Even More Short & Shivery

by Robert D. San Souci

  Glancing at his watch, the colonel saw that he had slept for almost an hour. He had been so deeply asleep, he had not even noticed the train stopping to pick up this passenger.

  He nodded to the lady politely, then returned to his paper. His companion did not nod back, or even turn her head toward him. She just sat, hunched forward, looking down. Then she began to rock gently, her arms and the draped shawl hiding what she was cradling. Softly she crooned a lullaby:

  Hush, hush, my sweet, my dearest, my love,

  Hush, hush, my treasure, my angel, my dove.

  She was traveling with an infant, the colonel decided. She just kept singing the same bit of lullaby over and over, rocking ever so slightly. Something about her made him uneasy. At last he decided that he must speak to her. The silence between them had become oppressive.

  “Madam,” he began.

  She did not look up.

  “Madam,” he repeated, edging forward a bit.

  She made no direct reply, but stopped her humming. Then she turned toward him, still hiding what lay in her arms. Through the veil, the colonel could see a pale face, and eyes that looked almost hostile. Now she glanced down at her lap and hugged the unseen bundle protectively. She glared across at him with the fierceness of a she-lion protecting a cub.

  Astonished, he sat back and buried his face in his paper. From across the compartment came the monotonous lullaby.

  Finally Colonel Ewart found himself overwhelmed with curiosity about the unseen infant she was hugging so jealously. Setting his paper aside, he stood up and peered across at the woman, determined to get at least a glimpse of the child.

  At that moment three things happened. The woman’s mouth opened in a scream of soundless horror; her arms rose to defend what lay on her lap; and a deafening crash shook the train, throwing the colonel to the floor.

  For a few minutes he lay still, collecting his thoughts and assuring himself that he was merely bruised. His luggage had spilled from the overhead rack and lay pell-mell.

  Concerned for the woman and her infant, Colonel Ewart turned to check on them. They were gone; the bench was empty. He heard shouts from outside the stopped train and assumed that the woman had fled the compartment in fear right after the impact.

  The train had not derailed, and Colonel Ewart began to put his luggage in order. When he asked a conductor what had happened, the man said there had been a collision with a van of some sort. The damage was minor, and injuries were few.

  When the colonel asked about the woman, the conductor gave him a curious look. “I passed your compartment shortly before the accident. You were alone.”

  “Nonsense!” exclaimed the old soldier. “I most certainly didn’t imagine the woman and her baby.”

  “A baby, sir?” said the man, clearly more confused.

  “Well, I didn’t actually see it. I was just about to get a peek at it when the crash came. But she was certainly singing a lullaby to something.”

  The conductor’s face went quite pale. “She’s come back, then,” he said in a hushed voice.

  “What do you mean? Does she travel on this train often?”

  “Only when there’s going to be a mishap. She’s a ghost, you see,” the conductor said. Before the colonel could respond, the man continued: “Years ago, some newlyweds were traveling to London for their honeymoon on this train. They had this compartment to themselves. But we could pretty well guess what happened.”

  “Well?” said Colonel Ewart.

  “The young man must have been leaning out the window when the train was at full steam. Another train went past, going the other way. There must have been a spike of sharp wire or something else sticking out. Cut his head clean off, sir.”

  Colonel Ewart suddenly felt queasy.

  “The conductor found her, rocking and singing to the body. She’d pulled the … er … shoulders off the floor into her lap. A terrible sight she was—gone mad as a hatter. When they came to take her away, she put up a fight. Said she had to go back and find her husband’s head. I heard she died soon after.”

  “Did they ever find his head?” the colonel asked.

  “Never did.”

  Remembering the bundle cradled in his strange companion’s lap, the old soldier said with a shudder, “I think the poor soul has somehow found what was lost all those years ago.”

  Death and the Two Friends

  (United States—South Carolina)

  There were once two friends who lived together in a cabin north of Charleston. George Heyward was a big, strong, able man. His companion, Aaron Dinkins, was small and weak. He had been felled with a fever the year before, and thereafter did not know a single healthy day, as the illness wore him down. He was so full of pain and restlessness that he could not sleep at night. He moaned and groaned and muttered over and over, “I wish I was dead.”

  For a long time George had compassion for his friend. But after a time, the strong man, who had never known a sick day in his life, grew weary of Aaron’s complaining day and night. Though he fought it, he could feel anger building up inside him.

  One night, George’s feverish friend grew more restless than usual. Aaron turned and twisted, but he could find no peace from the burning fever and his aching joints. “Oh,” he cried in misery, “I wish I was dead!”

  George, who had been waked from a sound sleep by Aaron’s cry, snapped at him, “You wish you were dead? Then why, in heaven’s name, don’t you just die and be done with it, instead of carrying on and never leaving me a minute’s peace? Why don’t you call Death to come get you, and put an end to all your wretchedness?”

  Aaron, at the end of his strength, said, “All right; I’ll call him. I don’t want to live much, anyway.”

  He hauled himself upright on the bed, swung his legs over the edge, and staggered to the door. He fumbled it open and called, “Death! Oh, Death! Come and claim me.” But his voice was very weak and feeble—hardly more than a whisper.

  Now Death was way down yonder at the crossroads, sitting on a stump, waiting for someone to hail him. But Death could not hear what the sickly man whispered, Aaron’s voice was so puny and uncertain.

  The two men in the cabin sat and listened. When Death made no answer, George said to Aaron, “He didn’t hear you holler. Holler again—only holler loud this time.”

  So the fevered man called again, “Death! Oh, Death! I’m waiting for you!” But his voice had grown even weaker and fainter from the effort.

  “Shuh!” said his strong friend in disgust. “That’s no way to call Death. You don’t holler louder than a busted cockroach. Let somebody holler as can holler!”

  With that, George went to the door and bellowed loud and bold, at the top of his voice, “DEATH! OH, DEATH!”

  Before the big man could turn or say “Oomph!” something dark and dismal and grinning without mirth clamped a heavy hand on his shoulder.

  George twisted around and said, “Who are you, and what do you want?”

  “I am Death,” said the dreary thing. “You called me, and I came.”

  George had no chance to say another word: Death took him into the dark, and left the ill and puny man lying in his bed. In the morning, Aaron’s fever broke, and he lasted many more years.

  People would look at Aaron and recollect George Heyward, dead and buried for many years. Then they would shake their heads and say, “Death has a singular sense of humor, letting a weak and sickly man outlive a strong one.”

  But Aaron, who counted himself blessed to have seen Death’s grin without feeling his touch, gave himself fully to the business of living. No matter how bad things might get for him, he resolved to hold fast until Death called him.

  Forest Ghosts

  (France)

  In seventeenth-century France, a powerful count built a château amid densely wooded hills. He eagerly looked forward to spending leisurely hours at his forest retreat, away from his duties at the king’s court.

  In time, the count married. His new bri
de, Heloise, appreciated the grand house and surrounding gardens. But the forest gloom disturbed her. The trees pressed together, blocking out the sun, so that she felt as if she lived in a perpetual green twilight. Through open windows came waves of forest damp—and the ever present scent of mold.

  One summer afternoon, Heloise lay down on a couch near one of the open terrace windows, fanning herself.

  Suddenly a curious figure emerged from the grove of trees opposite the window. At first, it looked like a swaying branch of moss-covered oak. But as it approached Heloise, the strange shape resolved into the form of a woman. Her hands, face, and long, flowing robe were all forest green. A faint fragrance of ferns and mold clung to her.

  Like one in a dream, the countess asked, “What do you want?”

  “This is my forest,” said the green woman. “I let your husband build this place because he loves and respects the wildwood. He forbids visitors to hunt the animals in my care. Promise me that you will respect the forest the same way, and I will grant you one wish.”

  Certain that she was having a waking dream, Heloise gave her promise. Then she said, “I wish to have a son, since that would please my husband.”

  The green woman nodded. Then she became transparent and faded from view. Heloise felt herself drifting off to sleep.

  When she awoke, she dismissed the matter as a dream. But she recalled the woman’s promise when she learned she was going to have a baby. When Heloise presented her husband with a son, whom they named Henri, their joy was perfect. The countess even found herself appreciating the woodland estate more and more.

  Once or twice, while riding in the carriage, holding her infant son, she thought she glimpsed the strange figure in green robes in the forest shadows. But the shape quickly vanished. When she questioned others, they said they had seen nothing. They suggested she had imagined the strange shape. In time, the countess came to agree with them.

  Her real concern was her son, Henri. He loved the place; and when he was old enough, he spent hours playing among the forest trees. By the age of ten, he was as tall and big-boned as a lad of eighteen, with enormous hands and feet. When the days were warm, he ran half naked in the forest, where he built huts of oak boughs roofed with fern fronds, and lived like a wild creature.

  When the boy was nineteen, the count died. The countess, whose health was frail, had long since abandoned her hopes of presenting her odd son to the king and court. Though she loved Henri deeply, she would often sigh as she watched him set off into the forest, running and bounding like a deer.

  When he turned twenty-one, Henri suddenly announced to his mother that he was going to make the château into a hunting lodge. Heloise could not imagine what had put him at odds with the forest he once loved. He said only that he had a debt to pay a stag—a creature he called Satan—which had tried to gore him with its antlers.

  Remembering the waking dream she had had before Henri’s birth, and the words of the forest woman, Heloise tried to change her son’s mind. But Henri was resolute. Soon the château was roused from its green drowsiness as huntsmen of all ages came to enjoy the sport. New stables were built to house a hundred horses. Every morning, the hounds and huntsmen, with Henri at their head, rode out in hopes of running a stag to earth.

  The countess watched with growing unease, though she told herself that her fears were merely born of dreams and fancies.

  That autumn, when mother and son were alone in the château, Henri suddenly announced that he was riding out by himself. Filled with foreboding, the countess waited anxiously for her son’s return.

  Near evening, from far down the tunnel of trees that led to the main gates, there came the shrill cry of a beast in agony. Then silence. Then a second cry—but this time, it sounded like a human in distress.

  Heloise clutched the curtain as she saw a dark, massive shape emerge painfully from the shadows. At first, she thought it was a wounded stag bearing magnificent antlers. But as the injured creature drew closer, she saw, to her horror, that it was her son, Henri. He was antlered and shaggy, a creature neither animal nor human.

  Henri was bleeding from a gash at his temple. His mother immediately shouted for the servants. At first, they would not come near. But the countess ordered them with such fierceness that at last they carried him upstairs.

  Day and night, Heloise nursed her son. His body was human, but covered with long red-brown hair. His head was that of a full-grown stag—long snout, black muzzle, antlers like brown ivory sprouting from his temples. For a long time, he could not speak. But the torment in his violet-brown eyes nearly broke his mother’s heart. At last he was strong enough to signal for writing paper. Still unable to talk, he wrote out what had befallen him.

  On the fateful day, he had spotted the stag he called Satan. This time, he had refused to abandon the chase until he had run his quarry to earth. At last the winded animal had collapsed in a glade. Just as Henri hurled his spear, a woman dressed in green appeared in front of the stag. The spear sped right through her nearly transparent shape, which melted away so quickly, Henri thought it a trick of the light.

  His spear buried itself in the stag’s flank. But when the young man leapt from his saddle to finish the animal with a knife stroke, the stag suddenly gashed him with its antler before it died. In that moment, Henri felt himself changing. His horse, startled by the sight of its antlered master, galloped away. And the dazed youth was forced to return to the château on foot.

  As the days passed, Henri grew stronger. But he also became more restive, pacing his room, smashing the mirror, crying out in a voice at once human and animal, which left the servants cowering in terror.

  One evening, the countess heard terrifying sounds of breaking and ripping and snorting coming from Henri’s room. Afraid that he was having a fit, she summoned her strongest manservants. When they opened his door, they found the room in ruins. At that instant, the strange, antlered creature that had been Henri burst through the window and leapt onto the roof like a panicked animal. Losing his footing, he plunged with a heavy sound to the courtyard below.

  As his mother and servants knelt beside the dying man, they were astonished to see the tall figure of the green woman walking slowly from the forest shadows.

  She gazed down at Henri’s broken shape and said, “This forest is mine. The animals who live here are my charges. You, Henri, hunted and killed my stag. You violated the wildwood, and so you are paying for your deed.”

  She turned away, but the countess begged her, “Please, lady. You gave him to me; do not take him from me now.”

  “I cannot change what must be,” said the green woman. “But I will give you some other wish.”

  “Then let me see my son as my son,” said the countess.

  The forest woman did not move, but what looked like green fire reached out from her to bathe the young man’s body. The antlers faded to nothing. The matted hair became smooth skin. Snout and muzzle reshaped themselves into handsome features.

  For a moment mother and son gazed tearfully at each other. The forest woman returned to the shadows without a glance backward to where the mother embraced her dead son.

  The countess died a short time later. And for many years after this, those who visited the château spoke of seeing, on rare occasions, a form, antlered like a stag, that would suddenly turn into the shape of a handsome man, only to melt the next instant into the green forest shadows.

  A Carolina Banshee

  (United States—North Carolina)

  Years ago, a mill stood on the banks of the Tar River in North Carolina. Though it has long since fallen into ruin, leaving no trace, the site is haunted by a banshee. On August nights, when mist floats above the river and the rain crow warns of rain, a banshee’s ghastly moans and shrieks rise from the reedy riverbanks, through the oaks, to fill the sky. Her cries are a reminder of tragic events that echo down to this day.…

  During the Revolutionary War, David Warner ran the Tar River mill. A patriot who hated the
English, he used his mill to grind wheat and corn for the American army. From dawn until far into the night, the water-driven mill wheel ground away.

  Late one August afternoon, Warner stood in the doorway of the mill, absently brushing flour dust from his dark hair and beard. From far down the road, he heard the thud-thud of galloping horses. Before the riders came into view, a runner burst from the underbrush.

  “The British are on their way here!” the man panted.

  “They know you for a rebel, and they plan to kill you.”

  Warner flexed his muscular arms. “I’ll send them packing.”

  “You can’t fight a whole army single-handed,” protested the runner. Then he hurried off to warn others in the area.

  But Warner went back to his work. He was sacking meal when six British soldiers appeared at the door. “You’re under arrest for treason to His Majesty,” they said. “And your goods are confiscated.”

  The miller put up his fists and said, “You’ll not be eating a mouthful of this good American corn, if I can help it.”

  When the soldiers heard this, they seized the miller and cursed him for a rebel. Warner twisted free and fought bravely, but they overpowered him.

  “We’ll drown you in the river, you traitor!” snapped their leader, a big soldier with cruel eyes.

  “Go ahead,” Warner challenged. “But if you throw me in the river, you British buzzards, the banshee that lives there will haunt you the rest of your lives. Oh, I’ve seen her in the river mist, under the moon, crying like a lost soul. Sure as the stars are in the sky, she’ll get you.”

  At this, the five other soldiers hesitated. “Let’s wait until the commander arrives,” one said. “He’ll decide for us.”

  “Yes,” his fellows agreed.

  But the big soldier cursed and said, “Why wait? We were sent on ahead to make the way safe. We’ll get rid of this rebel before he makes any more trouble.”