Just as she was about to enter the crypt, she said a prayer and found the strength to grab the walking stick and thrust it through the door handles, sealing the tomb.
At this, the corpse began to howl and curse and choke her with his powerful arms. She fought back, but her limbs felt weak as water. Suddenly a cock crowed a third time. With a shriek, the corpse fell away from her; and the gasping girl watched the dead man turn to steaming bones in the morning sunlight.
Grabbing the blackthorn, she raced toward the village. There she found John’s house in an uproar, his parents having just waked to find him unconscious, nearly dead.
Quickly, Kate took the napkin she had hidden. She put three bits of the dead man’s oatmeal in John’s mouth. Instantly he woke and stretched, as if he had merely been sleeping.
He was astonished to see Kate in the room, with his parents peeping anxiously over her shoulder.
“Do you remember anything of last night?” asked Kate.
John said, “I recall nothing but falling asleep.”
“Well and good,” said Kate. Then she handed him the blackthorn, asking, “Now then, will you keep your promise?”
“Indeed,” he said, “we’ll be married as soon as you say the word.”
Before the wedding, Kate took John to help her dig under the piles of stones in the field near the graveyard. There they found a pot of gold. After they were married, they had a pleasant life. But Kate insisted that John go to church with her each Sunday. And there was always holy water in the house so that they could bless themselves and their children.
Guests from Gibbet Island
(United States—from Washington Irving)
When New York was still a British colony, Ellis Island, in the harbor, was called Gibbet Island because pirates and mutineers were hanged there in chains, their bodies left for public viewing. Directly across the water from this grisly site was the Wild Goose Tavern, in the town of Communipaw.
The tavern keeper was a Dutchman, Yan Yost Vanderscamp, who had gone to sea as a young man. Word had it that he had become a pirate chief, and that his ill-gotten wealth allowed him to buy the tavern and decorate it lavishly. He employed a man named Pluto, also rumored to have been a pirate. No love was lost between them, but each endured the other for convenience.
Vanderscamp often played host to his former companions of the sea—a crew of rowdy devils. The townsfolk thought they were smugglers, but nothing could be proved. The British authorities were often summoned to stop the goings-on at the Wild Goose; but whenever they arrived, their quarry had returned to sea. And Vanderscamp grew richer with each visit from his friends.
At last the watchful British caught three of the suspected smugglers ashore, with a chest of Spanish gold pieces and jewels and bolts of silk. The three proclaimed their innocence, swearing that Vanderscamp had given them the goods.
No amount of knocking at the Wild Goose roused anyone. The door was locked; the shutters were drawn. Not a trace of Vanderscamp or Pluto could be found.
With no one to defend them, and the whole town accusing them, the three were straightaway hanged on Gibbet Island, in full sight of the tavern across the water.
Several days later, a much subdued Vanderscamp returned in a small boat oared by Pluto. He acted surprised to hear about the executions; in fact, he shuddered upon glancing across at the desolate island.
Afterward, what illegal business floated in and out of the Wild Goose was done secretly. Often, after sundown, Pluto would row his master out to a vessel riding the waves in the harbor, letting the darkness cloak their coming and going.
One night, Vanderscamp and Pluto were returning from such a visit. A distant rumble of thunder hinted at a gathering storm.
“Row faster, you good-for-nothing!” the tavern keeper bellowed, striking his man. He was in a foul mood, having taken a drop too much brandy on board, and having decided that the ship’s captain had cheated him in their dealing.
Angry at this abuse, Pluto changed course so that the boat skirted the rocky shores of Gibbet Island. Vanderscamp, who had dozed off, was awakened by a creaking overhead. Lifting his head, he found himself looking at the bodies of his three former companions dangling on the gallows, their chains creaking and grinding as they slowly swung backward and forward in the wind.
“What do you mean pulling so close to the island, you blockhead!” cried Vanderscamp.
The other man grinned unpleasantly. “I should think you’d be glad to see your old mates once more. You were never afraid of a living man, why be afraid of the dead?”
“Who’s afraid?” blustered Vanderscamp. “I’d be glad to see my old friends, alive or dead, at the tavern anytime.” He fished a bottle from under his cloak and waved it at the remains of his old partners. “Here’s fair weather to you in the other world; and if you should visit this one again, I’d be happy to have you drop in for supper.”
The rising wind shook and twisted the leathery flesh and bones, so that a sound like laughter seemed to come from them.
“Mind the storm!” yelled Vanderscamp.
Pluto rowed straight for home. But the storm caught them while they were still at sea. Rain fell in torrents, thunder crashed and pealed, and lightning blazed. It was midnight before they landed at Communipaw, dripping and shivering.
As he entered the Wild Goose, Vanderscamp was startled to hear the sounds of revelry from the big room overhead. Tired and muddled by his adventures that night, the tavern keeper turned on Pluto. “Why didn’t you tell me we had guests tonight?”
“No one was due,” grumbled Pluto. “The storm must have stranded some travelers.”
“Well, I’ll see to them—and maybe join them for a spot of ale to take the chill off me,” Vanderscamp said.
Somewhat unsteadily, he climbed the steps. But when he threw open the door, there at a table, on which burned a light as blue as brimstone, sat the three corpses from Gibbet Island. They still had chains around their necks, and they clanked their cups together, singing:
Oh, three merry lads are we
Come home from over the sea;
First on the sand, and then on the land
And last on the gallows tree.
They suddenly broke off their song, turned their empty eye sockets toward Vanderscamp, and beckoned him to join them. When he remained frozen in place, they rose and started toward him.
Backing away in terror, Vanderscamp threw himself out the door, bellowing for Pluto. But he missed his footing on the landing place, and tumbled all the way down the stairs.
Days later, a search was made of the house; but it was found deserted—though drawers and chests had been emptied of anything valuable.
There was talk that Pluto had killed his master, hidden his body, and then robbed the house, escaping to sea. But Vanderscamp’s boat was later found adrift, keel up, as if swamped by a wave. Shortly afterward, some fishermen spotted the body of the tavern keeper wedged among the rocks of Gibbet Island, just below the pirates’ gallows.
How Vanderscamp met his end remained a mystery. The only witnesses were the three grinning skeletons in their chains. And what they knew, they told no living soul.
The Haunted House
(China)
The house in the Chinese city of Canton was old and had stood empty for more years than anyone could remember. It was so dark and mysterious-looking that many strange stories had grown up around it. One well-known tale said that anyone who entered the evil house would never come out again.
Now, there was a young man, Chao Yen, who was extremely inquisitive and who considered himself very brave. He came on a cloudy, moonless night to explore the abandoned house.
Carrying a lantern, he stepped through the perfect circle of a moon gate into the bamboo-choked courtyard beyond. Above the gate were carved characters reading, “The path and the bamboo lead one to the place of mystery.”
This amused him. The builder of the house had already decided to give it a hint of otherworldliness. No wonder so ma
ny stories were told about the place.
A path of stepping-stones, overgrown with moss and weeds, led to the main entrance of the villa. A second round doorway framed a panel of rotting wood. On either side, pale walls stretched away into the shadows of a stand of bamboo. The walls were pierced with dark windows, each covered with lacy grillwork.
Eager to see what was inside, Chao Yen pushed open the door. It swung inward with a groan.
The room inside was filled with old-fashioned furniture, which cast weird shadows in the flickering lamplight. Rotting banners and scrolls hung on the walls, but dampness had made what was written or painted on them impossible to decipher. Layer upon layer of dust covered everything; clearly no one had been here for many years.
Suddenly Chao Yen stopped. Had he heard something? He listened carefully, but all he could hear was his own breathing.
He moved deeper into the house. Outside, rain began to fall, pattering on the roof tiles. Lightning flashed, and thunder roared and rattled the shutters.
Now Chao Yen entered a vast drawing room with a huge, carved teakwood desk and chair facing a window of square grillwork. Upon the desk was a scrap of dusty parchment with a fragment of a poem, as though the poet had been abruptly called away.
Setting his lantern on the desk and brushing away the worst of the dust, the young man read:
Daily I wander pleasantly in my garden,
There is a gate, but it is always closed.
In my empty rooms I enjoy the leisurely idle hours,
Shut away from the clamoring beyond the walls.
But it is getting dark, and the lovely day is vanishing.
Shadows fill my garden, flood my empty rooms.
Sighing wind in the bamboo, plashing water in the fountain,
Carry warnings of his approach.
Hark! In the stillness, I hear
There was nothing more. Chao Yen set the parchment down thoughtfully. The words had left him with a queer feeling of suspense, of something about to happen.
Suddenly he began to laugh at himself and his fears. A few shadows and some meaningless words and he was acting like a coward!
A rush of wind through the window extinguished the lantern’s flame, startling him into silence. Then a vivid flash of lightning lit up the window. Beyond the grillwork, he saw a huge head—a man’s head—on the body of a black dog. The creature was so big, it seemed to fill the window from side to side.
Darkness—blacker because it followed the blinding flash—closed in. Chao Yen waited, frozen in place. He listened, at first hearing only the rain. Then he heard the sound of unearthly breathing.
Another lightning flash. Now the monstrous thing was inside the room.
Chao Yen backed quietly away from the deep, ragged breathing, which marked the creature’s whereabouts. At last he found himself pressed flat against the wall. Before he could begin edging toward the door, however, to his horror he felt the wall give way behind him.
He tumbled backward into a blackness even deeper than the night. There was a final flash of lightning that showed he was in a room littered with skulls and bones. All of them looked as if they had been chewed and splintered by massive jaws.
Then the creature pushed through the opening. Chao Yen heard its eager breathing; the secret chamber was filled with the reek of it; a massive paw raked his shoulder.
This was too much. The man whom nothing could frighten died of fear.
“Never Far from You”
(British Isles—England)
In a little English country church there is a stone inscribed, “In memory of the beloved bride and mistress of the family honor and estates, who was taken away by a sudden and untimely fate at the very time of her marriage celebration.”
This is the story behind that sad inscription.…
Many years ago, a young woman, Alice, the daughter of a country parson, fell in love with Owen, the young lord of the nearby manor. Owen had come into his inheritance early, when his parents had died. And the young man was just as much in love with Alice. The handsome couple were often seen strolling hand in hand across the meadow, or riding side by side along a forest path.
They exchanged rings upon which were engraved the words “I will never be far from you, my love—be never far from me,” above their intertwined initials.
Alice and Owen were equally fond of games. On the day of their wedding, they planned an afternoon of diversions. The bride, still in her gown of white lace, led her groom and their guests through all sorts of amusements: charades, cribbage, casino, and whist.
Finally Alice announced that the last game of the day would be hide-and-seek. One group, including the bride herself, would hide; it would be up to the groom and the rest to find them. When all those in hiding were located, the bridecake would be served, and the evening would be left to the young couple, who would depart for a honeymoon tour of Europe the next morning.
While the “seekers” counted to one hundred, the “hiders” scattered along the corridors and up the staircases and through all the chambers of the groom’s vast mansion.
Alice, who knew the manor as well as she knew her father’s house, went directly to the hidey-hole she had chosen long before. No one was around when she settled into her secret place. With a laugh, she thought how hard they would have to search to find her. In fact, she was sure she would be the last one found—and so would win the game. She was still laughing when something dealt her a blow on the head, knocking her senseless.
There was a faint click—then unending darkness.
Throughout the manor, the merriment of the seekers was matched by the laughter of those who were found. But as the late-afternoon shadows melted into evening, Owen began to grow uneasy. Everyone had been found but Alice. Because she knew every corner and cupboard in the manor, he was, at first, not too worried. But as time went on and the guests became concerned, he announced that the game was over.
Loudly calling Alice’s name, the wedding party looked high and low. They searched the kitchens, peering into pantries filled with dishes and pots. They investigated each bedroom, looking under every bed and behind the curtains. The ballroom was searched; the dining hall; the library; the cloakroom. They shouted to Alice in the shadowed attic, where rows of dusty boxes and chests looked as if they had been undisturbed for a hundred years. They explored the cellar, filled with bric-a-brac that Lord Owen’s ancestors had stored and forgotten. But Alice was nowhere to be found.
When the house had been combed top to bottom, Owen had his guests and servants widen the search to include the gardens, outbuildings, and nearby woods. With candles and torches and lanterns, they traced and retraced their steps. But they found no clue to Alice’s whereabouts.
Where could she be? Poor Owen felt his heart would break.
Alice’s father, the parson, was just as bewildered. Long after the other guests had left, he and Owen continued to search the manor from attic to cellar, calling Alice’s name.
But she did not answer. She had vanished.
Rumors flew: Alice had run off with someone else … fearful of wifehood, she had entered a convent … she had been abducted by poachers when she hid in the woods. The only fact was: She was never seen again.
Owen never remarried. From time to time the parson would visit, only to find Owen holding the ring Alice had given him, his lips moving silently as he read the inscription: “I will never be far from you, my love—be never far from me.” Then he would run his fingers over their intertwined initials.
In time, the parson departed this earth. Then Owen had no visitors. His loyal servants, whom he barely noticed, kept the manor from falling into ruin.
From dawn to dusk he wandered his estate, driven to the edge of madness, wondering what had become of his one true love.
And when he had grown old, he found himself in the attic one rainy day. The attic had become a refuge where he could be alone with his memories. He sat beside a small window, watching rain run in sheets down the
dusty glass.
“If only I knew that your love was true, sweet Alice,” Owen whispered, “then I could die happy.” These days he felt that Death was another resident of the manor, though one who kept out of sight for the time being.
He wiped away a tear. Then something caught his eye: a tiny triangle of white lace, no bigger than a fingernail, caught between the lid and side of a trunk half hidden by several others.
Like a man in a dream, he went over to the trunk. It was closed; the latch was hooked over the swivel eye, sealing it. With trembling hands, the old man unfastened the latch and raised the lid.
There lay the mortal remains of Alice—now nothing more than a skeleton with yellowing bones the color of the rotting lace of her wedding gown. The trunk had been her tomb from the awful afternoon when its lid had fallen upon her head, knocking her out, while the latch had dropped into locked position.
In the dim attic light, her lover read aloud for the last time the words that were engraved in his heart as well as on the ring still circling her finger bone: “I will never be far from you, my love—be never far from me.”
“We have never been far apart, my Alice,” he murmured, “nor will we ever be.”
So saying, he reached down, clasped her lifeless form to his chest, and died in her withered arms.
The Rose Elf
(Denmark—from Hans Christian Andersen)
In the midst of a garden grew a rose tree, and in the prettiest of all the roses lived a tiny elf. He was as well formed as a child, and had wings that reached from his shoulders to his feet. Each day he enjoyed the warm sunshine, flying from flower to flower and keeping company with the butterflies.
Humans rarely came to that corner of the garden. But one day, as he lay napping in the warm heart of his rose, the elf overheard two people talking. Peeping out between the blood-red petals, he saw a handsome young man and a beautiful lady sitting side by side on the bench shaded by his rose tree. From the way they held hands and gazed into each other’s eyes, the elf could see that they loved each other deeply.
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