OTHER DELL YEARLING BOOKS YOU WILL ENJOY
SHORT & SHIVERY: THIRTY CHILLING TALES
Robert D. San Souci
MORE SHORT & SHIVERY: THIRTY TERRIFYING TALES
Robert D. San Souci
EVEN MORE SHORT & SHIVERY:
THIRTY SPINE-TINGLING TALES, Robert D. San Souci
THE GHOST IN THE THIRD ROW, Bruce Coville
THE GHOST WORE GRAY, Bruce Coville
THE GHOST IN THE BIG BRASS BED, Bruce Coville
THE GHOSTS OF RATHBURN PARK, Zilpha Keatley Snyder
THE DARK-THIRTY:
SOUTHERN TALES OF THE SUPERNATURAL
Patricia C. McKissack
THE DARK AND DEADLY POOL, Joan Lowery Nixon
THE GHOST OF LIZARD LIGHT, Elvira Woodruff
DELL YEARLING BOOKS are designed especially to entertain and enlighten young people. Patricia Reilly Giff, consultant to this series, received her bachelor’s degree from Marymount College and a master’s degree in history from St. John’s University. She holds a Professional Diploma in Reading and a Doctorate of Humane Letters from Hofstra University. She was a teacher and reading consultant for many years, and is the author of numerous books for young readers.
Published by
Dell Yearling
an imprint of
Random House Children’s Books
a division of Random House, Inc.
New York
Text copyright © 1998 by Robert D. San Souci
Illustrations copyright © 1998 by Lenny Wooden
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.
For information address Delacorte Press.
The trademarks Yearling and Dell are registered in the U.S. Patent and Trademark Office and in other countries.
Visit us on the Web! www.randomhouse.com/kids
Educators and librarians, for a variety of teaching tools, visit us at www.randomhouse.com/teachers
eISBN: 978-0-307-79367-6
Reprinted by arrangement with Delacorte Press
v3.1
To Ray and Gail Orwig,
fellow fans of matters
science-fictional,
fantastical,
and
frightful
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Introduction
Crooker Waits
(British Isles—England)
Yara-ma-yha-who
(Australia)
The Fata
(Italy)
The Fiddler
(British Isles—Wales)
Land-Otter
(Native American—Tlingit tribe)
A Fish Story
(United States—Virginia—African American traditional)
Apparitions
(Germany)
The Bijli
(India)
The Lutin
(Canada—French Canadian traditional)
The Hundredth Skull
(United States—Ohio)
The Ogre’s Arm
(Japan)
The Hairy Hands
(British Isles—England)
The Snow Husband
(Native American—Alganquin tribe)
The Zimwi
(Africa—from the Swahili)
Witchbirds
(France)
Dangerous Hill
(British Isles—England)
The Witch’s Head
(El Salvador)
Dinkins Is Dead
(United States—South Carolina)
Old Nan’s Ghost
(British Isles—England)
The Interrupted Wedding
(Norway)
The Mulombe
(Africa—Zimbabwe)
The Haunted Grove
(Canada)
The Tiger Woman
(China)
Peacock’s Ghost
(United States—Louisiana)
Israel and the Werewolf
(Poland—Jewish traditional)
Hoichi the Earless
(Japan—from Lafcadio Hearn)
A Snap of the Fingers
(Mexico)
Narrow Escape
(United States—California)
The Black Fox
(United States—Connecticut)
The Mother and Death
(Denmark—from Hans Christian Andersen)
Notes on Sources
About the Author
Introduction
Since you’re reading these words, I think I can assume you have an appetite for terrifying tales. So I’ll invite you to step up for a heaping helping of some of my scariest stories ever—spiced with shudders from near and far. There’s something here for every taste; just hope nothing disagrees with you the way poor Aaron’s curious meal does in “A Fish Story.”
The poet Lord Byron once wrote, “Since Eve ate apples, much depends on dinner.” And if you don’t believe this, just ask an African mulombe, a Japanese ogre, an Australian Yara-ma-yha-who, or one of the other creatures in these pages. Of course, their favorite main course is the lonely wayfarer, the devil-may-care dare-taker, the overeager explorer, or the unlucky person who follows the wrong road or opens the wrong door. As someone pointed out, “You are what you eat (or what eats you).”
Put another way, “You’re either the diner or the dinner.” This fact is well illustrated in some of these stories. There’s a monstrous pumpkin with a taste for people pie; a ghostly fox that turns the tables on two headstrong hunters and bags their spirits like so much soul food; and a were-tiger that gives a hair-raising twist to the notion of a family dinner. And there are some stories in which food tips the scales in favor of an intended victim: For example, a witch is undone by her undying love for the sweet, apple-like zapotes in a story from El Salvador.
Be warned: Nothing that’s served up here is quite what it seems. A lavish wedding banquet, hosted by some rather ominous villagers, turns out to be more a feast for the eye than the taste buds. A simple meal of boiled halibut that a Tlingit Indian couple share with a ghost becomes the first course in a series of eerie encounters with the undead.
Not all these tales have to do with diners or dinners, but they’re flavored with a teaspoon of thrills, a cup of chills, a soupçon of shivers, and a garnish of gallows humor. I hope you’ll enjoy the smorgasbord of weird world tales I’ve prepared. In fact, I hope you’ll find them frightfully tasty.
Bone appetit!
Crooker Waits
(British Isles—England)
Late in the afternoon a traveler on his way to the town of Cromford met an old woman in green skirts and a shawl.
“Where are you bound with the day so far gone?” she asked. “The sun will soon set, and this road is dangerous at night.”
“My mother lies ill in the town ahead,” he answered. “I must get there without delay.”
“Have a care,” the old woman said. “Crooker lies in wait. But it may be I can help.” She reached into a pouch that hung from her belt and held out a sprig of St. John’s Wort. The bright yellow flower seemed to glow in the late-afternoon sun.
Knowing it was a good-luck charm, the man took the old woman’s offering, saying, “Thank you for your help.”
“Your kindness has earned it,” she explained. “You once freed a bird caught in a fowler’s snare. I know that
bird. As you travel the road, show the flower to Crooker.”
“Who is Crooker?” the man asked.
But the old woman had vanished.
The man continued on his way. Near dusk, he rounded a bend in the lane and discovered another old woman, also dressed in green, waiting for him.
“The Cromford Road is dangerous at night,” she told him. “Turn aside and go no farther before sunrise.”
“My old mother is ill and needs me,” he replied. “I cannot delay.”
She nodded, then held out a handful of primroses to him, saying, “These are payment for freeing a rabbit from a snare. I know that rabbit. Show them to Crooker, who waits.”
“Who is Crooker?” the man asked.
But she too was gone. The traveler shivered as shadows lengthened across the lonely road. Carefully he put the pale pink flowers in his pocket. Then he hurried on his way.
The sun had just set behind the hills when the man met a third old woman dressed in green. “It’s a dark and dangerous time to be abroad on the Cromford Road,” she said. “But it may be that these will help.” She held out a bunch of bright yellow daisies to him. In the sun’s afterglow, they seemed to burn like flames.
“You freed a fox and her cub from a trap,” the old woman said. “I know that vixen and her cub. Take the flowers and show them to Crooker. But be sure you are on Cromford Bridge before the moon rises.”
Then, like the others, she vanished even as he asked her, “Who is Crooker?”
The sun was completely gone now, and the moon had not yet risen. The traveler made his way slowly through the dark. Always, he was on the alert for Crooker, but he neither saw nor heard the fellow.
By the time he was in sight of Cromford Bridge, the moon had risen high and bright. He remembered the third woman’s warning that he should be on the bridge before moonrise, but he felt himself out of danger. Nothing and no one lay between him and the bridge, save a great yew tree beside the road. In the moonlight, its crooked branches cast shadows that looked like swarms of skinny arms with clawed and clutching hands.
“You’re letting imagination run off with you,” the man said aloud. “Those old women were well-meaning, but their warnings have spooked you, sure enough.”
He hastened forward. But as he passed through the shadow of the tree, a wind set the branches swaying and the leaves seething. The shadow claws fell all around him; and the wind through the leaves seemed to moan, “Hungryhungryhungry.”
Suddenly a branch raked the man’s cheek; a second slashed at him, drawing blood. To his horror, the tree seemed to twist and bend as though it were alive. The thick trunk leaned toward him. The branches—more like arms now—caught at his hair and cloak. “Hungryhungryhungry,” the leaves murmured.
“Crooker!” gasped the man as he became ensnared. Desperately he reached into his pocket and pulled out the bunch of daisies. In his hand, the flowers flared into a cold yellow flame.
The tree branches snapped away; the leaves hissed and shrank back. Instantly the wind snuffed out the flame. But in that moment, the terrified man began running for the safety of the bridge.
He had only gone a little way when moonlight cast the shadow of reaching arms over him. Turning, he saw to his horror that the yew tree was now rooted in the road right behind him. While the leaves voiced their monstrous hunger, the man felt himself caught and lifted from the ground, drawn back toward the tree trunk.
Only with a great effort did he manage to draw the knot of primroses from his pocket. These flared more brightly than the daisies had. Though the unearthly flame was cool to his fingers, it set the branches that held him ablaze and the leaves to shrieking. The burning limbs dropped him to the ground before the wind extinguished the fire.
Stunned, the man staggered on. But just before he flung himself onto the safety of the bridge, the clutching shadows fell over him again. With a sob, he realized that the great yew tree was now rooted at the foot of the bridge, like some terrible guardian.
Before the branches could catch him, the traveler hurled the sprig of St. John’s Wort straight at the wicked tree. For a moment nothing happened. Then, deep inside the menacing tangle of branches, fire flared as bright as a thousand rising suns. It fountained up from root to treetop, turning each limb into a burning brand with flames for leaves. From the heart of the blaze came hundreds of screams turned into one deafening sound.
Pressing his hands to his ears, the traveler leapt onto the bridge. He fell badly, hitting his head against the stonework and knocking himself unconscious.
When he awoke, the sun had risen. Nearby, where the bridge met the riverbank, the charred stump of an ancient yew tree sent wisps of smoke into the chill morning air.
Yara-ma-yha-who
(Australia)
Long ago, there were two brothers, Perindi and Harrimiah, who always played and hunted together. This was a good thing, because the place where they lived was plagued by the Yara-ma-yha-who, little manlike creatures. They captured lone hunters, fed upon them, then turned them into Yara-ma-yha-who. They lived mostly in thick, leafy trees, but the wild fig tree was their favorite. When an adult or child took shelter from the summer sun in a fig tree’s shade, or hid from winter’s rain and hail under its thick boughs, the Yara-ma-yha-who would catch them.
Again and again, their grandmother warned the brothers to keep near each other, and to stay away from fig trees. Harrimiah always obeyed; but his older brother, Perindi, laughed at their grandmother’s words. “The Yara-ma-yha-who do not exist,” he said. “They are only stories told to make naughty children obey.”
One day, when the brothers had been hunting far from their tribe’s camp, Perindi said, “The sun is too hot to bear. There’s a big fig tree beyond those rocks. Let’s go sit in its shade, and eat some of its fruit. There’s even a water hole near it.”
But Harrimiah would not go: He was afraid that the lone tree might be home to some Yara-ma-yha-who. His brother mocked him, calling him a coward who was afraid of stories that only scared little children. Then the brothers argued for the first time in their lives. Angrily Harrimiah started for home, while Perindi, also in a temper, marched toward the distant fig tree.
But a drink of the water and the cool shade of the tree quickly put him in better spirits. Still thinking his brother a fool, Perindi lay down his spear, leaned back against the tree trunk, and chewed on a sweet fig.
Suddenly a lone Yara-ma-yha-who, who lived in the tree’s branches, dropped from above onto Perindi’s back and sent the boy sprawling in the dust. Shaking his head, Perindi saw in front of him a manlike creature about four feet high. It had red skin and glowing red eyes, and a very big head for its small body. Its jaws and stomach were quite large, but strangest of all were its hands: The fingertips were cup-shaped, like the suckers of an octopus. So were the tips of its toes.
Before Perindi could reach for his spear, the manikin pounced on him like a cat upon a mouse. When its fingers and toes touched the boy’s shoulders and stomach, Perindi felt a series of little stings. Then he sensed his blood being drawn from his body through the suckers. He felt himself quickly growing weaker, until he was helpless to resist or even to move.
Just when Perindi thought he must die, the creature released him. Never taking its eyes off the boy, the Yara-ma-yha-who walked around and around him. Every time it passed in front of Perindi, the boy saw the creature’s eyes were filled with fresh hunger.
At last it stopped and lay down on the ground facing Perindi. To the boy’s horror, he saw the great jaws, hinged like a snake’s, spread wide, wider—
Slup! The Yara-ma-yha-who swallowed Perindi to his knees. Then the creature stood up, and danced up and down until it had settled the boy all the way into its stomach. Then it went to the water hole, where it drank and drank. Finally it lay down on the ground again, and spit the boy out.
Perindi was still alive, though weak as a newborn pup. And he was smaller. He tried to crawl away, but the Yara-ma-yha-who swallowed
him—slip-slup!—down again. This time the boy, grown smaller, was an easier meal.
Again the creature drank water until it was nearly bursting, and again it lay down and spit out the dazed Perindi. The boy was smaller yet, but still alive.
Now while this was happening, Harrimiah, sensing that his brother might be in trouble, had returned in time to see the manikin swallow Perindi—slip!—a third time. Raising his spear, he charged the creature. But the Yara-ma-yha-who scurried into the safety of the leafy tree.
Harrimiah shouted and jabbed the green shadows, but all he heard was the rustle of leaves as the creature avoided his spearpoint.
Finally, tired from his efforts and grieving for his lost brother, Harrimiah turned to collect dry brush, planning to burn down the tree and destroy the beastling.
At that moment, the Yara-ma-yha-who dropped onto his back. The impact threw the boy to the ground, where he hit his head on a stone and was knocked unconscious.
When he came to, Harrimiah watched the Yara-ma-yha-who return from the water hole, lie down, and spit out Perindi a third time. Now the boy seemed hardly bigger than an infant. And he was as bald and smooth-skinned as a baby. His skin was pale, as though all the color had been drained from it. With a grunt and a nod, the Yara-ma-yha-who turned away from what was left of Perindi. Keeping his eyes nearly closed, Harrimiah was able to see the creature walking toward him.
But he remembered his grandmother’s warning: “If you cannot escape the Yara-ma-yha-who, you must pretend to be dead. The creature only hunts the living. You must keep still, no matter what the Yara-ma-yha-who does to make sure you are dead. It will poke you and tickle you. If you don’t move, it will go away and hide and spy on you. If you keep still until it is dark, the thing will go to sleep. Then you can escape.”
True enough, the Yara-ma-yha-who picked up a stick and poked Harrimiah in the side. The boy did not flinch. Then the creature tickled him under the neck and arm. The boy remained motionless, his eyes tightly closed. One last time the creature poked the boy, then tickled him. When its victim neither moved nor made a sound, it went behind the trunk of the fig tree to watch.
A Terrifying Taste of Short & Shivery Page 1
