Even More Short & Shivery

by Robert D. San Souci

  On his orders, the soldiers carried the miller down to the riverbank. They bound his hands behind him and tied heavy stones around his neck and ankles. Then they threw him into the river. As his body sank from sight, an ear-shattering cry rang from bank to bank—the cry of a woman in the agony of death.

  The soldiers froze in fear. At first, they saw nothing but evening mist rising over the water. Then the mist took the shape of a woman with flowing hair and a veil over her face. The men paled in horror.

  “The banshee,” groaned one of the men who stood gaping at the sight. Suddenly the cruel-eyed leader, who had been so eager to drown the miller, turned and fled to the mill. After a moment, the others followed. Behind them, the veiled figure screamed again, then dissolved in the darkening air.

  Shortly after nightfall, the commander and the rest of the British troops arrived. While the officers took up quarters in the mill house, the soldiers pitched tents beneath the trees and lit campfires.

  A new moon arose, thin and yellow. Far off, a rain crow called for rain. Then, shattering the stillness, came the banshee’s bone-chilling cry.

  The commander and his officers rushed from the mill house. The soldiers tumbled from their tents—all except the soldier with evil eyes, and his mates who had helped him drown the miller. They sat motionless, with their hands over their ears, trying to stifle the agonizing wail.

  The astonished officers on the bank saw a thick cloud of mist above the river slowly take the form of a woman with flowing hair. From beneath the veil that hid her face came the weird cries that echoed down the stream. After a few minutes, the figure began to fade, though her cries lingered a long time.

  When the commander questioned his men about the unearthly figure, the guilty men—nearly frightened out of their wits—confessed their crime. The angry commander, for punishment, sentenced them to spend the rest of their enlistments at the mill, grinding grain and listening to the haunting wail.

  During the day, the six worked without resting, while the banshee’s cries tormented their sleepless nights. Then, upon a midnight, the banshee appeared in the doorway of the mill—a tall, mist-shrouded figure with flowing hair. She flung back her veil and faced the frightened men. Her fearsome eyes burned into the very souls of all but the cruel-eyed soldier, who buried his face in his hands and hid behind the millstone.

  Without taking her fiery, hypnotic eyes off her victims, the banshee began to recede into the night. Like dreamers, the five men followed blindly. Out over the river she floated, and they followed her, pushing through the mud and reeds, until they were caught by the current, which had become unaccountably swift. Without a struggle, they were swallowed by the dark water and never seen again.

  After that, the evil-eyed soldier was left alone. He would lock the door of the mill and stuff his ears with bits of sacking, but the mocking cry of the banshee pierced his head and heart. After a time, he went mad. He wandered the riverbank calling, “David Warner! Have pity on me!” But only the wail of the banshee answered him. One day, his body was found floating face upward in the very place in the river where he had drowned the miller.

  So the sad tale ended—save for the throbbing cry of the banshee, which can still be heard above the river mists every August, when the rain crow calls for rain beneath a thin, yellow moon.

  The Deadly Violin

  (Germany—Jewish traditional)

  Long ago, in the German city of Worms, Nahum the carpenter was hired to make a coffin. The dead man’s family provided the wood, warning Nahum that it should be used only for the casket. But when his work was finished, the carpenter found he had one board left. Never one to waste so much as a scrap, Nahum decided to fashion the leftover wood into a violin.

  During the night, however, Nahum had a dream in which the dead man, who had been laid to rest in the coffin, came to him and said, “Cast the remaining wood into the fire; don’t turn it to any other purpose.”

  But when the carpenter woke up, he told himself, “That was merely a dream.”

  That morning, he began to carve and shape the wood into a violin. He worked slowly to ensure that everything about the instrument would be the best. Since he loved to play the violin, he eagerly imagined the time when he would finally carve the bow and coax the first notes from his handiwork.

  Every night the dead man came to him in a dream, telling Nahum, “Cast the wood into the fire.” And every morning the carpenter dismissed the warning. He put no value in dreams.

  At last the instrument was finished. Joyfully Nahum carved and strung a bow. Lovingly he polished the violin, so that it gleamed in the light of his candles. Since it had grown very late, he decided to wait until the next morning to try out the violin.

  Again the dead man came to Nahum’s dreams. “Cast the wood into the fire,” said the spectral voice. “This is the last time I will warn you.”

  Awakening the next morning, the carpenter told himself, “That was a good dream, since the ghost has promised not to bother me anymore.”

  Straightaway, Nahum took down the violin from the shelf and tenderly drew the bow across its strings. As if it were playing itself, the violin poured forth the strains of a haunting melody—a tune the carpenter had never heard before. The bow seemed to glide without his guidance; the violin under his chin trembled like a living creature. The music filled his head with visions of strange landscapes where pale figures wandered.

  Nahum began to grow frightened, but he could not keep himself from playing the song to its end. The moment the final haunting note died away, the room grew as dark as if the sun had been blotted out. With a cry, Nahum ran to the window, threw it open, and peered outside. But the darkness was so thick in the street beyond that he could see nothing.

  Suddenly a great force—like huge, invisible hands—shoved the carpenter out the window. The terror-stricken man found himself tumbling down. Nahum flung out his arms, but could find nothing to grab hold of. A moment later, he plunged into something soft and wet—like mud.

  As he struggled to keep his head above the surface of the ooze, he felt he was being pulled down, as though what he had fallen into was quicksand. The more he resisted, the stronger the downward pull became. Soon he was thrashing about in the blackness, up to his chest in the unseen muck. He cried out again and again for help, but the silence was as absolute as the darkness.

  With a violent wrench, the quicksand dragged him under. He felt the thick, moist darkness flood his mouth and throat and lungs.

  Then he felt nothing at all.

  The next morning, Nahum’s son found his father’s body lying on the floor of the workshop, the violin still clutched in the stiff fingers of one outstretched hand, the bow locked in his other hand. With a sob, the young man tried to revive his father, but it was no use. In his grief, the lad put the violin up on the shelf and forgot about it.

  But that night, the dead man who had warned Nahum came to his son in a dream. The ghostly figure explained all that had happened, and urged the young man to destroy the haunted violin.

  The very next day, Nahum’s son burned the violin. And as it went up in flames, he heard the anguished voice of his father crying out as if from a great distance. To his dismay, he realized that, somewhere, Nahum’s soul was still being punished for his misdeed.

  A Night of Terrors

  (United States—urban folklore)

  “Are you sure you’ll be all right?” Linda asked the young woman sitting against mounded pillows on the bed.

  “I’ll be fine,” Mary Jo said. “I know you don’t want to miss Jack’s frat party later.” She shifted slightly in the bed. “I am going to be so glad to get rid of this flu.”

  “It still seems like a lousy way to spend Christmas,” said Linda. “Everyone else is gone, and now I’m leaving you all alone.”

  “You’ll only be gone a few hours,” answered Mary Jo. She dropped her hand beside the bed. From underneath—his favorite hideaway—her dog’s muzzle poked out. His pink tongue licked h
er hand affectionately. “And I’ve got Jeffy to guard me.”

  Linda walked to the window. The big house, which the two of them shared with four other college sophomores, was a mile west of the little college town. The nearest house was dark and silent. The Johnsons, retired teachers, had left to visit family in Florida.

  “I’ll heat up something for dinner,” said Linda. “Then I’m going to take a hot bath and get ready for tonight.”

  “Thanks,” Mary Jo said. As she picked up one of the magazines stacked beside her pillow, she lowered her hand again.

  Jeffy obligingly licked it. It gave Mary Jo a good feeling to know that the dog would be around when Linda was gone.

  Mary Jo fell asleep, but she awoke with a start. Someone was knocking loudly on the front door. It was dark outside. She felt feverish. Groggy, she looked at the clock: 6:53.

  Louder knocking. Under the bed, Jeffy growled. More knocking. “Give it a rest!” Mary Jo muttered, but her mouth was dry and her voice was papery. She could barely hear herself.

  “All right, already!” yelled Linda from her bedroom across the hall. As she passed Mary Jo’s door, she said, “Jack told me he’d come by early because of the snow. But he’s an hour early!” As the pounding started again, Linda shouted, “Wait a minute! I’m coming down.”

  She darted back into her room for her coat and fleece-lined gloves. “You sure you’re gonna be okay?” she asked.

  Mary Jo nodded.

  Suddenly Jeffy shot out from under the bed and charged downstairs, baying like the hound of the Baskervilles.

  “Great!” said Linda. “I finally get a decent date, and you sic your dog on him.”

  “I’ll get Jeffy,” said Mary Jo. She started to get up, but her temples and the back of her neck began to throb, and she felt a rush of dizziness and weakness.

  “I’ll handle Jeffy,” said Linda. “You stay put. See you in a couple of hours.” She followed the dog downstairs, yelling, “Jeffy! You scare off my date and you’re toast!”

  At the front door, Jeffy was barking so loudly, Mary Jo could no longer hear Linda, who must have opened the door. Mary Jo seemed to hear Jack’s deep voice shouting, too. Jeffy went crazy. But the dog had never liked Jack.

  Her head aching enough to split, Mary Jo sank back into the pillows. She was sure that Linda would be on her case because of Jeffy. Feeling as rotten as she did, Mary Jo dreaded the idea of a confrontation. The commotion downstairs stopped as though sliced off.

  “Thank you all very much,” she whispered.

  The front door slammed.

  “Bye, kids, have fun,” she murmured. “I won’t wait up.”

  She started to shiver. Feeling as though it was a monumental effort, she reached out and snapped off the bedside lamp. Then she burrowed as deep into the bedclothes as she could. But she still felt chilled, and more tired than ever.

  Vaguely she wondered, Where’s Jeffy? She hoped he wasn’t making a mess. “I’ll sort everything out later,” she promised herself as she drifted off to sleep.

  In her feverish sleep, Mary Jo sensed, more than heard, Jeffy come into the room. He was panting. She dreaded to think what he’d been up to. Probably running up and down and jumping on the furniture. “Under the bed, Jeffy,” she commanded. “Be good, and give me a kiss,” she said, reaching down to him.

  He obediently licked her hand.

  “Good boy,” she said as she drifted back to sleep.

  The phone on the nightstand woke her.

  Jack pounding on the door. Barking Jeffy. Yelling Linda. Ringing phone. To a sick and exhausted Mary Jo, it seemed like a conspiracy to make noise and wake her up. “Go ’way,” she ordered the phone as it jangled again. She hated the sound of the phone’s bell in this rented house. She hated whoever was calling. She wanted only silence and sleep. Maybe she should curl up with Jeffy under the bed and wish the whole world away.

  The phone continued to ring.

  Exasperated, she plucked the receiver from its cradle, dragged it under the covers, and asked, “Who is it?”

  “Linda?” a man’s voice asked. She knew the voice. Almost.

  “I’m Mary Jo. Linda’s gone.”

  “Gone? Gone where?” The voice was upset. “It’s Jack. Mary Jo, you sound funny. What’s going on?”

  “I’m sick. I’ve got the campus crud,” she said. “But Linda went with you—what time is it?”

  “After nine,” he said. “I hit a patch of black ice and spun into a ditch on my way there. I finally got a tow, but now I can’t get there because of the roadblocks.”

  “What roadblocks? You’re not making any sense, Jack!”

  “The police have cordoned off the area,” Jack said in a rush. “There was a jailbreak early today. Three criminally insane lifers got out. A car they stole was found around here, so the police are combing the area. I can’t get through. But where’s Linda? Did she get tired of waiting for me and drive herself in?”

  Nothing seemed to make sense to Mary Jo. “I heard her go out,” she said. “I heard you. I mean, I thought I heard you. I’m sure it was a man’s voice downstairs. Jeffy was barking a lot.”

  “Something’s wrong,” Jack said. The fear in his voice chilled Mary Jo more than the flu. Her teeth began to chatter.

  There was a crash from downstairs. Something heavy and metal went over, and there was the sound of shattering glass. She expected Jeffy to go crazy, but she heard him retreat farther under the bed. What awful thing downstairs unnerved him so?

  “Mary Jo! Talk to me!” Jack was shouting into phone. “What’s going on?”

  “There’s someone downstairs,” she whispered. “Call the police!”

  “Can you get out of there?” he asked. “Can you lock yourself in? Those escapees are apparently really wacked out.”

  “I—Help me, Jack, please! I’m scared.”

  She could hear Jack shouting to someone in the background. She caught the words police and emergency.

  There was another crash downstairs. The noise spilled into the phone from the extension phone below. Someone had pulled or knocked the downstairs receiver off the hook. A torrent of gasping, gurgling sounds came from the earpiece.

  Jack heard it, too. “What’s that? Who’s on the line? Mary Jo, the police are on the way. Get out! Hide! Now!” Then his voice was drowned out by a horrible moaning. Mary Jo slammed down the receiver to shut off the ghastly sound. Realizing that she had just cut herself off from Jack, she picked up the phone. It buzzed, and a recorded voice advised her that the receiver was off the hook. Then the phone gave off a series of shrill electronic pulses. She hung up, afraid that the sound would attract the attention of whoever was downstairs.

  Dizzy, unsteady, she crossed to the door and peered toward the top of the stairs. She thought she saw a shadow moving. Or was it her fevered imagination? At that moment the power failed and the hall lights went out.

  As quietly as possible, Mary Jo closed and locked the hall door. The door was sturdy, but she doubted it could hold out long against someone trying to break in. She went to the window, but the sheer drop down to the burlap-covered rosebushes made escape impossible. She looked around for something to use to defend herself. Two heavy ceramic bookends to throw would be her first line of defense. She also grabbed a metal letter opener.

  The silence was more frightening than any noise. The room had grown freezing. She retreated to the bed, wrapping the blankets around her. Impulsively she dropped her hand down. After a moment, Jeffy licked it. Jeffy. Her final defense. Or was he too cowed to be any help at all?

  Minutes passed. Then she heard a scratching and gasping out in the hall. Someone was making his painful way toward her closed door. She pressed her hands to her mouth, to bottle up the scream she felt building up inside.

  Whoever was out there had reached the door. Nails scratched the lower panels.

  In the distance, she heard the wail of police sirens.

  More scraping at the door.

  She re
ached for Jeffy, felt her hand licked again.

  Then there was banging on the front door; the sound of splintering wood; heavy footsteps on the stairs; shouts in the hallway; Jack’s voice. Without thinking, Mary Jo pulled open the door. Linda was huddled on the hall floor, while Jack and several police officers bent over her. She was badly injured, but still alive. “It was Linda!” Mary Jo gasped. “She was hurt, and I wouldn’t let her in. I was afraid.” She began to cry.

  Jack pulled her aside, put his arm around her. Anxious officers questioned her, while others began to search the house and grounds. An ambulance was on the way.

  Someone had attacked Linda. He must have fled again into the night. Or he might be hiding.

  Linda was taken downstairs, and Mary Jo followed shakily. The house was filled with bobbing flashlight beams. Every corner was searched.

  Behind the couch, one of the officers discovered a furry shape matted with blood. They tried to keep her from looking, but Mary Jo looked anyway.

  “Jeffy!” she cried. “But it can’t be him! He’s been up in my room all this time. Under my bed. So scared he couldn’t make a sound. He just kept licking my hand.”

  The officer drew his gun and waved his fellows toward the stairs. “Humans can lick, too,” he said.

  The Sending

  (Iceland)

  Long ago, Icelandic folk believed that an evil spirit could be conjured by magic from a human bone. Such a thing was called a sending, which means “gift”; but this was an ironic word, since it referred to something evil sent to destroy an enemy. Fortunately, such a sending could be defeated, if one had courage enough.…

  One such courageous person was Gudrun Grimsdottir, called Gunna for short. A handsome widow, she managed her farm successfully after her husband died. Though she was much sought after by suitors, she lived contentedly in memory of her life with her husband, and had no desire to remarry.