Even More Short & Shivery

by Robert D. San Souci

  “Just what would you be willing to do to get the money?” asked Angus.

  “Anything!” answered Sandy.

  “Well, then,” said Angus slyly, “I’ll give you what you need if you’ll spend as much of the night alone in the old church as it takes to sew me a new pair of trousers.”

  Now, Sandy knew all the stories about the ruined church being haunted by strange creatures. But his love for Flora was so strong that he agreed on the spot to what Angus proposed.

  “Then,” said Angus, “settle yourself in the church on the stroke of midnight. And when you’ve made the trousers, bring them to my door. I’ll pay you for your sewing and your courage.”

  Angus sounded cheerful enough, but he secretly hoped that something terrible would happen to the tailor so that he would be rid of his rival for fair Flora’s heart.

  Shortly before midnight, the brave tailor arrived at the church. First he tested the door to be sure that it would close. Then he pried loose the latch on the inside of the door, leaving the outside latch as it was. This way, the door could be drawn shut from the outside, but not pulled open from the inside. He left the door ajar.

  Inside, the fire-blackened stone walls were pierced with tall, narrow windows barely wide enough for a man’s fist to fit through. Moonlight shone down through a hole where the center of the roof had fallen in. But it gave scant light. The tailor settled himself in one of the pews near the door, lit a tallow candle, and began to sew. The wavering flame sent shadows dancing all around him.

  At first, all was quiet. Then, as the stroke of midnight tolled, the tailor gasped.

  Leaning toward him out of the darkness was a great fleshless skull with grinning jaws and sockets without eyes. In a horrible, hoarse voice the bony jaws rasped, “See’st thou this big gray skull, O tailor?”

  “That I see, but this I sew,” replied the terrified little man as he bravely went on sewing.

  “See’st thou this long, grizzled throat without food, O tailor?” demanded the thing as more of its ghastly self appeared.

  “That I see, but this I sew,” answered the tailor. Indeed, he was now sewing frantically.

  “See’st thou this long, grizzled trunk without food, O tailor?” questioned the skull. It was drawing nearer, and Sandy could see more of the horrible shape now.

  “That I see, but this I sew,” said the tailor as well as he could through his chattering teeth.

  “See’st thou this long, grizzled thigh without food, O tailor?” said the haunter, stepping fully into the candlelight.

  “That I see, but this I sew,” said Sandy. Indeed, he needed only three or four more stitches to complete the trousers.

  But the skeletal thing was now towering over him. The moonlight, through the ruined roof, made its bones shine so brightly that Sandy could not look at it directly.

  The tailor’s hands were shaking so, he feared he could not finish his work.

  “See’st thou this long, grizzled arm without food, O tailor?” growled the creature of bone and light. It raised its massive dead hand skyward with a loud rattle.

  With trembling hands, the tailor took his last stitch and bit off the end of his thread.

  At that instant, the thing stretched out its bony hand to seize him. Through its fleshless jaws it bellowed, “See’st thou this great, grizzled paw without food, O tailor?”

  But Sandy, gripping the newly made trousers in his hand, sprang to his feet and raced for the door of the church. Before he got through it the skeleton fingers caught at his leg, the nails raking the back of it painfully. Then Sandy was outside and had pulled the door closed behind him.

  As he leaned against the sealed portal he heard the fumblings of the thing as, unable to find the missing latch, it began to scrape and scratch at the wood.

  But the tailor was already racing for Angus’s home.

  Sandy presented himself to Angus, demanding payment of their wager. But Angus denied that Sandy had gone to the church. When Sandy showed the scratches on his leg, Angus claimed he had scraped himself with briars. They exchanged heated words. Finally a group of townsfolk, hearing the tailor’s story and Angus’s challenge, went to investigate the church.

  They found deep scratches and dents that splintered the wood on the inside of the door and that could only have been made by the haunter Sandy had described.

  So Angus was made to pay the tailor what he had promised, and was given the trousers that had cost him so dearly. Then Sandy and Flora were married and lived happily ever after. But to the end of his days, Sandy bore faint scars across the back of one leg, where the bony fingers of the thing had scraped his flesh.

  La Guiablesse

  (West Indies—Martinique)

  It was a breezeless, cloudless noon, the hour of rest. In the dazzling light the hills seemed like blue smoke. Nothing stirred in the nearby fields of ripening cane, nor in the mysterious, vine-veiled woods beyond. The palms along the road held their heads still, as if listening and waiting for something.

  Two young workers, Gabou and Fafa, were taking a break from their labors in the cane fields. They sat beside the road, fanning themselves with their wide straw hats.

  As they watched, a woman came along the road, which led past them, over the mountain. She was young and very tall, with skin the color of polished ebony. She wore a high, white turban, an alabaster robe, and a white scarf draped across her shoulders. Her bare feet carried her swiftly and noiselessly.

  Gabou was startled. He was sure she had appeared on the very stretch of empty road he had just been staring along. How could anyone have appeared so suddenly? he wondered.

  But his friend Fafa just grinned and nudged him. Gabou answered with a smile. Neither had seen her before, but they both felt they could watch her forever: she moved with the grace of a dancer.

  The lovely woman approached the two men, who stood and greeted her, “Bonjou’, Manzell.”

  “Bonjou’, Missie,” she responded. She hardly glanced at Gabou. But she turned large, dark eyes upon Fafa. When she smiled at him, he felt wrapped in a blaze of black lightning.

  “She makes me afraid!” whispered Gabou. Something in her look troubled him, though he could not say what.

  “She does not make me afraid!” said Fafa. Boldly he put on his hat and followed the gently swaying figure, ignoring Gabou, who warned, “Fafa, have a care!”

  But Fafa did not heed. The stranger slowed her pace, waiting for him. In a moment he was at her side. They climbed the mountain road together.

  “Where are you going?” asked Fafa.

  “As far as the River of the Lizard,” she answered.

  “But that is more than thirty kilometers!” he cried.

  “What of that?” she said, gazing at him. “Do you want to come with me?”

  There was such longing in her eyes, he could not resist. He heard the clang of the plantation bell calling him back to work. Far behind them, he saw a white-and-black speck in the sun: It was Gabou. For a moment he became confused. How had they walked so far in such a short time? he wondered. He thought of the overseer’s anger, of the distance. Then he looked again into the woman’s dark eyes and said, “Oui, I will go with you.”

  Then they both laughed like naughty children. She walked on, with Fafa striding beside her.

  “What is your name?” asked Fafa.

  “You must guess for yourself, my sweet.”

  Fafa disliked riddles, but he asked, “Is it Cendrine?”

  “No, that’s not it,” she replied.

  “Is it Vitaline?”

  She shook her head.

  All of his guesses—Aza, Nini, Maiyotte, Loulouze—were wrong.

  Tiring of the game, she quickened her pace and began to sing,

  Listen to this song of mine:

  I have traveled a long, long time.

  Love was gone; now it draws near.

  Will you be my love, my dear?

  Fafa had to walk faster to keep up. His thin cotton shirt grew s
oaked with sweat; he panted. Yet his companion’s skin stayed dry; her easy steps and gentle breathing gave no hint of effort. At last she stopped and waited for him, still singing.

  Fafa fanned himself with his hat. “Perhaps I should return,” he said.

  The smile left her face, replaced by a look of sadness. “Stay beside me,” she said. “I will walk more slowly.” Again Fafa was caught in the black lightning of her gaze.

  As they continued, she moved at a gentler pace and became more friendly. The two talked loudly, laughed, and sang together.

  They left the valley behind, climbing the steep road over the eastern peaks, through woods choked with creepers. As sunset approached, the sky deepened from lemon to orange above the distant lilac sea.

  All at once the woman left the road to take a narrow path leading up through woods on their left. Fafa hesitated to follow, for the orange sun was rapidly sinking.

  “Hurry!” she called. “This is the shortest way.”

  He obeyed, taking the path that zigzagged into shadow. Ahead, he could just glimpse her white turban and white scarf. Then vines and boughs closed around him. The shadows of night mixed with the forest gloom. Huge fireflies sparkled like wind-tossed coals in the dark. He could not see her at all.

  “Where are you?” he called, afraid.

  “Here! Give me your hand!” she whispered.

  The hand that guided Fafa through the shadows was cold. The woman walked with the sureness of one who knew the path by heart. Suddenly they broke from the forest, onto a ledge. From the ravine below their feet rose the sound of rushing water.

  Her face was in shadow as she stood looking at the sky dotted with the first stars.

  “Do you love me?” she murmured, her voice nearly drowned out by the sound of the hurrying stream.

  “Oui, oui!” he cried. “You have my heart, my soul!”

  She suddenly turned to him in the last faint red light of sunset, revealing the horror of her true face. She laughed hideously and taunted him, “Kiss me now!”

  In that moment he knew her name—La Guiablesse—the goblin who haunted the sunlit mountain roads and who vanished by night. She took a step toward him. His brain reeled at the awfulness of what he saw. He stepped backward, and—

  Falling, Fafa crashed to his death in the mountain torrent far below.

  The Blood-Drawing Ghost

  (British Isles—Ireland)

  There was once a young man, John, in Ireland’s County Cork, who was courting three girls at one time. He didn’t know whether to make Mary or Peggy or Kate his wife. They all had sweet natures, and each was as pleasing to his eye as the other. His family was after him to choose one and marry, but he could not make up his mind.

  Now, the churchyard in the town was said to be haunted. No one would go there after dark. As John walked past it one afternoon, he had a sudden thought. Pushing open the rusty gates, he went to the big tomb at the center. There he placed his blackthorn walking stick on the lintel, above the sealed doors.

  That evening there was a gathering at a neighbor’s house. As he expected, John found Mary and Peggy and Kate there. Kate asked right away, “Where is your blackthorn? Have you lost it?”

  “I did not,” said John. “I left it on the top of the tomb at the center of the churchyard. Whichever of you three will bring it to me this very moment, she’s the woman I’ll marry.” He turned to his first sweetheart and asked, “Well, Mary, will you go for my stick?” he asked.

  “Faith, and I will not,” said Mary.

  “Well, Peggy, will you go?” he asked his second love.

  “Though it means losing you,” said Peggy, “I’ll not go.”

  “Well, Kate,” said he to the third, “will you fetch my blackthorn? If you do, you’re the one I’ll marry.”

  “Sure, and I’ll bring it,” Kate said stoutly. And off she went.

  The graveyard was three miles away, but Kate was a brawny girl with a fast stride, so she came to the place sooner rather than later. The moon lit the marble tomb at the center; she found the blackthorn with no problem.

  But she had barely put her hand on it when a soft voice called from the vault, “Come and open the tomb for me.”

  Kate began to tremble and was very much afraid. But even as she tried to resist, a force compelled her to unwind the chain that sealed the double doors of the tomb.

  Descending a short flight of steps, she found a casket resting upon a marble table.

  “Take the lid off,” commanded the voice from the casket.

  Unable to help herself, she did as she was told. Inside lay the body of a man who had died months before. His eyes were open, but unmoving—yet somehow Kate felt them watching her. His dead lips were drawn slightly apart, and the voice came from between them, though the mouth moved not at all.

  “Lift me out of here,” the corpse commanded, “and take me on your back.”

  Afraid to refuse, she lifted the body partway up and turned around. Instantly the corpse threw his arm around her neck; his chest pressed against Kate’s back and shoulders. She shook herself, hoping to shake free of the thing. To her horror, she found she could not rid herself of the awful burden.

  “Carry me there,” the dead man whispered in her ear. He stretched his right arm out to point the way, but his left arm remained locked around her neck.

  Thus guided, Kate carried the corpse out of the churchyard and along the stony road. The weight of the dead man grew heavier with each step. But Kate managed to reach the outskirts of town.

  “Take me to the first house,” whispered the dead man.

  She brought him to the door.

  “Oh, we cannot go in here,” said her burden. “Those people have holy water. Take me to the next house.”

  She went to the next house.

  “We cannot go in there,” said he, when she stopped in front of the door. “They have holy water as well.”

  He ordered her to a third house. Kate groaned when she saw that it was John’s house, which he shared with his parents.

  “Go in here,” said the dead man. “There is no holy water in this place.” Indeed, Kate knew that John and his family were not churchgoers and never kept holy water on hand to bless themselves.

  Kate tried to hold back, but there was no help for it. She was under the devil’s spell, and so they went in.

  “Carry me to the room above,” said he.

  They went up to the room where John slept, unaware of his night visitors.

  “Take the cup from beside the bed,” said the dead man. “Hold it beneath his wrist.”

  Her hand trembling, Kate did as she had to do. With a fingernail that was like a claw, the dead man pierced the skin at John’s wrist, drawing blood. This fell into the cup. When it was nearly full, the dead man touched his finger again to John’s wrist. The wound closed, so that there was no sign of it. But it seemed to Kate that John’s life had drained from him with his blood.

  Before she could say a word, the dead man ordered, “Carry me downstairs.”

  In the kitchen, the corpse ordered Kate, “Put me in a chair at the table, fetch oatmeal and mix this blood with it in two bowls: one for me, another for you.”

  Kate got two bowls and put oatmeal in each, mixed this with blood from the cup, and brought two spoons. The dead man began to eat hungrily. Kate pretended to eat, hiding her portion in the napkin on her lap.

  “Have you eaten your share?” asked the dead man.

  “Sure, and my plate is empty, as you can see,” said the young woman boldly.

  “Come, now,” said he. “Take me back to the churchyard.”

  “Oh, how can I do that? You are too great a load.” She dreaded going back. And she was frantic to know if John still lived.

  “What you have eaten has made you stronger,” said the corpse. “You must take me back to my tomb before sunrise.”

  Again, she went against her will. But before she took up her burden, she hid the napkin and oatmeal behind the cupboard. />
  As she trudged the moonlit road, Kate asked, “What happened to the man whose blood you drew?”

  “He’ll die before the day is done,” said the corpse.

  “The only cure would be to put three bits of the bloodied oatmeal in his mouth. But not a speck was left in either bowl, so he’ll soon rest near me in the churchyard.”

  Suddenly a cock crowed.

  “Hurry!” urged the corpse. “I must be in my grave before dawn, and the cock has crowed once.”

  “Sure, and it was an owl you heard,” said Kate. “There is time yet.” With a great effort, she forced herself to walk more slowly.

  A bit later, another cock crowed.

  “Haste! Haste!” the corpse demanded. “I must be in my tomb before the first light of dawn.”

  “Sure, that was a dog baying at the moon,” said Kate. And she walked more slowly still, though the strain nearly killed her.

  “Faster!” the corpse ordered, raising his bony hand. “Cut across the field there. It will bring us to the churchyard sooner.”

  This time she was compelled to obey. As they went across the field, the corpse said, “This land was mine when I lived. Do you see those three piles of stones?”

  “Indeed,” said Kate.

  “Underneath them is a pot of gold. Long I worked to save it,” said he, “and little good it did me in that life or now.”

  Kate paused to stare at the heaps of stone.

  “Don’t stop now! Dawn is coming!” screeched the corpse. “And don’t fill your head with thoughts of my gold. When we return, you will be as dead to the world as I am. The blood you ate has given you to me. You’ll sleep at the foot of my coffin by day, and take me on my errands by night. Hurry!”

  Though Kate made a final effort to slow down, they soon found themselves at the churchyard.

  “Inside with us!” cried the corpse. “I feel the sun rising at my back.”

  The doors of the tomb were still ajar. The blackthorn that had caused Kate’s troubles lay on the lintel above.