Digital Edition APRIL 2019 ISBN: 978-0-06-268286-4
Print ISBN: 978-0-06-268285-7 (pbk.)
1. Ghost stories, American. 2. Tales, American. [1. Ghosts—Fiction. 2. Horror stories. 3. Folklore—United States] I. Gammell, Stephen, ill. II. Title.
PZ8.1.S399Mo 1984 83-049494
398.2’5
* * *
1718192021PC/LSCH10987654321
Revised edition, 2017
“Something Was Wrong” and “The Bed by the Window” are adapted from the untitled stories on pages 275–76 and 288–89 of Try and Stop Me by Bennett Cerf. Copyright © 1944 by Bennett Cerf, renewal copyright © 1971 by Mrs. Bennett Cerf, Christopher Cerf, and Jonathan Cerf. Reprinted by permission of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
“The Cat in a Shopping Bag” is adapted from untitled texts on pages 108 and 109 of The Vanishing Hitchhiker: American Urban Legends and Their Meanings by Jan Harold Brunvand, by permission of W.W. Norton & Company, Inc. Copyright © 1981 by Jan Harold Brunvand.
Dedication
To Justin
—A. S.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Dedication
Boo Men
1. When Death Arrives
The Appointment
The Bus Stop
Faster and Faster
Just Delicious
Hello, Kate!
The Black Dog
Footsteps
Like Cats’ Eyes
2. On the Edge
Bess
Harold
The Dead Hand
Such Things Happen
3. Running Wild
The Wolf Girl
4. Five Nightmares
The Dream
Sam’s New Pet
Maybe You Will Remember
The Red Spot
No, Thanks
5. What Is Going On Here?
The Trouble
6. Whoooooooo?
Strangers
The Hog
Is Something Wrong?
It’s Him!
T-H-U-P-P-P-P-P-P-P!
You May Be the Next . . .
Notes and Sources
Bibliography
Acknowledgments
Copyright
Boo Men
The girl was late getting home for supper. So she took a shortcut through the cemetery. But, oh, it made her nervous. When she saw another girl ahead of her, she hurried to catch up.
“Do you mind if I walk with you?” she asked. “Walking through the cemetery at night scares me.”
“I know what you mean,” the other girl said. “I used to feel that way myself when I was alive.”
There are all sorts of things that scare us.
The dead scare us, for one day we will be dead like they are.
The dark scares us, for we don’t know what is waiting in the dark. At night the sound of leaves rustling, or branches groaning, or someone whispering, makes us uneasy. So do footsteps coming closer. So do strange figures we think we see in the shadows—a human maybe, or a big animal, or some horrible thing we can barely make out.
People call these creatures we think we see “boo men.” We imagine them, they say. But now and then a boo man turns out to be real.
Queer happenings scare us, too. We hear of a boy or a girl who was raised by an animal, a human being like us who yelps and howls and runs on all fours. The thought of it makes our flesh crawl. We hear of insects that make their nests in a person’s body or of a nightmare that comes true, and we shudder. If such things really do happen, then they could happen to us.
It is from such fears that scary stories grow. This is the third book of such stories I have collected. I learned some of them from people I met. I found others, tales that had been written down, in folklore archives and in libraries. As we always do with tales we learn, I have told them in my own way.
Some stories in this book have been told only in recent times. But others have been part of our folklore for as long as we know. As one person told another, the details may have changed. But the story itself has not, for what once frightened people still frightens them.
I thought at first that one of the stories I found was a modern story. It is the one I call “The Bus Stop.” I then discovered that a similar story had been told two thousand years earlier in ancient Rome. But the young woman involved was named Philinnion, not Joanna, as she is in our story.
Are the stories in this book true? The one I call “The Trouble” is true. I can’t be sure about the others. Most may have at least a little truth, for strange things sometimes happen, and people love to tell about them and turn them into even better stories.
Nowadays most people say that they don’t believe in ghosts and queer happenings and such. Yet they still fear the dead and the dark. And they still see boo men waiting in the shadows. And they still tell scary stories, just as people always have.
Princeton, New Jersey ALVIN SCHWARTZ
When Death Arrives
When Death arrives, it usually is the end of the story.
But in these stories it is only the beginning.
The Appointment
A sixteen-year-old boy worked on his grandfather’s horse farm. One morning he drove a pickup truck into town on an errand. While he was walking along the main street, he saw Death. Death beckoned to him.
The boy drove back to the farm as fast as he could and told his grandfather what had happened. “Give me the truck,” he begged. “I’ll go to the city. He’ll never find me there.”
His grandfather gave him the truck, and the boy sped away. After he left, his grandfather went into town looking for Death. When he found him, he asked, “Why did you frighten my grandson that way? He is only sixteen. He is too young to die.”
“I am sorry about that,” said Death. “I did not mean to beckon to him. But I was surprised to see him here. You see, I have an appointment with him this afternoon—in the city.”
The Bus Stop
Ed Cox was driving home from work in a rainstorm. While he waited for a traffic light to change, he saw a young woman standing alone at a bus stop. She had no umbrella and was soaking wet.
“Are you going toward Farmington?” he called.
“Yes, I am,” she said.
“Would you like a ride home?”
“I would,” she said, and she got in. “My name is Joanna Finney. Thank you for rescuing me.”
“I’m Ed Cox,” he said, “and you’re welcome.”
On the way they talked and talked. She told him about her family and her job and where she had gone to school, and he told her about himself. By the time they got to her house, the rain had stopped.
“I’m glad it rained,” Ed said. “Would you like to go out tomorrow after work?”
“I’d love to,” Joanna said.
She asked him to meet her at the bus stop, since it was near her office. They had such a good time, they went out many times after that. Always they would meet at the bus stop, and off they would go. Ed liked her more each time he saw her.
But one night when they had a date to go out, Joanna did not appear. Ed waited at the bus stop for almost an hour. “Maybe something is wrong,” he thought, and he drove to her house in Farmington.
An older woman came to the door. “I’m Ed Cox,” he said. “Maybe Joanna told you about me. I had a date with her tonight. We were supposed to meet at the bus stop near her office. But she didn’t show up. Is she all right?”
The woman looked at him as if he had said something strange. “I am Joanna’s mother,” she said slowly. “Joanna isn’t here now. But why don’t you come in?”
Ed pointed to a picture on the mantel. “That looks just like her,” he said.
“It did, once,” her mother replied. “But that picture was taken when she was your age—about twenty years ago. A few days later she was waiting in the rain at that bus stop. A car hit her, and she was killed.”
Faster and Faster
But that soon changed. After a few minutes the two boys started whooping and hollering and chasing one another around. Sam ducked behind a tree. When Bob came by, Sam jumped out at him. Then Bob raced ahead and hid behind a bush. When he looked down, there at his feet was an old drum.
“Sam! See what I found,” he called. “It looks like a tom-tom. I bet it’s a hundred years old.”
“Look at the red stains on it,” said Sam. “I bet it’s somebody’s blood. Let’s get out of here.”
But Bob could not resist trying the drum. He sat on the ground and held it between his legs. He beat on it with one hand, then the other, slowly at first, then faster and faster, almost as if he could not stop.
Suddenly there were shouts in the woods and the sound of hoofbeats. A cloud of dust rose from behind a line of trees. Then men on horseback galloped toward them.
“Bob! Let’s go!” Sam shouted. He began to run. “Hurry!”
Bob dropped the drum and ran after him.
Sam heard the twang of a bow firing an arrow. Then he heard Bob scream. When Sam turned, he saw Bob pitch forward, dead. But there was no arrow in his body, and there was no wound. And when the police searched, there were no men on horseback, and there were no hoofprints—and there was no drum.
The only sounds were leaves rustling and, now and again, a bird chirping.
Just Delicious
George Flint loved to eat. Each day at noon he closed his camera shop for two hours and went home for a big lunch 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 bed 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.
Hello, Kate!
Tom Connors was on his way to a dance in the next village. It was a long walk through fields and woods. But it was a soft, sweet evening and he loved dancing, so Tom didn’t mind.
He had gone only a short distance when he noticed a young woman following him. “Maybe she is going to the dance,” he thought, and he stopped and waited for her. As the woman got closer, he saw that it was Kate Faherty. They had danced together many times.
He was about to call “Hello, Kate!” when suddenly he remembered that Kate was dead. She had died last year, yet there she was all dressed up for the dance. Tom wanted to run, but somehow it didn’t seem right to run from Kate. He turned and started to walk away as fast as he could, but Kate followed him. He took a shortcut across a field, but still she followed.
When he got to the dance hall, she was right behind him. There were a lot of people standing outside, and Tom tried to lose Kate in the crowd. He worked his way to the side of the building, then squeezed up against the wall behind some people.
But Kate followed. She came so close she brushed up against him. Then she stopped and waited. He wanted to say “Hello, Kate!” just the way he did when she was alive. But he was so frightened he couldn’t speak. Her eyes looked into his eyes—and she vanished.
The Black Dog
It was eleven o’clock at night. Peter Rothberg was in bed on the second floor of the old house where he lived alone. It had gotten so chilly, he went downstairs to turn up the heat.
As Peter was on his way back to bed, a black dog ran down the stairs. It passed him and disappeared into the darkness. “Where did you come from?” Peter said. He had never seen the dog before.
He turned on all the lights and looked in every room. He could not find the dog anywhere. He went outside and brought in the two watchdogs he kept in the backyard. But they acted as if they were the only dogs in the house.
The next night, again at eleven o’clock, Peter was in his bedroom. He heard what sounded like a dog walking around in the room above him. He dashed upstairs and threw open the door. The room was empty. He looked under the bed. He looked in the closet. Nothing. But when he got back to his bedroom, he heard a dog running down the stairs. It was the black dog. He tried to follow it, but again he could not find where it had gone.
From then on, every night at eleven, Peter heard the dog walking in the room above him. The room was always empty. But after he left, the dog would come out of hiding, run down the stairs, and disappear.
One night Peter’s neighbor waited with him for the dog. At the usual time they heard it above them. Then they heard it on the stairs. When they went out into the hall, it was standing at the foot of the stairs looking up at them. The neighbor whistled, and the dog wagged its tail. Then it was gone.
Things went on this way until the night Peter decided to bring his watchdogs into the house again. Maybe this time they would find the black dog and drive it away. Just before eleven he took them up to his bedroom and left the door open.
Then he heard the black dog moving around above him. His dogs pricked up their ears and ran to the door. Suddenly they bared their teeth and snarled and backed away. Peter could not see the black dog or hear it, but he was sure that it had entered his room. His dogs barked and snapped. They darted forward nervously, then backed away again.
Suddenly one of them yelped. It began bleeding, then dropped to the floor, its neck torn open. A minute later it was dead. Peter’s other dog backed into a corner, whimpering. Then everything was still.
The next night Peter’s neighbor came back with a pistol. Again they waited in his bedroom. At eleven o’clock the black dog came down the stairs. As before, it looked up at them and wagged its tail. When they started toward it with the pistol, it growled and disappeared.
That was the last Peter saw of the black dog. But it did not mean that the dog was gone. Now and then, always at eleven, he heard it moving around above him. Once he heard it running down the stairs. He never managed to see it again. But he knew that it was there.
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br /> Footsteps
Liz was doing her homework at the dining-room table. Her younger sister Sarah was asleep upstairs. Their mother was out, but she was expected back any minute.
When the front door opened and shut, Liz called, “Hello, Mama!” But her mother didn’t answer. And the footsteps Liz heard were heavier, like a man’s.
“Who’s there?” she called. No one replied. She heard whoever it was walk through the living room, then up the stairs to the second floor. The footsteps moved from one bedroom to another.
Again Liz called, “Who’s there?” The footsteps stopped. Then she thought, “Oh, my God! Sarah is in her bedroom.” She ran upstairs to Sarah’s room. Only Sarah was there, and she was asleep. Liz looked in the other rooms, but found no one. She went back down to the dining room, scared out of her wits.
Soon she heard footsteps again. They were coming down the stairs, into the living room. Now they went into the kitchen. Then the door between the kitchen and the dining room slowly began to open. . . .
“Get out!” Liz screamed. The door slowly closed. The footsteps moved out of the kitchen, through the living room, toward the front door. The door opened and shut.
Liz ran to the window to see who it was. No one was in sight. Nor were there any footprints in the fresh snow that had been falling.
Like Cats’ Eyes
As Jim Brand lay dying, his wife left him with his nurse and went into the next room to rest. She sat in the dark staring into the night. Suddenly Mrs. Brand saw headlights come rapidly up the driveway.
“Oh, no,” she thought. “I don’t want visitors now, not now.” But it wasn’t a car bringing a visitor. It was an old hearse with maybe a half dozen small men hanging from the sides. At least, that’s what it looked like.
Scary Stories Complete Set Page 11
