“Wow,” Jeff breathed.
“Edward Teach was quite a fierce man,” said Grandpa. “Maynard seemed to think that the only way to ensure that Blackbeard was dead was to remove his head. They hung the head from the bowsprit and threw the pirate’s body overboard. As the body hit the water, the head hanging from the bowsprit shouted, ‘Come on Edward!’ and the headless body swam three times around the ship before sinking to the bottom.
“From that day to this, the headless ghost of Blackbeard has haunted Teach’s Hole. Whenever the wind blows inland, you can still hear Blackbeard’s ghost tramping up and down. It carries a lantern through the moonless night, roaring, ‘Where’s my head?!’ Whenever folks see a strange light coming from the shore on the Pamlico Sound side of Ocracoke Island, they call it Teach’s light.” Grandpa smiled at Bobby.
“And sometimes,” he continued, looking at me, “you can see Blackbeard’s headless ghost floating on the surface of the water, or swimming around and around and around Teach’s Hole, glowing just underneath the water, searching for his head. For Blackbeard is as proud in death as he was in life, and he doesn’t want to meet the devil or his crewmates in hell without a head on his shoulders.”
Bobby, Jeff, and I all shivered as Grandpa finished his story. The thunder had died away, and the rain beat steadily on the roof.
“Time for bed,” Grandma said, breaking the spell. We all groaned, but got up.
“Tomorrow night, if it’s clear, I will take you to Teach’s Hole,” Grandpa promised as we all trooped upstairs to prepare for bed.
The rain had ceased by the time I closed the bedroom door for the night. I went to the window and looked out toward the sea. In my mind, I could picture Blackbeard fighting Maynard on the deck of the ship, his blood spurting out as he fought to his death. Then I thought I saw a light. I opened my window and leaned out, getting my nightgown wet. I strained my ears. Was it him? Was it Teach? The wind rustled the leaves on the trees, and the night was dark again. I sighed, closed the window, and went to bed.
14
The Log Cabin
Montgomery County, Arkansas
Now I’ve heard tell of an old, weather-beaten log cabin way back in the woods of Arkansas that is supposed to be as haunted as a place can be. Folks from miles around claim that ghosts, a lot of ghosts, make that old log cabin home. There’s not a preacher in this whole world who can make them ghosts leave. There’s not a barn raising or Ladies Aid meeting or after-church gathering where folks don’t discuss the haunts in the old log cabin. Everyone has heard of someone who’s had a ghostly encounter there.
Even hunters who find themselves in that area after dark don’t try to spend the night in that old log cabin, even if it means they have to walk several more miles until they find another place to roost for the night. Course, there are always daredevils who try to spend the night in the cabin. And it’s always the same old story. Round about midnight, they hear a moaning and a rumbling and a shrieking such as would scare the living daylights out of anyone, and they start a-running for their lives.
Now one of these men, who went by the name of Fred, was telling his story round a campfire one night. He summed up his tale by saying that there wasn’t a man alive who could stay in that there haunted cabin from dusk until dawn.
“Yes there is too,” a man called Uncle Sam spoke up promptly. “You just give me fifty dollars, a frying pan, a hunk of meat, and a loaf of bread, and I’ll stay there from dark till noon.”
The friends all laughed, but Uncle Sam was serious. So they gave Uncle Sam his fifty dollars, his frying pan, his meat, his loaf of bread, and they escorted him to the edge of the clearing where the old log cabin stood. Then they went back to their campfire as Uncle Sam marched up to the door and went into the small cabin.
There was only one room with a rough fireplace and a few rickety chairs. Uncle Sam made a fire and settled himself in a chair to enjoy his pipe. When it grew near midnight, Uncle Sam decided it was time to fry up his pork. He put the frying pan on the fire, set the pork in to sizzle, and then settled back into his chair for another smoke. The small cabin filled with the delicious smell of frying pork, and Uncle Sam crossed his legs and settled deeper into his seat with a happy sigh. He patted the pocket where he had put the money and reckoned that it was the easiest fifty dollars he had ever made.
Something stirred in the shadows. Uncle Sam, still lost in a pleasant dream of spending all the money on women and whiskey, didn’t notice the movement. He started in surprise when he saw a wrinkled black creature about the size of a hare scurry out onto the hearth. It had small black wings on its back, an evil-looking face, and glowing red eyes. The tiny imp spat right across the frying pan into the back of the fire. Uncle Sam frowned. Now that ain’t nice at all, he mused, messing with a man’s meal.
The imp looked up at Uncle Sam with its glowing red eyes.
“There’s nobody here but you and me tonight,” the imp said conversationally.
Uncle Sam’s whole attention was centered on the meat sizzling in the frying pan. He was trying to figure out if that imp had spat into the fire or into the meat. Uncle Sam didn’t take no notice of the imp’s words. Leaning forward, he stirred the meat in the frying pan. It looked all right, and it still smelled delicious.
The imp was not pleased. It spat into the fire again, right next to the frying pan. Uncle Sam sat up with a jerk. He was furious. He had been looking forward to his meal all evening, and now this pesky imp had almost ruined it. Uncle Sam swatted at the imp, shouting, “Don’t you spit in my meat!”
Quick as lightning, the imp kicked out at the frying pan, spilling the meat into the fire. Then it lunged up at Uncle Sam, clawing him between the eyes. Uncle Sam reeled back in his chair in pain as the imp returned to its place on the hearth. There was a moment of heavy silence. Uncle Sam clutched his bleeding forehead and looked numbly at the imp. Then the creature turned its red eyes on Uncle Sam again and said, “There’s nobody here but you and me tonight.”
Uncle Sam stared, mesmerized, into the imp’s eyes. He felt as if he were falling into the pit of hell. Flames flickered at the edge of his vision. Around him, he could hear the unearthly moans and the terrible shrieks of the damned, rising louder and louder. His forehead began to throb. The imp’s words echoed repeatedly through his head until he thought he would lose his mind: “There’s nobody here but you and me. There’s nobody here but you and me.”
Still clutching his bleeding forehead, Uncle Sam shot up out of his rickety chair.
“I-I-I’ll not be here long,” he stammered, and rushed for the door. As the door slammed behind him, Uncle Sam heard the imp give an unearthly screech. Through the clear night, he could hear the sound of claws scraping at the wood of the door. Uncle Sam ran for his life.
Uncle Sam would have kept running right past the campsite if his friends hadn’t stopped him.
“What happened?” demanded Fred as the group surrounded the terrified man.
Speechless, Uncle Sam thrust the fifty dollars into Fred’s hand, elbowed his way out of the group, and ran the rest of the way home. Uncle Sam rarely spoke to anyone about what he saw that night. And he never went near the old log cabin again.
The Log Cabin
15
The Woman in Black
Savannah, Georgia
I was just a young lad in those days, living with my family in Savannah. My brother and me, we liked to walk over and see my mother’s sister who lived in the next town. The shortest way to my aunt’s house was past the cemetery. My older brother Teddy didn’t mind walking next to all them dead folks, but it made me nervous. I always made excuses to go home early ’cause I didn’t want to pass that cemetery at night. My brother, he just laughed at me and told me there was nothing to be scared of.
Well, one night we stayed and stayed at my aunt’s house until it was well past dark. I was plu
mb scared to walk home past that cemetery, but my brother just laughed and waved the cane he used when his rheumatism started acting up.
“I’ll protect you from the ghosts, Collier,” he said. “I’ll hit ’em with my stick.”
“Very funny,” I replied. I said good-bye to my aunt and followed Teddy out the door. It was one of those nights that’s real dark ’cause the moon had already set. There were hardly any lights coming from the houses, and even the lightning bugs weren’t out. I didn’t like it one bit, having to walk home in the dark, but Teddy was already hobbling ahead of me, leaning on his stick ’cause his leg was bothering him something fierce. So I followed along. The only thing worse than walking home in the dark is walking home in the dark alone.
“Wait for me!” I called to Teddy. I caught up with him right quick and we started walking along the fence. We’d only gone about a hundred yards when we caught sight of a lady coming toward us in the light from one dim street lamp. She was a real pretty lady. She was wearing a fancy black silk dress that rustled as she walked, and she had a long black veil over her face. Teddy and I were real surprised to see her ’cause we both thought the street was empty. It seemed like she appeared from nowhere. Gave me goose bumps, but Teddy weren’t spooked a bit. He gave the woman a fancy bow like he always did when he saw a pretty face.
The Woman in Black
The woman came right up to us and asked, “Are you going around the fence?”
Something about her voice made me feel chilled to the bone. I stared hard at her, but she seemed as real as Ted and me. I decided I was just thinking crazy ’cause we were near that cemetery.
“We are indeed, madam,” Teddy said grandly, tapping his stick for emphasis. He was talking in that learned manner he used with the gals. I rolled my eyes.
“You are not afraid?” asked the woman.
“No, madam,” Teddy said. “Collier is, but he is just a little fellow.”
I resented his words.
“I am not afraid,” I said stoutly, ignoring my shaking knees and the goose bumps on my arms. There was something spooky about that woman’s voice. It had an odd echo as if she were speaking in a cave. But she was mighty pretty, her face all misty behind the black veil.
“Perhaps you would let me walk with you,” said the woman, “since you are not afraid.”
“It would be our pleasure,” Teddy said, swelling with pride. “You don’t need to be afraid with us, madam.”
“Indeed,” said the woman, turning to walk along the fence next to Teddy. I lagged behind. I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Teddy was still talking grandly to the woman, trying to impress her with his wit, when I saw something over the cemetery fence. A small, white shape was rising out of the ground. It looked like mist at first, but it gradually became solid. Teddy must have seen it too, ’cause he suddenly stopped talking and stood still. I nearly bumped into him since I was looking at that misty thing and not where I was walking. The woman in black stopped with us, and we all watched as the misty shape solidified into what looked like a huge white rat.
Then the rat sprang forward and ran straight toward us. Teddy and I jumped back in terror, but the woman in black didn’t move. For several terrible seconds we watched that white rat coming closer, closer. Then the woman picked up her black silk skirts and ran to meet it. The white rat sprang up into her arms and then sank right through her chest. I caught a glimpse of her face through the veil. It was all sunken in like the face of a corpse. She laughed, a horrible high-pitched sound. Then the earth seemed to open below her feet and she sank down and down.
Teddy let out a shriek that was almost as terrible as the ghoul-woman’s cry. He dropped his stick and started running as if he’d never suffered from rheumatism a day in his life. I was right on his heels. We never stopped running till we got home.
After that, we always took the long way to my aunt’s house and made sure we left before dark.
16
The Handshake
Goldsboro, North Carolina
Polly was the sweetest, prettiest girl in Goldsboro, yes sir. All the local boys were chasing her, and quite a number of the fellows from the surrounding countryside were too. All the girls were jealous of Polly ’cause they didn’t have no sweethearts to take them to the local dances, but even they couldn’t help liking her. Polly would give someone the shirt off her back if they needed it. That’s just the way she was. Of course, the girls all wanted Polly to choose her man so things could go back to normal. But Polly was picky. None of the local boys suited her, and neither did the fellows from the backcountry.
Then one day, George Dean came home from university, and Polly was smitten. He was handsome, tall, and mysterious. He didn’t chase her like the other fellows. He seemed to favor the other girls. For weeks Polly fumed as George played beau to first one pretty girl then another. Didn’t he see her at all? She was in a real tizzy by the time handsome George Dean wandered up to her front porch one evening and asked if she’d care to take a stroll down the lane. Polly sniffed and acted haughty at first, but finally she allowed that a stroll might not come amiss.
From that moment on, Polly and George were inseparable. You couldn’t turn around without bumping into them at one social event or another. Polly completely dropped all her other beaus, much to the relief of the local girls, and soon the town was filled with the laughter of many courting couples. The Saturday night dances were particularly popular, and it was at one of those that George proposed and Polly accepted. There was great rejoicing—particularly among the eligible young females, who’d been afeared of what might happen if Polly broke it off with George.
A day was set, and Polly started making preparations for the wedding and shopping for items to fill her new home. George wasn’t too interested in all the fripperies and wedding details. He left the womenfolk to get on with it and started spending time down at the pool hall with some of his buddies. And that’s where he met Helene, the owner’s saucy daughter. She had bold black eyes and ruby-red lips, and a bad-girl air that fascinated George. He spent more and more time at the pool hall, and less and less time with Polly, who finally noticed in spite of all the hustle and bustle.
She made a few inquiries, and Cindy—a girl who’d lost her favorite beau to Polly a few years back—told her all about Helene. In detail.
Of course, Polly was furious. She immediately confronted George with the story, and he couldn’t deny it. Suddenly, George had to toe the mark. His pool-hall visits were over, and he spent every free hour he wasn’t at work by her side. That didn’t sit well with George, but his family backed Polly up, so he went along with it.
The day of the wedding dawned clear and bright. Polly and her bridesmaids went to the church to get dressed in their finery, whispering excitedly together. The guests filled the sanctuary, and the pastor and the best man waited patiently in the antechamber for the groom’s arrival. They waited. And waited. And waited some more. But George didn’t come.
The best man hurried into the sanctuary to talk to the groom’s father, who hustled back to the house right quick to check on his son. Still no George. Had he been in an accident? Was he hurt? No one knew the answer.
George’s brothers went searching for him, calling in at the police, at the hospital. His youngest brother even went to the pool hall. And that’s when he found out that Helene was missing too. Helene’s youngest sister told George’s youngest brother that she’d seen them leave the pool hall together about an hour before the wedding. So that was that.
With dread, Polly’s mother went to tell her daughter what had happened. Polly, all bright and shining and lovely in her long white dress and soft wedding veil, turned pale when her mother broke the news.
“It couldn’t be. George would never do that!” she exclaimed. She stared blankly at her mother, swayed a bit, and then stiffened, grabbing her left arm as a s
udden pain ripped through it. She was dead from a massive heart attack before she hit the floor.
And so Polly’s wedding became—in essence—Polly’s wake. Her family was furious. George’s family was furious and embarrassed. And the guests were furious too. George’s unthinking actions had killed the sweetest, prettiest girl in Goldsboro. If he was going to jilt her, the gossips all agreed, he should have done it privately. He shouldn’t have left her at the altar.
A few days later Polly was buried in the churchyard, still wearing her white wedding dress and veil. The whole town came to the funeral and wept at the passing of such a beautiful young girl. George and Helene, who had spent the week happily honeymooning in the Outer Banks, arrived home at the very moment that the black-clad crowd exited the churchyard. Their arrival caused a commotion. The minister had to pull Polly’s father off George before he killed him. And George’s family disowned him right there in the street in front of everyone. Even the attorneys at the law office where George worked turned him away, knowing that no one in town would do business with them as long as George remained on their staff.
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