There was a neem tree at the edge of the village where a widow had once been stoned to death, accused of witchcraft. After her death, monkeys gathered there in strange numbers. At first, the villagers thought nothing of it. Then the attacks began.
Children playing nearby returned with claw marks, their eyes wide with terror. Goats tethered near the tree were found ripped apart, their entrails hanging from the branches. At night, the monkeys shrieked, not like animals, but like women weeping.
One evening, a drunken man challenged the curse. He stumbled to the tree, shouting that no witch could scare him. At dawn, they found him hanging upside down from the branches, his throat torn out, his face smeared with neem leaves. The monkeys sat around him, silent, like mourners at a funeral.
The villagers avoid the neem tree now. They say the widow never left. She only found new bodies to wear, and new mouths to scream through.
