Tiny Tales of Terror

by Louise Ann Barton

  He bent to touch one finger to the mess and brought it to his lips. His eyes widened in shock. Most curious!

  The lord’s anxious glance swept the racks. Relieved, he saw his most precious acquisitions were still there, including the Champagnes.

  "God save the Queen!" he murmured and, grabbing the bottle of merlot, trotted back upstairs. He determined to file a police report. Afterwards, he’d send one of the maids down with a bucket and mop.

  That evening, his lordship rang up his chess adversary, The Right Reverend Charles Willard Darcey. "It seems someone has gotten into my wine cellar. Smashed a few bottles. Quite a mess. Wine spilled everywhere."

  "Dreadful!" Charles commiserated. "Have the ruffians been caught?"

  "Not yet," replied James with disappointment. "It’s your move."

  "Knight to f-6," Charles said, then realized his knight was forfeit.

  The following afternoon, his lordship returned to the wine cellar and discovered a smashed bottle of White Knight Sauvignon Blanc, its pale liquid splashed across the tiles.

  From then on, James checked each day, finding more vandalism. If it were not for my game with Charles, I would go mad. And by the time their game was done, quite a number of bottles were found smashed.

  "Do come to dinner," his lordship begged Charles. "I could use the advice of clergy as it seems my cellar is haunted."

  "Seriously," Charles queried, "am I expected to bring bell, book, and candle?"

  "Bring anything you deem reliable," James burbled. "Shall we say Wednesday, at seven?"

  Charles arrived to find a sumptuous repast already on the table. As the servants had been instructed to withdraw for the evening, the two served themselves. They’d barely begun to dine, when James broached the subject.

  "Despite bottles continuing to be broken, it seems no human hand has trifled with my wine cellar. After you lost your knight, a bottle of White Knight was found broken. Every bottle smashed since then has corresponded to the deployment of your pieces." His lordship leaned forward and whispered, "It’s the Red Queen!" He glanced fearfully in the direction of his chess set.

  "This set," James continued, "was discovered in Scotland. It’s late 12th century. Hand-carved from walrus tusk and whale bone. And, in the custom of the time before black was in vogue, one side was stained red. Its value has increased and I’d venture to say it’s now priceless."

  Charles inspected the helmeted, fierce-faced pawns and the armed knights astride tiny mounts. The bishops’ expressions spoke of personal agendas and the rooks appeared impregnable. The kings seemed clueless, while both queens had sly looks. He turned to James.

  "What would you like to do?"

  "I’d like to move this haunted set down to the wine cellar, set up corresponding bottles on the floor tiles, then we’ll maintain a vigil."

  The two repaired to the cellar, while James began deciding which wines he was willing to sacrifice.

  "Stay away from my Chateau Lafitte," he warned, "and my 1907 shipwrecked Heidsieck Champagnes. But I’m willing to risk the Red and White Knight wines and I’m thinking Champagne magnums for the queens."

  Charles inquired, "And the Red Queen? The Champagne-making process is too brief for the grape skins to impart color."

  James smilingly held up a rosé Champagne. "Except when blended with just a tad of red wine. Now don’t make any clever moves. Forget the king. Just get her majesty out on the board early on so we can trounce her."

  "The quiet opening," Charles replied, moving the white king’s pawn to e-4.

  "Red king’s pawn to e-5," James announced, opening up a path to the red queen.

  "White king’s knight to f-3." Charles began to build the trap.

  "Red king’s knight to h-6." James pretended to place his red knight in jeopardy.

  "White queen’s bishop to g-5." Charles slid the white bishop into place, now threatening the red queen and her knight.

  "We have her!" James chuckled. "If she doesn’t move, the bishop takes her. If she takes the bishop, the knight finishes her." As he triumphantly forced the red queen diagonally toward the bishop, it seemed she was dragging her feet, although he knew she had none. As he removed the bishop from the board, the bottle of White Bishop zinfandel slammed against the tiled floor of its own accord.

  Charles countered by moving the white king’s knight to g-5 and the red Champagne magnum crashed on its side.

  "Hmmmm," he murmured. "We have need of a mop."

  The men played the game to its conclusion to see if any other bottles would spontaneously break, but none did.

  A month later, James rang to say the haunting was over. He’d sawed off the Red Queen’s head and it now rested on the mantel, a shocked look on its tiny face.

  "The White Queen’s developing quite a smirk," James growled. "If that saucy wench smashes just one of my wines, I’ll take my power tools to her as well."

  At this, the wisp of a smile played on the Red Queen’s lips.

  Off with her head!

  BACK TO TOP

  THE SOUL EATER

  Halloween - Smuggler’s Cove, Scotland – 2010

  The creature tiptoed through the grass, between the tombstones, behind the church. This oldest part of the grounds was sorely unkempt and it was within this great, green overgrowth that he hid away. None living had ever looked fully upon him until the moment he overcame them, drawing the soul from their bodies. Leaving them to die.

  He only took children and then only on Samhain, the ancient Celtic festival when connection to the other world was strongest.

  "Victims of the Hoodie," these unfortunates were called. And mothers whispered to their children, "The Hoodie hunts in our churchyard. Go not to the cemetery at Samhain for he preys on wee ones."

  Those who lived in this tiny, Scottish village were wedded to their ways and love of the sea. Even fear of the Hoodie couldn’t budge them. Once a thriving fishing harbor, their economic fall from grace received an upturn when they became a featured attraction on the Undiscovered Scotland tours. And on a rainy day in October, on Samhain, a new batch of tourists arrived by boat.

  They came to climb the steps up from the pebble beach and traverse the main street, the only street, with the village’s only pub. They wandered, wearing brightly colored rain slickers, and marveled at the cottages hanging precariously on the side of the 120-foot cliffs, overlooking the bay.

  Later that dreary day, despite the warning to avoid the cemetery, an outsider’s child ran afoul of the Hoodie as the distraught mother shrieked, "Morrigan! My daughter! Oh, help us!"

  The parish priest and two of the villagers arrived to find the child lying on the wet grass. She was deathly pale, damp hair plastered to her cheeks, eyes shut. The men exchanged a knowing glance and then the priest bent over the child. "She’s still alive," he gasped in surprise. Had a demon possessed the tiny body?

  The mother sobbed with relief. "Morrigan is the joy of my life."

  Joy indeed, thought the priest. Just wait until you get home and find you’ve brought a monster back with you. Then he gently patted the child’s cheeks until she awoke. The pub’s innkeeper offered them free bed and board, then issued a stern reminder that the cemetery was off-limits.

  At first the child seemed normal, but with a newly possessed wisdom and charm. And she delighted in the village and the sea, excited to learn the red, sandstone cliffs had caves once used by smugglers. It was while exploring these caves that Morrigan discovered the twin spears.

  "An old soul now resides in her tiny body," whispered Orabel, the seer. "One of the ancient ones took over at the moment of death."

  That night, after everyone had retired, Father Malcolm discovered the girl alone in the dark, peering intently into the graveyard as if she could see the Hoodie hiding there. In a sad, sweet voice she said, "Bring Orabel to me so we may wash our faces in morning dew and eat scarlet berries from rowan sprigs." And he saw she held the spear
s.

  "What are you about, child?" he asked. "The night is chill. Best go safely to your bed."

  She began to glow with an inner light. "I am the Goddess Morrigan, queen of phantoms and demons. I command specters and shapeshifters, crows and ravens. Priests and witches bow before me." Indeed, Father Malcolm felt himself bowing to her will, but his arthritic knees kept him from this.

  "Go now," she instructed in a kinder tone, mindful of his infirmities, "and fetch Orabel." And the priest stumbled off, unable to help himself.

  By the time he returned, Morrigan was clad in shining armor. "The creature has escaped the dark world. You and I," and here her bright eyes fixed on Orabel and Malcolm, "need send him back." She touched dew to their faces and the berries to their lips.

  "I have no power," Orabel stammered.

  "Dispatching a Hoodie takes two spears. One through the heart, the other through the eye. You two are descendants of Druids and must witness the act." The Goddess strode forward. "I cry out over the cliffs and sea! We will rid your village of this demon." And caught in her thrall, Malcolm and Orabel had to follow.

  Morrigan moved with determination, not stopping until they reached the silent darkness of the graveyard. The Goddess commanded, "Abomination! Stealer of children’s souls! Show thyself to me."

  At this, a great wind sprang up, parting leaves and branches to reveal a large, evil-looking raven. Malcolm and Orabel gasped, and the demon hopped forward to confront his accusers.

  "The Druids created me," the creature cawed. "I only serve my original purpose."

  "Nay," said Morrigan. "The Romans honored our ancient ways and sacrifices, but that time has passed. Christians now hold sway. You must be returned to the Land of Shadows."

  The Hoodie rose up defiantly, wings a flap, cruel beak and talons working. The priest and the seer gasped, remembering only those about to die could see the Hoodie.

  Morrigan brought the first spear up. The Hoodie sprang, but the Goddess was faster and drove the weapon through its heart. Moving with lightning speed, she then pierced the demon’s left eye.

  The priest stammered, "So easily done! Why did you wait so many centuries?"

  "My time is past. Someone had to speak my name before I could intervene."

  The commotion brought the villagers and the mother trampling into the cemetery. They stared at the lifeless Hoodie and the shining one.

  Finally, the mother shrieked, "Give me back my child!"

  The Goddess whispered, "Your child is dead. It is only I who occupies this shell, trapped for the duration of your daughter’s natural span."

  "Abomination! I’ll not take you home with me!"

  "Then Morrigan may stay with us," the priest said. "We can issue a death certificate."

  "I’ll say she died at sea," the mother decided, her face twisted in anguish.

  And she spat on the Goddess’ shining feet.

  BACK TO TOP

  THE RISING OF THE SUN;

  THE CHANGING OF THE MOON

  Deep inside the royal tomb of a nameless mummy

  The girl moaned softly and her eyelids fluttered as the moon’s changing cycle awakened her. She rose gracefully from her brightly painted and gilded bed. I must be ready in case my father summons me to the throne room.

  In the darkness, she slipped into a sheer, pleated dress and drew on her heavy wig. As her tiny feet slipped into bejeweled sandals, she noted it was always dark now. It was as if the sun never rose any more.

  Without waiting for her ladies, Ebonee and Habibah, to attend her, the little princess went over to the table and took her accustomed seat. Staring down at the platter of fruits and grain before her, she realized she had no appetite. Although she waited most impatiently, no one came.

  The sun is gone. The statue of Isis is missing. My attendants have disappeared. And where is my family?

  The child sat there, stock still, unable to understand her predicament. And all the while, she ached for the company of her mother, her brothers and sisters, and her father, Ammon. She knew when time came to retire, she would disrobe and again climb into her beautiful bed. The bed that had been decorated with a mask of her own face, fashioned from gold.

  She recalled how her father had looked down at that special bed when it was being carved. What other child has a place this fine in which to repose? There were tears in his eyes when artists worked his daughter’s name into the gold leaf. Yes, of course, he told mother, she must have Emu, her favorite emusishere, to accompany her on the journey. Upon recalling this, the child peered curiously into the darkness, thinking how strange it was that she hadn’t seen that tiny kitten in such a very long time.

  How long had it been now? The little princess tried to do sums just the way her tutor had demonstrated, but had never been good at counting. Each time she attempted to total 1,095,000 risings of the sun, the numbers slipped away. And things went along, without change, in the total darkness. Until that fateful day.

  *

  The child’s eyes snapped open in surprise. Why have I awakened? It is not yet the changing of the moon. Men’s voices rang out. Strangers had invaded her royal apartment! They moved clumsily about, bumping into her precious belongings.

  Alarmed, she shrieked for Ebonee and Habibah. Intruders are entering my private chamber! Summon the palace guard! But her lips made no sound. Something was blocking her mouth to keep words from escaping. The tiny princess hastened to pull on her dress, her wig, and sandals. By now, she could hear the strangers running their hands over the seal on the heavy, stone door. In another moment, they would be upon her. Terrified, she jumped into her bed, drew the heavy cover over her head, and prayed.

  Oh, Isis, protect your devoted servant. And do not let them hurt my little emusishere, wherever he may be. Let my existence continue so I may serve you again. So I may once again see the sun rise.

  Then she heard a woman’s voice, musical, but unfamiliar. Not the voice of an assassin, not the voice of one who meant her harm. The princess strained to understand the words. Somehow, she knew the stranger was tracing the hieroglyphics with her fingertips, speaking first in Egyptian, immediately followed by a foreign tongue. The child frowned, concentrating on the part she understood, the part about her father.

  "It dates from before any of the early dynasties," the woman said. "About a great and good ruler called Ammon the Hidden. Hidden because he had many enemies. The evil ones murdered his child and then his wife. Later, they entombed him alive in a hidden place." The stranger’s voice took on an awed tone. "Oh, Derek. It says that this dig is the child’s tomb."

  The voice of a male intruder spoke, "Murdered almost 4,000 years ago. Oh, Ebe, what a find!"

  With great effort the strangers managed to move the stone blocking the door to the inner chamber. Light, bright as the sun, poured into the room. The terrified child realized the one called Ebe was approaching the magnificent resting place, running reverent hands along the many places where her name should have been painted or carved. Finding nothing, Ebe remarked in horror, "The child’s name is missing from the sarcophagus. Worse yet, it’s been chiseled off."

  "Her murderers not only wanted her dead in this world," Derek said in a strangled voice, "they hoped to deny her entry to the underworld. How could anyone feel such hatred to a youngster." He stared at his wife, remembering her Egyptian upbringing. Ebe began to weep. "But surely," he insisted, "you don’t believe in that underworld."

  "My grandparents believed in the old religion. Passed their beliefs on to me," Ebe whispered. "Told me my name means that someday I am to perform a wonderful deed. I think this may be it."

  "The child cannot have her heart weighed for judgment by Anubis if she cannot speak her own name. But she doesn’t know it," Derek insisted, and neither do you."

  Ebe turned to the workers. "The child’s name may still appear on some artifact in this tomb. Something the murderers overlooked. Search carefully."


  The men went off in different directions to do her bidding. A short time later, one fellow brought a painted clay bowl. "Zaliki, the well born," Ebe observed. Another native brought a number of parchment scrolls. "The Book of the Dead," Ebe announced. Then, seeing her husband’s confusion explained, "It’s not really a bound book, but a number of magic spells and religious rituals designed to protect the spirit during its journey to the underworld."

  She instructed the workmen to remove the sarcophagus lid and asked her husband to cut away the wrappings covering the child’s mouth.

  "But the mummy may be damaged if this is not done under the proper conditions," he protested.

  Ebe shook her head. "This child has suffered long enough,"

  Once the child’s lower face was bared, Ebe poked about and announced, "The fiends also blocked her little mouth." She spread out the scrolls and handed Derek a metal tool. "When I mention the part about the dead speaking, you must strike at that blockage so her spirit will be able to speak."

  Derek was unhappy at the prospect, but took his place beside the mummy’s head and Ebe spoke the spells aloud.

  "I shall walk. I shall talk. I shall go to the gates of the Two Lands of Osiris …

  "My mouth is opened, split with the iron harpoon . . .

  "I remember my name, Zalike the well born, and I place my name in the upper Egyptian Shrine. I make my name, Zalike the well born, remembered in the lower Egyptian Shrine, and I have counted the years and the numbering of the months …

  "Let me suffer not the fate of walking upside down in the afterlife . . .

  "Keep my body from putrification and protect me against those who would harm me in the realm of the dead. Get thee back, oh Crocodile of the West. Get thee back, asps. Harm me not on my journey . . .

  "Allow my spirit to come forth by day and have power over my enemies . . .

  "Let Osiris give breath to this inert one in the presence of Thoth . . .

  "Let Anubis preserve my heart against theft and protect me against false judgment."

  Ebe had no sooner finished the ritual, when a wind arose inside the tomb, scattering the parchments. The lights failed for a moment, then came back on as bright as sunlight. No one could see the spirit of the old, black woman drifting into the chamber, beckoning to the child.