Category Archives: fantasy

The Haunting in The Bedford Oak

July 24, 2025

Charlotte Knight is walking this path to the famous oak tree in Bedford, New York. This giant white oak is not far from Draakensky Windmill Estate. The tree is massive and drenched in sunlight, and has lived for over 500 years.

The spread of its branches is 130 feet, and its girth is more than 30 feet. This great-branching tree wears a mesmerizing face scattered across the sky.

Charlotte walks light-footed here. Shifting shadows linger behind her shoulders. She turns, “Who’s there?”

No one is visible. Perhaps a bird throwing shade. Or just the wind easing by—or waiting. As she gazes up at the tree, she sees chambers. The spaces glow like windows in a temple.

Come closer.

She follows the instruction waving into her mind and steps closer. The air is quiet as a feather now. Except for the looming hums from that darkened pink blaze striking between the leaves.

“What is that?” She rephrases, “Who is that?”

Come closer and look deeper.

At the center, she sees the image of a black figure, gnarled and tangled. Eyes meet. In that darkness, Charlotte finds a soft deceitful smile.

Charlotte cannot resist the urge to touch the tree as if she could hug a brave old father. The beauty and the danger are irresistible. With her hands on the trunk, she sniffs the fragrance. Woody. Brash. Bittersweet.

“What mysteries do you have for me?”

Look deeply, place yourself inside my green leafy cottage.  I have secrets to tell.

“Tell me a secret first,” she tempts the old oak and listens for the answer. This is what Charlotte hears.

“Lovely, but this is only your oak leaves spilling over themselves. What secret do you have to tell?

A bold, silent throng emerges.

Knowing a tree’s power resides in trust, she gazes upon the oak leaves.

A wispy flock of clouds passes overhead with the empty minutes speeding by. Her light-footed steps retreat down the path.  She drives out of Hook Road into Bedford Village, the oak’s mesmerizing face scattering across the sky.  She does not hear the voice following her into The Grackle Bar and Grill.

 There is a murder about to happen.

Charlotte Knight

There are great mysteries in trees. In Celtic folklore, the oak tree possesses a cosmic link, a kind of spinning axis, that connects Earth and sky to the Otherworld realms. When Charlotte walks into the Grackle Bar and Grill in Bedford, she meets Marc Sexton, impossibly sexy, and endowed with breath-catching eyes of blue—a man who possesses mysterious Celtic enchantments.

Marc Sexton

“Good afternoon.” The bartender strolled toward her, a hell of a cute guy with blond wavy hair and eyes slashed brilliant blue. “Welcome. Having a good day?”

“At the moment, yes,” she said eagerly.

He smiled—pow! Instant seduction. His burgundy cable-knit sweater threw cheerful hues. “My first time here,” she gave him a gleam back.

“I see you’re not a regular at The Grackle Bar. What can I get you?”

She read the cocktail menu descriptions on the wall. “What’s The Grackle? ‘Burnt whips and gales and stormy hail’? Sounds dangerous.”

“You’ll love it. Our signature cocktail. Cold coffee, Sexton Irish Whiskey, kick of cayenne, spices, two stabs of bacon.”

“Bacon?” she said, resisting the urge to lick her lips. “Sounds perfect.”

“You got it.” He put his hand out for a shake. “Marc Sexton.”

“Charlotte Knight.” His grip penetrated warm and calming.

He reached for a stemmed goblet. “You passing through Bedford on your way to—?”

“I’m here for a few months. I saw that Bedford Oak on Old Bedford Road. Some kind of god, that tree. Ravishing.”

“That oak is our prize citizen. A resident sage.  Some trees have shackled power. Not The Bedford Oak. He’s a true warrior.”

“Really? Forests are a big attraction for me. I’m hoping to spend time in nature and walk the wild woods here.”

He tossed crushed ice into a goblet and free-poured from a black bottle with a skeleton in a top hat on the label. “You want to escape into the forests, hike with some wild man, and muse with Mother Earth?”

She wanted to purr at that. “I don’t know. Are there wild men in Bedford?”

“A few of us around,” he whispered, then splashed coffee and a shake of spices into the glass. “I’m owner and barkeep. I live in a renovated barn in Bedford woods, chock-full of owls and wild geese.” His voice came in smooth notes from deep in his chest.

With a twist of his hand, Marc waved a blowgun to smoke a cinnamon stick under a glass bell; he topped off the drink with two bacon sticks flaring out into dark wings. Smoke swirled as he placed the drink down.

“The Grackle. For the lovely lady looking for a wild man.”