by Various
And then, when the merchants thought nothing worse could possibly happen, the giant let loose an enormous black snake. It circled the room three times, then slithered directly toward the first merchant.
When it reached him, it bit his lip and began to suck his blood. The merchant almost fainted, and the others were petrified, wondering when their time would come.
When the eyes of the first merchant closed and his head fell to one side, the giant laughed and left the cellar.
The snake again circled the room three times and slithered toward the second merchant. All he could do was watch in horror as it bit his lip and sucked his life right out of him.
The third merchant watched the snake circling the room again, and suddenly he had an idea. When the snake slithered up to him, the merchant opened his mouth wide and bit the snake with all his strength. The snake tried to free itself, lashing its tail from side to side until the ground in which the merchant was buried began to loosen. Within moments the merchant was able to work one arm free. He grasped the snake and was pulled right out of the pit. The snake tried to wrap itself around him, but he grabbed a shovel and chopped the snake to bits.
He listened for the giant but didn’t hear a sound, so he quickly buried his dead friends and slipped up the stairs. He opened the front door and was horrified to see that same indescribable form on the horizon.
The giant was returning.
The merchant climbed the nearest fig tree and hid in its uppermost branches. Moments later, the giant tied his horse to that very tree.
The merchant listened to the giant stomp down to the cellar, bellow, and race back up again. His footsteps echoed from room to room as he searched for the third merchant, and his sword sang as he slashed the air.
But when he couldn’t find him he went outside to rest beneath the fig tree.
The merchant waited until the giant began to snore. Then, holding his breath, he climbed down, grabbed the sword, and plunged it into the giant’s heart. For one terrifying moment the giant opened his eyes. Then he died—and the merchant cut off his head for good measure.
The merchant didn’t want to stay on that terrible island for another minute. So he mounted the giant’s horse and directed it to swim back to Persia. Once he reached home, he never set sail again.
But as long as he lived, the fear of snakes tormented him. He imagined them lurking under every bush and tree, under every rug and chair. And when the night wind whispered through the leaves, he dreamed of huge black snakes slithering into his bed.
The Hand of Death
• A Tale from Mexico •
A young man put on his finest clothes and his broad-brimmed hat and tucked a dagger beneath his belt. Then he stepped into the street and made his way through the bustling crowds of the city, cursing anyone who blocked his path.
Soon he was hurrying along the road to a nearby village. He’d learned that a girl of unusual beauty lived there with her elderly uncle, the village priest. He was eager to see her.
He followed the road as it wandered between fields and over an arched stone bridge. He paused for a moment to admire his reflection in the river beneath. But fish made ripples on the surface, so he couldn’t see his image. In a flash of anger he threw a rock at the fish, then grew angrier still when the rock splashed water on his fine clothes.
He was still grumbling when he reached the village. But when he found the priest’s home, his spirits rose. He leaned against the house across the way, watching until the young woman came to her window.
The rays of the setting sun cast a warm glow over the village and onto her face. He had never seen anyone so lovely, and he serenaded her with a full heart.
When he threw a red rose up to her balcony, she drew the rose inside. Its thorny stem pricked her finger but she hardly noticed the pain. Every evening he sang beneath the young woman’s window, and her uncle grew worried.
He knew nothing about this young man, so he traveled to the city to see what he could discover. His fellow priests said the young man never came to the cathedral, but they had seen him gambling and drinking late into the night and arguing violently with his friends, even brandishing his dagger.
The village priest was dismayed. He hurried home and told his niece he could never approve of anyone who would bring her such unhappiness.
The next evening the young woman spoke sadly to the young man in the street below. “My uncle insists I stop seeing you,” she said. She returned the last rose he had thrown to her, but he saw that its petals were glistening with her tears.
The young man was furious. Why was the old priest doing this? He returned to the city. He gambled and fought and drank until even his most reckless friends were concerned, but he could not forget the lovely young woman.
Finally he decided to return to the village to see if he could win the priest’s approval. He hurried down the road, and when he was halfway across the arched stone bridge, he met the priest himself.
“I can’t live without her,” he cried. “I will become as righteous as the holiest of holy men.”
But the priest doubted his sincerity and told him to stay away from his niece. This made the young man so angry that he pulled forth his dagger and thrust it into the priest’s head, right there on the bridge. The priest fell, with the dagger still in his skull.
The young man grasped the dagger and tried to pull it out, because his insignia was on the handle for all to see. When he couldn’t wrench it loose, he braced his foot against the priest’s chest and pulled even harder, but the dagger stuck fast. Even in death, it seemed that the priest was victorious.
The young man was still desperately pulling on the dagger when he heard footsteps coming down the road. He panicked and heaved the body off the bridge and into the water below. Then he rushed back to the city, terrified that the blood and water splashed on his clothes would give him away.
He hid in his house for weeks, fearing every knock on the door. But when no one came to arrest him, he began to drink and gamble with his friends again.
Months later, he decided it would be safe to visit the young woman. He hurried down the road and saw the bridge ahead. But it wasn’t until he set foot upon the stones that he was struck with terror.
Standing on the bridge before him was a skeleton with a dagger sticking out of its head.
The last thing the young man ever saw was a hideous skull grinning at him, just inches from his face, and long bony fingers closing around his throat.
The Invisible Guest
• A Tale from Germany •
Was someone following him? The baron twisted in the saddle, but he could see no one. Yet he heard hoofbeats behind him, mile after mile.
He tugged at the reins, slowing his horse so the other rider could come abreast. The hoofbeats were beside him now, but still he could see nothing.
Suddenly a voice spoke so close to his ear that he jerked his horse to a stop. “I’ve been looking for a comfortable castle,” it said. “And I’ve decided to live in yours.”
“What?” the baron exclaimed.
Voices out of nowhere?
Was he going mad?
He felt his horse quivering beneath him, snorting and shying to the other side of the trail.
Something was there!
“Well?” asked the voice. “Am I invited? I plan to move in today.”
All at once the baron’s fear dissolved. “What impudence!” he thundered. “I decide who my guests will be. And I would never entertain a guest I cannot see.”
The voice turned cold. “I do not wish to reveal myself,” it said. “But I can show you my power.”
Suddenly a streak of lightning flew across the trail, splitting a towering oak tree and setting it ablaze. The baron’s horse tried to bolt, but he held it steady. “That was an illusion,” he said. “A mere trick.” No sooner were the words out of his mouth than he bent over double, in intense pain.
“Is that an illusion?” the voice asked.
“
No!” the baron cried.
And the pain ceased.
The baron whipped his horse. It broke into a gallop and raced for home. When they reached the castle, the baron leaped off the horse, ran inside, slammed the door, and locked it.
“That was foolish,” said a voice from over his shoulder. “You can’t get away from me.”
The baron swung his arms through the air, frantically trying to feel what he could not see. But the voice just moved upward. It spoke from the ceiling, even more coldly than before. “I need a servant to attend to my needs,” it said, “and a clean stall for my horse.” The baron was dumbfounded.
“Do you want another display of my power?” asked the voice.
“No,” the baron shouted. And he called for a servant.
“Take care of our guest,” he told the serving girl. She looked around, confused.
“You will hear only a voice,” he sputtered, “but it will make its needs known.” Then he raced out the door and bellowed for the stable boy.
The girl felt gooseflesh creep up her arms. Had her master lost his mind? Then she heard laughter coming from overhead and saw two drops of slime splash on her shoe. She froze in terror.
“Be calm, you dolt,” the voice said. “What your master says is true. Just be sure to serve me well.”
Was it an evil spirit? She swooned and fell to the castle floor. When she awoke she saw a bucket of water sloshing itself on her face—with no hands holding it.
“Get up and dry yourself,” ordered the voice. “Then get me a bowl of sweet milk with a sprinkling of fresh bread crumbs.”
She set the bowl on the kitchen table, then watched, wide-eyed, while the milk and crumbs slowly disappeared. When there were but a few drops left, the bowl tipped up. There was one last slurp and the bowl settled down again, empty.
But the voice didn’t eat in the kitchen for long. Soon it decided to join the girl’s master in the dining hall. The baron was infuriated. He didn’t want to share his table with an invisible guest.
“Show yourself,” he insisted. But the voice refused. The baron’s face flushed with anger. He had to know the voice’s true nature.
One evening he tried scattering ashes on the hearth so he could see the voice’s footprints. But the voice just blew the ashes back into the fireplace. “Don’t try to trick me,” it warned. “Or you will be roasted and eaten, like the pesky cook in my last castle.”
The baron shuddered but continued his search. Hour after hour he looked and listened and sniffed the air for the least sign of the spirit.
He hid in the stable, watching. And when he saw a brush seeming to move through the air by itself, he knew the voice was currying its invisible horse. What he didn’t see, however, was the slime dripping onto the straw.
When he heard light footsteps on the stairs, he thought the voice was coming down from its attic room. And when he caught a whiff of damp rot, he guessed the voice was nearby.
But he never was sure.
Was it lurking about, listening to every word? And what devilish tricks would it play if angered?
One day an old friend came to visit. He was distressed to see the stalwart baron slip into the room sniffing, listening, looking for a clue to the spirit’s whereabouts.
“Why put up with such a troublesome guest?” the friend asked. “Tell it to leave.”
The baron looked horrified. He raised his finger to his lips, trying to silence his friend. But it was too late.
When the friend left the next morning, his horse suddenly shied at something on the trail—something no mortal eye could see—and bucked its rider headfirst into a dank and smelly swamp. The friend sank deeper and deeper into the muck, as if pressed down by an invisible hand. He was never seen again.
When the baron learned that his friend’s horse had returned to its stable spooked and riderless, he became desperate.
Somehow he must get rid of the evil spirit. He lay awake all that night devising a plan. He arose before dawn, shivering, and roused the stable boy. “Listen carefully,” he whispered. And he gave the boy directions to a distant castle.
The boy jumped on a horse and rushed down the trail. Long after dark he returned, accompanied by the bravest knight in the land.
Hours before, the baron had heard the voice’s footsteps going up the stairs to bed. He whispered to the knight, begging him not to speak or to let his armor clank against the stone steps. Then they tiptoed up to the voice’s attic room.
The knight slipped in and pulled forth his sword, slashing left and right. He sliced the bedding, tipped over the chair and table, and swung his sword through every inch of empty air.
When he was sure nothing could have survived his ferocious assault, he returned to the hall, sweating and proud. “That’s done,” he said.
But the voice was heard once more, seeming to come from nowhere. “I’m not that easily caught,” it told the knight.
“And as for you,” it told the baron, “your betrayal endangers this castle and everyone in it.”
The baron felt himself thrust to the very edge of oblivion. He lay motionless on the floor, dreaming he had to clamber up the slippery walls of an infinitely deep well. When he finally reached the top, he regained consciousness.
The knight had fled, chased out of the castle by his own sword. But servants were hovering nearby. And there was an unmistakable whiff of rot in the air.
The baron had to admit he was beaten. For all he knew, the invisible guest would be there until he drew his very last breath. He might as well make the best of it.
He ordered the serving girl to pour the voice’s sweet milk into the finest china bowls. He made sure the voice’s favorite chair was placed at the table where the voice preferred it. He accepted the voice as his constant companion. And bit by bit he worked to earn its trust.
One night the baron was lying in bed. Moonlight was streaming through the open window. “Are you still in the room?” he asked the voice.
“Yes,” it responded.
“Then show yourself to me,” the baron pleaded.
“No,” said the voice.
“But now we are friends.”
“All the more reason to conceal myself.”
“Then let me touch you to see if you are real.”
“No,” said the voice, remembering the earlier betrayals. “You might hold on to me and not let go.”
“I swear upon my honor I would not do that,” said the baron.
“Upon your honor?”
“I swear to it.”
The voice slowly approached the bed. “Just one quick touch,” it said.
The baron reached out, found the voice’s fingers and shuddered. What he felt was slimy, like strands of jelly dripping off rubbery bone.
But as ghastly as the invisible guest seemed, the baron was overwhelmed by an urge to hang on. He had broken promises before, and now he saw no other way to rid the castle of its unwelcome guest.
“Let go!” cried the voice. “For your sake if not mine.”
But the baron would not release his grip. He tightened his fingers and clenched his teeth.
In the moonlight, he could not see the voice’s hand. But he could see his own. And as the baron watched, the flesh on his fingers turned to jelly, then the flesh on his hand, on his arm, on his entire body. His bones felt rubbery.
Then, to his horror, he began to disappear, until all that was left of the baron, there in his bed, was a voice—a wailing, shrieking, terrified voice.
And even that began to fade—until there was nothing.
A Trace of Blood
• A Tale from the United States •
Luke and Mattie heard their daughter scream. They were terrified. Had their master unleashed his frightful temper on Jo? She had entered the dining room only moments before, carrying a steaming bowl of gravy.
Luke rushed in and his knees began to tremble. For there on the floor lay Jo, silent and still, with a bloody cut on her temple.
“G
et her out of here!” the master ordered. He leaned back in his chair, cold and unrepentant, but Luke could guess what had happened. There was a splash of gravy on the tablecloth that Jo probably had spilled. And there were flecks of fresh blood on the rib roast, its bony end a handy weapon for the infuriated plantation master.
Mattie heard Luke moan and rushed in from the kitchen. She knelt by Jo, crying. But before they picked up their daughter, Luke mopped the blood from the floor with his handkerchief.
If the master had seen him do it, he might have guessed what Luke was planning, but maybe not. Who could tell, from merely looking at Luke, that he practiced voodoo?
By the next evening, Luke and Mattie had given their daughter a proper burial and left that terrible plantation behind.
The Civil War was over. They had been free for years, but they still had little hope for justice. So Luke made his own plans.
He bought a beef brain, nine cayenne peppers, and some black candles. Then he cut slits in the brain, poked in the fiery peppers, and lit the candles, one by one. At midnight he snuffed them out with his handkerchief, still wet with Jo’s blood and his and Mattie’s tears. Then he cut the handkerchief into small pieces.
The master never gave another thought to poor Jo until one evening when he glanced out the window and caught sight of someone who looked like Luke. He shouted to him, but the shadowy figure ran down the road and disappeared.
If the master had looked more carefully, he might have seen a piece of bloodstained handkerchief that the wind picked up and swirled across the yard. The family cat leaped into the air to catch it, but the master didn’t notice. He turned on his heel and headed up the stairs to his wife’s bedroom. He wanted to tell her about the man on the lawn, but when he opened the door, she was whirling in circles and shrieking with laughter. When she finally stopped, she attacked her husband, hissing and spitting like a wildcat.