More Short & Shivery
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Text copyright © 1994 by Robert D. San Souci
Illustrations copyright © 1994 by Katherine Coville and Jacqueline Rogers
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eISBN: 978-0-307-78174-1
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
“Hold Him, Tabb!”
(United States—Virginia)
The Witches’ Eyes
(Spanish American—American Southwest)
The Duppy
(Haiti)
Two Snakes
(China)
The Draug
(Norway)
The Vampire Cat
(Japan)
Windigo Island
(Canada)
The Haunted Inn
(China)
The Rolling Head
(North America—Plains Indians)
The Croglin Grange Vampire
(British Isles—England)
The Yara
(Brazil)
“Me, Myself”
(British Isles—Scotland)
Island of Fear
(North America—Seneca tribe)
Three Who Sought Death
(British Isles—England—from Geoffrey Chaucer)
Sister Death and the Healer
(Mexico/American Southwest)
The Mouse Tower
(Germany)
The Devil and Tom Walker
(United States—from a tale by Washington Irving)
The Greedy Daughter
(Italy)
The Pirate
(United States—adapted from a poem by Richard H. Dana)
The Golden Arm
(British Isles—England)
The Serpent Woman
(Spain)
Loft the Enchanter
(Iceland)
The Accursed House
(United States—Ohio)
Escape up the Tree
(Nigeria)
The Headrest
(Papua New Guinea)
The Thing in the Woods
(United States—Louisiana)
King of the Cats
(British Isles—England)
The Dead Mother
(Russia)
Knock … Knock … Knock …
(United States/Canada—urban folklore)
Twice Surprised
(Japan)
Notes on Sources
About the Author
Introduction
Welcome, old friends and new, to this second collection of some of my favorite scary tales, retold from the ghostlore of many different peoples and places. Since the first volume of Short & Shivery was published, I’ve had a chance to visit with young readers all around the country who have helped me decide what stories to include here. I am thankful to these friends in Alabama, California, Colorado, Delaware, Illinois, Kansas, Massachusetts, Michigan, Nebraska, Ohio, Oklahoma, Oregon, Washington, and elsewhere—this book is dedicated to all of you.
I hope you enjoy this book as much as the first Short & Shivery. One of the nice things about the present volume is that it lets me share stories there wasn’t room for in my earlier book. I’ve also made an effort to include stories from parts of the world not covered in the first book. In the pages that follow are ghostly tales from Brazil, China, Haiti, Italy, Mexico, Nigeria, Papua New Guinea, Scotland, and Spain—as well as many parts of the United States.
You’ll meet Bishop Hatto, who really had a problem with mice … Jubal Lescot, who learns why children shouldn’t go poking around cemeteries at midnight … Tom Walker, who should have read the not-so-fine print in his contract with the Devil … and poor Georgette, who finds a bundle that should not be unwrapped until Christmas—or ever!
Here are such bone-chilling creatures as the duppy, the yara, the draug, and the windigo who haunt lonely houses, forests, rivers, and seashores all over the world. You’ll also run into a helpful skeleton, a rolling head, a golden arm, and some witches’ eyes—all of which refuse to rest in peace (or pieces).
For those who want to learn more about these stories and where they came from, I have included a section of “Notes on Sources” at the end of this book.
So settle back, relax—no, on second thought, don’t plan on getting too relaxed! Truth in advertising means that I have to warn you that these are not warm-and-fuzzy stories. They have proven popular—often for centuries—precisely because they have provided readers and listeners plenty of thrills and chills. They are guaranteed to raise a healthy crop of Halloween-style goose bumps in any season.
In short, the stories in this book have teeth. Sharp ones. But then, isn’t that what you’re looking for? It must be, since you’re reading these words right now. Well, you’ve been warned: “Reader, beware!” Proceed at your own risk.
“Hold Him, Tabb!”
(United States—Virginia)
Before the railroads were built in Virginia, supplies had to be carried from one town to another on wagons. One afternoon, late in December, a number of supply wagons traveling together were caught in a sudden snowstorm.
The drivers pushed on through the freezing cold and heavy snow until they came to an abandoned farm very near the road.
“Looks like a good place to sit out the storm,” said a man named Tabb.
“I heard that the house is haunted,” said another driver, heading toward the barn. “I’m going to bed down in one of the stalls with the horses.”
Several other drivers said they had heard some pretty bad things about the house, too; one man said he’d heard that, for almost twenty-five years, not a single person who had stayed overnight remained alive to
see the dawn. Most of the men decided they preferred to sleep in the barn with the animals.
“Well,” said Tabb, who was braver than the rest, “I’m not afraid of any haunts. And I’m not about to sleep with horses and cowards when there’s a real house just up the hill.”
When he’d finished unhooking his horses, Tabb marched up to the house, which looked forlorn and rundown but not in the least daunting.
Inside he found a big potbellied stove and a healthy supply of wood. He built a cheery fire, cooked and ate his supper, and finally bedded down on a couch he dragged near the stove. He slept peacefully through the night, without being disturbed by anything except an odd bit of wood snapping inside the stove.
Just before sunrise he woke up, stretched, and said, “What a bunch of fools those other fellows are to have stayed down with the horses, when they could have stayed in here, just as warm and comfortable as me!”
No sooner had he finished speaking than he heard a rumbling laugh overhead.
Looking up to the ceiling, he saw a large man dressed in white clothes stretched out under the rafters, as though he were sticking to them.
Before Tabb could make a move, the man in white dropped right down on top of him. They started tussling, rolling back and forth across the floor, knocking the furniture in the room every which way. The two made so much noise that the men in the barn heard it and ran up the hill to see what was the matter.
Not daring to set foot in the house, they all clustered at the windows, prying open the shutters and leaning in. They saw the struggle going on. Tabb and the man in white seemed about equally matched: One minute, Tabb would be on top; the next, the man in white.
One of the drivers cried, “Hold him, Tabb! Hold him!”
“You can bet your soul I will!” yelled Tabb. “I’ve got him for sure!”
A minute later, the two fighters came crashing through a window, sending the drivers scattering.
“Hold him, Tabb! Hold him!” another driver shouted.
“You can bet your life I will!” cried Tabb. “I’ve got him right where I want him!”
The next moment, the man in white began whirling Tabb around and flung him onto the roof of the house. Then the stranger jumped up after him, so the drivers had to stand some distance away just to see what was happening.
“Hold him, Tabb! Hold him!” they yelled, one after another.
“You can just bet your boots I will!” said Tabb, panting. “He won’t get away from me!”
Now the two wrestlers on the roof were so knotted together that the drivers down below had a hard time telling which arm or leg belonged to which. Then, as the drivers watched open-mouthed, the fighters began floating up off the roof.
One of the drivers cupped his hands around his mouth and bellowed, “Hold him, Tabb! Hold him!”
“I got him; and he’s got me, too!” shouted Tabb.
Then the man in white carried Tabb straight up into the air until they were both out of sight.
And nothing was ever seen of Tabb after that.
The Witches’ Eyes
(Spanish American—American Southwest)
Many years ago there was an elderly widower named Don Pedro who eased his loneliness by spending one or two evenings each week visiting two sisters—themselves his own age or nearly so—who lived across the road from his house. Though his other neighbors warned him in harsh whispers that the women were brujas—witches—the old man ignored these taletellers. He sipped chocolate with cinnamon, played a card game called canoncito, or shared cuentos—stories—of the old days with his friends Doña Inez and Doña Teresa.
Don Pedro knew that one sister was several years older than the other, but he was never certain which was the elder—and he was too polite to ask. The two dressed alike in skirts of stiff black material and carried identical fans of ebony silk. They might have been twins—save that one had eyes the deep color of coffee flecked with gold, while the other had paler, tea-colored eyes, likewise gold-flecked.
Always, just before midnight, the women would lay down their cards or stop their storytelling and murmur, “Pedro, you must go home now.”
Though he would beg to play just one more hand or hear a story to its end, they would shake their heads firmly and say, “You must go now.”
When he mentioned this to his neighbors, they said, “Sí, sí, this proves they are witches. They must be rid of you to begin their night’s mischief.”
“Do you suppose they go flying about under the moon?” asked Pedro, laughing at the thought.
His neighbors would grow red in the face at his laughter, and shrug their shoulders.
But Don Pedro found that the suspicions of his friends were feeding his own curiosity. Often, when he was unable to sleep, he would sit at a window and watch the silent casa—house—across the road. But the only thing out of the ordinary he noticed were the comings and goings of two lean cats, one with dark brown fur and one with tawny fur, that prowled the women’s moonlit garden. One night they seemed to sense that he was spying on them, for they arched their backs and hissed in his direction. This disturbed Pedro so that he returned to his bed, though sleep did not come to him until dawn’s light streaked the sky.
The next morning he decided to take a little gift of pan dulce, a sweet bread, across the road to his neighbors. He noticed that both women had dark circles under their eyes.
“Buenos días. I chanced to be up last night and saw two cats near your door,” he said. “Are they pets?”
“There are no cats here!” said the sister with coffee-colored eyes.
“You must have been dreaming, Pedro,” added the other sister. Her tea-colored eyes glittered with a harshness the old man had never seen before.
“No doubt I was mistaken,” said Don Pedro, and he handed over his gift with a hasty “Adiós.”
There was a further mystery. Sometimes while the three talked and played cards in the evening, one or the other sister would mention something that had happened in a distant town. Days later, Don Pedro would learn that they had spoken the truth. But how could they know so quickly about something that had happened a day’s journey away?
When he questioned them, they merely laughed and said that they had heard the news in the market square.
Then, one night, Pedro was awakened by the sound of a cat howling. Staring at the darkened casa across the way, he clearly saw two cats scurry from the stoop and around the corner of the house.
Determined to find answers to his questions, Don Pedro marched across the road and knocked loudly on the door of the sisters’ dwelling. The place remained silent, the whitewashed adobe gleaming under the midnight moon. He knocked several times, yet neither woman came in answer.
Afraid for his friends’ well-being, he tried the door. It was unlocked, and he pushed it open.
“Doña Inez, Doña Teresa,” he called, “are you well?”
Inside, the rooms were empty. The only light came from moonlight streaming through the lattices and the faint glow of embers in the corner chimney. In the red light of the coals, Don Pedro saw to his horror that two sets of eyes—like the glass eyes from a china doll—sat on a dish on a stool in front of the hearth. One pair of eyes were deep brown; one pair, tawny; both were flecked with gold.
“Oh!” cried Don Pedro, blessing himself. In his haste to escape, he stumbled and lost his balance. His foot shot out and knocked the stool over. The dish tumbled into the fire. Instantly there was a puff of brown and a puff of tan smoke that flew up the chimney. The frantic man used a poker to search the coals and ashes. But though he rescued the dish, not a trace remained of its awful contents.
Frightened, Don Pedro hurried home. A little later he heard two cats begin a terrible howling. He did not need to look to guess that it was coming from inside the house across the road.
The next day, Don Pedro did not know what to do. It was his regular evening for calling on the sisters. He was afraid to face them—but he was more afraid that if he didn
’t, they would suspect him of being the one who had made such mischief the night before. At last he decided to bluff his way through a visit.
He dressed especially well, and took two roses from his small garden. Then, with a trembling hand, he knocked on the door—remembering all too well how that door had opened onto a frightful scene only a few hours before.
“¡Pase usted!” called Doña Inez, and her sister also invited him, “Come in!”
As he entered, he noticed that the lattices were still shut. The room was dark. No lamps had been lit, and the fireplace was cold. The two women murmured polite words but kept their faces turned away or hidden by their black silk fans. When they moved, they seemed clumsy, as though even the dim light bothered their eyes.
“Alas, Don Pedro,” said Doña Inez in a sad voice, her face averted so that she was gazing at the cold hearth, “I am afraid that we will no longer be able to share our evenings with you.”
“Yes,” said her sister, sighing behind her fan, “we have other duties that must occupy our time from now on.”
“I see, of course,” said Don Pedro, who only wanted to be away from the house. His nervousness had gotten the best of him. As he fumbled for the door, he was aware that Doña Inez had turned to gaze at him suspiciously, while Doña Teresa had momentarily lowered her fan.
At that moment, he pulled open the door. The sudden light revealed the sisters staring at him with the round eyes of cats. “Go! Close the door!” they hissed, turning away in pain.
Don Pedro quickly drew the door shut and fled.
That night and every night thereafter he locked his doors and windows at evening, and did not unlock them until the sun was high above the eastern mountains. And he slept with his rosary clutched tightly in his hand.
Sometimes he thought he heard the sounds of cats’ paws at his door or window. But he prayed a “Hail Mary” aloud, and the sound went away.
Shortly thereafter, his strange neighbors departed in a carriage hung with black velvet curtains. They never returned, and the house remained empty for as long as Don Pedro lived.