit to bless their humble, happy hovel. Year after year rolled by, and the couple's hopes dwindled ever more. Before they knew it, their childbearing years were almost spent, with nothing to show for it.

The farmer's wife - once vibrant, warm, and full of life - steadily became morose and bitter as she watched the other women in their village bring child after child into the world. At the peak of her melancholia, she vowed to her husband that if she did not conceive by the end of that winter, she would end her own life out of sorrow. The farmer was distraught by her vow, understandably, promising to do everything he could to give her the child she so desperately desired. When winter's end rapidly approached, and she still had not conceived, the farmer - at his wits' end - sought out more unorthodox methods of conception.

His search for an answer brought him deep into the forest bordering the village, to the home of a kindly old crone. Great age had brought her great wisdom, and she was immediately sympathetic to his plight. Once she'd heard his piece, she beckoned him to her garden, steering his attention to several rows of sweet, fragrant herbs. She encouraged him to pick as many as he needed, and to boil them into a tincture once he got home. Before she left him to his business, however, she urged him to be cautious with his picking. Growing very near the sweet herbs were golden flowers; although they were fragrant and pleasing to the eye, she warned him not to touch them. The flowers produced a potent venom, and should even one petal be consumed along with the herbs, the results would be disastrous.

The farmer thanked the old crone profusely, assuring her that he would heed her warning in full. In his haste to pick as many handfuls of herbs as he could, however, he unwittingly uprooted a single golden blossom and stuffed it into his sack. When he got home, he dumped the whole bunch into a kettle - leaf, stalk, and all - and boiled them. After pouring the tincture into a cup and offering it to his wife, the farmer urged her to try conceiving one last time. Begrudgingly, she agreed.

On the last morning of winter, the farmer's wife called for her husband, brimming over with joy. At long last, she was with child. The farmer and his wife celebrated the occasion for three full days and nights, then started preparing hastily for the arrival of their new bundle of joy. As the time drew nearer, however, something did not seem to be quite right.

The farmer's wife complained constantly of strange pains as her pregnancy progressed, and soon she became deathly ill. The village midwife worried the farmer's wife would not live long enough to give birth, but by nothing short of a miracle she did. It took two agonizing days for their child to enter the world, but eventually the blessed moment arrived. The farmer and his wife were finally parents to a beautiful, golden-haired little girl. They didn't have much time to celebrate, however, before tragedy struck.

Bringing their little girl into the world proved to be too much strain on the farmer's poor wife. She expired the same hour her daughter was born, staining the blessed event with the bitter tang of grief. The farmer vowed on her tombstone that he would raise their daughter well - exactly as his late wife would have intended - and he did all he could to keep that vow. As an extra homage, or perhaps as a way to keep his dearly departed wife close, he named their daughter after her: Rapunzel.

Every winter that passed, Rapunzel grew in both grace and beauty. Even from an early age, however, the farmer knew there was something unusual about his little girl. First, and most obviously, was the color of her lovely tresses. No one in the farmer's family had ever had such illustrious locks of gold; a fact that everyone in their village knew well. It wasn't long before tongues began to wag, spreading rumors that Rapunzel was not the farmer's child at all. Of course, the farmer quashed these rumors as fast as he was able, using both his wit and his fists as the need arose. He knew without a doubt that his late wife had been staunchly faithful to him, and he refused to have her memory tainted by such falsehoods.

Truly, it wasn't the color of his daughter's hair that worried him... it was the length of it. Rapunzel's flowing golden locks grew like a patch of weeds, sometimes up to an inch a week. It grew so quickly, that it brushed her ankles by the time she was three. No matter how short or how often the farmer cut it for her, the full length of it was restored completely within a fortnight. Rapunzel didn't seem bothered by her hair, though, except when she tripped over it or got it caught in a door on occasion. The farmer tried not to worry about it, convincing himself it was just a mostly harmless, odd little quirk, and he could learn to live with it. As more time passed, however, other things surfaced that seemed a bit less harmless.

Almost from the moment she learned to talk, the farmer would wake in the middle of the night to voices coming from Rapunzel's side of the hovel. At first, he thought she was simply talking in her sleep - a trait she'd inherited from her late mother - until he actually laid awake one night and listened to what she was saying. He couldn't catch every word, but it seemed like she was having a conversation with someone. Someone he could neither see nor hear. Soon she was having these one-sided conversations at all times of the day, to the point where he stopped and asked one afternoon who she was speaking to.

Rapunzel, who was barely five at the time, gave her father a strange - almost haunted look - as if she were seeing through him for a moment. In a blink, her rosy cheeks stretched in that sweet little smile he knew so well, and she let out a soft giggle. The only answer she would give him was, "a friend", which was frustratingly vague. The farmer eventually gave up, trying to put the whole affair out of his mind. Rapunzel was still only a small child; small children had big imaginations. He hoped whatever phase this was would end soon once she grew up a little more. But, to his dismay, things began gradually getting worse.

The summer Rapunzel turned eight, a rash of unexplained illnesses broke out across the village. People who were otherwise healthy as horses suddenly dropped dead in the street for no apparent reason. Some feared it was a plague, or perhaps the Hand of God come to smite them. At first, the farmer was likewise inclined with these thoughts... until he witnessed a strange and horrific event that scarred him for the rest of his days.

That fateful afternoon, he saw his lovely Rapunzel walking down the lane toward home. She'd been picking wildflowers at the edge of the forest, and by the look of the basket in her arms she'd done quite well indeed. The farmer waved to her from his field as she approached, but she didn't seem to notice him yet. A moment later, the farmer realized why, and his heart sank like a stone: even at a distance, he could see her lips moving, talking to her Friend That Wasn't There. She even held her right hand in a fist, swinging it at her side just like when they walked hand in hand together to Sunday morning mass. The farmer warned her time and again about talking to her Friend away from home, fearing the other villagers would think her mad if she was caught.

His deepest fears were realized that day, as a boy from the neighboring farm suddenly looked up when she passed him. The boy stopped working immediately as she walked by, his head tilting like a little lapdog and his face scrunched up in a curious frown. They were still too far away for the farmer to hear what they were saying, but he could see the boy's confusion and fear clearly from where he was. Hoping to save his daughter's reputation before it could be ruined, the farmer hurried over to intervene. By the time he was within hearing range, Rapunzel and the boy were shouting at one another.

The boy - who was a few years older than Rapunzel - insisted loudly that there was no one there, while Rapunzel argued just as loudly that there was. To be fair, the boy hurled some insults and slurs at Rapunzel that he ought not have said, accusing her of being stupid and soft-headed. The farmer was steps away from the pair, ready to give that reckless, smart-mothed boy a sound thrashing and demand an apology on his daughter's behalf. He never even had the chance to open his mouth, however, before it happened.

The farmer had never seen Rapunzel so angry. She shook from her toes to the tips of her golden hair, which dragged the ground behind her. The warm, pleasant sunshine suddenly turned dark overhead, and the cool spring air grew ice cold. Then - without any warning at all - the boy clutched his throat as if he were being strangled and fell to the ground.

Horrified, the farmer dropped to his knees beside the boy to see if he was alright. To his shock and abhorrence, the boy was stone dead. There was not a mark upon his body; no broken bones; no blood. It was as if he just decided to stop breathing, and fell over dead. Exactly like everyone else in the village who'd died recently.

While the farmer wrestled with his barely contained fear and shock, he looked back up at his daughter. Rapunzel stared down at the boy with an eerily placid expression, as if he were a muddy stick on the ground. Of course, the farmer asked her what had happened, as he didn't know what else to say. Rapunzel was quiet for an uncomfortably long time, her hand still curled around thin air. When she finally spoke, all she said was, "he should have been nice to me."

Fearful of his own child, the farmer turned to the only person he could think of for help. He brought her that same hour to the old crone's house, deep in the heart of the forest. The kindly old woman - thankfully - was still living, and her wits were as sharp as ever. Just like when he came to her eight years ago, she was immediately sympathetic to his plight. While Rapunzel played in the garden outside, the crone listened carefully to his worries about Rapunzel's Invisible Friend. When the farmer described what he had seen with his own eyes, the crone's warm, pleasant demeanor chilled to deep concern. She instructed the farmer to leave Rapunzel in her care, promising she'd do everything she could to help the girl. The moment she got up from her table to escort him out, though, the old woman grabbed her bosom with a sharp, pained gasp, and toppled over onto the floor like a hewn oak.

The farmer was at once shocked and deeply puzzled, until he saw Rapunzel standing in the doorway. The way she looked at him made his blood run cold, as if she were a monster wearing his daughter's skin. A flash of gold in her hand drew his eye downward then, and he recoiled at what he saw. Clenched in her little fist was a handful of those same golden flowers he'd seen years ago. The ones the old crone had warned him not to touch. He never thought about it before, but their bright, flaxen hue matched his daughter's hair perfectly.

After taking his daughter home in stone silence, the farmer paced outside his hovel all night long. He loved Rapunzel with all his heart, but these strange abilities she possessed were just too much for him to bear. A simple farmer like him couldn't even comprehend the things she was able to do, if it was even her doing it at all. If the village found out Rapunzel was the cause of so many mysterious and unnatural deaths, they would condemn her as a witch. After losing his wife so suddenly, the farmer couldn't even entertain the notion for more than a second.

No; he would not let them kill her... but he couldn't very well control her either. If he tried, she may grow to resent him, adding him to the lengthy list of villagers who'd already met their untimely demise. Heartbroken beyond words, the farmer stared out across his fields as the rising sun set them aglow.

That's when he saw it.

Just visible above the tops of the trees in the forest far into the distance was the crumbling roof of an old tower. The last vestiges of an ancient castle, built by kings who were long forgotten by now. No one in the village dared to go there if they could help it, as they believed it to be full of wicked spirits and mischievous faeries. It was far from an ideal solution, but the farmer felt he had no other options at this point. All he had to do now was figure out a way for Rapunzel to follow him there willingly.

It took a few days of planning, but eventually the farmer was ready to take action. He led Rapunzel into the forest early one morning, claiming they were going to go mushroom picking. Rapunzel had never picked mushrooms before, and the idea tickled the girl's fancy exactly as expected. The two of them walked hand in hand deep into the forest, and for a while all seemed to be going well. That is, until the farmer noticed her opposite hand was curled around the air like before. Realizing she'd brought her "Friend" along unnerved him a bit, but he tried not to think about it.

By midday, they'd reached the foot of the tower at long last. Ever a curious little girl, Rapunzel asked her father if they could go inside and have a look around. The farmer indulged her whims - of course - following far behind as she sprinted up those winding steps to the top. With every step, his heart grew heavier, realizing what he was doing at long last. As much as he feared Rapunzel, she was still his beloved daughter; it just wasn't in him to imprison her in this dark, cold, lonely tower like a feral beast. He opened his mouth to call out to her, planning to whisk her back home as fast as he could, when a scream rang out from the top of the tower.

His heart racing, the farmer raced up the last few steps to save his poor daughter. He feared she might be hurt, or perhaps she'd stumbled across a band of ruffians using the tower as a hideout. When he finally reached the top, he froze in his tracks. Not believing what he was seeing.

The kindly old crone was alive and well again, even though he was sure she had no pulse when he left her cabin days ago. Rapunzel was huddled in the corner, snarling and thrashing like a wild dog, while a pair of shimmering gold shackles kept her hands pinned to her side. The shadows all around her billowed and swirled like sheets of black silk, lashing out at the old woman whenever they could. The crone kept them at bay, however, with a silver lantern that hung on the end of her walking stick.

Before the farmer asked how the old woman could still be alive, the crone insisted that he leave. She told him to forget that he ever had a child, because truthfully he never did: the creature in chains before her was no girl at all, but an evil spirit. The farmer understood very little of this, but he heeded the old crone's warning. Even as he left the tower - shaking from fright and weeping with grief - he could hear the spirit's cries following him down to the ground. Begging for him to come back up and save her.

He waited outside the tower for what felt a lifetime before the crone emerged. The old woman looked exhausted but satisfied, settling onto a hickory stump the moment she left the tower. With a wave of her hand, the door behind her bricked itself up, sealing so tight that not even an ant could find its way inside. As soon as she caught her breath, she explained everything to the farmer in full.

Those little golden flowers in her garden were Necromancer Blooms. The farmer had heard of them since he was a small boy, of course, and the horrible things they could do: making dead men walk out of their graves; causing the calmest, most docile animals to suddenly attack their masters; allowing certain people to see the spirits of the dead, wandering the earth even after their bodies had turned to dust. Until now, however, he never imagined Necromancer Blooms actually existed, or that all the stories about them could be true.

As he listened to the old crone, the farmer's heart once again turned to lead, aching with grief. The child that he'd come to know and love - his darling Little Rapunzel - had died long before she was ever born. From the moment she entered the world, the dark spirit had entered her body, piloting her undead husk and shaping it in a form that was pleasing to the eye. He still had so many questions, but he was too heartsick to ask the first one. With a heavy heart, he thanked the old crone for her guidance, and plodded back to his farm alone.

When he got back to his village, no one seemed to remember that Rapunzel had ever existed. The crone's magic was indeed strong, as even the farmer managed to forget after a day. Some years later he remarried, and he and his new wife were blessed with a house full of children. While the farmer finally found the happiness he'd desired for so long, the cold shadow of that tower loomed mournfully over the village still. And the evil spirit trapped within it endured.

Long after the farmer and his children's children grew old, the tower stood strong. Rumor began to spread across the land about that tower, mostly from merchants traveling through the forest to sell their wares to the rapidly growing cities and townships around it. Some claimed to hear a maiden singing when they drew near the tower, and saw a luxurious mane of flaxen hair waving from the lone window at the very top. It was said those golden locks were so long, they reached over a hundred feet down to the tower's base. These claims were scoffed at, naturally, but curious travelers were eventually drawn to the tower to see for themselves.

Few who traveled out to the tower ever returned. Most confirmed that the rumors were true: they had seen those flowing tresses with their own eyes, and heard the maiden's mournful song. Others - stricken white with absolute terror - insisted that there was no maiden in the tower. What it held was a monster, of unfathomable evil.

There was one man who was drawn to the tower by all these tales, a bit braver - or perhaps more foolish - than the rest. His companions who traveled to the tower with him boasted that he'd grabbed onto that golden mane and shinnied up it like a rope. They chose not to follow him, and all were very glad they didn't. He was barely at the top for a minute when they heard him screaming in horror from the ground. While they were still scrambling to produce a rope to climb up and rescue him, he leapt from the tower in a panic. Miraculously, he survived, but his eyes didn't. To his companion's horror and confusion, he'd gouged them out with his own hands before plummeting to the ground. Whatever he saw that drove him to such action, however, no one could get him to tell.

Some say the tower was torn down long ago, or perhaps it simply buckled to Time's grueling march. On foggy mornings, however, the top of that tower is still barely visible above the dense canopy that contains it. Even now, there are travelers who are drawn to it, either by a woman's melodic keening or mournful cries. If you happen to spy that tower, Friend, and the gilded tresses flowing down from it, I warn you: do not draw near, no matter how sorely you may be tempted. Spirits don't die, you see. Rapunzel still lives... still yearning to be free.