It is said there is an old field, where heavy mist shrouds everything in a thick, hazy gloom. Except, of course, for the birch.
The birch is old and, they say, the birch is mean.
Its wiry branches will whip in the wind and, if you get too close, will give you a good thrashing harsh enough to draw blood.
It is said that blood had long ago awakened the tree and that, having gotten a taste of it, the tree now hungers for more. They say the birch learned to call the wind, using it to whip its branches into a frenzy that will then flay those unsuspecting who passed by.
It is said the tree turned black in its core, and that no one ever dares to go near it—not even the mist. They say to be careful when out in the old field, and to run whenever the wind starts to stir.