Greetings Darklings,
For this week of Halloween, instead of posting a story, I thought I would post one of my favorite folk songs we used to sing when we were but young undeadlings. It's called "Skin and Bones", there's also a You Tube link with a performance further down on the page, so check that out as well. Enjoy and have a frightfully morbid holiday!
http://thirteenforhalloween.com/index.php/poemslyrics/2008/08/12/skin-and-bones-a-halloween-song
Happy Samhain, Halloween, Los Dias de los Muertos!
Xane and Dane Dravor
Thursday, October 29, 2009
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Spooky tales for you to tale
Greetings gals and ghouls!
Being that it’s a little more than a week before the best spooky day of the year, I thought I would post a few spooky tales that are meant to be told orally. (They don't translate well in written form.) That way you have a week to get them under your belt in plenty of time to thrill the kiddies and adults alike, while making you the center of attention at all those spooks balls and ghoul gatherings.
Storytelling in its original form is quickly becoming a dying art. It has been replaced first by radio and then by film and television. Those forms are all well and good but the personal connection between storyteller and audience has been lost. This is especially true with scary stories once told by campfires on cold lonely nights. The skill with which a talented yarn spinner could send chills down the spine of his listeners can not be matched and unfortunately has almost died out completely.
So come along with us and the crazy few that work hard to make sure this age old tradition gets resurrected from time to time. Take a step back to simpler times and spookier nights, when the storyteller and the imagination of the listener was king.
The Big Toe
A boy was digging at the edge of the garden when he saw a big toe. He tried to pick it up, but it was stuck to something. So he gave it a good hard jerk, and it came off in his hand. Then he heard something groan and scamper away.
The boy took the toe into the kitchen and showed it to his mother. “It looks nice and plump,” she said. “I’ll put it in the soup, and we’ll have it for supper.”
That night his father carved the toe into three pieces, and they each had a piece. Then they did the dishes, and when it got dark they went to bed.
The boy fell asleep almost at once. But in the middle of the night, a sound awakened him. It was something out in the street. It was a voice, and it was calling to him.
“Where is my to-o-o-o-o-e?” it groaned.
When the boy heard that, he got very scared. But he thought, “It doesn’t know where I am. It never will find me.”
Then he heard the voice once more. Only now it was closer.
“Where is my to-o-o-o-o-e?” It groaned.
The boy pulled the blankets over his head and closed his eyes. “I’ll go to sleep,” he thought. “When I wake up it will be gone.”
But soon he heard the back door open, and again he heard the voice.
“Where is my to-o-o-o-o-e?” it groaned.
Then the boy heard footsteps move through the kitchen into the dining room, into the living room, into the front hall. The slowly they climbed the stairs.
Closer and closer they came. Soon they were in the upstairs hall. New they were outside his door.
“Where is my to-o-o-o-o-e?” the voice groaned.
His door opened. Shaking with fear, he listened as the footsteps slowly moved through the dark towards his bed. Then they stopped.
“Where is my to-o-o-o-o-e?” the voice groaned.
(At this point, pause. Then jump at the person next to you and shout:)
“YOU’VE GOT IT!”
“The Big Toe” also has another ending.
When the boy hears the voice calling for its toe, he finds a strange looking creature up inside the chimney. The boy is so frightened he can’t move. He just stands there and stares at it.
Finally he asks: “W-w-w-what you got such big eyes for?”
And the creature answers: “To look you thro-o-o-ugh and thro-o-o-ugh!”
“W-w-w-what you got such big claws for?”
“To scra-a-a-tch up your gra-a-a-a-ve!”
“W-w-w-what you got such a big mouth for?”
“To swallow you who-o=o-le!”
“W-w-w-what you got such sharp teeth for?”
“TO CHOMP YOUR BONES!”
(As you give the last line, pounce on one of your friends.)
It’s Him!
The woman was the meanest, most miserable person you could imagine. And her husband was just as bad. The only good thing was that they lived in the woods all by themselves and couldn’t bother anybody else.
On day they were off somewhere getting firewood and the woman go so mad at her husband that she grabbed an ax and cut his head off, just like that. Then she buried him nice and neat and went home.
She made herself a cup of tea and went out on the porch. She sat there rocking in her rocking chair, sipping her tea, thinking how glad she was that she had done this awful thing. After a while she heard this old, empty voice out in the distance moaning and groaning, and it was saying:
“Whoooooo’s going to stay with me this cold and lonely night? Whoooooo?”
“It’s him!” she thought. And she hollered back, “Stay by yourself, you old goat.”
Soon she heard the voice again, only now it was closer, and it was saying:
“Whoooooo’s going to sit with me this cold and lonely night? Whoooooo?”
“Only a crazy man!” she shouted. “Sit by yourself, you dirty rat!”
Then she heard the voice even closer, and it was saying:
“Whoooooo’s going to be with me this cold and lonely night? Whoooooo?”
“Nobody!” she sneered. “Be by yourself, you miserable mole!”
She stood up to go into the house, but now the voice was right behind her, and it was whispering”
“Whoooooo’s going to stay with me this cold and lonely night? Whoooooo?”
Before she could answer back, a big hairy hand came around the corner and grabbed her, and the voice hollered”
“YOU ARE!”
(As you say the last line, grab one of your friends.)
Clinkity-Clink
An old lady got sick and died. She had no family and no close friends. So the neighbors got a gravedigger to dig a grave for her. And they had a coffin made, and they placed it in her living room. As was the tradition, they washed her body and dressed her up in her best clothes and put her in the coffin.
When she died her eyes were wide open, staring at everything and seeing nothing. The neighbors found two old silver dollars on her dresser, and they put them on her eyelids to keep them closed.
They lit candles and sat up with her so that she would not be too lonely on that first night that she was dead. The next morning a preacher came and said a prayer for her. Then everybody went home.
Later the gravedigger arrived to take her to the cemetery and bury her. He stared at the silver dollars on her eyes, and he picked them up. How shiny and smooth they were! How thick and heavy! “They’re beautiful,” he thought, “just beautiful.”
He took the dead woman. With her eyes wide open, he felt she was staring at him, watching him hold her coins. It gave him a creep feeling. He put the coins back on those eyes of hers to keep them closed.
But before he knew it, his hands reached out again and grabbed the coins and stuck them in his pocket. Then he grabbed a hammer and quickly nailed shut the lid on the coffin.
“Now you can’t see anything!” he said to her. Then he took her out to the cemetery, and he buried her as fast as he could.
When the gravedigger got home, he put the two silver dollars in a tin box and shook it. The coins made a cheerful rattling sound, but the gravedigger wasn’t feeling cheerful. He couldn’t forget those eyes looking at him.
When it got dark, a storm came up, and the wind started blowing. It blew all around the house. It came in through the cracks and around the windows, and down the chimney.
BUZ-OOOOOO-O-O-O! It went. Bizee, bizee, BUZ-OOOOOO-O-O-O! The fire flared and flickered.
The gravedigger threw some fresh wood on the fire, got into bed, and pulled the blankets up to his chin.
The wind kept blowing. BUZ-OOOOOO-O-O-O! It went. Bizee, bizee, BUZ-OOOOOO-O-O-O! The fire flared and flickered and cast evil-looking shadows on the walls. The gravedigger lay there thinking about the dead woman’s eyes staring at him. The wind blew stronger and louder, and the fire flared and flickered, and popped and snapped, and he got more and more scared.
Suddenly he heard another sound. Clinkity-clink, clinkity-clink, it went. Clinkity-clink, clinkity-clink. It was the silver dollars rattling in the tin box.
“Hey!” the gravedigger shouted. “Who’s taking my money?”
But all he heard was the wind blowing, bizee, bizee, BUZ-OOOOOO-O-O-O! and the flames flaring and flickering, and snapping and popping, and coins going clinkity-clink, clinkity-clink.
He leaped out of bed and chained up the door. Then he hurried back. But his head had bearly touched the pillow when he heard, clinkity-clink, clinkity-clink.
Then he heard something way off in the distance. It was a voice crying, “Where is my money? Who’s got my money? Whoooo? Whoooo?”
And the wind blew bizee, bizee, BUZ-OOOOOO-O-O-O! And the fire flared and flickered and snapped and popped, and the money went, clinkity-clink, clinkity-clink.
The gravedigger was really scared. He got out of bed again and piled all the furniture against the door, and he put a heavy iron skillet over the tin box. Then he jumped back into bed and covered his head with the blankets.
But the money rattled louder than ever, and way off a voice cried, “Give me my money! Who’s got my money! Whoooo? Whoooo?” And the wind blew and the fire flared and flickered and snapped and popped, and the gravedigger shivered and shook and cried, “Oh Lordy, Lordy!”
Suddenly the front door flew open, and in walked the ghost of the dead woman with her eyes wide open, staring at everything and seeing nothing. And the wind blew, bizee, bizee, BUZ-OOOOOO-O-O-O! and the money went clinkity-clink, clinkity-clink, and the fire flared and flickered and snapped and popped, and the ghost of the dead woman cried, “Oh, where is my money? Who’s got my money? Whoooo? Whoooo?” And the gravedigger moaned, “Oh, Lordy, Lordy!”
The ghost could hear her money going Clinkity-clink, clinkity-clink, in the tin box. But her dead eyes couldn’t see the box. So she reached out her arms and tried to find it.
(As you tell the story, stand up with your arms in front of you and bein groping around you.)
The wind went, Bizee, bizee, BUZ-OOOOOO-O-O-O! and the money rattled, Clinkity-clink, clikity-clink! And the fire flared and flickered and snapped and popped, and the gravedigger shivered and shook and moaned, “Oh, Lordy, Lordy!” And the woman cried, “Give me my money! Who’s got my money? Whoooo? Whoooo?”
(Now quickly jump at somebody in the audience and scream:)
YOU’VE GOT IT!
I hope you’ve enjoyed this weeks selection and will pass along the chilling tales on a dark and creepy evening in front of the fire or a blazing jack-o-lantern!
Dane Dravor
Stories taken from: Scary Stories Treasury. Collected from folklore and retold by Alvin Schwartz
ISBN 0-06-026341-5
Being that it’s a little more than a week before the best spooky day of the year, I thought I would post a few spooky tales that are meant to be told orally. (They don't translate well in written form.) That way you have a week to get them under your belt in plenty of time to thrill the kiddies and adults alike, while making you the center of attention at all those spooks balls and ghoul gatherings.
Storytelling in its original form is quickly becoming a dying art. It has been replaced first by radio and then by film and television. Those forms are all well and good but the personal connection between storyteller and audience has been lost. This is especially true with scary stories once told by campfires on cold lonely nights. The skill with which a talented yarn spinner could send chills down the spine of his listeners can not be matched and unfortunately has almost died out completely.
So come along with us and the crazy few that work hard to make sure this age old tradition gets resurrected from time to time. Take a step back to simpler times and spookier nights, when the storyteller and the imagination of the listener was king.
The Big Toe
A boy was digging at the edge of the garden when he saw a big toe. He tried to pick it up, but it was stuck to something. So he gave it a good hard jerk, and it came off in his hand. Then he heard something groan and scamper away.
The boy took the toe into the kitchen and showed it to his mother. “It looks nice and plump,” she said. “I’ll put it in the soup, and we’ll have it for supper.”
That night his father carved the toe into three pieces, and they each had a piece. Then they did the dishes, and when it got dark they went to bed.
The boy fell asleep almost at once. But in the middle of the night, a sound awakened him. It was something out in the street. It was a voice, and it was calling to him.
“Where is my to-o-o-o-o-e?” it groaned.
When the boy heard that, he got very scared. But he thought, “It doesn’t know where I am. It never will find me.”
Then he heard the voice once more. Only now it was closer.
“Where is my to-o-o-o-o-e?” It groaned.
The boy pulled the blankets over his head and closed his eyes. “I’ll go to sleep,” he thought. “When I wake up it will be gone.”
But soon he heard the back door open, and again he heard the voice.
“Where is my to-o-o-o-o-e?” it groaned.
Then the boy heard footsteps move through the kitchen into the dining room, into the living room, into the front hall. The slowly they climbed the stairs.
Closer and closer they came. Soon they were in the upstairs hall. New they were outside his door.
“Where is my to-o-o-o-o-e?” the voice groaned.
His door opened. Shaking with fear, he listened as the footsteps slowly moved through the dark towards his bed. Then they stopped.
“Where is my to-o-o-o-o-e?” the voice groaned.
(At this point, pause. Then jump at the person next to you and shout:)
“YOU’VE GOT IT!”
“The Big Toe” also has another ending.
When the boy hears the voice calling for its toe, he finds a strange looking creature up inside the chimney. The boy is so frightened he can’t move. He just stands there and stares at it.
Finally he asks: “W-w-w-what you got such big eyes for?”
And the creature answers: “To look you thro-o-o-ugh and thro-o-o-ugh!”
“W-w-w-what you got such big claws for?”
“To scra-a-a-tch up your gra-a-a-a-ve!”
“W-w-w-what you got such a big mouth for?”
“To swallow you who-o=o-le!”
“W-w-w-what you got such sharp teeth for?”
“TO CHOMP YOUR BONES!”
(As you give the last line, pounce on one of your friends.)
It’s Him!
The woman was the meanest, most miserable person you could imagine. And her husband was just as bad. The only good thing was that they lived in the woods all by themselves and couldn’t bother anybody else.
On day they were off somewhere getting firewood and the woman go so mad at her husband that she grabbed an ax and cut his head off, just like that. Then she buried him nice and neat and went home.
She made herself a cup of tea and went out on the porch. She sat there rocking in her rocking chair, sipping her tea, thinking how glad she was that she had done this awful thing. After a while she heard this old, empty voice out in the distance moaning and groaning, and it was saying:
“Whoooooo’s going to stay with me this cold and lonely night? Whoooooo?”
“It’s him!” she thought. And she hollered back, “Stay by yourself, you old goat.”
Soon she heard the voice again, only now it was closer, and it was saying:
“Whoooooo’s going to sit with me this cold and lonely night? Whoooooo?”
“Only a crazy man!” she shouted. “Sit by yourself, you dirty rat!”
Then she heard the voice even closer, and it was saying:
“Whoooooo’s going to be with me this cold and lonely night? Whoooooo?”
“Nobody!” she sneered. “Be by yourself, you miserable mole!”
She stood up to go into the house, but now the voice was right behind her, and it was whispering”
“Whoooooo’s going to stay with me this cold and lonely night? Whoooooo?”
Before she could answer back, a big hairy hand came around the corner and grabbed her, and the voice hollered”
“YOU ARE!”
(As you say the last line, grab one of your friends.)
Clinkity-Clink
An old lady got sick and died. She had no family and no close friends. So the neighbors got a gravedigger to dig a grave for her. And they had a coffin made, and they placed it in her living room. As was the tradition, they washed her body and dressed her up in her best clothes and put her in the coffin.
When she died her eyes were wide open, staring at everything and seeing nothing. The neighbors found two old silver dollars on her dresser, and they put them on her eyelids to keep them closed.
They lit candles and sat up with her so that she would not be too lonely on that first night that she was dead. The next morning a preacher came and said a prayer for her. Then everybody went home.
Later the gravedigger arrived to take her to the cemetery and bury her. He stared at the silver dollars on her eyes, and he picked them up. How shiny and smooth they were! How thick and heavy! “They’re beautiful,” he thought, “just beautiful.”
He took the dead woman. With her eyes wide open, he felt she was staring at him, watching him hold her coins. It gave him a creep feeling. He put the coins back on those eyes of hers to keep them closed.
But before he knew it, his hands reached out again and grabbed the coins and stuck them in his pocket. Then he grabbed a hammer and quickly nailed shut the lid on the coffin.
“Now you can’t see anything!” he said to her. Then he took her out to the cemetery, and he buried her as fast as he could.
When the gravedigger got home, he put the two silver dollars in a tin box and shook it. The coins made a cheerful rattling sound, but the gravedigger wasn’t feeling cheerful. He couldn’t forget those eyes looking at him.
When it got dark, a storm came up, and the wind started blowing. It blew all around the house. It came in through the cracks and around the windows, and down the chimney.
BUZ-OOOOOO-O-O-O! It went. Bizee, bizee, BUZ-OOOOOO-O-O-O! The fire flared and flickered.
The gravedigger threw some fresh wood on the fire, got into bed, and pulled the blankets up to his chin.
The wind kept blowing. BUZ-OOOOOO-O-O-O! It went. Bizee, bizee, BUZ-OOOOOO-O-O-O! The fire flared and flickered and cast evil-looking shadows on the walls. The gravedigger lay there thinking about the dead woman’s eyes staring at him. The wind blew stronger and louder, and the fire flared and flickered, and popped and snapped, and he got more and more scared.
Suddenly he heard another sound. Clinkity-clink, clinkity-clink, it went. Clinkity-clink, clinkity-clink. It was the silver dollars rattling in the tin box.
“Hey!” the gravedigger shouted. “Who’s taking my money?”
But all he heard was the wind blowing, bizee, bizee, BUZ-OOOOOO-O-O-O! and the flames flaring and flickering, and snapping and popping, and coins going clinkity-clink, clinkity-clink.
He leaped out of bed and chained up the door. Then he hurried back. But his head had bearly touched the pillow when he heard, clinkity-clink, clinkity-clink.
Then he heard something way off in the distance. It was a voice crying, “Where is my money? Who’s got my money? Whoooo? Whoooo?”
And the wind blew bizee, bizee, BUZ-OOOOOO-O-O-O! And the fire flared and flickered and snapped and popped, and the money went, clinkity-clink, clinkity-clink.
The gravedigger was really scared. He got out of bed again and piled all the furniture against the door, and he put a heavy iron skillet over the tin box. Then he jumped back into bed and covered his head with the blankets.
But the money rattled louder than ever, and way off a voice cried, “Give me my money! Who’s got my money! Whoooo? Whoooo?” And the wind blew and the fire flared and flickered and snapped and popped, and the gravedigger shivered and shook and cried, “Oh Lordy, Lordy!”
Suddenly the front door flew open, and in walked the ghost of the dead woman with her eyes wide open, staring at everything and seeing nothing. And the wind blew, bizee, bizee, BUZ-OOOOOO-O-O-O! and the money went clinkity-clink, clinkity-clink, and the fire flared and flickered and snapped and popped, and the ghost of the dead woman cried, “Oh, where is my money? Who’s got my money? Whoooo? Whoooo?” And the gravedigger moaned, “Oh, Lordy, Lordy!”
The ghost could hear her money going Clinkity-clink, clinkity-clink, in the tin box. But her dead eyes couldn’t see the box. So she reached out her arms and tried to find it.
(As you tell the story, stand up with your arms in front of you and bein groping around you.)
The wind went, Bizee, bizee, BUZ-OOOOOO-O-O-O! and the money rattled, Clinkity-clink, clikity-clink! And the fire flared and flickered and snapped and popped, and the gravedigger shivered and shook and moaned, “Oh, Lordy, Lordy!” And the woman cried, “Give me my money! Who’s got my money? Whoooo? Whoooo?”
(Now quickly jump at somebody in the audience and scream:)
YOU’VE GOT IT!
I hope you’ve enjoyed this weeks selection and will pass along the chilling tales on a dark and creepy evening in front of the fire or a blazing jack-o-lantern!
Dane Dravor
Stories taken from: Scary Stories Treasury. Collected from folklore and retold by Alvin Schwartz
ISBN 0-06-026341-5
Thursday, October 15, 2009
And the Halloween madness just keeps going......
No I do not think you're weiners... sheesh. Ahem
Here's another up date from our neck of the woods to yours. The decorations have been flying and all the little members of the clan have been adding their wishes to the Samhain gift list. Xane's poor fingers! It is not easy making skeletons. Don't let anyone tell you any different. Removing the bones, polishing them up nice and don't even get her started on the coffins! Needless to say things are pretty busy around here.
Oh and then there is the relatives to dig up and make presentable. Grandma needed a lot more work this year than usual. She's gonna look like a million when we get done with her! There's the meade to uncork and the bread to bake. Hey we don't have time to hang around here, we got stuff to do!
The updates:
Zombieland - Saw it! Loved it! Will buy it on blue ray!
Cold rainy weather - check and we love it!
Graveyard all set and clean - check and check
List of activities for the holiday ready - check!
That's all the checkin' for this week! How about a little history!
TRICK OR TREAT
As with all holidays food is a big part of the festivities. Halloween puts its own twist on eat, drink and be merry.
Dumb/mute suppers were put out by homeowners to feed the dead as they passed back to the otherside and to garner protection for their homes from the otherworldly travelers. Dumbcakes, fruits and other small foods were given to beggars to pay them for prayers for the dead to be said on Nov. 1st. The tradition expanded and it became children in 'guises' that got the treats instead. The tradition went on and was carried through to the new world, where we now enjoy trick or treat.
This is the short version of this extensive history. Please check these sites for more details! Some of them will give you wonderful ideas for things to dig up for your own celebrations!
http://ezinearticles.com/?Halloween---History-of-Trick-Or-Treat&id=1511800
http://www.magick7.com/halloween/history-of-trick-or-treat.htm
http://www.theholidayspot.com/halloween/trick_or_treat.htm
I would try to write out the whole history, but this site does an awesome job of summing up the history of Halloween. Check it out.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Halloween Goodness and Jack o' Lanterns!
Hello fellow ghouls and fiends. We have been a little lax around here about getting our blog posted to daily and well just beat us, okay? The little knee biter and all that goes with him keeps all us Dravors pretty busy.. not to mention it is our favorite time of year and we've been out doing all those things we are supposed to sit down and post up here for people to read.Ahem.
Xane has had her sights set on finishing up the decorating festivities and such. Mostly that involves dusting all the things that sit out all year, straightening tombstones and making sure the spiders and lizards have had their yearly baths.
This time of year is huge for family too. Its our damn new year after all! So spending time with the little munchie is a big thing too. In that vein we are headed out into the world of the living to see some dead things. Some zombified, dead things. Zombieland is on the menu for today! The littlest of our clan is dying to see it and we are going to all go out and oblige him!
Xane has also been creating some halloween ornaments that will be up for sale next week. They are cute and some of the glow in the dark! They will also be at an extra special price just for the holiday!
Dane is making some extra special handmade wonders as well. Those are top secret though and shall not be posted! Muahhh ah ahh a... yeah you'll just have to wonder about that one.
That's enough about us. Now for something completely different.... A little Halloween history for ya kids!
The Jack O' Lantern
There are a few different historical stories that explain the origins of the Jack o' Lantern. The earliest mention of Jack o Lantern, or Jack's Lantern, refers to the story of Stingy Jack. An old Irish thief who tricked the devil into never taking him to hell. This left Jack in a predicament when he died, as heaven wouldn't have him either. The devil did give Jack an eternal ember from the fire of hell to light his way in the darkness between heaven and hell and sent him on his way. Jack put the ember in a carved out turnip, his favorite food (that says something about him right there, ew) and went on his way in the darkness. From then on the people of Ireland carved out turnips and other root vegetables to make these Jack O' Lanterns. They brought them to North America with them and eventually the idea was applied to pumpkins.
There are also references to these lanterns or the idea of them being applied to the will-o'-the-wisps,
ignis fatuus, ghost light. These bog or peat marsh lights are said to recede if approached and carry with them the story of Stingy Jack as explanation.
Either story gets you to the same conclusion. Try to trick the devil and you're gonna end up carrying a stinky old turnip around with a flame in it. Or something like that.
People used to carve and light Jack O' Lanterns to ward off evil spirits. Now we carve and light them for fun. They also serve the purpose of a light left burning for those souls that wander on Halloween night, when the veil is lifted and the dead walk among the living.
So, carve your pumpkins and light the way, while keeping the evil spirits at bay.
A pumpkins just the thing to make the long dead spirits sing.
Candle for a flame to catch
Becareful when you light the match!
The stars shine down from above
And even dead things need some love
So, carve your pumpkins and light the way, while keeping the evil spirits at bay!
~Xane Dravor 2009
And, we'll see you next time!
Xane and Dane Dravor
Check out Xane's weekly articles on HandmadeNews.Org - This weeks article here!
You can order the devil you see above on our Artfire shop - just message us!
Wednesday, October 7, 2009
"The Appointment" and "Harold"
It’s been a little while since we’ve had a spooky story to post since my computer was sick, so I thought we’d make it up buy putting up a couple of short tales for you. And since we’re now in the haunting season, you might want to collect a few to tell to those Trick-or-Treaters at your home on Halloween night. So light some candles and pull your favorite little monsters around for, “The Appointment” and “Harold”.
The Appointment
A sixteen-year-old boy worked on his grandfather’s horse farm. One morning he drove a pickup truck into town on an errand. While he was walking along the main street, he saw Death. Death beckoned to him.
The boy drove back to the farm as fast as he could and told his grandfather what had happened. “Give me the truck,” he begged. “I’ll go to the city. He’ll never find me there.”
His grandfather gave him the truck, and the boy sped away. After he left, his grandfather went into town looking for Death. When he found him, he asked, “Why did you frighten my grandson that way? He is only sixteen. He is too young to die.”
“I am sorry about that,” said Death. “I did not mean to beckon to him. But I was surprised to see him here. You see, I have an appointment with him this afternoon—in the city.”
Harold
When it got hot in the valley, Thomas and Alfred drove their cows up to a cool, green pasture in the mountains to graze. Usually they stayed there with the cows for two months. Then they brought them down to the valley again.
The work was easy enough, but, oh, it was boring. All day the two men tended their cows. At night they went back to the tiny hut where they lived. They ate supper and worked the garden and went to sleep. It was always the same.
Then Thomas had an idea that changed everything.
“Let’s make a doll the size of a man,” he said. “It would be fun to make, and we could put it in the garden to scare away the birds.”
“It should look like Harold,” Alfred said. Harold was a farmer they both hated. They made the doll out of old sacks stuffed with straw. They gave it a pointy nose like Harold’s and tiny eyes like his. Then they added dark hair and a twisted frown. Of course they also gave it Harold’s name.
Each morning on their way to the pasture, they tied Harold to a pole in the garden to scare away the birds. Each night they brought him inside so that he wouldn’t get ruined if it rained.
When they were feeling playful, they would talk to him. One of them might say, “How are the vegetables growing today, Harold?” Then the other, making believe he was Harold, would answer in a crazy voice, “Very slowly.” They both would laugh, but not Harold.
Whenever something went wrong, they took it out on Harold. They would curse at him, even kick him or punch him. Sometimes one of them would take the food they were eating (which they both were sick of) and smear it on the doll’s face. “How do you like that stew, Harold?” he would ask. “Well, you’d better eat it—or else.” Then the two men would howl with laughter.
One night, after Thomas had wiped Harold’s face with food, Harold grunted.
“Did you hear that?” Alfred asked.
“It was Harold,” Thomas said. “I was watching him when it happened. I can’t believe it.”
“How could he grunt?” Alfred asked. “He’s just a sack of straw. It’s not possible.”
“Let’s throw him in the fire,” said Thomas,”and that will be that’.
“Let’s not do anything stupid,” said Alfred. “We don’t know what’s going on. When we move the cows down, we’ll leave him behind. For now, let’s just keep an eye on him.”
So they left Harold sitting in a corner of the hut. They didn’t talk to him or take him outside anymore. Now and then the doll grunted, but that was all. After a few days they decided there was nothing to be afraid of. Maybe a mouse or some insect had gotten inside Harold and were making those sounds.
So Thomas and Alfred went back to their old ways. Each morning they put Harold out in the garden, and each night they brought him back into the hut. When they felt playful, they joke with him. When they felt mean, they treated him as badly as ever.
Then one night Alfred noticed something that frightened him. “Harold is growing,” he said.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Thomas said.
“Maybe it’s just our imagination,” Alfred replied. “We have been up here on this mountain too long.”
The next morning, while they were eating, Harold stood up and walked out of the hut. He climbed up on the roof and trotted back and forth, like a horse on its hind legs. All day and all night long he trotted like that.
In the morning Harold climbed down and stood in a far corner of the pasture. The men had no idea what he would do next. They were afraid.
They decided to take the cows down into the valley that same day. When they left, Harold was nowhere in sight. They felt as if they had escaped a great danger and began joking and singing. But when they had gone only a mile or two, they realized they had forgotten to bring the milking stools.
Neither one wanted to go back for them, but the stools would cost a lot to replace. “There really is nothing to be afraid of,” they told one another. “After all, what could a doll do?”
They drew straws to see which one would go back. I was Thomas. “I’ll catch up with you,” he said, and Alfred walked on towards the valley.
When Alfred came to a rise in the path, he looked back for Thomas. He did not see him anywhere. But he did see Harold. The doll was on the roof of the hut again. As Alfred watched, Harold kneeled and stretched out a bloody skin to dry in the sun.
Author’s Notes:
The Appointment: This story is the retelling of an ancient tale that is usually set in Asia. A young man sees Death in the marketplace in Damascus, the capital of Syria. To escape his fate, he flees to either Baghdad or Samarra in what is now Iraq. Death is, of course, waiting for him. In some versions, Death is a woman, not a man. The story has been told in one form or another by Edith Wharton, the English author W. Somerset Maugham, and the French writer Jean Cocteau. The American novelist John O’Hara entitled his first book An Appointment in Samarra. Woollcott, Alexander; While Rome Burns, New York: The Viking Press, Inc., 1934.
Harold: Several tales in folklore and fiction tell of a doll or some other figure of a person creates that comes to life. In the Jewish legend of the golem, a rabbi uses a charm to give life to a clay statue. When it goes out of control, he destroys it. In Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s novel Frankenstein, a Swiss student discovers how to bring lifeless matter alive and is destroyed by the monster he creates.
In the Greek fairy tale “The Gentleman Made of Groats,” or “Mr. Simigaldi,” a princess cannot find herself a good husband. So she creates one by mixing a kilo of almonds, a kilo of sugar, and a kilo of groats, which is similar to grits, and gives the mixture the shape of a man. In answer to her prayers, God gives the figure life. After many adventures, the two live happily.
The story “Harold” is retold from an Austrian-Swiss legend. Luthi, Max; “Parallel Themes in Folk Narrative and in Art Literature”, Journal of American Folklore 64 (1951): 371-82
We hope you enjoyed these tales and the extra foot notes I threw in from the author concerning their sources. Until next time, my little darklings!
Xane and Dane Dravor
Stories taken from: Scary Stories Treasury. Collected from folklore and retold by Alvin Schwartz
ISBN 0-06-026341-5
The Appointment
A sixteen-year-old boy worked on his grandfather’s horse farm. One morning he drove a pickup truck into town on an errand. While he was walking along the main street, he saw Death. Death beckoned to him.
The boy drove back to the farm as fast as he could and told his grandfather what had happened. “Give me the truck,” he begged. “I’ll go to the city. He’ll never find me there.”
His grandfather gave him the truck, and the boy sped away. After he left, his grandfather went into town looking for Death. When he found him, he asked, “Why did you frighten my grandson that way? He is only sixteen. He is too young to die.”
“I am sorry about that,” said Death. “I did not mean to beckon to him. But I was surprised to see him here. You see, I have an appointment with him this afternoon—in the city.”
Harold
When it got hot in the valley, Thomas and Alfred drove their cows up to a cool, green pasture in the mountains to graze. Usually they stayed there with the cows for two months. Then they brought them down to the valley again.
The work was easy enough, but, oh, it was boring. All day the two men tended their cows. At night they went back to the tiny hut where they lived. They ate supper and worked the garden and went to sleep. It was always the same.
Then Thomas had an idea that changed everything.
“Let’s make a doll the size of a man,” he said. “It would be fun to make, and we could put it in the garden to scare away the birds.”
“It should look like Harold,” Alfred said. Harold was a farmer they both hated. They made the doll out of old sacks stuffed with straw. They gave it a pointy nose like Harold’s and tiny eyes like his. Then they added dark hair and a twisted frown. Of course they also gave it Harold’s name.
Each morning on their way to the pasture, they tied Harold to a pole in the garden to scare away the birds. Each night they brought him inside so that he wouldn’t get ruined if it rained.
When they were feeling playful, they would talk to him. One of them might say, “How are the vegetables growing today, Harold?” Then the other, making believe he was Harold, would answer in a crazy voice, “Very slowly.” They both would laugh, but not Harold.
Whenever something went wrong, they took it out on Harold. They would curse at him, even kick him or punch him. Sometimes one of them would take the food they were eating (which they both were sick of) and smear it on the doll’s face. “How do you like that stew, Harold?” he would ask. “Well, you’d better eat it—or else.” Then the two men would howl with laughter.
One night, after Thomas had wiped Harold’s face with food, Harold grunted.
“Did you hear that?” Alfred asked.
“It was Harold,” Thomas said. “I was watching him when it happened. I can’t believe it.”
“How could he grunt?” Alfred asked. “He’s just a sack of straw. It’s not possible.”
“Let’s throw him in the fire,” said Thomas,”and that will be that’.
“Let’s not do anything stupid,” said Alfred. “We don’t know what’s going on. When we move the cows down, we’ll leave him behind. For now, let’s just keep an eye on him.”
So they left Harold sitting in a corner of the hut. They didn’t talk to him or take him outside anymore. Now and then the doll grunted, but that was all. After a few days they decided there was nothing to be afraid of. Maybe a mouse or some insect had gotten inside Harold and were making those sounds.
So Thomas and Alfred went back to their old ways. Each morning they put Harold out in the garden, and each night they brought him back into the hut. When they felt playful, they joke with him. When they felt mean, they treated him as badly as ever.
Then one night Alfred noticed something that frightened him. “Harold is growing,” he said.
“I was thinking the same thing,” Thomas said.
“Maybe it’s just our imagination,” Alfred replied. “We have been up here on this mountain too long.”
The next morning, while they were eating, Harold stood up and walked out of the hut. He climbed up on the roof and trotted back and forth, like a horse on its hind legs. All day and all night long he trotted like that.
In the morning Harold climbed down and stood in a far corner of the pasture. The men had no idea what he would do next. They were afraid.
They decided to take the cows down into the valley that same day. When they left, Harold was nowhere in sight. They felt as if they had escaped a great danger and began joking and singing. But when they had gone only a mile or two, they realized they had forgotten to bring the milking stools.
Neither one wanted to go back for them, but the stools would cost a lot to replace. “There really is nothing to be afraid of,” they told one another. “After all, what could a doll do?”
They drew straws to see which one would go back. I was Thomas. “I’ll catch up with you,” he said, and Alfred walked on towards the valley.
When Alfred came to a rise in the path, he looked back for Thomas. He did not see him anywhere. But he did see Harold. The doll was on the roof of the hut again. As Alfred watched, Harold kneeled and stretched out a bloody skin to dry in the sun.
Author’s Notes:
The Appointment: This story is the retelling of an ancient tale that is usually set in Asia. A young man sees Death in the marketplace in Damascus, the capital of Syria. To escape his fate, he flees to either Baghdad or Samarra in what is now Iraq. Death is, of course, waiting for him. In some versions, Death is a woman, not a man. The story has been told in one form or another by Edith Wharton, the English author W. Somerset Maugham, and the French writer Jean Cocteau. The American novelist John O’Hara entitled his first book An Appointment in Samarra. Woollcott, Alexander; While Rome Burns, New York: The Viking Press, Inc., 1934.
Harold: Several tales in folklore and fiction tell of a doll or some other figure of a person creates that comes to life. In the Jewish legend of the golem, a rabbi uses a charm to give life to a clay statue. When it goes out of control, he destroys it. In Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s novel Frankenstein, a Swiss student discovers how to bring lifeless matter alive and is destroyed by the monster he creates.
In the Greek fairy tale “The Gentleman Made of Groats,” or “Mr. Simigaldi,” a princess cannot find herself a good husband. So she creates one by mixing a kilo of almonds, a kilo of sugar, and a kilo of groats, which is similar to grits, and gives the mixture the shape of a man. In answer to her prayers, God gives the figure life. After many adventures, the two live happily.
The story “Harold” is retold from an Austrian-Swiss legend. Luthi, Max; “Parallel Themes in Folk Narrative and in Art Literature”, Journal of American Folklore 64 (1951): 371-82
We hope you enjoyed these tales and the extra foot notes I threw in from the author concerning their sources. Until next time, my little darklings!
Xane and Dane Dravor
Stories taken from: Scary Stories Treasury. Collected from folklore and retold by Alvin Schwartz
ISBN 0-06-026341-5
Tuesday, October 6, 2009
Halloween : A month of activities and history
Here at home we follow more the ancient road to celebrations. We celebration Samhain, with a mix of voodoo and a little Los Dias De Los Muertos thrown in. Yeah we mix it all up and have a great old time. The veil gets thin and we offer up all those nasty things we gathered through the year that we really don't want to hang on to. The fires burn high and we drink meade until our long gone relatives are out and about making a mess on the lawn. Yeah its a big thing to us. HUGE in fact.
In honor of this, I thought I'd post some of our celebration favorites and why they are related to this glorious fall holiday.
Apples and apple bobbing - We get this from the Roman celebration of Pomona, the goddess of fruit and trees whose symbol was the apple. The use of her fruit has been incorporated in various ways through baking and devouring the luscious fruits during the celebrations, which also happens to be when they start coming into season. Then there is the apple bobbing. A great game for little ones, under adult supervision, and those who don't mind getting their costumes soaked!
The pomegranate! Yes more fruit. It is the time of harvest and the eating after all! The pomegranate has a long history tied to goddesses and witches and spells and boosting good health, sex and abundance. What better fruit to celebrate all that we have and all that we might have in the future. The veil is thinning and our dead relatives are going to come calling, so why are we celebrating life and abundance? Have you ever heard the phrase, "eat drink and be merry, for tomorrow we die?" Well that's the general idea. Have fun or what's all the living for anyway?
That's all for this time! I'll post more factoids and interesting things about our favorite holiday again tomorrow!
Have a spooky day and dust off those skulls, they look a mess!
Xane
Saturday, October 3, 2009
Its HALLOWEEN TIME!
We have agreed to participate in a daily post about what we are doing to celebrate the holiday. We do tend to do something just about everyday of the month of October to remember and celebrate believe it or not.
We are a few days behind at posting what we are doing, so I'll get right to it.
October 1st - Scoped out all the Halloween shops around town. Started looking at our decorations and setting them out around the old crypt. Dane cooked the pumpkin to make the bread to have with our meade! I am all a twitter about that...
October 2nd - Took the youngest of the brood to said Halloween stores and let him look over the bloody offerings. He picked what horrible thing he will go as this year! A zombie military soldier. Could we be more proud?
October 3rd - Have already purchased movies for our night of a thousand screams. Our version of the late night double feature picture show. Kid friendly and we do not throw the popcorn. That just makes the dust bunnies multiply. We throw fingers, they can at least pick up after themselves. So, we will probably preview the movies.
Every day this month we are also having a 20% off sale with coupon in our shop. It is off your total order and only one coupon per customer. Use the code Anabel Lee to get your discount. You can find Skully Rose up there in our picture at our shop! The sale is being advertised by the Ghouls Guild on Artfire. We are also participating October 1st thru October 13th in all that madness going on at the Ghouls Guild Blog. So check all that out!
One more thing! Xane's articles will be up weekly at Handmade News and this month's theme is all things Halloween. So if you want to get your shop spiffy for the holiday check it out!
That's all for now. We may not post what we do everyday, but we will post something Halloween related daily for the month of October. We hope you all will TUNE in.
Happy Halloween!
Xane
Now where did I put those spare fingers.....
Sunday, September 27, 2009
Halloween!
Halloween is almost near;
Ghosts and goblins will soon appear!
To your doorstep they draw near;
A rapping and tapping with devious cheer!
But do not fret,
Do not fear.
That's what the candy is for, my dear!
Illustration : Xane Dravor
Poem: Dane Dravor
Hope you like them! Just a little something for the
upcoming holiday!
Xane and Dane
Monday, September 14, 2009
Zombie Kittie!
Some of you have met Zombo, our zombie clown. Yes, the bites will heal and no he doesn't seem to be contagious. Ahem, after creating Zombo we thought he needed a friend. A pet. Hell someone that the smell of him wouldn't run off. So we came up with Zombie Kittie. Why a kittie? Well that's what was on the road that day. We just scooped him up, put his bits where we thought they looked nice and reanimated his butt. Things seem to have worked out nicely.
If you'd like to see more zombie type peoples and pets, let us know! Go look at our listings on Artfire and order one of your own! I LOVE to make up custom pieces. Zombie squid? Undead school teacher? You want it, you got it! Be the first to order a specific type of zombie and YOU, yes, YOU, get to name the design!
Come on zombie friends, creating things that should never see the light of day is fun! See for yourself at House Morbid on ARTFIRE
If you'd like to see more zombie type peoples and pets, let us know! Go look at our listings on Artfire and order one of your own! I LOVE to make up custom pieces. Zombie squid? Undead school teacher? You want it, you got it! Be the first to order a specific type of zombie and YOU, yes, YOU, get to name the design!
Come on zombie friends, creating things that should never see the light of day is fun! See for yourself at House Morbid on ARTFIRE
Saturday, September 12, 2009
Steampunk Airship Pirate/Captain Talisman
I Just added this new piece to my Artfire shop. I have a few more I will be adding soon. These bottles are meant to hold captain's oil. A glow in the dark elixir of my own creation that helps keep the ship airborne and the captain always on strong winds that will carry them to their destination safely. (These pieces can also be left empty or filled with whatever the ordering captain/pirate wants to have inside their talisman)
Steampunk is a great inspiration for me and a lot of my newer pieces.
This picture shows the colors off better.
This is my artfire listing for this piece
Steampunk Airship Talisman
More pieces to come soon!
Xane
Steampunk Airship Pirate Talisman Copyright HouseMorbid 2009
Steampunk is a great inspiration for me and a lot of my newer pieces.
This picture shows the colors off better.
This is my artfire listing for this piece
Steampunk Airship Talisman
More pieces to come soon!
Xane
Steampunk Airship Pirate Talisman Copyright HouseMorbid 2009
Wednesday, September 2, 2009
The Hanging Ghost
Welcome again my darklings! I apologies for being a little late in getting this weeks tale up for you but we’ve been in a bit of a rush in the crypt preparing to haunt another state for a few days, but I suppose when your dead time is a relative thing. This week’s spine tingling tale is from one of our local haunts and has more than it’s share of hauntings to scream about. So turn down those lights and get comfy in those coffins for, “The Hanging Ghost”.
The German farmer’s daughter carefully planned her wedding. Hannah kept her plans a secret, though, while her beloved built a home for them to share. When the house was complete, he would ask her father for permission to marry.
The farmer, land-hungry and greedy, had other ideas. Since settling in the backwoods of Rowan County, he’d purchased as much land as he possibly could. He coveted the farm next to his. Acquiring this property would add many acers to his holdings.
The neighboring farm was owned by an old widower who needed a strong young woman to help him with the work. The two farmers worked out a deal – a marriage between the widower and the daughter. The wedding would take place after the banns had been posted at the church for three weeks.
“No! I won’t do it!” Hannah shouted. “I won’t marry a man I don’t love, just so you can have more land.”
“You’ll marry who I say,” her father commanded.
“I won’t,” Hannah said. “I’ll run away first.”
Her father sneered, “We’ll see about that.” He locked Hannah in her room. Until she agreed to the marriage, she would be a prisoner. Meals would be delivered to her, but she could not leave her bedroom.
Hannah cried for days, and kept refusing to marry the old widower. Her father did not relent, and Hannah, unable to send word to her true love, finally realized the she would have to agree to the marriage.
The day before the wedding, Hannah told her father of her decision. “But,” she said, “you will regret this for as long as you live.”
That night, feeling victorious and dreaming of a lucrative future, the farmer did not lock Hannah’s bedroom door.
During the night, the farmer was awakened by the sound of barn doors opening and slamming shut. “The wind must be fierce,” he thought, “to force open those doors.” He grabbed a lantern and ran outside, expecting to be met by a major storm.
There was no storm, no wind. There was not even a breeze. He rushed to the barn, where the doors were madly flapping back and forth for no apparent reason. Then he saw a light, a strange, wavering light, reaching from deep inside the barn. The farmer raised his lantern and slowly entered. There, swinging in the slow circles, surrounded by an eerie glow, was the body of his daughter, hanging from the rafters. Hannah preferred death to a loveless marriage.
The next day, instead of a wedding, there was a funeral at the church.
It was a terrible loss, and the farmer regretted his greed. Neighbors refused to speak to him, and his crops failed. The well went dry. After nearly a year, things got better for the farmer. His crops grew and a new well brought fresh water. Even the neighbors seemed to forgive, or forget.
Except Hannah would not be forgotten. On the anniversary of her death, the farmer was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of barn doors slamming. The strange light again appeared. In the barn, the farmer could hear the creaking of the rafters, just as he’d heard on that fateful night.
These events continued year after year, always on the anniversary of Hannah’s death. Finally, the farmer tore down the barn. He burned all of the wood to ashes. He buried the nails throughout the forest. He pried the foundation stones from the ground and placed them so that none of the stones touched another.
Even that didn’t quiet Hannah. To this day, she makes her story known, announcing her father’s greed and guilt to anyone who will listen.
An elderly woman’s desire for privacy keeps me from disclosing the exact location, but if you’re in eastern Rowan County in late October, you might hear the sound of barn doors slamming. If you investigate closely, you may see an eerie light. If you move close enough to the light, you could feel a slight breeze stirring, as if a young girl’s body were swaying back and forth, back and forth, on the end of a rope.
We hope you enjoyed this little telling of poor Miss Hannah’s plight and hope you’ll swing by for the next installment! Until next time…
Xane and Dane Dravor
Stories taken from: Ghost Tales From The North Carolina Piedmont. Collected and retold by Linda Duck Tanenbaum & Barry McGee.
ISBN 1-878177-13-3
The German farmer’s daughter carefully planned her wedding. Hannah kept her plans a secret, though, while her beloved built a home for them to share. When the house was complete, he would ask her father for permission to marry.
The farmer, land-hungry and greedy, had other ideas. Since settling in the backwoods of Rowan County, he’d purchased as much land as he possibly could. He coveted the farm next to his. Acquiring this property would add many acers to his holdings.
The neighboring farm was owned by an old widower who needed a strong young woman to help him with the work. The two farmers worked out a deal – a marriage between the widower and the daughter. The wedding would take place after the banns had been posted at the church for three weeks.
“No! I won’t do it!” Hannah shouted. “I won’t marry a man I don’t love, just so you can have more land.”
“You’ll marry who I say,” her father commanded.
“I won’t,” Hannah said. “I’ll run away first.”
Her father sneered, “We’ll see about that.” He locked Hannah in her room. Until she agreed to the marriage, she would be a prisoner. Meals would be delivered to her, but she could not leave her bedroom.
Hannah cried for days, and kept refusing to marry the old widower. Her father did not relent, and Hannah, unable to send word to her true love, finally realized the she would have to agree to the marriage.
The day before the wedding, Hannah told her father of her decision. “But,” she said, “you will regret this for as long as you live.”
That night, feeling victorious and dreaming of a lucrative future, the farmer did not lock Hannah’s bedroom door.
During the night, the farmer was awakened by the sound of barn doors opening and slamming shut. “The wind must be fierce,” he thought, “to force open those doors.” He grabbed a lantern and ran outside, expecting to be met by a major storm.
There was no storm, no wind. There was not even a breeze. He rushed to the barn, where the doors were madly flapping back and forth for no apparent reason. Then he saw a light, a strange, wavering light, reaching from deep inside the barn. The farmer raised his lantern and slowly entered. There, swinging in the slow circles, surrounded by an eerie glow, was the body of his daughter, hanging from the rafters. Hannah preferred death to a loveless marriage.
The next day, instead of a wedding, there was a funeral at the church.
It was a terrible loss, and the farmer regretted his greed. Neighbors refused to speak to him, and his crops failed. The well went dry. After nearly a year, things got better for the farmer. His crops grew and a new well brought fresh water. Even the neighbors seemed to forgive, or forget.
Except Hannah would not be forgotten. On the anniversary of her death, the farmer was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of barn doors slamming. The strange light again appeared. In the barn, the farmer could hear the creaking of the rafters, just as he’d heard on that fateful night.
These events continued year after year, always on the anniversary of Hannah’s death. Finally, the farmer tore down the barn. He burned all of the wood to ashes. He buried the nails throughout the forest. He pried the foundation stones from the ground and placed them so that none of the stones touched another.
Even that didn’t quiet Hannah. To this day, she makes her story known, announcing her father’s greed and guilt to anyone who will listen.
An elderly woman’s desire for privacy keeps me from disclosing the exact location, but if you’re in eastern Rowan County in late October, you might hear the sound of barn doors slamming. If you investigate closely, you may see an eerie light. If you move close enough to the light, you could feel a slight breeze stirring, as if a young girl’s body were swaying back and forth, back and forth, on the end of a rope.
We hope you enjoyed this little telling of poor Miss Hannah’s plight and hope you’ll swing by for the next installment! Until next time…
Xane and Dane Dravor
Stories taken from: Ghost Tales From The North Carolina Piedmont. Collected and retold by Linda Duck Tanenbaum & Barry McGee.
ISBN 1-878177-13-3
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
"The Hook" and "The Girl Who Stood On A Grave"
Welcome darklings to this week’s spooky folk tales! Ah youth, how full of life, and filled with a sense of invincibility! It takes most of us a few years to understand how fragile life can be. A few years or the dodging of an anvil before it crashes down on your skull once or twice. Things like that do tend to speed up the realization of your own mortality quite a bit, but enough about silly pranks to play on your siblings. Perhaps the young ones in these stories will be the wiser and avoid becoming a cautionary tale. But, we think it might already be too late for one of them. Take a seat on the rack and find out for yourself, as we present two fun little ditties called, “The Hook” and “The Girl Who Stood On A Grave”.
The Hook
Donald and Sarah went to the movies. Then they went for a ride in Donald’s car. They parked up on a hill at the edge of town. From there they could see the lights up and down the valley.
Donald turned on the radio and found some music. But an announcer broke in with a news bulletin. A murderer had escaped from the state prison. He was armed with a knife and was headed south on foot. His left hand was missing. In its place, he wore a hook.
“Let’s roll up the windows and lock the doors,” said Sarah.
“That’s a good idea, “said Donald.
“That prison isn’t too far away,” said Sarah. “Maybe we really should go home.”
“But it’s only ten o’clock,” said Donald.
“I don’t care what time it is,” she said. “I want to go home.”
“Look, Sarah,” said Donald, “he’s not going to climb all the way up here. Why would he do that? Even if he did, all the doors are locked. How could he get in?”
“Donald, he could take that hook and break through a window and open a door,” she said. “I’m scared. I want to go home.”
Donald was annoyed. “Girls always are afraid of something,” he said.
As he started the car, Sarah thought she heard someone, or something scratching at her door.
“Did you hear that?” she asked as they roared away. “It sounded like somebody was trying to get in.”
“Oh, sure,” said Donald. Soon they got to her house.
“Would you like to come in and have some cocoa?” she asked.
“No,” he said, “I’ve got to go home.”
He went around to the other side of the care to let her out. Hanging on the door handle was a hook.
The Girl Who Stood On A Grave
Some boys and girls were at a party one night. There was a graveyard down the street, and they were talking about how scary it was.
“Don’t ever stand on a grave after dark,” one of the boys said. “The person inside will grab you. He’ll pull you under.”
“That’s not true,” one of the girls said. “It’s just a superstition.”
“I’ll give you a dollar if you stand on a grave,” said the boy.
“A grave doesn’t scare me,” said the girl. “I’ll do it right now.”
The boy handed her his knife. “Stick this knife in one of the graves,” he said. “Then we’ll know you were there.”
The graveyard was filled with shadows and was as quiet as death. “There is nothing to be scared of,” the girl told herself, but she was scared anyway.
She picked out a grave and stood on it. Then quickly she bent over and plunged the knife into the soil, and she started to leave. But she couldn’t get away. Something was holding her back! She tried a second time to leave, but she couldn’t move. She was filled with terror.
“Something has got me!” she screamed, and she fell to the ground.
When she didn’t come back, the others went to look for her. They found her body sprawled across the grave. Without realizing it, she had plunged the knife through her skirt and had pinned it to the ground. It was only the knife that held her. She had died of fright.
Thanks again for popping in to hear the tales we dug up for you this week. We hope they made you giggle with fiendish glee! Until next time…
Xane and Dane Dravor
Stories taken from: Scary Stories Treasury, collected from folklore and retold by Alvin Schwartz
ISBN 0-06-026341-5
The Hook
Donald and Sarah went to the movies. Then they went for a ride in Donald’s car. They parked up on a hill at the edge of town. From there they could see the lights up and down the valley.
Donald turned on the radio and found some music. But an announcer broke in with a news bulletin. A murderer had escaped from the state prison. He was armed with a knife and was headed south on foot. His left hand was missing. In its place, he wore a hook.
“Let’s roll up the windows and lock the doors,” said Sarah.
“That’s a good idea, “said Donald.
“That prison isn’t too far away,” said Sarah. “Maybe we really should go home.”
“But it’s only ten o’clock,” said Donald.
“I don’t care what time it is,” she said. “I want to go home.”
“Look, Sarah,” said Donald, “he’s not going to climb all the way up here. Why would he do that? Even if he did, all the doors are locked. How could he get in?”
“Donald, he could take that hook and break through a window and open a door,” she said. “I’m scared. I want to go home.”
Donald was annoyed. “Girls always are afraid of something,” he said.
As he started the car, Sarah thought she heard someone, or something scratching at her door.
“Did you hear that?” she asked as they roared away. “It sounded like somebody was trying to get in.”
“Oh, sure,” said Donald. Soon they got to her house.
“Would you like to come in and have some cocoa?” she asked.
“No,” he said, “I’ve got to go home.”
He went around to the other side of the care to let her out. Hanging on the door handle was a hook.
The Girl Who Stood On A Grave
Some boys and girls were at a party one night. There was a graveyard down the street, and they were talking about how scary it was.
“Don’t ever stand on a grave after dark,” one of the boys said. “The person inside will grab you. He’ll pull you under.”
“That’s not true,” one of the girls said. “It’s just a superstition.”
“I’ll give you a dollar if you stand on a grave,” said the boy.
“A grave doesn’t scare me,” said the girl. “I’ll do it right now.”
The boy handed her his knife. “Stick this knife in one of the graves,” he said. “Then we’ll know you were there.”
The graveyard was filled with shadows and was as quiet as death. “There is nothing to be scared of,” the girl told herself, but she was scared anyway.
She picked out a grave and stood on it. Then quickly she bent over and plunged the knife into the soil, and she started to leave. But she couldn’t get away. Something was holding her back! She tried a second time to leave, but she couldn’t move. She was filled with terror.
“Something has got me!” she screamed, and she fell to the ground.
When she didn’t come back, the others went to look for her. They found her body sprawled across the grave. Without realizing it, she had plunged the knife through her skirt and had pinned it to the ground. It was only the knife that held her. She had died of fright.
Thanks again for popping in to hear the tales we dug up for you this week. We hope they made you giggle with fiendish glee! Until next time…
Xane and Dane Dravor
Stories taken from: Scary Stories Treasury, collected from folklore and retold by Alvin Schwartz
ISBN 0-06-026341-5
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
From the Master of the Macabre
This week I thought we’d take a break from the ghostly tales I’ve been digging up for you lately and present a work from the most morbid of bards, Mr. E.A. Poe. Today, I’ve drawn up a little lovely from his collected work of poems, so pull up a tombstone and gather round for, “The Sleeper”…
At Midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon,
An Opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! The lake
A Conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps! – and lo! Where lies
Irene, with her Destinies!
O, lady bright! Can it be right –
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop –
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully – so fearfully –
Above the closed and fringed lid
‘Neath which they slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! Strange they dress,
Strange, above all, they length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, my her sleep
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold –
Some vault that oft has flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Of her grand family funerals –
Some sepulcher, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many idle stone –
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
We’re so glad you dropped by this week I hope this little poem of Mr. Poe’s has set the mood for a most morose and morbid day! Until next time kiddies and remember to keep a watchful eye on those closest to you, as they say; you only hurt the ones you love…everyone else is just target practice.
Xane and Dane Dravor
Poem taken from: Edgar Allan Poe, Selected Works. Gramercy Books, New York, Copyright 1985 by Random House Value Publishing, Inc.
ISBN 0-517-05358-6
At Midnight, in the month of June,
I stand beneath the mystic moon,
An Opiate vapour, dewy, dim,
Exhales from out her golden rim,
And, softly dripping, drop by drop,
Upon the quiet mountain top,
Steals drowsily and musically
Into the universal valley.
The rosemary nods upon the grave;
The lily lolls upon the wave;
Wrapping the fog about its breast,
The ruin moulders into rest;
Looking like Lethe, see! The lake
A Conscious slumber seems to take,
And would not, for the world, awake.
All Beauty sleeps! – and lo! Where lies
Irene, with her Destinies!
O, lady bright! Can it be right –
This window open to the night?
The wanton airs, from the tree-top,
Laughingly through the lattice drop –
The bodiless airs, a wizard rout,
Flit through thy chamber in and out,
And wave the curtain canopy
So fitfully – so fearfully –
Above the closed and fringed lid
‘Neath which they slumb’ring soul lies hid,
That, o’er the floor and down the wall,
Like ghosts the shadows rise and fall!
Oh, lady dear, hast thou no fear?
Why and what art thou dreaming here?
Sure thou art come o’er far-off seas,
A wonder to these garden trees!
Strange is thy pallor! Strange they dress,
Strange, above all, they length of tress,
And this all solemn silentness!
The lady sleeps! Oh, may her sleep,
Which is enduring, so be deep!
Heaven have her in its sacred keep!
This chamber changed for one more holy,
This bed for one more melancholy,
I pray to God that she may lie
For ever with unopened eye,
While the pale sheeted ghosts go by!
My love, she sleeps! Oh, my her sleep
As it is lasting, so be deep!
Soft may the worms about her creep!
Far in the forest, dim and old,
For her may some tall vault unfold –
Some vault that oft has flung its black
And winged panels fluttering back,
Of her grand family funerals –
Some sepulcher, remote, alone,
Against whose portal she hath thrown,
In childhood, many idle stone –
Some tomb from out whose sounding door
She ne’er shall force an echo more,
Thrilling to think, poor child of sin!
It was the dead who groaned within.
We’re so glad you dropped by this week I hope this little poem of Mr. Poe’s has set the mood for a most morose and morbid day! Until next time kiddies and remember to keep a watchful eye on those closest to you, as they say; you only hurt the ones you love…everyone else is just target practice.
Xane and Dane Dravor
Poem taken from: Edgar Allan Poe, Selected Works. Gramercy Books, New York, Copyright 1985 by Random House Value Publishing, Inc.
ISBN 0-517-05358-6
Wednesday, August 12, 2009
"One Sunday Morning"
Welcome kiddies to our Wednesday spine tingling tale! This time we step back into folk lore and learn that the old notion of sacred spaces being a safe haven from the dead doesn’t always hold true. This short little tale is called “One Sunday Morning”…
Ida always went to the seven o’clock Sunday morning service at her church. Usually she heard the clanging of the church bells while she was eating breakfast. But this morning she heard them while she was still in bed.
“That means I’m late,” she thought.
Ida jumped out of bed, quickly dressed and left with out eating or looking at the clock. It was still dark out-side, but it usually was dark at this time of year. Ida was the only one on the street. The only sounds she heard were the clatter of her shoes on the pavement.
“Everybody must already be in church,” She thought.
Ida took a short cut through the cemetery, then she quietly slipped into the church and found a seat. The service had already begun.
When she caught her breath, Ida looked around. The church was filled with people she had never seen before. But the woman next to her did look familiar. Ida smiled at her. “It’s Josephine Kerr,” she thought. “But she’s dead! She died a month ago.” Suddenly Ida felt uneasy.
She looked around again. As her eyes began to adjust to the dim light, Ida saw some skeletons in suits and dresses. “This is a service for the dead,” Ida thought. “Everybody here is dead, except me.”
Ida noticed that some of them were staring at her. They looked angry, as if she had no business there. Josephine Kerr leaned toward her and whispered, “Leave right after the benediction, if you care for your life.”
When the service came to an end, the minister gave his blessing. “The lord bless you and keep you,” he said. “The lord make his face to shine upon you…”
Ida grabbed her coat and walked quickly toward the door. When she heard footsteps behind her, she glanced back. Several of the dead were coming toward her. Others were getting up to join them.
“The lord lift up his countenance to you…” the minister went on.
Ida was so frightened she began to run. Out the door she ran, with a pack of shrieking ghosts at her heels.
“Get out!” one of them screamed. Another shouted, “You don’t belong here!” and ripped her coat away. As Ida ran through the cemetery, a third grabbed the hat from her head. “Don’t come back!” it screamed, and shook its arm at her.
By the time Ida reached the street, the sun was rising, and the dead had disappeared.
“Did this really happen?” Ida asked herself,” or have I been dreaming?”
That afternoon one of Ida’s friends brought over her coat and hat, or what was left of them. They had been found in the cemetery, torn to shreds.
We hope you enjoyed this week’s spook tale, morbid ghouls and ghoulies! Just remember if you’re going to crash a party for the dearly departed, make sure you wear your running shoes! See you next week!
Xane and Dane Dravor
Taken from “Scary Stories Treasury” collected from folklore and retold by Alvin Schwartz.
ISBN 0-06-026341-5
Ida always went to the seven o’clock Sunday morning service at her church. Usually she heard the clanging of the church bells while she was eating breakfast. But this morning she heard them while she was still in bed.
“That means I’m late,” she thought.
Ida jumped out of bed, quickly dressed and left with out eating or looking at the clock. It was still dark out-side, but it usually was dark at this time of year. Ida was the only one on the street. The only sounds she heard were the clatter of her shoes on the pavement.
“Everybody must already be in church,” She thought.
Ida took a short cut through the cemetery, then she quietly slipped into the church and found a seat. The service had already begun.
When she caught her breath, Ida looked around. The church was filled with people she had never seen before. But the woman next to her did look familiar. Ida smiled at her. “It’s Josephine Kerr,” she thought. “But she’s dead! She died a month ago.” Suddenly Ida felt uneasy.
She looked around again. As her eyes began to adjust to the dim light, Ida saw some skeletons in suits and dresses. “This is a service for the dead,” Ida thought. “Everybody here is dead, except me.”
Ida noticed that some of them were staring at her. They looked angry, as if she had no business there. Josephine Kerr leaned toward her and whispered, “Leave right after the benediction, if you care for your life.”
When the service came to an end, the minister gave his blessing. “The lord bless you and keep you,” he said. “The lord make his face to shine upon you…”
Ida grabbed her coat and walked quickly toward the door. When she heard footsteps behind her, she glanced back. Several of the dead were coming toward her. Others were getting up to join them.
“The lord lift up his countenance to you…” the minister went on.
Ida was so frightened she began to run. Out the door she ran, with a pack of shrieking ghosts at her heels.
“Get out!” one of them screamed. Another shouted, “You don’t belong here!” and ripped her coat away. As Ida ran through the cemetery, a third grabbed the hat from her head. “Don’t come back!” it screamed, and shook its arm at her.
By the time Ida reached the street, the sun was rising, and the dead had disappeared.
“Did this really happen?” Ida asked herself,” or have I been dreaming?”
That afternoon one of Ida’s friends brought over her coat and hat, or what was left of them. They had been found in the cemetery, torn to shreds.
We hope you enjoyed this week’s spook tale, morbid ghouls and ghoulies! Just remember if you’re going to crash a party for the dearly departed, make sure you wear your running shoes! See you next week!
Xane and Dane Dravor
Taken from “Scary Stories Treasury” collected from folklore and retold by Alvin Schwartz.
ISBN 0-06-026341-5
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
The Face in the Window
Morbid Greetings, to all of our friends and welcome back to another ghostly tale to chill your bones! Today as I combed over the various tomes on my shelves I came across a book that recants local ghost tales and haunted spots from our region, the North Carolina Piedmont, and thought you would enjoy a selection from it. Today’s tale is called, “The Face in the Window”.
When she heard about the house in rural Forsyth County, Peggy thought it sounded too good to be true. But she drove out with the realtor, Barbara, just to take a look.
The driveway was long and twisting, lined with young pine trees and azaleas. There was, the realtor said, the burned out skeleton of the main house about half a mile farther down. This was the gardener’s cottage, where the Morely family lived after the fire. It’s amazing that the cottage was spared. Even parts of the woods burned. That’s why there were so many young trees around – because of replanting.
Peggy asked, “Was anyone hurt in the fire?”
“Well, the oldest children were away at school. The father died, but the mother and youngest daughter, Sarah, escaped. The woman was burned, I think, and had some scares and Sarah suffered from smoke inhalation. She had weak lungs for the rest of her life. She became a recluse, never married, and rarely spoke above a whisper, they say.”
“How long did they live in the cottage?”
Barbara thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. The childe lived here for the rest of her life, about sixty years, I think. Her brothers sold the place when she died. That buy updated the kitchen area and bathroom. New furnace, new roof. This place and its two acres are separate from the rest of the estate, which is still owned by the Morely family. I don’t know why they don’t clean it up and make use of it, a beautiful area like this. Just the right place for an artist, don’t you think? Shall we have a look?”
Small and neat, the cottage offered Peggy everything she wanted. Colorful area rugs turned the hardwood floor into a jigsaw puzzle with the obligatory missing pieces. There were only three rooms. The living area was one large room, the kitchen at the far end, a stone fireplace on one wall, and a sleeping alcove across the room. A door led to the small but adequate bathroom. On the back of the house was a large room, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on a clearing. Peggy knew that civilization was only a mile away, but there was no hint of it here.
“There are no ceiling lights out here,” Barbara said, “but you could always plug in a lamp.”
As Peggy admired the room, a voice whispered to her, “You can paint here.”
“What direction are we facing?” Peggy asked.
“North,” Barbara said.
“North. I think I can paint here.”
The voice whispered, “You can paint here.”
“I can paint here,” Peggy whispered back.
* * *
Peggy knew she was dreaming, but she felt helpless to change it. She stood near a large house, wondering exactly where she was. Lost? Could someone in the house help her find the way home? As she walked towards the house, it seemed to move away from her. She couldn’t quite reach the front door. The she noticed a face at one of the windows. It was a child. The little girl was crying.
“I want my house. I want my house. Give me my house. Please!”
Peggy wanted to go to her, to help her.
Then Peggy woke up, tangled in the sheets. She’d moved into the cottage a week earlier, and each night the dream and voice haunted her. Each night she saw the young girl, crying, in the window of the house.
“This is ridiculous,” Peggy said. “I can’t work if I can’t get any sleep.”
She grabbed her warm flannel robe from the foot of the bed, and went to the room she called her studio. Moonlight flooded the room, lighting a blank canvas. Peggy picked up her brush and palette and began to mix some paints. Working in the moonlight, she made a few tentative stokes on the canvas. Then a few more. By morning, the painting had taken form. A house. A large house. The house in Peggy’s dreams.
“That’s good,” a voice whispered.
After that night, Peggy became obsessed with her painting. She slept fitfully, dreaming of the house and the child. When the moon waned so that there wasn’t enough light for painting, she decided to surround her easel with candles. As she lit the first candle, a voice, the one from her dream, shrieked:
“Fire! Fire! Help me!”
Peggy’s hands shook. Slowly, she removed the candle. She decided to paint only during the day.
Finally, after weeks of work, the house was finished. “Now,” Peggy said, “I just have to paint the child’s face at the window.” She tried, but the face in her dreams would not transfer to the canvas, could not be captured. At last Peggy gave up. “I like it better without the face anyway, “she said. Peggy took the frame from another painting. Proudly, she hung the new painting over the fireplace.
As she admired it, the voice whispered to her again. “Thank you.”
Peggy felt suddenly cold. And alone.
* * *
An elderly neighbor, Ruth, stopped by for a visit.
“I have been such a hermit since I moved in here,” Peggy said. “It’s nice to have a visitor.”
“It’s nice to see the inside of this cottage, “Ruth said. “I’ve often wondered what it looked like. I thought that, just maybe, if I took a walk along your road, I’d meet up with you. It worked!”
“You mean that you’ve lived less than a mile from here for twenty years and you’ve never been inside this place?”
“That’s right,” Ruth said. “Old Miss Morely died right after I moved here, and the people who bought the place then weren’t very friendly. Besides that, they were weird. They kept talking about ghosts in this house. Nothing sinister, just a presence. They said it sort of whispered to them sometimes.”
“Ghosts? Whispers?” Peggy felt suddenly weak. “Do you know much about the history of this place?”
“Well after the fire, Sarah and her stepmother move in here.”
“Stepmother? I thought it was her mother.”
“No, “Ruth said. “Her mother died when Sarah was born. People said that Sarah hated her stepmother, even tried to stab her once. I think while her husband was alive she wanted to send Sarah away to school, but the child couldn’t stand the thought of being separated from her father. They were very close, I guess.”
Peggy nodded. “What happened to the stepmother?”
“She was badly burned in the fire. She lived with Sarah until the girl was old enough to take care of herself. Then she just disappeared. Maybe Sarah finally did away with her. Some said the woman killed herself. Some said she went back to Raleigh, to her family. There was plenty of money, so she could have gone anywhere.”
“And Sarah?”
“Old Sarah lived here until she died. They said she was kind of crazy. She really missed the house she grew up in, the one that burned. You have a painting of it, I see. Did it come with the cottage?”
“What painting?”
Ruth pointed. “The one over the fireplace. It’s really very nice.”
“Thanks. I painted that recently. It’s a house I kept seeing in my dreams. I had to paint it or go crazy.”
“Incredible,” Ruth said as she walked over to the fireplace for a closer look. “You may have seen it in your dreams, but it’s the Morely house. Just the way people described it. When Miss Morely became ill, she kept crying for her house and her daddy. She didn’t remember that the house was gone, or that her daddy was dead. There was a nurse who said the poor lady cried most of the day and night. Sad.”
“What caused the fire?” Peggy asked.
“I’ve heard stories that Sarah started the fire. Accidentally.” She frowned. “They said she used to sit in front window with a candle, waiting for her daddy to come home from Winston-Salem. That night, as he was riding down the lane, he saw flames. Sarah’s candle had sparked a curtain, and the fire spread like mad. By the time Mr. Morely got into the house, the front room was ablaze. After he got Sarah out, he went back in for his wife. He had trouble finding her – supposedly she’d been locked in her bedroom. Accidentally, they said again. A faulty lock, they said. Then, as Mr. Morely tried to get his wife out of the fire, the staircase fell in on them. She got burned terribly, but she managed to get out. He died. The house burned to the ground. It was the night before Sarah was supposed to go away to school, I think. Naturally, she didn’t go, and she and her stepmother moved in here.”
Ruth crossed her arms. “I don’t know how they could have said the fire was an accident. I’ve always wondered why Sarah wasn’t arrested for attempted murder. The family didn’t want the scandal, I suppose. Maybe they thought the loss of her father was punishment enough.”
“That’s quite a story,” Peggy said, nervously think of her dreams. “You say she sat at the window?” Are you sure?”
“That’s what folks said.”
“Which window?”
“The front one, second from the front door, but you must have know that because you’ve painted her right in place!” Ruth pointed to the window in the painting.
“What?” Peggy rushed over to look. There, in the second window from the front door, was the face of a child. The child from Peggy’s dreams. And she was smiling.
“Well,” Ruth said, “I guess she got her house back after all.”
As an artist you never know when your muse is going to strike with your newest creative endeavor, let just hope that muse doesn’t turn out to be a ghostly one! Well kiddies, that’s our story for this week. We hope you enjoyed this creepy little tale and dare you to join us again for our next installment!
Xane and Dane Dravor
Story taken from, “Ghost Tales From The North Carolina Piedmont”. Collected and retold by Linda Duck Tanenbaum & Barry McGee.
ISBN 1-878177-13-3
When she heard about the house in rural Forsyth County, Peggy thought it sounded too good to be true. But she drove out with the realtor, Barbara, just to take a look.
The driveway was long and twisting, lined with young pine trees and azaleas. There was, the realtor said, the burned out skeleton of the main house about half a mile farther down. This was the gardener’s cottage, where the Morely family lived after the fire. It’s amazing that the cottage was spared. Even parts of the woods burned. That’s why there were so many young trees around – because of replanting.
Peggy asked, “Was anyone hurt in the fire?”
“Well, the oldest children were away at school. The father died, but the mother and youngest daughter, Sarah, escaped. The woman was burned, I think, and had some scares and Sarah suffered from smoke inhalation. She had weak lungs for the rest of her life. She became a recluse, never married, and rarely spoke above a whisper, they say.”
“How long did they live in the cottage?”
Barbara thought for a moment. “I’m not sure. The childe lived here for the rest of her life, about sixty years, I think. Her brothers sold the place when she died. That buy updated the kitchen area and bathroom. New furnace, new roof. This place and its two acres are separate from the rest of the estate, which is still owned by the Morely family. I don’t know why they don’t clean it up and make use of it, a beautiful area like this. Just the right place for an artist, don’t you think? Shall we have a look?”
Small and neat, the cottage offered Peggy everything she wanted. Colorful area rugs turned the hardwood floor into a jigsaw puzzle with the obligatory missing pieces. There were only three rooms. The living area was one large room, the kitchen at the far end, a stone fireplace on one wall, and a sleeping alcove across the room. A door led to the small but adequate bathroom. On the back of the house was a large room, with floor-to-ceiling windows looking out on a clearing. Peggy knew that civilization was only a mile away, but there was no hint of it here.
“There are no ceiling lights out here,” Barbara said, “but you could always plug in a lamp.”
As Peggy admired the room, a voice whispered to her, “You can paint here.”
“What direction are we facing?” Peggy asked.
“North,” Barbara said.
“North. I think I can paint here.”
The voice whispered, “You can paint here.”
“I can paint here,” Peggy whispered back.
* * *
Peggy knew she was dreaming, but she felt helpless to change it. She stood near a large house, wondering exactly where she was. Lost? Could someone in the house help her find the way home? As she walked towards the house, it seemed to move away from her. She couldn’t quite reach the front door. The she noticed a face at one of the windows. It was a child. The little girl was crying.
“I want my house. I want my house. Give me my house. Please!”
Peggy wanted to go to her, to help her.
Then Peggy woke up, tangled in the sheets. She’d moved into the cottage a week earlier, and each night the dream and voice haunted her. Each night she saw the young girl, crying, in the window of the house.
“This is ridiculous,” Peggy said. “I can’t work if I can’t get any sleep.”
She grabbed her warm flannel robe from the foot of the bed, and went to the room she called her studio. Moonlight flooded the room, lighting a blank canvas. Peggy picked up her brush and palette and began to mix some paints. Working in the moonlight, she made a few tentative stokes on the canvas. Then a few more. By morning, the painting had taken form. A house. A large house. The house in Peggy’s dreams.
“That’s good,” a voice whispered.
After that night, Peggy became obsessed with her painting. She slept fitfully, dreaming of the house and the child. When the moon waned so that there wasn’t enough light for painting, she decided to surround her easel with candles. As she lit the first candle, a voice, the one from her dream, shrieked:
“Fire! Fire! Help me!”
Peggy’s hands shook. Slowly, she removed the candle. She decided to paint only during the day.
Finally, after weeks of work, the house was finished. “Now,” Peggy said, “I just have to paint the child’s face at the window.” She tried, but the face in her dreams would not transfer to the canvas, could not be captured. At last Peggy gave up. “I like it better without the face anyway, “she said. Peggy took the frame from another painting. Proudly, she hung the new painting over the fireplace.
As she admired it, the voice whispered to her again. “Thank you.”
Peggy felt suddenly cold. And alone.
* * *
An elderly neighbor, Ruth, stopped by for a visit.
“I have been such a hermit since I moved in here,” Peggy said. “It’s nice to have a visitor.”
“It’s nice to see the inside of this cottage, “Ruth said. “I’ve often wondered what it looked like. I thought that, just maybe, if I took a walk along your road, I’d meet up with you. It worked!”
“You mean that you’ve lived less than a mile from here for twenty years and you’ve never been inside this place?”
“That’s right,” Ruth said. “Old Miss Morely died right after I moved here, and the people who bought the place then weren’t very friendly. Besides that, they were weird. They kept talking about ghosts in this house. Nothing sinister, just a presence. They said it sort of whispered to them sometimes.”
“Ghosts? Whispers?” Peggy felt suddenly weak. “Do you know much about the history of this place?”
“Well after the fire, Sarah and her stepmother move in here.”
“Stepmother? I thought it was her mother.”
“No, “Ruth said. “Her mother died when Sarah was born. People said that Sarah hated her stepmother, even tried to stab her once. I think while her husband was alive she wanted to send Sarah away to school, but the child couldn’t stand the thought of being separated from her father. They were very close, I guess.”
Peggy nodded. “What happened to the stepmother?”
“She was badly burned in the fire. She lived with Sarah until the girl was old enough to take care of herself. Then she just disappeared. Maybe Sarah finally did away with her. Some said the woman killed herself. Some said she went back to Raleigh, to her family. There was plenty of money, so she could have gone anywhere.”
“And Sarah?”
“Old Sarah lived here until she died. They said she was kind of crazy. She really missed the house she grew up in, the one that burned. You have a painting of it, I see. Did it come with the cottage?”
“What painting?”
Ruth pointed. “The one over the fireplace. It’s really very nice.”
“Thanks. I painted that recently. It’s a house I kept seeing in my dreams. I had to paint it or go crazy.”
“Incredible,” Ruth said as she walked over to the fireplace for a closer look. “You may have seen it in your dreams, but it’s the Morely house. Just the way people described it. When Miss Morely became ill, she kept crying for her house and her daddy. She didn’t remember that the house was gone, or that her daddy was dead. There was a nurse who said the poor lady cried most of the day and night. Sad.”
“What caused the fire?” Peggy asked.
“I’ve heard stories that Sarah started the fire. Accidentally.” She frowned. “They said she used to sit in front window with a candle, waiting for her daddy to come home from Winston-Salem. That night, as he was riding down the lane, he saw flames. Sarah’s candle had sparked a curtain, and the fire spread like mad. By the time Mr. Morely got into the house, the front room was ablaze. After he got Sarah out, he went back in for his wife. He had trouble finding her – supposedly she’d been locked in her bedroom. Accidentally, they said again. A faulty lock, they said. Then, as Mr. Morely tried to get his wife out of the fire, the staircase fell in on them. She got burned terribly, but she managed to get out. He died. The house burned to the ground. It was the night before Sarah was supposed to go away to school, I think. Naturally, she didn’t go, and she and her stepmother moved in here.”
Ruth crossed her arms. “I don’t know how they could have said the fire was an accident. I’ve always wondered why Sarah wasn’t arrested for attempted murder. The family didn’t want the scandal, I suppose. Maybe they thought the loss of her father was punishment enough.”
“That’s quite a story,” Peggy said, nervously think of her dreams. “You say she sat at the window?” Are you sure?”
“That’s what folks said.”
“Which window?”
“The front one, second from the front door, but you must have know that because you’ve painted her right in place!” Ruth pointed to the window in the painting.
“What?” Peggy rushed over to look. There, in the second window from the front door, was the face of a child. The child from Peggy’s dreams. And she was smiling.
“Well,” Ruth said, “I guess she got her house back after all.”
As an artist you never know when your muse is going to strike with your newest creative endeavor, let just hope that muse doesn’t turn out to be a ghostly one! Well kiddies, that’s our story for this week. We hope you enjoyed this creepy little tale and dare you to join us again for our next installment!
Xane and Dane Dravor
Story taken from, “Ghost Tales From The North Carolina Piedmont”. Collected and retold by Linda Duck Tanenbaum & Barry McGee.
ISBN 1-878177-13-3
Wednesday, July 29, 2009
Just Delicious
Hello ghouls and ghoulies, it's Wednesday again and time for another spooky folk tale! Today for your sampling pleasure we have a story called, "Just Delicious" and after wards, we would recommend a good hearty meal! Bon appetite!
George Flint loved to eat. Each day at noon he closed his camera shop for two hours and went home for a big lunch and his wife Mina cooked for him. George was a bully, and Mina was a timid woman who did everything he asked because she was afraid of him.
On his way home for lunch one day, George stopped at the butcher shop and bought a pound of liver. He loved liver. He would have Mina cook it for dinner that night. Despite all his complaints about her, she was a very good cook.
While George ate his lunch, Mina told him that a rich old woman in town had died. Her body was in the church next door. It was in an open coffin. Anyone who wanted to see her could. As usual, George was not interested in what Mina had to say. "I've got to go back to work," he told her.
After he left, Mina began to cook the liver. She added vegetables and spices and simmered it all afternoon, just the way George liked it. When she thought it was done, she cut off a small piece and tasted it. It was delicious, the best she had ever made. She ate a second piece. Then a third. It was so good, she could not stop eating it.
It was only when the liver was all gone that she thought of George. He would be coming home soon. What would he do when he found that she had eaten all of the liver?
Some men would laugh -- but not George. He would be angry and mean, and she did not want to face that again.
But where could she get another piece of liver that late in the day?
Then she remembered the old woman lying in the church next door waiting to be buried....
George said he never had a better dinner. "Have some liver, Mina," he said. "It's just delicious."
"I'm not hungry," she said. "You finish it."
That night, after George had fallen asleep, Mina sat in bet trying to read. But all she could think about was what she had done. Then she thought she heard a woman's voice.
"Who has my liver?" it asked. "Who has it?"
Was it her imagination? Was she dreaming?
Now the voice was closer. "Who has my liver?" it asked. "Who has it?"
Mina wanted to run. "No, no," she whispered. "I don't have it. I don't have your liver."
Now the voice was right next to her. "Who has my liver?" it asked, "Who has it?"
Mina froze with terror. She pointed to George. "He does," she said. "He has it."
Suddenly the light went out -- and George screamed, and screamed.
Well kiddies, we hope you enjoyed the tale we stirred up for you today and remember to treat the one who cooks for you very very nicely!
Xane and Dane Dravor
Story taken from, "Scary Stories Treasury". Collected from folklore and retold by Alvin Schwartz.
ISBN 0-06-026341-5
George Flint loved to eat. Each day at noon he closed his camera shop for two hours and went home for a big lunch and his wife Mina cooked for him. George was a bully, and Mina was a timid woman who did everything he asked because she was afraid of him.
On his way home for lunch one day, George stopped at the butcher shop and bought a pound of liver. He loved liver. He would have Mina cook it for dinner that night. Despite all his complaints about her, she was a very good cook.
While George ate his lunch, Mina told him that a rich old woman in town had died. Her body was in the church next door. It was in an open coffin. Anyone who wanted to see her could. As usual, George was not interested in what Mina had to say. "I've got to go back to work," he told her.
After he left, Mina began to cook the liver. She added vegetables and spices and simmered it all afternoon, just the way George liked it. When she thought it was done, she cut off a small piece and tasted it. It was delicious, the best she had ever made. She ate a second piece. Then a third. It was so good, she could not stop eating it.
It was only when the liver was all gone that she thought of George. He would be coming home soon. What would he do when he found that she had eaten all of the liver?
Some men would laugh -- but not George. He would be angry and mean, and she did not want to face that again.
But where could she get another piece of liver that late in the day?
Then she remembered the old woman lying in the church next door waiting to be buried....
George said he never had a better dinner. "Have some liver, Mina," he said. "It's just delicious."
"I'm not hungry," she said. "You finish it."
That night, after George had fallen asleep, Mina sat in bet trying to read. But all she could think about was what she had done. Then she thought she heard a woman's voice.
"Who has my liver?" it asked. "Who has it?"
Was it her imagination? Was she dreaming?
Now the voice was closer. "Who has my liver?" it asked. "Who has it?"
Mina wanted to run. "No, no," she whispered. "I don't have it. I don't have your liver."
Now the voice was right next to her. "Who has my liver?" it asked, "Who has it?"
Mina froze with terror. She pointed to George. "He does," she said. "He has it."
Suddenly the light went out -- and George screamed, and screamed.
Well kiddies, we hope you enjoyed the tale we stirred up for you today and remember to treat the one who cooks for you very very nicely!
Xane and Dane Dravor
Story taken from, "Scary Stories Treasury". Collected from folklore and retold by Alvin Schwartz.
ISBN 0-06-026341-5
Wednesday, July 22, 2009
The Guests
It's Wednesday again and here's our next spooky offering! A folk tale called, "The Guests" that we think you'll enjoy.
A young man and his wife were on a trip to visit his mother. Usually they arrived in time for supper. But they had gotten a late start, and now it was getting dark. So they decided to look for a place to stay overnight and go on in the morning.
Just off the road, they saw a small house in the woods.
"Maybe they rent rooms," the wife said. So they stopped to ask.
An elderly man and woman came to the door. They didn't rent rooms, they said. But they would be glad to have them stay overnight as their guests. They had plenty of room, and they would enjoy the company.
The old woman made coffee and brought out some cake, and the four of them talked for a while. Then the young couple were taken to their room. They again explained that they wanted to pay for this, but the old man said he would not accept any money.
The young couple got up early the next morning before their hosts had awakened. On a table near the front door, they left an envelope with some money in it for the room. Then they went on to the next town.
They stopped in a restaurant and had breakfast. When they told the owner where they had stayed, he was shocked.
"That can't be, " he said. "That house burned to the ground, and the man and the woman who lived there died in the fire."
The young couple could not believe it. So they went back to the house. Only now there was no house. All they found was a burned-out shell.
They stood staring at the ruins trying to understand what had happened. Then the woman screamed. In the rubble was a badly burned table, like the one they had seen by the front door. On the table was the envelope they had left that morning.
We hope you enjoyed this short little tale, be sure the next time you have to travel at night and stop along the way, that the place is a little more lively!
Xane and Dane Dravor
Folk tale taken from, "Scary Stories Treasury", collected from folklore and retold by Alvin Schwartz.
ISBN 0-06-026341-5
A young man and his wife were on a trip to visit his mother. Usually they arrived in time for supper. But they had gotten a late start, and now it was getting dark. So they decided to look for a place to stay overnight and go on in the morning.
Just off the road, they saw a small house in the woods.
"Maybe they rent rooms," the wife said. So they stopped to ask.
An elderly man and woman came to the door. They didn't rent rooms, they said. But they would be glad to have them stay overnight as their guests. They had plenty of room, and they would enjoy the company.
The old woman made coffee and brought out some cake, and the four of them talked for a while. Then the young couple were taken to their room. They again explained that they wanted to pay for this, but the old man said he would not accept any money.
The young couple got up early the next morning before their hosts had awakened. On a table near the front door, they left an envelope with some money in it for the room. Then they went on to the next town.
They stopped in a restaurant and had breakfast. When they told the owner where they had stayed, he was shocked.
"That can't be, " he said. "That house burned to the ground, and the man and the woman who lived there died in the fire."
The young couple could not believe it. So they went back to the house. Only now there was no house. All they found was a burned-out shell.
They stood staring at the ruins trying to understand what had happened. Then the woman screamed. In the rubble was a badly burned table, like the one they had seen by the front door. On the table was the envelope they had left that morning.
We hope you enjoyed this short little tale, be sure the next time you have to travel at night and stop along the way, that the place is a little more lively!
Xane and Dane Dravor
Folk tale taken from, "Scary Stories Treasury", collected from folklore and retold by Alvin Schwartz.
ISBN 0-06-026341-5
Wednesday, July 15, 2009
Cold As Clay
In keeping with our promise to post either an original House Morbid story or a spooky story from folklore, today we bring you a spooky folk tale called "Cold As Clay". We hope you enjoy it and perhaps read it by candle light to your friends and family to chill their bones!
A farmer had a daughter for whom he cared more than anything on earth. She fell in love with a farmhand named Jim, but the farmer did not think Jim was good enough for his daughter. To keep them apart, he sent her to live with her uncle on the other side of the county.
Soon after she left, Jim got sick, and he wasted away and died. Everyone said he died of a broken heart. The farmer felt so guilty about Jim's death, he could not tell his daughter what had happened. She continued to think about Jim and the life they might have had together.
One night many weeks later there was a knock on her uncle's door. When the girl opened the door, Jim was standing there.
"Your father asked me to get you," he said. "I came on his best horse."
"Is there anything wrong?" she asked.
"I don't know," he said.
She packed a few things, and they left. She rode behind him, clinging to his waist. Soon he complained of a headache. "It aches something terrible," he told her.
She put her hand on his forehead. "Why, you are as cold as clay," she said. "I hope you are not ill," and she wrapped her handkerchief around his head.
They traveled so swiftly that in a few hours they reached the farm. The girl quickly dismounted and knocked on the door. Her father was startled to see her.
"Didn't you send for me?" she asked.
"No, I didn't," he said.
She turned to Jim, but he was gone and so was the horse. They went to the stable to look for them. The horse was there. It was covered with sweat and trembling with fear. But there was no sign of Jim.
Terrified, her father told her the truth about Jim's death. Then quickly he went to see Jim's parents. They decided to open his grave. The corpse was in its coffin. But around its head they found the girl's handkerchief.
Thanks for stopping by to read this weeks folk tale! Stay tuned in for the next spine chilling story!
Xane and Dane Dravor
Taken from: Scary Stories Treasury. Collected and retold by Alvin Schwartz.
ISBN 0-06-026341-5
A farmer had a daughter for whom he cared more than anything on earth. She fell in love with a farmhand named Jim, but the farmer did not think Jim was good enough for his daughter. To keep them apart, he sent her to live with her uncle on the other side of the county.
Soon after she left, Jim got sick, and he wasted away and died. Everyone said he died of a broken heart. The farmer felt so guilty about Jim's death, he could not tell his daughter what had happened. She continued to think about Jim and the life they might have had together.
One night many weeks later there was a knock on her uncle's door. When the girl opened the door, Jim was standing there.
"Your father asked me to get you," he said. "I came on his best horse."
"Is there anything wrong?" she asked.
"I don't know," he said.
She packed a few things, and they left. She rode behind him, clinging to his waist. Soon he complained of a headache. "It aches something terrible," he told her.
She put her hand on his forehead. "Why, you are as cold as clay," she said. "I hope you are not ill," and she wrapped her handkerchief around his head.
They traveled so swiftly that in a few hours they reached the farm. The girl quickly dismounted and knocked on the door. Her father was startled to see her.
"Didn't you send for me?" she asked.
"No, I didn't," he said.
She turned to Jim, but he was gone and so was the horse. They went to the stable to look for them. The horse was there. It was covered with sweat and trembling with fear. But there was no sign of Jim.
Terrified, her father told her the truth about Jim's death. Then quickly he went to see Jim's parents. They decided to open his grave. The corpse was in its coffin. But around its head they found the girl's handkerchief.
Thanks for stopping by to read this weeks folk tale! Stay tuned in for the next spine chilling story!
Xane and Dane Dravor
Taken from: Scary Stories Treasury. Collected and retold by Alvin Schwartz.
ISBN 0-06-026341-5
Saturday, July 11, 2009
Here's to what's to come...
Here's the what's to come! Raising glasses to clink and drinking deeply.
Soon there will be new pictures up on our shop of wares. Also our other sites for meeting and greeting shall be overhauled. There will be stories for our friends to peruse and we are hoping new strips to be read as well. It is a busy time around the old crypt. Our hands are filthy, full of paint, graveyard dirt and things best left to the imagination. Life, such that it is...well is moving along.
We intend to dig up a story of our own creation or one from Dane's enormous collection to post here weekly. So stay on the look out for that.
I am doing my best to show the world that skeletons and dead things can be just as cute as other handmade goodies and twice as eye catching. Look for links to those offerings weekly as well.
The strips should roll out sometime mid August and will be linked to and posted up on this inter net contraption as soon as they are fit for reading.
The other overhauls will be announced. You know how it is with deconstruction, demolition and all that. Takes a while to get the charges set just right. Hope we don't blow anything off this time. Fingers are really hard to sew back on!
That reminds me. The new pieces for the store will be up as soon as I can get this other picture box to work! There's a lot to be done around here. And, I thought being dead would mean less work...
Here's to the weekend! Another clink of glasses. See you again soon!
Xane Dravor
Soon there will be new pictures up on our shop of wares. Also our other sites for meeting and greeting shall be overhauled. There will be stories for our friends to peruse and we are hoping new strips to be read as well. It is a busy time around the old crypt. Our hands are filthy, full of paint, graveyard dirt and things best left to the imagination. Life, such that it is...well is moving along.
We intend to dig up a story of our own creation or one from Dane's enormous collection to post here weekly. So stay on the look out for that.
I am doing my best to show the world that skeletons and dead things can be just as cute as other handmade goodies and twice as eye catching. Look for links to those offerings weekly as well.
The strips should roll out sometime mid August and will be linked to and posted up on this inter net contraption as soon as they are fit for reading.
The other overhauls will be announced. You know how it is with deconstruction, demolition and all that. Takes a while to get the charges set just right. Hope we don't blow anything off this time. Fingers are really hard to sew back on!
That reminds me. The new pieces for the store will be up as soon as I can get this other picture box to work! There's a lot to be done around here. And, I thought being dead would mean less work...
Here's to the weekend! Another clink of glasses. See you again soon!
Xane Dravor
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Aaron Kelly's Bones
Not too long ago we posted a folk song called the "Hearse Song" and it was a big hit so I thought we'd post another folk tale, this time a funny spook tale about Aaron Kelly and his bones.
Aaron Kelly was dead. They bought him a coffin and had a funeral and buried him.
But that night he got out of his coffin, and he came home. His family was sitting around the fire when he walked in.
He sat down next to his widow, and he said, "What's going on? You all act like somebody died. Who's dead?"
His widow said, "You are."
"I don't feel dead," he said. "I feel fine."
"You don't look fine," his widow said. "You look dead. You'd better get back to the grave where you belong."
"I'm not going back to the grave until I feel dead," he said.
Since Aaron wouldn't go back, his widow couldn't collect his life insurance. Without that, she couldn't pay for the coffin. And the undertaker said he would take it back.
Aaron didn't care. He just sat by the fire rocking in a chair and warming his hands and feet. But his joints were dry and his back was stiff, and every time he moved, he creaked and cracked.
On night the best fiddler in town came to court the widow. Since Aaron was dead, the fiddler wanted to marry her. The two of them sat on one side of the fire, and Aaron sat on the other side, creaking and cracking.
"How long do we have to put up with this dead corpse?" the widow asked.
"Something must be done," the fiddler said.
"This isn't very jolly," Aaron said. "Let's dance!"
The fiddler got out his fiddle and began to play. Aaron stretched himself, shook himself, got up, took a step or two, and began to dance.
With his old bones rattling, and his yellow teeth snapping, and his bald head wagging, and his arms flip-flopping--around and around he went.
With his long legs clicking, and his kneebones knocking, he skipped and pranced around the room. How that dead man danced! But pretty soon a bone worked loose and fell to the floor.
"Look at that!" said the fiddler.
"Play faster!" said the widow.
The fiddler played faster.
Crickety-crack, down and back, the dead man went hopping, and his dry bones kept dropping--this way, that way, the pieces just kept popping.
"Play, man! Play!" cried the widow.
The fiddler fiddled, and dead Aaron danced. Then Aaron fell apart, collapsed into a pile of bones--all except his bald headbone that grinned at the fiddler, cracked it's teeth--and kept dancing.
"Look at that!" groaned the fiddler.
"Play louder!" cried the widow.
"Ho, ho!" said the headbone. "An't we having fun!"
The fiddler couldn't stand it. "Widow," he said. "I'm going home," and he never came back.
The family gathered up Aaron's bones and put them back in the coffin. They mixed them up so he could fit them together. After that, Aaron stayed in his grave. But the widow never did get married again. Aaron had seen to that.
Thanks for stopping by! Hope you enjoyed the tale of "Aaron Kelly's Bones"!
Xane and Dane Dravor
Story taken from: Scary Stories Treasury. Collected and retold by Alvin Schwartz.
ISBN 0-06-026341-5
Aaron Kelly was dead. They bought him a coffin and had a funeral and buried him.
But that night he got out of his coffin, and he came home. His family was sitting around the fire when he walked in.
He sat down next to his widow, and he said, "What's going on? You all act like somebody died. Who's dead?"
His widow said, "You are."
"I don't feel dead," he said. "I feel fine."
"You don't look fine," his widow said. "You look dead. You'd better get back to the grave where you belong."
"I'm not going back to the grave until I feel dead," he said.
Since Aaron wouldn't go back, his widow couldn't collect his life insurance. Without that, she couldn't pay for the coffin. And the undertaker said he would take it back.
Aaron didn't care. He just sat by the fire rocking in a chair and warming his hands and feet. But his joints were dry and his back was stiff, and every time he moved, he creaked and cracked.
On night the best fiddler in town came to court the widow. Since Aaron was dead, the fiddler wanted to marry her. The two of them sat on one side of the fire, and Aaron sat on the other side, creaking and cracking.
"How long do we have to put up with this dead corpse?" the widow asked.
"Something must be done," the fiddler said.
"This isn't very jolly," Aaron said. "Let's dance!"
The fiddler got out his fiddle and began to play. Aaron stretched himself, shook himself, got up, took a step or two, and began to dance.
With his old bones rattling, and his yellow teeth snapping, and his bald head wagging, and his arms flip-flopping--around and around he went.
With his long legs clicking, and his kneebones knocking, he skipped and pranced around the room. How that dead man danced! But pretty soon a bone worked loose and fell to the floor.
"Look at that!" said the fiddler.
"Play faster!" said the widow.
The fiddler played faster.
Crickety-crack, down and back, the dead man went hopping, and his dry bones kept dropping--this way, that way, the pieces just kept popping.
"Play, man! Play!" cried the widow.
The fiddler fiddled, and dead Aaron danced. Then Aaron fell apart, collapsed into a pile of bones--all except his bald headbone that grinned at the fiddler, cracked it's teeth--and kept dancing.
"Look at that!" groaned the fiddler.
"Play louder!" cried the widow.
"Ho, ho!" said the headbone. "An't we having fun!"
The fiddler couldn't stand it. "Widow," he said. "I'm going home," and he never came back.
The family gathered up Aaron's bones and put them back in the coffin. They mixed them up so he could fit them together. After that, Aaron stayed in his grave. But the widow never did get married again. Aaron had seen to that.
Thanks for stopping by! Hope you enjoyed the tale of "Aaron Kelly's Bones"!
Xane and Dane Dravor
Story taken from: Scary Stories Treasury. Collected and retold by Alvin Schwartz.
ISBN 0-06-026341-5
Saturday, July 4, 2009
Independence Day
Here in America its time for the rockets red glare and bombs burstin' in air again. The sounds of roman candles and bottle rockets filling the air. The barbeques being lit with a beer or your ale of choice in hand. We like that. All the relatives digging themselves up and planting their mostly rotting asses on the lawn furniture. Fireflies flitting from one ghoul or specter to another. A real family get together. Its just good fun!
We hope your relatives and friends manage to haul themselves to your doorstep soon and help fill the air with sounds of wheezing and moaning and the smells of charcoal and ashes. Mooching your hooch and gobbling up all the weenies off your grill. Everyone of them happy to tell you about their mouldering parts and how their caskets are starting to leak. But, if that much togetherness gets on your nerves you can always send everyone home with a nice bonfire and some nifty explosions courtesy of your own munitions cabinet.
Here's hoping you have a bang up weekend from the Dravors! See you when the dust clears and we're back to business as usual here in the good old US of A.
Xane and Dane Dravor
We hope your relatives and friends manage to haul themselves to your doorstep soon and help fill the air with sounds of wheezing and moaning and the smells of charcoal and ashes. Mooching your hooch and gobbling up all the weenies off your grill. Everyone of them happy to tell you about their mouldering parts and how their caskets are starting to leak. But, if that much togetherness gets on your nerves you can always send everyone home with a nice bonfire and some nifty explosions courtesy of your own munitions cabinet.
Here's hoping you have a bang up weekend from the Dravors! See you when the dust clears and we're back to business as usual here in the good old US of A.
Xane and Dane Dravor
Monday, June 22, 2009
To the con and away! Heroes Con 2009 Charlotte NC
It is amazing how things change. I can remember going to Heroes Con when I was a kid with my dad and brothers. It was wonderful then, but just look how it has grown.
The Charlotte Convention Center was a buzz with the comings and goings of fans and artists and all the worker bees that help getting things moving. The ticket counters had lines, but they moved quick as any super hero. We made our way from there to the convention hall proper via a down escalator. The guards at the gates were friendly and one even stopped me to ask about my tattoos. (A fairly common occurance, they are kind of large)
On into the hall. We make no bones about the fact that both Dane and myself suffer horribly from adventures in misdirectionalism. Even with a map of the hall it was hard to find the artists and writers we so desperately sought out to ogle and have sign every thing we owned that they had a hand in. (We not only try very hard to make books and art, we are HUGE fans of those that do it for a living.)
Wandering around the hall was only slightly less confusing than finding a particular crypt in a centuries old catacomb, but we did manage to get our bearings and find Mr. Steve Niles. Who was kind enough not only to sign our moderate collection. (One of which Xane had already had the man sign and forgot. Oops! That should tell you,Dragon Con will suck the brain right out of you.) He also took pictures with each of us. Have we mentioned we LOVE his work?
From there we went hunting more artists and managed to luckily stumble across Mr.Jeff Smith's table. The artist/writer/self publisher extraordinare was not at the table at that moment, due to being in a panel. Steve Hamaker his colorist was at the table and was kind enough to sign his work and tell us when we would be able to find Mr.Smith later that day.
Of course then we were lost again. Like really grubby zombie babes in the graveyard. So we high tailed it to the information booth, which fortunately stood like a beakon in the night and was almost as easy to find as Indie Island. A very nice young lady helped us out directing us to Mr. Guy Davis, who was next on our long list of wonderful people to have sign their work. Mr.Davis graciously signed every piece we handed him. While happily giving out free signed comics. And he didn't mind at all when we came back for seconds later that day. (After we hit the evil money box that is ATM)
Our adventures in finding the way went on from there and led us to find several other artists and writers and creators of all types that we had never had the fortune of seeing before. Each one was happy to talk to us, give us a card and offer us any one of the many wares on their tables. (Oh, but that we had more money to spend. Evil, evil ATM with its limited funds.)We did make an exception to our limited funds policy for one local publisher, who had a deal we could not help but snag up. Jester Press. We love to support local businesses and these guys were as nice as they come. (You can't beat everyone who worked on a book coming over to sign it for you.) Once we have finished reading what we picked up from them we'll send up a review for you.
(A brief intermission for a very BUSY lunch at Fuel pizza across the street and back to the hunting for us and the clan.)
Later we made that return trip to Mr. Jeff Smith's booth and did indeed get the rest of our items signed. I even purchased more while there,(hooray for plastic),while standing in line. (The man is beloved after all) Dane took more pictures of the crowds coming and going and generally having a great time.
All in all Dane and myself spent the day dragging the rest of our clan through all the wonders of Heroes Con. While carrying more than 50 pounds of graphics and comics each,no less. The end of the day came more quickly than we anticipated. Our various parts, back, feet and shoulders in desperate need of replacing. (Fortunately we keep spares lying around) We trudged back to the escalators where our adventure began and made our way home. (With a stop for really good mexican on the way)
That's all from Xane and Dane for this time! Tune in again for more trips in misdirectionalism and other adventures.
PS - Thanks to DC comics for all the free swag! Comics, buttons and a light up tiara. Oh my!
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
The Hearse Song
This is one of our favorite folk songs and just wanted to share it with you. There are a few variations on this tune but this is the one we're familiar with. Enjoy!
Don't you ever laugh as the hearse goes by, for you may be the next to die.
They wrap you up in a big white sheet from your head down to your feet.
They put you in a big black box and cover you up with dirt and rocks.
All goes well for about a week, then your coffin begins to leak.
The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout.
They eat your eyes, they eat your nose, they eat the jelly between your toes.
A big green worm with rolling eyes crawls in your stomach and out your eyes.
Your stomach turns a slimy green, and pus pours out like whipping cream.
You spread it on a slice of bread and that's what you eat when you are dead.
Morbidly yours,
Xane and Dane Dravor
Taken from "Scary Stories Treasury" by Alvin Schwartz. ISBN 0-06-026341-5
Don't you ever laugh as the hearse goes by, for you may be the next to die.
They wrap you up in a big white sheet from your head down to your feet.
They put you in a big black box and cover you up with dirt and rocks.
All goes well for about a week, then your coffin begins to leak.
The worms crawl in, the worms crawl out, the worms play pinochle on your snout.
They eat your eyes, they eat your nose, they eat the jelly between your toes.
A big green worm with rolling eyes crawls in your stomach and out your eyes.
Your stomach turns a slimy green, and pus pours out like whipping cream.
You spread it on a slice of bread and that's what you eat when you are dead.
Morbidly yours,
Xane and Dane Dravor
Taken from "Scary Stories Treasury" by Alvin Schwartz. ISBN 0-06-026341-5
Friday, June 12, 2009
Put a little love in your heart - It just might get it pumping better
My brother wonders when I sleep. Are dead things supposed to sleep? I'm not sure, but I have to do something with my time.
One of my articles is featured on HandMadeNews.Org. That's a new crafting/handmade online magazing for all us artisans who need to find out what is happening in our little corner of the world.
So, here's my article. After all putting a little love in your heart doesn't usually hurt and I even think it tickles. The article is here.
Thank you!
Xane
One of my articles is featured on HandMadeNews.Org. That's a new crafting/handmade online magazing for all us artisans who need to find out what is happening in our little corner of the world.
So, here's my article. After all putting a little love in your heart doesn't usually hurt and I even think it tickles. The article is here.
Thank you!
Xane
Wednesday, June 3, 2009
Garden of deadly delights!
Well it should be no surprise that the garden here on the grounds of House Morbid is no ordinary garden. Venus fly traps that our mail man refuses to go near, real dandelions, and some snapdragons that will singe your knee caps! But today we're announcing our newest member of the garden and she's is a real gem. She'll be sure to bring some interest and a great conversation piece to any outfit or hair do as well as chase away anything that's annoying you.
http://www.artfire.com/modules.php?name=Shop&op=listing&product_id=246396
Morbidly yours,
Xane and Dane
http://www.artfire.com/modules.php?name=Shop&op=listing&product_id=246396
Morbidly yours,
Xane and Dane
Tuesday, June 2, 2009
Too many dolls!
Do you have too many dolls, stuffed animals, or small furry animals underfoot? Ok so maybe not the small furry animals part but you know what I mean. Can't walk two paces without one of them knawing on your ankles?
Well here at House Morbid we're always thinking of ways to help out the community and so we have a solution for you!
His name is Eddie and he has an appetite for those pesky little overly cute monstrosities and he needs a good home! That and the cats would like to be able to come back into the crypt without being chased. Um, ignore that last part there, that never happens, eh hem.
So follow the link and adopt this poor pittiful little guy who can declutter your house in a heart beat!
http://www.artfire.com/modules.php?name=Shop&op=listing&product_id=109078
Our cats thank you, at least what's left of them! Anyone have any spare kitty parts we can borrow?
Morbidly yours,
Xane and Dane
Well here at House Morbid we're always thinking of ways to help out the community and so we have a solution for you!
His name is Eddie and he has an appetite for those pesky little overly cute monstrosities and he needs a good home! That and the cats would like to be able to come back into the crypt without being chased. Um, ignore that last part there, that never happens, eh hem.
So follow the link and adopt this poor pittiful little guy who can declutter your house in a heart beat!
http://www.artfire.com/modules.php?name=Shop&op=listing&product_id=109078
Our cats thank you, at least what's left of them! Anyone have any spare kitty parts we can borrow?
Morbidly yours,
Xane and Dane
Thursday, May 28, 2009
Companies who steal from artists!
I know we've ranted about this before but it keeps happening, so we're ranting about it again!
It drives us crazy to hear about an artist, no matter what medium they work in, who's art has been used without their permission by another artist or company to make a product to sell with out giving them credit for it or paying them commission for using their idea. I realize we function within a capitalist system and that competition and doing more with less is the name of the game but how about doing that will a little bit of integrity! Taking someones art and using it without them knowing is stealing, period. There's no rationalization or motivational corporate sound bite that can justify doing that. At that point you've reduced yourself to a low life bottom feeder!
What makes it easy to for big corporations to get away with this kind of thievery is that most artists don't have the financial resources to legally go after these larger corporations so there's no consequence for them doing it. And on top of that many consumers are unaware that what they are buying is a knock off and so they're making money off of it too with little investment.
So if you see a product that looks like it might be a knock off, please do the right thing and don't buy it and do what we can to keep the rights and money for these works of art in the right hand, the one's who created them!
Thanks for listening!
Xane and Dane
It drives us crazy to hear about an artist, no matter what medium they work in, who's art has been used without their permission by another artist or company to make a product to sell with out giving them credit for it or paying them commission for using their idea. I realize we function within a capitalist system and that competition and doing more with less is the name of the game but how about doing that will a little bit of integrity! Taking someones art and using it without them knowing is stealing, period. There's no rationalization or motivational corporate sound bite that can justify doing that. At that point you've reduced yourself to a low life bottom feeder!
What makes it easy to for big corporations to get away with this kind of thievery is that most artists don't have the financial resources to legally go after these larger corporations so there's no consequence for them doing it. And on top of that many consumers are unaware that what they are buying is a knock off and so they're making money off of it too with little investment.
So if you see a product that looks like it might be a knock off, please do the right thing and don't buy it and do what we can to keep the rights and money for these works of art in the right hand, the one's who created them!
Thanks for listening!
Xane and Dane
Tuesday, May 26, 2009
Whole Lotta Shakin' Going On!
Do you love anything to do with Rockabilly! If so you've got to check this out!
http://www.handmadenews.org/article/index.php?id=1177
Let us know what you think!
Morbidly yours,
Xane and Dane
http://www.handmadenews.org/article/index.php?id=1177
Let us know what you think!
Morbidly yours,
Xane and Dane
Monday, May 25, 2009
Celebrating those who have served!
Just wanted to take this opportunity on this Memorial Day to send out a thank you to all the men and women who serve our country and to celebrate the lives of those who have given their life while protecting our freedom and the freedom of others.
So hopefully you work for a company who has enough patriotism and sense of honor to allow you the day off to take a moment to do just that. If not, shame on them and you should come down with a good case of honor-itis and not show up today, heh heh.
The youngest Dravor was kept out of school today for that very reason and yes I said school.
They didn't close today in order to make up for a snow day. I'm sorry but for a government entity on any level to to be opened on a day that remembers those that died to allow us to have the freedoms we enjoy is shameful! The Dravors were peeved about that so the little one was kept out today for honor-itis.
I understand that for many this is just another day just to sit at home and maybe do a cook out and have a few friends over for an extended weekend. Which is great, that's a way to celebrate the freedoms we enjoy, we do some of those things ourselves. With all of that though please do take a moment or two to remember those who have served and are still serving our country.
We often take our freedoms and the opportunities we have for granted. And yes our country is not perfect and not everyone has equal opportunity no matter how you slice it but it's still the best system out there and we should take time to remember that.
So go out and enjoy those hard won freedoms today and don't forget to hug a Veteran or Soldier and let them know how much you appreciate what they do!
Xane and Dane
So hopefully you work for a company who has enough patriotism and sense of honor to allow you the day off to take a moment to do just that. If not, shame on them and you should come down with a good case of honor-itis and not show up today, heh heh.
The youngest Dravor was kept out of school today for that very reason and yes I said school.
They didn't close today in order to make up for a snow day. I'm sorry but for a government entity on any level to to be opened on a day that remembers those that died to allow us to have the freedoms we enjoy is shameful! The Dravors were peeved about that so the little one was kept out today for honor-itis.
I understand that for many this is just another day just to sit at home and maybe do a cook out and have a few friends over for an extended weekend. Which is great, that's a way to celebrate the freedoms we enjoy, we do some of those things ourselves. With all of that though please do take a moment or two to remember those who have served and are still serving our country.
We often take our freedoms and the opportunities we have for granted. And yes our country is not perfect and not everyone has equal opportunity no matter how you slice it but it's still the best system out there and we should take time to remember that.
So go out and enjoy those hard won freedoms today and don't forget to hug a Veteran or Soldier and let them know how much you appreciate what they do!
Xane and Dane
Wednesday, May 20, 2009
It's ALIVE!!! Grab the kids, tell the neighbors, dig up a friend and read this!
Xane and Dane have been banging around the crypt working hard and we just wanted to share a little of what they've put together.
Xane has put out a new article on Handmade News in the Craft Trends Dept, where we darklings finally get a bwahahahaha over on the light and fluffy side!
To read more, check it out here!
http://www.handmadenews.org/article/index.php?id=1051
Dane has been hard at work reading comics, eh hem, and proof of his hard work is here on the review section of Comic Related.com
If you love the artwork of Ben Templesmith, of "30 Days of Night" fame, you'll love this new comic he's putting out in conjunction with writer Chris Ryall.
To find out more about it and to read Dane's review follow the link below.
http://comicrelated.com/display.php?item=1498
For other craft news go to http://www.handmadenews.org
For news, headlines and reviews of your favorite comics and more check out http://www.comicrelated.com
Morbidly yours,
Xane and Dane
and whatever that thing is that just crawl out of the drain pipe. Looks like they've been experimenting again!
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