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
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
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
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