Short & Shivery

by Robert D. San Souci

  It was pointed out that the first to fall victim were persons who had attended Lady Eleanore’s ball at Province House. In fact, the blood-red flag that marked every house where smallpox had entered, had first been seen waving over the door of Province House.

  Though no one outside the house had seen Lady Eleanore since the night of the ill-fated ball, it was rumored that the disease had crossed the sea from London in her gorgeous mantle. It was said that fate and misery had been woven into its gold and silver threads by a woman already dying of the disease. People whispered that this had been a punishment of Eleanore for her pride and cruelty.

  People cursed her and called each red warning flag, “A new triumph for the Lady Eleanore.”

  They shunned Province House, and most of its inhabitants fled. So there was no one to stop Gervase Helwyse when he entered one evening. Quickly he climbed the stairs to the upper hallway, throwing open door after door, calling “Lady Eleanore!”

  At last, from the gloom of a darkened chamber, a woman’s voice murmured, “A drop of water! My throat is scorched!”

  Gervase stepped a little way into the room. Spotting the mantle, into which a dead woman had innocently embroidered a spell of dreadful power, he shuddered. Then he drew near the canopied bed, where something stirred behind the silken curtains. He pulled the drapes apart and saw a skeletal figure that tried to hide a hideous face with clawlike hands. “Do not look at me!” the woman croaked.

  “Who are you?” asked the young man, fascinated and repelled by the vision. “What are you doing in my lady’s chamber?”

  “I am one who wrapped myself in pride as in a mantle and scorned you,” she rasped, “Now you are avenged. I am Eleanore Rochcliffe.”

  “Another triumph for the Lady Eleanore!” cried Gervase, driven completely mad by her words. “All have been her victims! It is fitting that the final victim is herself!”

  Then, laughing wildly, he snatched up the fatal mantle and ran from Province House.

  That night a torchlit procession, led by Gervase, carried the straw figure of a woman, wrapped in a fantastically embroidered mantle, to the square in front of Province House. There the mob burned the effigy, and a strong wind came and swept away the ashes. And it was said from that hour, the disease abated, as if, from first to last, it had some mysterious connection with Lady Eleanore’s mantle.

  No one knew the lady’s fate for certain. But for a long time afterward, there was talk that in a certain chamber of the mansion, a woman’s ghostly form could be seen, shrinking into the shadows and muffling her face with a richly embroidered mantle.

  The Soldier and the Vampire

  (a Russian folktale)

  In the days when the czars still ruled Russia, a soldier was allowed to go home on leave to attend the wedding of his sister. He traveled on foot; and though it was a long journey, it was a pleasant one. It was almost summer, and the days were mild; the countryside he crossed was thick with forests and sweeping meadows filled with wildflowers. He was eager to see his family after his long absence, so he set himself a “double-time” march pace and whistled a lively tune as he hurried along.

  Late in the day he came to a mill less than two hours from the village where he had been born. It belonged to an old friend, so he stopped there to beg something to eat and drink, because he had had nothing to eat since morning.

  The miller welcomed him warmly and set out a generous meal for the younger man. Soon the two of them were chattering away about this and that.

  Suddenly the soldier looked through the window at the darkening sky and cried, “It’s almost nightfall. I’ll have to make haste the rest of the way home.” He started to get up from the table.

  “Spend the night here, my friend!” said the miller quickly. “It’s so late, you’re sure to run into trouble.”

  “What do you mean?” the younger man asked.

  “A terrible wizard died near the village recently,” his friend explained. “Every night he rises from his grave as a vampire, wanders the countryside, and steals the lives of the innocent to prolong his own life-in-death. Even a brave soldier like you should be afraid of such an evil creature.”

  “I’ve seen evil enough in war,” said the soldier gently. “Meeting a monster such as you describe can’t seem too bad after the horrors of the battlefield. And I’m eager to see my family as soon as possible.”

  The miller tried to argue further with him, but the young man’s mind was made up. So off he went.

  As it turned out, he reached the village without seeing the vampire. But when he reached his parents’ cottage, he heard lamenting and weeping coming from inside. Pushing open the door, he found his parents and the young man who was to become his brother-in-law huddled by the fire, trying to comfort each other.

  “Oh, my son!” cried his mother, rushing to embrace the soldier, “you’ve come for a wedding, but you’ll go to a funeral instead.” She began sobbing against his chest.

  His father placed a hand sadly on the young man’s shoulder and told him, “Tonight we discovered your sister had been visited by a wizard who has risen from the grave and who plagues us. She sleeps the sleep that will end in death tomorrow night, when the creature uses her life to escape his grave once more. And there is nothing to be done.”

  “Why haven’t you destroyed the body of this vampire before now?” demanded the soldier, distraught at the news.

  “No one knows where the creature lies buried during the day,” the young man who was to marry his sister explained. “And at night he is too powerful to resist.”

  At this the soldier went into the back room. His sister, dressed as a bride, lay on her bed, pale in the moonlight streaming through a single narrow window. Her chest barely rose and fell; she seemed to grow weaker with each breath she drew. Her hands, palms open at her sides, showed red wounds where something had pierced them and drawn off some of her blood.

  The soldier left the room quietly and walked to the door of the cottage.

  “Where are you going?” his father asked.

  “To try and undo the horror that’s been done tonight,” answered the soldier. Then he marched out into the darkness, before they could draw him back inside.

  He walked the road that ran past the village graveyard but met no one. He was almost a half mile beyond it, where the road ran through a thick part of the forest, when a dark figure, smelling of damp and earth, came shambling out of the shadows. The figure fell in step beside him, but the soldier kept walking along, as if he hadn’t a fear in the world, though he guessed it was the wizard returned from the dead who was keeping pace with him.

  Now the soldier’s travels had taken him far and wide, and shown him many things, so he was able to make a sign with his right hand that signaled to the wizard that he was a wizard also.

  “Hail, brother,” said the shadowy figure, “what are you doing here?”

  “I heard that you have found the secret of life-in-death,” said the young man boldly, “and that by stealing some of the blood of the living, you are able to cheat death for another day.”

  “That’s true enough,” confessed the wizard. “Only tonight I stole the lifeblood of a village maiden. Tomorrow, at sunset, her life will become mine, and she will die so that I can live.”

  “How is this done?” asked the soldier.

  “Come with me, and I will show you,” said the wizard. “But I feel the dawn is drawing near, and I must return to my grave before light. You can keep me company on my way.”

  Together they turned off the path and entered the shadowy woods. For a long time they made their way through the tangled trees and bushes in silence. At last they entered a clearing, where just enough moonlight sifted through the branches to let the soldier see the face of the wizard, which was streaked with dirt and mold. In the center of the open space, the earth lay tumbled about, and the young man guessed this was the sorcerer’s grave.

  Seating himself on a fallen log, the soldier said, “Now, make good y
our promise, and tell me the secret of life-in-death.”

  From the pocket of his rotting waistcoat, the wizard took a small flask of blood. It glowed like fire in the moonlight. “Just before dawn, I will swallow this. Then the girl’s life will leave her body and enter mine the following sunset.”

  “And if those few drops of blood were returned to her, would she awake?”

  Smiling, the wizard shook his head. “If I was destroyed utterly, so that not a bit of my soul escaped, then she would be restored. My magic is already at work on her. And now,” said the monster, taking a step toward the soldier, “I’ll tear you to pieces. Though you know a thing or two, you’re no true wizard to be asking me these questions.”

  Then the soldier realized that the wicked creature had only been toying with him, luring him into the woods to destroy him and maybe steal his life, too.

  “In God’s name, I won’t give you an easy time of it!” cried the soldier, jumping up and drawing his sword.

  The wizard gnashed his teeth and howled like a wolf at mention of the holy name and the sight of cold steel, which is one thing such creatures fear. The soldier began swinging his blade wildly. The wizard, who kept leaping from one side to the next, tried to grab hold of the young man with his clawlike hands.

  Finally, after they had fought almost to a standstill, the vampire struck the soldier’s sword arm and sent his blade flying away into the shadows. Instantly the creature fell on the young man, who struggled and struggled, but felt his strength giving out. “Ah!” he thought to himself, “I’m done for now.”

  But at that instant the cocks began to crow, and the first light of dawn touched the tips of the tallest trees. The vampire fell lifeless to the ground.

  Quickly the soldier took the flask of blood from the creature’s pocket. Then he built a pyre of aspen boughs, placed the wizard’s body on it, and set it on fire. He drew his sword and circled the edge of the flames.

  As the fire grew hotter, the body changed to a mass of snakes, lizards, toads, worms, and beetles. These tried to creep away from the blaze. But the soldier remembered he had to destroy the creature utterly, so not a bit of his wicked soul could escape. He caught each crawling thing and flung it back into the fire, so that not the tiniest insect escaped.

  When the body was utterly consumed, he scattered the ashes to the four winds. Then he returned to the village, where he poured the stolen drops of blood back into the wounds in his sister’s hands, so that she came awake again.

  After that, the wedding went on as planned. And the village was never troubled by the vampire again.

  The Skeleton’s Dance

  (a folktale from Japan)

  In Japan, many years ago, there were two young men, Taro and Jiro, who were good friends. When they were old enough, they left the village in which they had been born to journey together to the distant city to make their fortunes.

  Now Taro worked very hard and earned a great deal of money. But Jiro quickly fell in with companions of the wrong sort and spent all his time lounging in tea shops during the day, becoming drunk and roisterous at night, and learning the ways of thieves and murderers.

  Still, the young men remained friends, though Taro was very sad to see how corrupt Jiro had become. After three years, Taro decided to return home and asked his friend to join him. It was his hope that, away from the city and its wicked ways, Jiro might become again the good man he had once seemed.

  In truth, Jiro had borrowed and spent a great deal of money, and many of his former companions were demanding he pay them back. He was eager to escape the city, because he had no intention of making good his debts. So he said to Taro, “I really do want to go back, but I have no clothes for the trip.”

  Since he now had a good deal of money, Taro happily shared it with his friend. He gave Jiro money enough for clothes and some extra to buy food and lodging along the way. However, when they reached the mountain pass, beyond which lay their home village, Jiro attacked Taro and killed his friend. He took Taro’s money, rolled the body beneath a bush, and went the rest of the way home, as if nothing had happened.

  The villagers greeted him warmly, and many asked, “What has become of your good friend, Taro.”

  “Oh,” replied Jiro, “that is a sad story. He fell in with bad companions the moment we reached the city. From that day to this, he has done nothing but waste his money in the company of the most wicked men. I begged him to return with me, in the hopes that he would mend his ways once he was home. But he only laughed at me, and made rude remarks about this village, and had his criminal friends drive me away.”

  At this, there was much indignant head shaking among the villagers, who said that Taro deserved whatever misery happened to him.

  For a few days Jiro made a show of being the same good-hearted fellow he had once been. But he quickly began to gamble and waste his money in drunken revels. Soon he had spent all the money he had stolen from Taro. Because he refused to do honest work, he decided to return to the city, where he would give himself another name and live by stealing from wealthy citizens.

  On his way back, he again traveled the mountain pass, where he had killed his friend, Taro. As he was striding through the pass, he heard a voice calling, “Jiro! Jiro!”

  Puzzled, he looked all around, but could see nothing except bushes and the rocky mountain walls. Thinking the wind was playing a trick on him, he continued on his way.

  But he had only gone a few paces when the voice cried again, “Jiro! Jiro!”

  Determined to find the answer to this mystery, he followed the cries to a thicket far back from the road. Parting the brush and peering through, Jiro discovered a skeleton sprawled on the ground. Even as he looked on in amazement, the skeleton sat up and said, “Has it been such a long time that you’ve forgotten me, my friend? I am Taro, whom you killed and robbed. I have been waiting here, hoping that I would meet you again some day.”

  Terrified, Jiro turned to run, but the skeleton seized his kimono in its bony hand, and would not let him escape.

  “Don’t be so quick to run away. Tell me what you have been doing since you struck me down.”

  Choking with fear, Jiro told how he had gone home and spent all Taro’s money and was now going to the city to become a thief.

  “You haven’t changed,” said the skeleton. “But you are sure to come to a bad end if you become a thief. I have a better idea. I will dance like this—” Here the skeleton began to dance, rattling and clattering his bones together, waving his arms in the air and kicking with his legs. Then he continued, “You can put me in a box and carry me around with you, and people will pay you to see me dance. Since I won’t eat or wear clothes, and money means nothing to me, you can earn a great deal without expense.”

  “Why should you do this for me?” asked Jiro, though his mind was already filled with pictures of the fortune he could earn.

  “I am bound to you in death as in life,” said Taro. “Will you accept my offer?”

  “Yes,” said Jiro. Then he took the skeleton and purchased a beautiful teakwood chest to store it in, and toured the countryside, playing a flute while the skeleton danced in front of wondering crowds. The money poured in, enough so that Jiro could spend it as fast and foolishly as before, and still have some left over.

  Eventually word of Jiro and his dancing skeleton reached the most powerful lord of the province. He summoned Jiro to his castle and told him to have the skeleton dance in the vast hall that was filled with his guests.

  Jiro opened the chest, stretched Taro’s skeleton out on the bamboo matting, and began to play a lively tune on his flute. But the skeleton simply lay there. Jiro played tune after tune, then began to yell and curse, but the skeleton refused to move.

  Finally, in a rage, Jiro took his flute and began to beat upon the bones, commanding them to get up and dance.

  At that moment, the skeleton sat up, climbed to its feet, and walked to the throne of the great lord. There, bowing humbly, it said, “My lord, I
have been dancing all this time, just so word would reach you, and I would be brought before you. In my life, I was your honest subject, Taro. This fellow killed me and robbed me of my money.” Then the skeleton told exactly how this had happened.

  The lord, who was a just man, was angered at the way Jiro had betrayed his friend. “Seize that man, and take him away to be tried!” he ordered his guards.

  At that moment the skeleton fell to pieces before the throne; and three days later Jiro was sentenced to death for his crimes.

  Scared to Death

  (United States—South Carolina)

  Some ten years after the Civil War, the old Charleston mansion named Roseway was ablaze with lights and bursting with music. An orchestra, hired by Stephen Heyward, played waltz after waltz in the huge ballroom in honor of his daughter Sally’s eighteenth birthday.

  Sally, however, had quickly grown bored with the whole affair and had steered a cluster of handsome young men and beautiful young women to the open area at the foot of the magnificent staircase. There she stood, rearranging her pale yellow skirts that rose, ruffle upon ruffle, to her waist. Her bare shoulders were adorned with a single fall of jet-black hair, which tumbled over her left shoulder. A perfect red rose was pinned to her bodice, setting off the whiteness of her skin.

  Even if she hadn’t been mistress of Roseway since her mother’s untimely death—or hadn’t flirted so outrageously—Sally would have easily drawn the attention of the young men now gathered around her because of her beauty. Her dark eyes, ivory skin, and bubbling laughter charmed men of all ages.

  At the moment, however, she was quiet. She was looking unabashedly at tall, dark Peter Beaufort, while listening intently to what Alice Cardross, his fiancée, was saying.

  Breathlessly Alice informed the little cluster of friends, “When our carriage passed the graveyard tonight, both horses reared up. I declare, I was so frightened, I almost lost my wits.”