It was a whispered story.
The poor girls who had been lured away and taken there.
The unspeakable things done to them.
The killer, so clever, no remains were ever found.
None to know their agonies but the silent trees overhead.
Trees who bore witness to what had been committed under their boughs they only way they could.
First one, then another, then another.
Reddened leaves to mark the spilled blood.
She smiled every time the story made its rounds.
Girls would have made the leaves much too pale, a simple pink.
Men were needed for that shade she loved.