More Short & Shivery

by Robert D. San Souci

  Uncertain whether she had really seen anything, or had merely fallen asleep beside the fireplace and dreamed it, the old woman decided to say nothing to Ivan. She would keep watch a second night to see what happened.

  But the next night, the same thing happened.

  When it happened the third night, she told Ivan what she had seen. Deeply troubled, he called together his kinsfolk to ask their advice on what to do.

  After much discussion, they decided to stay with Ivan that same night, to see who came to visit the infant in the dead of night. As soon as the sun set, they all lay down on the floor. Ivan rested with them, with a lighted candle hidden beneath an old earthen pot beside his head. The baby, as though troubled by so many people around his cradle, seemed more restless than ever.

  At midnight, the door of the cottage slowly opened, just as Tatiana had said. A silken rustling and the sounds of someone tiptoeing toward the cradle could be heard by all. At that instant, the baby ceased his crying and began to gurgle happily. But the watchers felt their limbs growing heavy and their voices catching in their throats. Only Ivan was able to resist the weariness long enough to reach over and uncover the candle.

  In the light, the spell was broken. Ivan scrambled to his feet and held out the taper toward the veiled figure. His eyes grew wide with astonishment and fear when he recognized his beloved Anya, clad in the very same clothes in which she had been buried. She was on her knees beside the cradle, clutching the child to her heart.

  Ivan whispered her name as he took a step closer. But the candle suddenly blazed up. At the same instant, she set the infant down in the crib and gazed mournfully at her tiny son. Then she turned and left the room without a sound, with never a word to Ivan or any of his kinsfolk who stood around the chamber, terror-struck.

  Ivan stared as the door closed gently behind Anya. Then, with a soft moan, he stooped and picked up the baby. But his moan quickly turned to cries of anguish when he realized that the child he held in his arms was dead.

  Knock … Knock … Knock …

  (United States/Canada—urban folklore)

  You’re wearing that to a costume party?” exclaimed Nicole. “That’s not a costume.”

  “I’m going as a jogger,” said Mark.

  “You jog every day. That’s only your old gray running suit!”

  “So, it’s authentic,” Mark said. “Anyhow, I didn’t have time to come up with a real costume.”

  “You could have rented one,” Nicole pointed out.

  “I’m not wasting my hard-earned college money on a giant bunny outfit,” he said. “Besides, you’re dressed up enough for both of us.”

  “I’m Queen Guinevere,” she explained. “You know, she married King Arthur.”

  “Yeah, I saw the movie on TV,” Mark said. “Um, Nic. Just to put you on yellow alert, my car’s been giving me a little trouble.”

  Nicole sighed. “Will it get us there?”

  “Ninety-eight percent certainty.”

  “And back?” she wondered, then added quickly, “Don’t give me the odds: Just get us there. We’ll work the rest out later.”

  “You got it!” Mark said, offering her his arm. “Queen Guinevere, your Toyota awaits.”

  “Lancelot you’re not,” she said, laughing. “But you do look pretty good—even in a grungy jogging suit.”

  However, Nicole’s high spirits soon evaporated. Mark’s car managed nearly to stall out at every stop sign or intersection.

  “Are you sure we’ll get to the country club?” she asked anxiously.

  “Yeah, I’m sure,” Mark snapped as the engine sputtered and the car shuddered.

  Nicole held her breath, but the problem seemed to correct itself. It wasn’t just the car that made her jittery; a heavy fog had settled over the lonely, twisting country road.

  “Relax, put on some music,” Mark suggested, adding quickly, “—um, on the radio. The cassette player is broken.”

  Nicole almost said something about what bad shape everything was in, but she decided not to risk an argument. As the hills grew higher, the music stations faded into static. All she could get was a news station.

  “Great,” she said, making a face. Then she paused, listening intently, as the radio announced:

  “… warning everyone in the Norris Valley area that convicted killer Owen Helms—the so-called Hangman—has escaped from the criminal asylum at Pinecrest …”

  “That’s just at the other end of the valley!” cried Nicole. She was going to insist that Mark turn the car around, when two things happened. The radio program dissolved into crackling static, and the car bucked twice and died. Mark used what momentum was left to steer the Toyota to the side of the road. They came to a stop under a tree. Condensed fog dripped from an overhanging branch, thunk, thunk, thunk.

  Mark turned the ignition key several times, but all the engine would do was gurgle and chuff. Soon even these noises grew weaker. The car refused to start.

  Finally Nicole said, “Give it a rest; you’re just draining the battery.”

  Mark slammed his fist against the steering wheel. Then he climbed out, lifted the hood, and fiddled with the engine.

  “Try it now!” he’d call every few minutes. But when Nicole turned the key, all she got were clicks. In between, she tried to get some more news on the escaped killer. But the radio just gave off creepy sounds like whispers, so she snapped it off.

  “I’m going to have to go and get help. Lucky I wore my jog togs and Nikes after all. I think we’re just a few miles from the country club. I’ll call a tow truck from there, then have someone bring me back here. I shouldn’t be gone more than a half hour or so.”

  “No way am I staying out here by myself,” said Nicole. “Not with the Happy Hangman on the loose.”

  “Be reasonable, Nic! How are you gonna jog in that costume of yours? And I’m not about to go for a stroll through this freezing fog.”

  “No, Mark, please!”

  “If you’re really worried, crouch down on the floor in back under the old blanket. If anyone comes along, they’ll think the car is empty. But no one will bother you, I promise.”

  “You also promised to get us to the party,” she said. But she was more scared than angry. “Oh, all right—but I swear I’m not coming out from under that blanket until I’m sure it’s you.”

  “I’m gonna leave you the keys for safekeeping. When I get back, I’ll knock three times, like this.” He went knock … knock … knock … on the roof of the car, just above the door on the driver’s side. “Don’t come out until you hear that signal.”

  “I won’t,” she said, “believe me.”

  He kissed her good-bye, watched while she locked and tested both doors, then waved as he jogged away into the fog. The minute he was out of sight, she climbed into the backseat, bunched up in the narrow space, and arranged the musty old blanket over herself.

  How long she remained there Nicole wasn’t sure. When her legs began to cramp, she brought her watch up to her face without disturbing the blanket and read the illuminated dial. Less than half an hour had passed, but it felt more like years.

  Suddenly she heard a knock on the roof of the car.

  “Mark,” she whispered. She was about to throw off the blanket, when she remembered he’d promised to knock three times. She had a sudden, sickening feeling that someone else was outside—maybe trying to find a way into the locked car.

  “Please, please, knock again,” she whispered. “Make it be Mark!”

  Knock.

  “Once more—please; just once more.”

  Knock.

  She almost laughed out loud with relief …

  Knock.

  Her blood turned to ice water.

  Knock … knock … knock …

  She froze, hardly daring to breathe, as the knocks continued on and on, spaced just about the same. Each one was like a fist in her stomach.

  At first she was sure that the Hangman was trying to get in. Then she imagine
d that he was so wacko that he was just beating on the car like a child pounding endlessly on a toy drum. Finally she wondered if he knew she was inside, and was tormenting her until he smashed a window.

  Knock … knock … knock …

  “Please, someone, come help me!” she prayed.

  Knock … knock …

  Then she heard the sound of heavy boots crunching on the gravel. Voices. And a radio, with a dispatcher’s voice giving instructions that she couldn’t make out.

  Knock.

  Then, mercifully, it stopped. Mark must have come. Or the tow truck. Nicole sat up and looked out the window—and screamed!

  Two men were staring in at her. After a terrifying, confused moment, she realized that they were police. Behind them she saw the spinning blue and red lights on top of their police car.

  “It’s okay, young lady,” the first officer said. “You can come out now.”

  Her shaking hand found the lock release. She climbed unsteadily out.

  “Where’s Mark?” she asked, looking around. “Didn’t he come with you?”

  “Come to the patrol car,” said the second officer. “Don’t look back—just keep your eyes on the patrol car.”

  “Why can’t I look?” Nicole asked. She turned suddenly and saw Mark’s body, still in the gray jogging outfit, hanging from the tree limb above the car.

  “Hey!” yelled the officer. “You don’t want to see this, miss!” As he reached out to grab her the body started swinging. Nicole watched in horror as one Nike-clad foot began to beat against the roof of the car:

  Knock … knock … knock …

  Twice Surprised

  (Japan)

  Late one winter night, a schoolteacher was walking along a road that ran beside a rice field. To his surprise, he discovered a lovely young woman seated on a large, white stone at the edge of the field. Her face was hidden from him as she read, by moonlight, a book spread open on her lap.

  Surprised to find anyone else on the lonely road so late, the man greeted her politely. She nodded, but did not look up from her book.

  “What text are you studying so carefully?” he asked.

  Still, she did not answer him or look up.

  Finally the teacher said lightly, “Is it wise for you to be alone out here so late at night? This is the hour when ghosts are prowling about, you know. Perhaps I am a ghost myself.”

  She did not respond to his little joke, but she looked up at him. The top half of her face was a mass of ghastly, glittering eyes all different sizes and colors. The lower half of her face split wide open from side to side, revealing a serpent’s jaws with bared fangs. From deep within her throat came a warning growl.

  One look at her horrible face, and the teacher fled in terror, his coat thrown over his head for fear he might see that ghastly face again.

  The unfortunate man was gasping for breath and still trembling when he reached his home. Though the house was quite warm, he felt as cold as if he were lost in the heart of a blizzard.

  His wife, without looking up from the letter she was writing, asked him, “Why are you so out of breath and distressed?”

  “I saw something horrible on my way home,” her husband answered. “It must have been a ghost or a demon.”

  “What did it look like?” she asked.

  “It appeared, in the moonlight, to be a beautiful young woman,” he said.

  “If she was beautiful,” his wife asked, her inkbrush gracefully shaping characters on the page in front of her, “why were you frightened?”

  “When she looked up at me, her face was horrible! Horrible!” said the man, beginning to shake again.

  “What did it look like?” his wife asked.

  “I cannot describe it,” the poor man said, “it was so terrible. One cannot capture in words how frightful that face was.”

  “But what did it look like?” his wife persisted.

  “I cannot tell you what it looked like,” the teacher answered helplessly.

  “Was it this kind of face?” his wife asked. So saying, she turned away from her letter, toward her husband. Before him was the horrible face he had seen in the moonlight. But now it seemed to grow until it filled the room with dreadful eyes and teeth.

  Scared out of his wits, the man gave a cry of terror, then sank senseless to the floor.

  When he awoke the next morning, the sun was shining brightly on him as he lay facedown beside a large white stone at the edge of the road.

  Notes on Sources

  “HOLD HIM, TABB!” This African-American ghost story from Virginia was originally published in the Southern Workman and Hampton School Record (Vol. 26, No. 6, June 1897, Hampton, Va.: Hampton Normal & Agricultural Institute). It was reprinted in the Journal of American Folk-Lore and in B. A. Botkin’s A Treasury of Southern Folklore: Stories, Ballads, Traditions, and Folkways of the People of the South (New York: Crown Publishers, 1949). I have closely followed the original narrative, adding only some details and dialogue.

  THE WITCHES’ EYES. I have retold this story, familiar throughout the southwestern United States and Mexico, from many variant readings, including versions in José Manuel Espinosa’s Spanish Folk-Tales from New Mexico (Memoirs of the American Folk-Lore Society, Vol. XXX, 1937, New York: Kraus Reprint Company, 1976), Riley Aiken’s Mexican Tales from the Borderland: From the Publications of the Texas Folklore Society (Dallas: Southern Methodist University Press, 1980), and John O. West’s Mexican-American Folklore: Legends, Songs, Festivals, Proverbs, Crafts, Tales of Saints, of Revolutionaries, and More (Little Rock: August House, Inc., 1988). Additional details came from numerous sources, including Aurora Lucero-White Lea’s Literary Folklore of the Hispanic Southwest (San Antonio, Tex.: The Naylor Company, 1953).

  THE DUPPY. This original tale incorporates Caribbean folklore from a variety of sources, including Zora Neale Hurston’s groundbreaking study of Haitian folklore, Tell My Horse (New York: Lippincott & Crowell Publishers, 1938; reprint, New York: HarperCollins, 1989). See also the excellent article “Parallels in West African, West Indian, and North Carolina Folklore” in North Carolina Folklore (Vol. XVII, No. 2, November 1969, Raleigh: North Carolina Folklore Society) by David K. Evans, Don Stephen Rice, and Joanne Kline Partin. They note that “duppy” may come from “doorpeep,” suggesting something peeping through a keyhole, or from the West African Ashanti dupon, referring to the thick roots of certain trees in which duppies may live. In Sierra Leone in West Africa, the word refers to ancestors who watch over villages. In Jamaica it can mean a ghost or other supernatural being. See also Funk & Wagnalls Standard Dictionary of Folklore, Mythology, and Legend: An Unabridged Edition of the Original Work with a Key to Place Names, Cultures, and People, edited by Maria Leach (New York: Harper & Row, Publishers, Inc., 1949, 1950, 1972; paperback reprint, Harper San Francisco, 1982).

  TWO SNAKES. Retold from a tale that appears under the title “Two Snakes” in 100 Chinese Myths and Fantasies, selected and translated by Ding Wangdao (Beijing: Foreign Language Teaching and Research Press; published and printed in Hong Kong, n.d.). The same tale, under the title “The Hunter,” appears in The Man Who Sold a Ghost: Chinese Tales of the 3rd–6th Centuries, translated by Yang Hsien-Yi and Gladys Yang (Hong Kong: The Commercial Press, 1958, 1977).

  THE DRAUG. Retold from various accounts in Phantoms and Fairies from Norwegian Folklore, Tor Age Bringsvaerd, translated by Pat Shaw Iversen (Oslo, Norway: Johan Grundt Tanum Forlag, n.d.). Published in cooperation with the Department of Cultural Relations, Ministry of Foreign Affairs. Other accounts are found in Reider Christiansen’s Folktales of Norway (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1964). Christiansen comments, “The Draug … is a sinister, malevolent being, and his appearance is an omen of impending disaster. In the tradition his name is identical with Old Norse draugr, i.e., ghost, or more precisely, ‘a living dead person.’ ”

  THE VAMPIRE CAT. Retold from an account in A. B. Mitford (Lord Redesdale), Tales of Old Japan (first published in Londo
n in 1871; reprinted, Boston: Charles E. Tuttle, 1966). The tale is also available in many other collections. Additional details were incorporated from Lafcadio Hearn, Kwaidan: Stories and Studies of Strange Things (Boston: Houghton, Mifflin, and Company, 1904; reprinted, Boston: Charles E. Tuttle Company, 1971).

  WINDIGO ISLAND. This story is a prose retelling, somewhat amplified, of a poem by William Henry Drummond (1854–1907), “The Windigo,” originally published in Johnny Corteau and Other Poems (1901), and reprinted in Windigo: An Anthology of Fact and Fantastic Fiction, edited by John Robert Colombo (Saskatoon, Sask.: Western Prairie Books, 1982; distributed by The University of Nebraska Press). I incorporated details from E. W. Thomson’s “Red-Headed Windego” (1895), also reprinted in the Colombo anthology. The lyrics to “En Roulant Ma Boule” (“A-rolling My Bowl”) come from the chapter titled “Songs of the Voyageurs” in Were-Wolves and Will-o-the-Wisps: French Tales of Mackinac Retold, written and illustrated by Dirk Gringhuis (Mackinac Island, Mich.: Mackinac Island State Park Commission, 1974). Additional information and gruesomely fascinating accounts can be found in Where the Chill Came From: Cree Windigo Tales and Journeys, gathered and translated by Howard Norman (San Francisco: North Point Press, 1982).

  THE HAUNTED INN. This story from classical China has been retold in many versions. Readers might want to consult Bernhardt J. Hurwood’s Passport to the Supernatural (New York: Taplinger Publishing Company, 1972) and Bernhardt J. Hurwood’s Monsters Galore (New York: Fawcett Publications, 1965), or Classical Chinese Tales of the Supernatural and Fantastic: Selections from the Third to the Tenth Century, edited by Karl S. Y. Kao (Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1985).

  THE ROLLING HEAD. I based this tale on accounts by plains people, enhancing the descriptions of Hungry Old Woman and Snake Old Man from parallel texts. Key sources include a Blackfeet account in Lewis Spence, North American Indians: Myths and Legends (London: George G. Harrap & Company, 1914; reprinted, London: Bracken Books, 1986) and a Cheyenne narrative in Indian Tales of North America: An Anthology for the Adult Reader, edited by Tristram P. Coffin (Philadelphia: American Folklore Society, 1961).