A Terrifying Taste of Short & Shivery

by Robert D. San Souci

  The young woman rose, smiling now, and picked up the tiger skin. “You have filled my heart with joy,” she said. “I will put away my sorrow as easily as I put aside this unhappy reminder of my suffering.” Then she took the pelt and hid it, refusing to tell T’ao what she had done with it.

  So T’ao, who had hoped to bring home a tiger’s hide, brought home a bride instead.

  The two were very happy. T’ao’s widowed father welcomed his son’s wife. By agreement, neither T’ao nor his bride told anyone about the spell that she had been under. In time they had two sons.

  T’ao gave up his life of hunting and became a rich and powerful man in his town. Soon he was offered a position at the emperor’s court. He decided to move his household to the imperial city. Even his aged father would go.

  The journey would take them through the mountain pass and near the deserted inn where they had first met. Though T’ao was anxious to take up his duties at court, he agreed with his wife’s request that they stay for a day or two at the abandoned inn. “I want to recall our first meeting,” she said, smiling sweetly.

  While their servants cleaned the rooms and brewed tea for T’ao’s father, husband and wife strolled in the moonlit courtyard. Nearby, their two young sons played tag.

  “So many years have passed since I met you,” said T’ao laughingly.

  “Yet to me it seems like no more than a minute,” his wife answered. “This night is the fulfillment of my dearest dreams. Now, come, I have a surprise for you.” She took him by the hand and led him to a small outbuilding. Puzzled but agreeable, her husband followed.

  From its hiding place beneath a loose board, she removed the tiger skin she had worn. Holding it in her hands, the woman said, “As I told you long ago, my father and young brother were slain nearby. But it was no mountain spirit who slew them. It was a young hunter, Ts’ui T’ao, who killed them and took their skins because they were tigers.

  “As I wept for them, I vowed to punish you and your whole family. So I have bided my time, waiting for the proper moment. Now I will slay your father as you slew mine. Your sons will pay with their lives for the life of my brother. And you will know the bitter taste of loss, even as I taste sweet revenge.”

  Instantly she slipped on the tiger skin and became a raging beast that slew T’ao, his aged father, the boys, and everyone else. Then, roaring and bounding, the tigress disappeared into the mountain fastness.

  Peacock’s Ghost

  (United States—Louisiana)

  Not long ago, a young man named John Peacock lived in New Orleans. One day he learned that he had inherited a farm from a distant cousin of his. The farm was in the Louisiana backcountry. This came as a surprise, since his cousin had lived all his life in Europe and had never spoken of such a thing. In any case, John was eager to drive up and see what the farm looked like. But the place, called Peacock’s Farm, was miles away, where roads were poorly marked, if at all.

  John soon became hopelessly lost trying to find the farm. At a crossroads, he saw an old woman, sitting in a rocker on the sagging porch of a crumbling house. Behind the house were the remains of a barn and a shed, choked with brambles and vines. The woman was wearing an old white shift, and her uncombed white hair gave her a wild look.

  Since there was no one else around, the young man parked his car and strolled to the porch.

  “Can you tell me how to find Peacock’s Farm?” he asked.

  “I kin tell you,” the woman said. “But you don’ want ter go thar.”

  “Why not?” John asked. “The place belongs to me now.”

  “Mebbe. Mebbe not,” she said. “Anyhow, I got a story ter tell you. If you lissen an’ you still want ter go thar, I’ll show you the way.”

  John Peacock agreed; then he fanned himself with his hat as she began:

  “Years ago, ole man Peacock died an’ lef’ a heap o’ property ter his chillun. An’ he give ev’ry one a farm. There was one mo’ farm lef’ over. ’Twas a good farm an’ the house all furnished up, but no one did keer ter live thar, fer they all said the house was haanted.

  “One o’ the sons—Micah Peacock—said he wan’t no way a-feared. Said he could lay that ghost if they’d give him the farm. Th’ others tole him the place was his if he could lay the ghost so’s ter live thar.

  “Well, Micah went at night ter the house, takin’ his Bible along. He sat thar a-readin’ it backward and forward: He didn’ mind it none whether the ghost came a-nigh or not. Sho’ nuff, the ghost come along while he was a-readin’. It went all about thro’ the house, so’s Micah could hear it goin’ inter the diffunt rooms an’ a-movin’ things thisaway an’ thataway. But he didn’ let on ter hear the ghost—no indeed, he kep’ a-readin’ away in his Bible.

  “After a while the ghost blowed out his lamp, but he jes’ lighted it an’ read on. Then he went inter the bedroom an’ lay down. That sort o’ made the ghost mad, so’s it come inter the bedroom an’ Micah seed it, like as if it was a real person.

  “Anyhow, then he seed the ghost reach out an arm, long an’ skinny-like, under the bed, an’ jes’ turn it over with him on it. But he only crep’ out from under it an’ went back inter the kitchen an’ begun ter read away in his Bible. An’ thar he stayed all night. Afore day, the ghost come once mo’ an’ said, ‘If you come back yere again, yore a dead man.’

  “Well, the nex’ night Micah Peacock come back again, yes indeed: an’ he’d got two preachers ter come along an’ try to lay that ghost. One was a Methodis’ an’ the other was a Catholic. They both brought their Bibles, an’ all of ’em kep’ a-readin’ forward an’ backward. ’Twan’t no time at all till that ghost come again, an’ then it just went on mos’ outrageous.

  “The Methodis’, he didn’ stay ter hear much o’ the racket. Out he run an’ never come back. The Catholic, he held out a good bit, but afore long he run an’ lef’ Peacock ter stay it out by himself.

  “Well, they say the ghost never spoke ter him no mo’; but sho’ nuff, in the mornin’, thar was Peacock a-lyin’ dead with his head cut clean off—yes indeed, sir!—an thar ain’ no one ever try ter lay that ghost since.”

  “Well, I’ve been warned,” said John Peacock impatiently. “Now give me the directions you promised. Let me tell you, any ghost that crosses me will find he’s—”

  “Who tole you it were a he?” the old woman said. She stood up from the rocker and began to grow longer and thinner. Her bony hand locked on to young Peacock’s wrist; her grip was as painful as a metal vise. He was afraid she was going to snap his wrist bone like balsa wood.

  “Yep,” she said, suddenly letting go of him. “You been warned. This yere is Peacock’s Farm. Still want ter stay?”

  But John was halfway to his car. When he looked back, he saw only the old rocker bobbing on the porch.

  John drove as quick as he could back to New Orleans. There he burned the deed to Peacock’s Farm. But for the rest of his life, there was a bruise, like the imprint of long, thin fingers, around his wrist.

  Israel and the Werewolf

  (Poland—Jewish traditional)

  Long ago, there was an orphan named Israel, who depended on his own wit and the charity of others to survive. When little more than a child himself, he earned his keep by walking young students of his village to and from the school next to the synagogue, some distance away.

  Often, Israel did not lead the children in his care right to school. Sometimes he would take them for walks in the wood to explore the natural world. The boy believed that a person could learn about God from the beauties and secrets of nature, as well as from Holy Scripture. While they wandered, Israel amused the youngsters with riddles and stories; and he taught them simple hymns.

  Deep in the forest lived an old woodcutter who was greatly troubled. At heart he was a simple man who wished harm to no one. But he hid himself away in the forest because of his affliction. Every night demons entered his body, turning him into a werewolf. He would drop to all fours, howl like a wolf
, and chase rabbits and other small woodland creatures to devour them.

  The sound of Israel and the children singing might have eased his sorrow. But the devils who enslaved him were not pleased to hear innocent voices singing hymns of praise to the Lord, for this is the purest prayer of all. And Israel’s holiness was more than the demons could face. They complained to Satan himself; and the King of Evil decided he would confront Israel.

  One night after the woodcutter had taken on his werewolf form, Satan entered his body, removed the man’s troubled heart, and replaced it with his own. This time when morning came, the woodcutter remained a monster.

  When Israel and his young companions entered the wood, planning a breakfast of wild berries, they sensed a change in the forest. No birds sang; no breeze stirred the leaves or pine needles. Then the children discovered a clump of berry bushes and began filling their mouths and pockets, laughing all the while. But Israel remained watchful.

  Suddenly the werewolf burst into the clearing. The other children ran screaming in all directions, but Israel bravely stood his ground. Israel recited all the prayers he knew, but they had no effect on the creature that slouched toward him, growing larger and larger with each passing moment. He sang a hymn of praise, but still the huge creature came nearer. Then the werewolf opened its jaws as wide as the gates to Satan’s kingdom, and prepared to swallow him.

  But Israel simply walked forward, feeling the power of Heaven all around him. He marched straight into the maw of the beast. In its belly, he moved along a dark passage-way. He was drawn forward by a sound like a distant drumbeat.

  Then Israel entered a great cavern walled in red and white. Above him, hanging from a branch of flesh, was the creature’s heart—not the heart of the woodcutter or the heart of a wolf, but the black heart of the King of Evil.

  Still moved by the power of Heaven, Israel reached up and plucked the heart. Cradling it in his hands, he walked out into the night. Hours had passed while he was inside the monster—though it seemed a short time to Israel. When he left the body of the beast, the ground shook under his feet. Then it split open. The heart slipped from his hands and rolled into the fissure. Instantly the earth closed over it.

  Israel stood before a corpse. What previously had been a werewolf, fanged and furred and clawed, was now only the body of the gentle old woodcutter. He lay still and smiling, peaceful at last. Israel said a prayer for the man. Then he gathered the children—still frightened and hiding—and led them home. The light of the full moon revealed a safe path before them.

  Hoichi the Earless

  (Japan—from Lafcadio Hearn)

  In Japan long ago, near where the sea battle of Dan-no-ura had been fought centuries before, there lived a poor blind man named Hoichi. He was famous for his skill in reciting poetry and for playing upon the biwa, a stringed instrument like a lute. A priest of the local temple invited Hoichi to live there. Hoichi accepted, paying for his keep by playing for the priests.

  One hot summer night, when the priests were away, Hoichi tried to cool himself by sitting on the porch of his sleeping room. Softly he practiced on his biwa. At midnight, he heard steps cross the garden and halt in front of him. A strange commanding voice called, “Hoichi!”

  “Hai!” answered the blind man, frightened by the menace in the voice. “I am blind! I cannot know who calls.”

  “There is nothing to fear,” the stranger said, speaking more gently. “I have been sent to you with a message. My lord, a very powerful man, is staying nearby with many of his nobles. He wishes to view the scene of the battle of Dan-no-ura. He has heard of your skill in reciting the story of the battle. He desires to hear you. Come with me to the house, where he is waiting.”

  Hoichi felt honored to be asked to play for the man’s master. He put on his sandals, took his biwa, and went with the stranger. The fellow led the musician carefully, but forced him to walk very fast. The hand that guided him was like iron, and the clank of the warrior’s stride meant that he was fully armed.

  Presently the man halted; Hoichi sensed that they had come to a large gateway. He was puzzled, because he could not remember any such gate in that part of town. But he forgot the thought when the gate was unbarred. “Leave your sandals before we enter,” said the soldier.

  When Hoichi had done so, they entered a space that echoed like a great hall. Hoichi heard hurrying feet, sliding screens, and chattering women. Then he was led to a platform with silk pillows. A vast number of people had gathered—the rustling of their robes was like that of forest leaves; their voices hummed like swarms of bees. Then all became silent.

  “Recite the story of the battle at Dan-no-ura,” his guide ordered. So Hoichi recited the chant of the fight on the bitter sea. He made his biwa sound like straining oars and rushing ships, like the hiss of arrows, men’s shouts, the crash of steel upon helmets, and the death cries and the splashes of the slain falling into the bloody waters.

  At the part where every remaining man, woman, and child of the Taira clan perished at the hands of their enemies, his listeners uttered one long anguished cry. Then they wept and wailed so loudly that the blind man was frightened by the violent grief he had loosed. But gradually the wailing and sobbing died away.

  In the stillness, Hoichi heard his guide say, “My lord is so impressed with your skill, he desires you to perform before him for the next six nights. After that, he makes his return journey. Tomorrow night I will bring you here. But you must not tell anyone what has happened. My lord is traveling secretly, on a matter of great importance. He commands your silence.”

  Hoichi said nothing to the priests about his midnight adventure. The next night the soldier came for him, and he gave another performance. But this time, his absence from the temple was noticed. In the morning, his friend the priest said, “We have been anxious about you, Hoichi. Where have you been?”

  Hoichi only said, “I had private business to attend to.”

  The priest suspected something was wrong. He did not ask more questions, but he told his servants to follow Hoichi if he left after dark. When Hoichi departed that evening, the men followed. But they lost him in the darkness and rain of a summer storm. Hoichi, who had gone alone, had walked very fast—most unusual for a blind man on a road that was in need of repair.

  As they neared the shore, the servants were startled by the sound of a biwa, furiously played in the cemetery of the Taira Clan. In the blackness, ghost fires and will-o’-the-wisps darted here and there. Running to the cemetery, the servants found Hoichi sitting alone and chanting the story of Dan-no-ura. Above the tombs around him, the fires of the dead burned like candles.

  “Hoichi!” the servants cried. “You are bewitched.”

  But the blind man did not seem to hear. He continued to chant until the story was finished. Then the ghost fires went out, and Hoichi awoke as if from a deep sleep.

  The next day the priest forced Hoichi to tell all about his midnight adventures. Then the priest said, “Hoichi, your skill has brought you into great danger! You have been spending your nights among the tombs of the Taira clan. By obeying the call of the dead, you have put yourself in their power. When they have finished with you, they will tear you to pieces. But there is a way to save you.”

  Before sundown, while a naked Hoichi shivered, the priest painted holy signs all over his body—even on the soles of his feet. Then the priest said, “Tonight, seat yourself on the porch and wait. You will be called. Whatever happens, do not answer and do not move. If you stir or call for help, you will be torn apart.”

  So Hoichi sat as still as the biwa not far from him. Soon he heard steps approach and stop directly in front of him.

  “Hoichi!” the deep voice called. But the blind man held his breath and sat motionless. The voice called his name again and again, growing angrier each time.

  At last the gruff voice muttered, “Here is his biwa, but I see nothing of the man who plays it—except his two ears! So that explains why he did not answer: He has no mout
h. There is nothing left but his ears. I will take those ears to my lord as proof that I did as much as I could to bring him the musician.”

  Hoichi felt his ears gripped by fingers of iron and torn off. Great as the pain was, he gave no cry. The heavy footfalls departed and faded away. Still he sat, not daring to move.

  When the priest returned, he cried, “Poor Hoichi! In my haste, I forgot to paint holy signs upon your ears. But awful as it is, you will never again be troubled by those ghosts.”

  Hoichi soon recovered from his injuries. The story of his adventure spread far and wide and made him famous. Many noble persons came to hear him perform. They paid him richly, and he became a wealthy man. But he was always known as Mimi-nashi-Hoichi: Hoichi the Earless.

  A Snap of the Fingers

  (Mexico)

  Many years ago, Miguel, a boy from the country, visited his grandfather in Mexico City. The old man lived on a pleasant tree-shaded street; but there was one house he shunned. He warned his grandson, “Stay away from that place. The owner, Don Rodrigo, is evil. It is said he serves the devil.”

  Then Miguel’s grandfather explained that Don Rodrigo had been a captain in the Spanish royal army. He had fought so well that the king of Spain had rewarded him by making him a don and giving him official duties in Mexico City.

  At first Don Rodrigo had been an honest and respected man of very modest means. Then, one night, a raven had flown to his window during a storm. After this, Don Rodrigo became rich and powerful, but corrupt. He never went to church, and he openly made fun of all things holy. This offended his neighbors. Worse yet, he named the raven El Diablo. And it truly was a devil: Miguel’s grandfather assured the boy that no one doubted this for a minute.

  Don Rodrigo would sit at a window or on one of the several balconies of his house, snapping his fingers. Then the raven would come and perch beside him.