Long ago, before Hatteras was a destination for tourists, or a marker for navigation, it served as a quiet yet hardscrabble land for the few fishermen and their families. The men spent most of their time upon the sea, and the women and children spent most of their time worrying about the men, probably. Then there was Cora.
Cora lived alone in a shack on the soundside of Buxton. She had no family, except for a small child, a quiet and solemn little one that was always her companion. If others had things to complain, she certainly didn't. The fishermen knew that there would be good days and bad days, when the wind blew hard or when the sails were still, the nets were full or empty. But Cora always had fish.
Of course, the rest of the village was sure Cora was a witch.
Once, a cow stopped giving milk when she touched it. And a young boy fell deathly ill, almost dying, when he made a face and teased Cora's child. People knew to give her a wider berth.
Locals knew. Visitors did not. And oddly enough, Hatteras did on occasion get visitors. They were not entirely wanted, nor were they willing. But Hatteras was not known as the Graveyard of the Atlantic for nothing. Shipwrecked sailors occasionally washed up on shore, as they would for centuries on the sandy spit of land.
A certain Captain Blood wound up in that exact position. He and his crew washed ashore along with all the other flotsam that accompanies a good shipwreck. The good captain was taken in by the townsfolk, while his crew enjoyed setting up camp on the beach, and living the reckless life. The more things change, the more they stay the same.
Unfortunately, one of the local young men of the village turned up more than slightly dead on the beach one morning. Small footprints led away into the woods, and the numbers 666 were carved into his forehead, above a face frozen in terror.
So of course, it had to be a witch.
Now, the rest of the town were willing to ponder the chances of this, but Captain Blood was a man of action. The captain, a New England sailor, had long dealt with witches, so he said, and he quickly gathered up poor Cora and performed his dastardly tests on her, throwing her into the sound to see if she would float, trying to cut her hair, the usual. He proclaimed her a witch and decided to tie her to a tree and burn her, along with her wicked child. The townsfolk were aghast, they insisted that she be taken to the mainland and be tried. But Captain Blood was not to be swayed.
When he approached the tree with his torch, the sky began to darken and boil. A storm appeared on the formerly cloudless day. A bolt of lightning flashed and its thunder cracked immediately after. The tree was split down to the trunk; all around were knocked to the ground, senseless.
When they awoke, the smell of brimstone permeated the air. The ropes still twisted around the tree, blackened and smoking. But no Cora, and no child. Cora had vanished utterly.
Now, the story could end there, just another fancy tale on the Outer Banks, if not for one thing. The tree is still there.
A huge old oak stumbles out of the ground, reaching up and out with splintered limbs. The tree hangs on, even though it suffers a vicious wound. The trunk is ripped open, with a big dark hole in it. And carved into the wood, as if with a scorching finger, is the name CORA.
if you want to know more, and where to find the tree, check out Did You See That? On The Outer Banks, on sale at Amazon.
http://www.amazon.com/Did-You-That-Outer-Banks-ebook/dp/B00Q7MV1NK/ref=asap_bc?ie=UTF8
