My sisters and my baby brother danced about the house, whispering to each other excitedly about the coming of der Belznickel on that snowy December 5^th evening, the day before the Feast of Saint Nicholas.   According to the stories, the good Saint Nicholas chains up the Devil on the eve of his Birthday – December 6^th -- and makes him visit all of the children in the village to see if they have been behaving themselves and deserved the attention of Kirstkindel.  Those who are good will receive gifts, but those who are naughty….  Well, those children who do not know their prayers or their school recitations or who have been troublesome at home might find themselves whipped with der Belznickel’s switch or tied up with his chains; and they will receive coal in their stockings instead of presents. 
Of course, I did not participate in the excited whispering or silly romping of the youngsters.  I was above such foolishness, having turned twelve on my last birthday.  Instead, I peeled potatoes in the kitchen to help meine Muter with dinner.   I heard several pairs of feet stampeding up the stairs and shaking the floorboards over my head and sighed a little at all the dramatics.  Just then, someone tugged on my skirt, and I looked down at Hans, my three-year-old brother.   
       “Gretel, will der Belznickel come tonight?” he asked me, his huge blue eyes wide with anxiety.  I scooped him up into my arms and gave him a reassuring hug. 
       “Yes Hans, he will come tonight,” I told him.  And he would too.  I had seen Uncle Oskar stashing a dark costume – consisting of raggedy fur-trimmed black clothes, a headband with goat-horns glued to the top, a long whippy switch, and a thick, rattling chain –  in the empty stall in the barn about an hour before sunset.  Right after dinner, Uncle Oskar would duck out to “see to the horses” and a few moments later, der Belznickel would make his visit to see if we children had been good enough to receive the attentions of Saint Nicholas tomorrow.     
       “Will he have a switch and chains?  Will he tie us up?” Hans asked. 
     “Der Belznickel only ties up naughty little boys and girls.  But you have been good, so you do not need to worry,” I said.  I put him down and he scampered off upstairs to talk to Inga and my other sisters while I finished the potatoes. 
      There were fourteen of us at dinner that night – Muter, Vater, my four sisters and three brothers, Uncle Oskar, Aunt Helga, their two children, and me.  As the oldest child, I watched over the others and made sure that the babies got fed.  Then Uncle Oskar slipped out to “feed the horses” and the grown-ups exchanged happy grins over the little children’s heads. 
       The first sign that “der Belznickel” was approaching was a loud, rude banging on the front windows.  Hans and Inga screamed when a soot-covered face with long black whiskers was pressed against the glass.  Then the front door burst opened and der Belznickel rumbled into the parlor, rattling his chains.  The children cowered and whimpered and screamed half in fear and half in delight at the raggedy creature with his goat’s horns and bag full of something – was it candy or coal?  The answer depended on what happened next! 
      Der Belznickel made all of us – even me – line up in a row in our parlor.  Starting with me, we began to answer whatever questions he asked us.  He rattled his switch at me and made me quote the Scripture passage from last Sunday’s church service.  Martin – the next oldest – recited a poem he had memorized for school.  And on down the line.  Every time we got an answer right, der Belznickel would stomp about in rage because he hadn’t tricked us, and the little ones would squeal. 
      I was distracted from Uncle Oskar’s antics by a strange flickering in the lantern light.  Something was wrong with Uncle Oskar’s shadow.  I began watching his shadow as he made Ludwig recite next.  When Uncle Oskar lunged one way, the shadow went the opposite way.  As I watched, it lifted the chains over its head.  The shadow’s hands seemed impossibly long, and the fingers looked more like claws.  I shivered, chills running over my skin.  The horns on the shadows head were very sharp, and the legs impossibly long.  Then the shadow broke away from Uncle Oskar completely, just as Ludwig finished his recitation.  While the grownups and children all cheered for Ludwig’s success, the shadow slid over the wall like oil and coiled up near the ceiling.  Then it opened glowing yellow eyes and looked straight at me. 
      I gasped, my heart pounding in my throat, and I could feel my legs shaking.  My terror was masked by the happy shrieks of the youngest children, who were watching Uncle Oskar – the pretend Belznickel – stomping up and down the hallway rattling his chains and howling in “anger”.  I faced the opposite direction, toward the corner of the room, watching the real Belznickel slide down the wall, his shadowy form slowly solidifying into a short, twisted figure dressed in coal black fur with a broken nose and glowing yellow eyes.  No one else noticed him as he slithered like a snake passed my parents and Aunt Helga and began stalking the hallway at Uncle Oskar’s heels. 
       My stomach was twisted into a knot.  I wanted to run away and be sick, but I couldn’t tear my eyes off the evil figure that stopped before my cousins and watched as they spelled several difficult words at Uncle Oskar’s request.  Johanna stumbled a bit, and der Belznickel gave an audible chuckle and seemed to grow larger within the shadow of my Uncle Oskar.  When Johanna recovered herself enough to finish spelling her word successfully, der Belznickel shrunk in size and frowned.  Occasionally, the creature would dart a look at me and give me a twisted grin. 
      Little Hans was the last one in line, and he was terrified.  He stared up at large Uncle Oskar and couldn’t breath a word. 
      “Have you been a good boy?” Uncle Oskar asked, taking pity on the small figure.  Hans nodded fervently, and Uncle Oskar patted his head and handed him a boiled sweet.  Behind him, der Belznickel stomped in rage and then dematerialized, becoming a thick black oozing mass that gradually sank back into Uncle Oskar’s shadow and was gone. 
      I staggered a little, as if a weight had been released from me, and stared suspiciously at the shadow, wondering if the creature was really gone for good.  My siblings and cousins were mobbing Uncle Oskar, demanding sweets from “der Belznickel” since they had all done so well with their recitations.  As he handed out the treats, I heard a knock at the window.  I looked out into a pair of glowing yellow eyes in a twisted face. 
          “I will see you again next year Gretel,” der Belznickel hissed through the glass.  “Try not to be too good.”
        I screamed then and fainted, toppling to the floor before my Vater could catch me.  They told me later that all was confusion in the parlor for several minutes, during which time Uncle Oskar slipped away.   I awoke to the stinging sensation of smelling salts, and clung to my Muter and cried as if I were no older than Hans.  My siblings and cousins laughed at me, their own fear forgotten, but my Muter hushed then, realizing that my terror had nothing to do with Uncle Oskar.  She sent them away to the kitchen to eat their sweets.  When they were gone, I told Muter and Vater and Aunt Helga what I had seen and heard. 
        Vater nodded his head several times as I spoke, and then said:  “Meine Kind, I once saw the real der Belznickel too when I was about your age.  I will tell you now what my Vater told me then.  Der Belznickel is bound by the goodness of Saint Nicholas.  If you are a good child – if you do your best and try to be kind and say your prayers –  no harm will come to you.” 
      I shuddered, remembering the look on der Belznickel’s face when he called my name. 
      “I will, Vater.  I will,” I promised fervently. 
       “I have heard that people who see der Belznickel also have the good fortune to see Saint Nicholas,” Aunt Helga added unexpectedly.  “My Muter told me that she saw them both at the Feast the year she turned twelve.  Watch carefully tomorrow, Gretel, and you may also see the blessed Saint.”
      The grown-ups hustled me to bed after that and Muter tucked me up tight.  I was quickly joined by my sisters, who drifted off immediately, but I couldn’t sleep.  I kept seeing the leering face of der Belznickel before me, and hearing him call my name.  Downstairs, the grandfather clock chimed the hours away as the house grew quiet and the adults went to bed. 
      As time ticked its way toward midnight, a moonbeam shone through the window, shining across the room and dazzling my eyes.  Beautiful, it was, and comforting.  I slipped out of bed and went to look out at that moon that was turning our room into a shadowy and mysterious place.  It was as bright as noon outside, and the trees and bushes cast serene shadows over the snowy landscape.  Then I saw, riding up to the road on a dashing white horse, was a bearded man dressed in red with white fur lining his hood.  It was Saint Nicholas.  Running before him and muttering darkly, was der Belznickel.  The grim little figure seemed more comic than scary now, bound by his rattling chains and forced to dance to the whim of the good Saint behind him. 
      For a moment, the Saint paused in front of my house and looked up at my window.  He raised a solemn hand to me, and I smiled and waved back.  Then he spurred his horse away down the road, der Belznickel scampering ahead of him like a little black dog, and they disappeared into the dazzling snowscape under the light of the full moon. 
       With a soft sigh, I returned to the comfort of my bed, sensing that this was the last time I would see either der Belznickel or Saint Nicholas.  And I knew something else too.  I knew that I had nothing to fear from the grim little creature, not now, not ever.  I fell asleep with a smile on my face, and woke the next morning to the joyful shouts of my siblings on Saint Nicholas Day. 

Christmas Stories

• Haunted Christmas
  The soft thud of following footsteps echoed behind him as he hurried through the snowflakes toward home.  They kept pace with him, quickening when he quickened and slowing when he slowed.  It was creepy.  His flesh crawled at the sound and he sped up, cursing himself for walking home alone from the midnight Christmas Mass... 
  
• A Baker's Dozen
    Back in the old days, I had a successful bake-shop in Albany. I had a good business, a plump wife, and a big family.  I was a happy man.  But trouble came to my shop one year in the guise of an ugly old woman.  She entered my shop a few minutes before closing and said:  “I wish to have a dozen cookies.”  She pointed to my special Saint Nicholas cookies that were sitting out on a tray.  So I counted out twelve cookies for her... 
  
• A Gift from Saint Nicholas
  Claas Schlaschenschlinger was a wealthy cobbler living on New Street in New Amsterdam. He was a contented bachelor who could afford eight - eight mind you! - pairs of breeches and he had a little side business selling geese. He cut quite a figure in New Amsterdam society, and was happy being single, until he met the fair Anitje! She was as pretty as a picture, and Claas fell head over heels for her. He was not her only suitor, by any means. The local burgomaster was also courting the fair Anitje. But the burgomaster was a stingy, hard man, and in the end, Anitje gave her heart and hand to Claas...
  
• Eavesdropper
  There is an old tale which claims that at midnight, on Christmas Eve, the cattle will kneel in the barn and speak with one another. Once an old Maryland man decided to test the tale by hiding in the barn at midnight to listen. So he climbed a rope to the window in the hayloft. He lay down on the rough gray boards, covered himself with hay and waited...
  
• Der Belznickel
  My sisters and my baby brother danced about the house, whispering to each other excitedly about the coming of der Belznickel on that snowy December 5^th evening, the day before the Feast of Saint Nicholas.   According to the stories, the good Saint Nicholas chains up the Devil on the eve of his Birthday – December 6^th -- and makes him visit all of the children in the village to see if they have been behaving themselves and deserved the attention of Kirstkindel. 

Hanukkah Stories

• I'm All Right
  We knew right from the start that Johnny was going to be a soldier. Even as a child, all his concentration was on the military. So we weren't surprised when he joined the Marines right out of high school...

African American Ghost Stories for Kwanzaa

• Wait Until Emmet Comes
  A preacher was riding to one of the churches on his circuit when darkness fell. It was about to storm, and the only house nearby was an old mansion which was reputed to be haunted. The preacher clutched his Bible and said: "The Lawd will take care o' me." He went into the mansion just as the storm broke...
  
• Never Mind Them Watermelons
  Well now, old Sam Gibb, he didn't believe in ghosts. Not one bit. Everyone in town knew the old log cabin back in the woods was haunted, but Sam Gibb just laughed whenever folks talked about it. Finally, the blacksmith dared Sam Gibb to spend the night in the haunted log cabin. If he stayed there until dawn, the blacksmith would buy him a whole cartload of watermelons. Sam was delighted. Watermelon was Sam's absolute favorite fruit. He accepted the dare at once, packed some matches and his pipe, and went right over to the log cabin to spend the night...

A New York Christmas Story

Retold by S.E. Schlosser

     Back in the old days, I had a successful bake-shop in Albany. I had a good business, a plump wife, and a big family.  I was a happy man.  But trouble came to my shop one year in the guise of an ugly old woman.  She entered my shop a few minutes before closing and said:  “I wish to have a dozen cookies.”  She pointed to my special Saint Nicholas cookies that were sitting out on a tray.  So I counted out twelve cookies for her. 
      The old woman’s eyes narrowed when she saw the cookies.  “Only twelve?” she asked.  I knew at once what she wanted.  There were some bakers in town who sometimes gave an extra cookie to their customers, but I was appalled by the custom.  What man of sense would give away an extra cookie for free? 
     “I asked for a dozen cookies, and you only give me twelve,” the woman said.
     “A dozen is twelve, my good woman, and that is what I have given you,” I replied.
     “I ordered a dozen cookies, not twelve,” said the old woman. 
      I was upset by this demand.  I always gave my customers exactly what they paid for.  But I was a thrifty man, and it was against my nature to give away something for nothing.   
      “I have a family to support,” I said stiffly.  “If I give away all my cookies, how can I feed my family?  A dozen is twelve, not thirteen!  Take it or leave it!” 
     “Very well,” said she, and left the shop without taking the cookies. 
      From that moment, my luck changed.  The next day, my cakes were stolen out of my shop, and the thieves were never found.  Then my bread refused to rise.  For a week, every loaf of bread I made was so heavy that it fell right through the oven and into the fire.  The next week, the bread rose so high that it actually floated up the chimney.  I was frightened when I saw the loaves floating away across the rooftops.  That was the first moment I realized I had been bewitched.  It was then that I remembered the old woman who came to my shop, and I was afraid. 
     The next week, the old woman appeared again in my shop and demanded a baker’s dozen of the latest batch of my cookies.  I was angry.  How dare she show her face in my shop after all the bad luck she sent my way?  I cursed her soundly and showed her the door. 
     Things became worse for me then.  My bread soured, and my olykoeks (donuts) were a disgrace.  Every cake I made collapsed as soon as it came out of the oven, and my gingerbread children and my cookies lost their flavor.  Word was getting around that my bake-shop was no good, and one by one, my customers were falling away.   I was angry now, and stubborn.  No witch was going to defeat me.  When she came to my bake-shop a third time to demand a baker’s dozen of cookies, I told her to go to the devil and I locked the door behind her. 
      After that day, everything I baked was either burnt or soggy, too light or too heavy.  My customers began to avoid my cursed shop, even those who had come to me every day for years.  Finally, my family and I were the only ones eating my baking, and my money was running out.  I was desperate.  I took myself to church and began to pray to Saint Nicholas, the patron Saint of merchants, to lift the witch’s curse from myself and my family. 
      “Come and advise me, Saint Nicholas, for my family is in dire straights and I need good counsel against this evil witch who stands against us,” I prayed.  Then I trudged wearily back to my empty shop, wondering what to do. 
       I stirred up a batch of Saint Nicholas cookies and put them into the oven to bake, wondering how this lot would turn out.  Too much cinnamon?  Too little?  Burnt?  Under-done?  To my surprise, they came out perfectly.  I frosted them carefully, and put my first successful baking in weeks onto a tray where they could be seen through the window.  When I looked up, Sinterklaas (Saint Nicholas) was standing in front of me. 
        I knew him at once, this patron Saint of merchants, sailors, and children.  He was not carrying his gold staff or wearing the red bishop’s robes and mitered hat that appeared on the figure I had just frosted on my cookies.   But the white beard and the kindly eyes were the same.  I was trembling so much my legs would not hold me, so I sat down on a stool and looked up at the Saint standing so near I could have touched him.   His eyes regarded me with such sadness it made me want to weep. 
       Saint Nicholas said softly: “I spent my whole life giving money to those in need, helping the sick and suffering, and caring for little children, just as our Lord taught us.  God, in his mercy, has been generous to us, and we should be generous to those around us.” 
       I could not bear to look into his eyes, so I buried my face in my hands. 
      “Is an extra cookie such a terrible price to pay for the generosity God has shown to us?” he asked gently, touching my head with his hand. 
     Then he was gone.  A moment later, I heard the shop door open, and footsteps approached the counter.  I knew before I looked up that the ugly old woman had returned to asked me for a dozen Saint Nicholas cookies.  I got up slowly, counted out thirteen cookies, and gave them to the old woman, free of charge. 
      She nodded her head briskly.  “The spell is broken,” she said.  “From this time onward, a dozen is thirteen.” 
     And from that day onward, I gave generously of my baking and of my money, and thirteen was always, for me, a baker’s dozen. 

Shmul and Benin, two of the wisest men in the town of Chelm, went one day to take a steam bath.  As they relaxed in the luxury of steamy heat, they idly began discussing Benin's upcoming trip to Dvimsk, debating how long it would take for him to drive to the distant town in his buggy.  
      "It is a simple matter of higher mathmatics," said Shmul.  "The last time I drove to Dvinsk, it took me four hours to reach town driving only one horse.  If it took me four hours to drive to Dvinsk with one horse, how many hours would it take you to get to Dvinsk driving with two horses?" 
      Benin pondered this intricate mathmatical puzzle as steam wafted about him.  He stretched and held up his face to the warm heat for a moment, and then said:  "It would take two hours, of course, cutting my time in half."
      "Correct!" cried Shmul admiringly.  "You are truly a sage of wisdom, my friend." 
      "I am indeed," Benin said modestly.  "Now you tell me the answer to my question.  If I had four horses, how long would it take me to get to Dvinsk?" 
      Shmul frowned ferociously in thought.  Then he said:  "Why, it would take no time at all!" 
      "That's right," said Benin, mathmatical genius of Chelm. 
      "Well, if it takes no time at all, why bother going to Dvinsk?" said Shmul.  "It would be better to harness your four horses and stay right here!" 
       "That's what I plan to do," said Benin smugly. 
      And that's just what he did. 

Shmul was on his way to the market in Chelm one afternoon when he saw his good friend Bein on the street. 
     “Sholom aleichem,” called Shmul to his friend. 
     “Go to blazes,” Bein said without missing a beat. 
      Shmul was indignant.  Falling into step with Bein he cried:  “Why are you so impolite to me, your best friend?  I speak kindly to you and you tell me to go to blazes!  Where is the sense in that?” 
      Bein turned to face Shmul.  “Listen, Shmul, I am just trying to save time.  We have been friends since we were babies, and I know that if I tell you I am going to the baths on Seventh Street, you will tell me that the baths on Avenue A are preferable.  Then I will say: ‘No Shmul, for I have tried them both and the baths on Seventh Street are better.’  You will say to me:  ‘Bein, you are a fool.’ And I will tell you: ‘Go to blazes.’”
       Bein threw up his hands and rolled his eyes for emphasis.  “So you see, Shmul,” he continued, “my way is better.  If, as soon as I see you, I tell you to go to blazes, the matter is finished without any time wasted.”
       So saying, Bein marched off in the direction of Seventh Street. 
      “Old fool!”  Shmul shouted after him. 
      “I knew you’d say that,” Bein retorted over his shoulder.   
      “Well, the Avenue A baths are better,” grumbled Shmul, turning back toward the market place.  
       And Bein shouted back:  “Go to blazes!” 

Retold by S.E. Schlosser

You can read more Texas ghost stories in Spooky Texas, by S.E. Schlosser. 

retold by S.E. Schlosser

Retold by S.E. Schlosser

My stepmother was vile.  I guess most kids think that when their father remarries.  But in this case, it was true.  She only married Father because he was rich, and she hated children.  There were three of us – me (Marie), my middle brother Richard and my youngest brother Charles.  We were the price my stepmother Gerta paid for being rich.  And we were all that stood between her and inheriting Father's money when he died.  So she took steps against us. 

     She sent my youngest brother Charles away to boarding school overseas.  It had a good, scholarly reputation, but it also had the reputation for being a hard school that was full of bullies and strict discipline.  Not a place where a delicate child like Charles, who had been sickly as a baby, would thrive.  He was miserable there.  Somehow, Gerta contrived to keep him there for all but the summer holidays, and when he came home the first year he was pale and thin with dark circles under his eyes that looked like bruises.  He cried – he actually cried! – when Father told him he had to go back to the school.  But Father didn’t listen to him.  Gerta thought it would be good for Charles to go there, and so Charles went.  

  I did everything I could – encouraging letters and daily phone calls – until Gerta said it was too expensive and restricted calls to five minutes once a month.   I even got Father to book me a ticket to Europe so I could visit Charles.  Gerta was enraged when she found out.  Her blue eyes went so cold it made chills run up my spine, and her pink mouth thinned into a bitter line that bade ill for me since I had dared to interfere.  Two days before my plane left for Europe, the school called and told us that Charles had climbed up to the tallest tower and flung himself off.  He was dead. 

     Father was shocked, of course, and Gerta was quietly triumphant.  For a few months, Father paid more attention to Richard and myself then he had since our mother died.  But Gerta was beautiful and had winning ways about her that soon drew my Father’s attention away.  And now that one of her hated step-children was dead, she focused on another.  Poor Richard was next. 

     Richard was a sturdy chap who was about to enter high school, and he was really into sports.  He would have thrived at the boarding school that had killed Charles.  So Gerta sent him to an arts school instead.  He hated it, but Gerta had told Father he had “talent”, so there he went.  (You’d think my Father would have learned his lesson with Charles!)  But Richard was a survivor, and he grimly practiced piano and violin when he would rather have played soccer and football.  But Gerta was clever.  She introduced Richard to a couple of high school boys who were everything Richard craved to be – rich, popular, on the football team.  And into drugs.  Gerta made sure Richard had a very large allowance, and kept increasing it as Richard was drawn deeper and deeper under the influence.  Until one day Richard overdosed, and Gerta only had one step-child left.  Me.

     I was sure (sure!) that Gerta knew Richard was doing drugs in his room that day.  She knew he was ill and possibly dying in there.  If she’d “found” him even ten minutes sooner, his life would have been saved.  So said the doctor, and I believed him.  But Father wouldn’t believe me.  He was angry whenever I said anything against Gerta, and told me to hold my tongue.  Still, I knew I was next, and I was sure that Father would not live long after willing his fortune over to his wife.  I decided that if Gerta got too bad, I would run away and live secretly with my aunt in New Jersey until I turned 18.  

     From the moment Richard’s body was found in his room, I forced myself to be a model child.  My homework was done on time, I was polite to Gerta and all her friends, I went on all the family excursions with Gerta and Father – even the dangerous ones like shark-fishing.  You can be sure that I took care to be “sea-sick” indoors and stayed away from the edge of the boat.  Gerta was clever with her tricks.   Everyone thought it was an accident the time we were out shopping and I fell onto the subway in front of an oncoming train.  I managed to roll out of the way on time, but it was way too close for comfort. 

       I had almost decided to run away when my father brought me the sad news that my aunt in New Jersey had died suddenly in her sleep, poisoned by person or persons unknown.  I was appalled. How had Gerta known?  But she had – I could tell from the smirk on her face. 

      I went to my room that night and locked myself in to think.  I could run away, but the money wouldn’t last long.  And I’d need to finish high school or my chances of getting a good job were nil.  Besides, Gerta would still be out there somewhere.  If she could hire someone to poison my only living relative (besides Father), she could hire someone to kill me, whether I was living at home or not. 

      There was only one thing I could think of.  And it was a terrible thing.  A family secret passed down from my Mother’s side for many generations.  It involved a witch named Bloody Mary, who had once tried to kill my many times great grandmother and use the child’s blood to make herself young and beautiful forever.  The witch had been stopped by the child's father (my many times great grandfather) in the nick of time, and the witch had cursed him as she burned at the stake.  Cursed his mirror, and the mirrors of all the men who had condemned her to death at the stake, so that anyone saying her name in front of those mirrors would invoke her vengeful spirit. 

       The story had gotten mixed up over the years, as it was passed down first in their village and then all over the country.  These days, school kids everywhere scared themselves silly chanting Bloody Mary’s name in front of darkened mirrors during sleepover parties, and nothing happened to them.  So no one really believed in the curse.  Of course, no one knew the real story of Bloody Mary.  That was a deep secret handed down by the villagers of long ago.  But I was a direct descendant, and I knew how to summon the witch.  You had to use a mirror owned by someone in the direct blood-line of one of the original families that lived in Bloody Mary’s village.  And the witch's name must be spoken by candlelight a certain number of times in their native tongue.  

       It was an evil thing to do, I knew.  But it was the only way to save my life.  It was either Gerta or me.  If I didn’t fight back, I was dead.  So I took my hard earned money and went out to a specialty store to buy hand-dipped, beeswax candles.  Black ones.  I followed my mother’s directions carefully, placing them at certain intervals around the living room so that they reflected in the huge mirror behind the couch.  Then I lit each one, speaking the spell passed down in my mother’s family.  And I waited.  Father was away on a business trip, and Gerta was out at a party with her latest boyfriend.  She came home late, and scolded me for staying up to study.   Her voice was playful and light – I hated that voice.  It made her sound like she was nice.  But there was also a note of suspicion underlying her words, and she stared hard at the flickering black candles. 

       “Holding a séance, little Marie?” she asked, emphasizing the word little, knowing I hated when she called me that. 

        “I just like working by candlelight,” I said mendaciously, turning a page in my text book. 

        Gerta frowned.  “You know, little Marie, I think it’s time we had a talk,” she said, walking over to the mirror behind the couch and primping her hair. 

        “Yes,” I said softly.  “We should.  You killed my brothers.  And my aunt.  But I won’t let you kill me.”

          Gerta laughed.  “As if you stood a chance against me!” she said, fluffing her long blond hair up behind her shoulders. 

         I spoke the name of Bloody Mary in the native tongue of my ancestors.  Once.  Twice.  Three times.  Inside the mirror, the image of Gerta burst into flames, and another face looked out.  It was the malevolent face of a twisted old crone, ruined with age, and altogether evil.  I ducked behind the chair as Gerta gave a scream of sheer terror, her eyes fixed on the witch.  As I watched from my hiding place, heat burst forth from the mirror, blistering her beautiful alabaster skin.  I could hear the flames roaring as the witch laughed evilly and held out her arms toward my step mother. 

      “Gerta,” crooned Bloody Mary.  “Come to me, Gerta.” 

        And she took my step mother into her arms. 

        Gerta’s terrified scream was suddenly cut off.  The flames disappeared as suddenly as they had come.  When I peeked out from behind the couch, Gerta and Bloody Mary were gone. 

       I called Father at his hotel the next morning to tell him that Gerta hadn’t slept at home.  (Well, it was true!)  He wasn’t pleased.  He called a few of her friends from his hotel room, and quickly discovered she had been carrying on with another man.  With several, if the truth be known.  Father hated infidelity.  He flew home at once to confront Gerta, but she was still missing; presumed run away with one of her flames. 

      Somehow, Father managed to divorce Gerta without ever trying to find her.  And since she had no family in the area except us, everyone accepted the cover story, and no one ever tried to locate her.  Gerta was gone for good.  And Father and I were safe at last. 

An Oregon Ghost Story

     We’d timed our visit to Pendleton to coincide with the Roundup, and had managed to snag one of the very last hotel rooms in town.  My husband was a big rodeo fan and was as excited as a little kid to be attending the famous Pendleton Roundup.  I myself was looking forward to the rodeo, and very much enjoyed the Wild West feel of the town, but my biggest wish for this trip was to visit the famous – or should I say infamous!?! – Pendleton Underground. 

      According to the literature I’d read prior to the visit, Pendleton was a small village first settled in the 1860s or thereabouts by a fellow named Goodwin who built a station and a toll bridge.  It was mostly a farming community in the beginning, and didn’t begin to boom until they found gold in the Blue Mountains.  Then Pendleton became a stop for supply wagons, as well as an entertainment capital where miners could spend their hard-won gold and where cowboys and ranchers could come to drink, gamble in the 32 saloons and visit one of the 18 bordellos.  Chinese workers came in abundance to work in the mines or do business in town.  They were not always welcome with the general populace, and so burrowed underground and began digging tunnels from business to business, cellar to cellar; living and working in the tunnels they had dug.  It was estimated that Pendleton's labyrinth of underground tunnels, dug by the Chinese between 1870 and 1930, wound for more than 70 miles underneath the town.

       Through the years, the Pendleton underground tunnels and rooms were used by Chinese workers, Prohibitionists, opium addicts, ice cream stores, butcher shops, speak easys, saloons, card parlors, and even a bowling alley!  Rumors abounded about the Underground.  One story in circulation claimed that a pair of train robbers who used the tunnels to store their ill-gotten goods had died in the dark passages under an old house during a gun-battle over the stolen gold.  It’s said that the ghosts of the robbers still haunt the place, and you can sometimes hear them crying:  “It’s my gold!  Mine!” 

     I shivered in delight as I recounted the legend to my husband.   Being more pragmatic than I, he just laughed at me.  But he did agree to accompany me on the tour of the Pendleton Underground.  In 1989, some of the tunnels were restored by enterprising business folks who rehabilitated them and created exhibits and mannequins to demonstrate the businesses that used to be located there.   I picked up the phone at once and booked us on the very next tour.   My husband laughed at me, because I began bouncing on my toes and dancing around the hotel room, as giddy as a child with excitement.  I was worse than he was the first night of the Roundup! 

      After a quick lunch, we went to Tour Headquarters and gathered with a large group of people, old and young, couples and singles, all interested in the story of the mysterious tunnels beneath our feet.  I commented softly to my husband that we were probably standing over a tunnel right now, and the tour guide heard me and confirmed that part of the underground was indeed under our feet! 

       We saw a short film, and then we were out on the sidewalk and walking around a corner.  We stopped there and the tour guide shared a short story about cowboys who stood on that very spot and called up to the working girls in the rooms above our heads.  Then we went down a staircase and were underground, in a cellar that once housed a saloon.  Mannequins of cowboys lounged around and played cards, and our tour guide took a place behind the polished bar and discussed the role of the saloon in the days of the gold rush.  My husband was absolutely fascinated.  I was listening with half an ear as I poked around the room and looked at the exhibits, trying to imagine what it was like to drink and play cards underground, a poke of gold in my pocket and a gun at my side. 

       Then the tour moved on, and we entered a recreated Chinese laundry.  And that’s when I was hit with the first wave of not-quite-nausea.  I swayed as my eyes swam with strange, out-of-focus colors.  My stomach flip-flopped strangely, my spine went rigid, and the skin on my shoulders and arms prickled with goose bumps.  For a moment, I could hear sounds of water swishing and a man’s voice right by my ear said something in Chinese.  I gasped and whirled, but no one was there. 

     As suddenly as it had come, the nausea faded and my head was clear again.  The room swam back into focus, and I realized that the rest of the tour had already moved next door into the recreated ice cream shop.  I followed hurriedly, and my husband frowned a little when he saw me and motioned for me to keep up.  Spooked by my experience, I stayed by his side as the tour guide discussed the use of this space for ice-cream storage, and then took us through a doorway into a long underground room full of small cots & benches.  It was lined with windows that looked out onto a tunnel-hallway, which was lit in the daytime by glassed-in openings in the sidewalk above.  A demonstration of the famous Pendleton wool industry had been set up here, but I heard nothing except the buzzing in my head as broken bits of words and phrases swept over me.  Then my stomach turned over as strange bits of color flashed first here and then there in the room.  For a brief moment, I saw an almost-invisible Chinese man doing calculations on an abacus made of some kind of black wood.  The hands – the only clear part of the man – were rapidly moving red beads back and forth on little wooden bars. 

      “Come on, Sally.  Don’t lag behind,” my husband said impatiently, pulling at my hand.  Instantly, my vision cleared and I was back in the present.  I staggered a little as I followed my husband through the door and into the tunnel itself.  It was well constructed of dark basalt stones, smoothed fairly flat on the outside and carefully mortared together.  You could see through the large windows right back into the room where we had just been standing.  I glanced toward the place where I had seen the hands holding the abacus, shuddered once, and resolutely kept my eyes forward as we navigated around a corner and into the next area. 

     We passed through a place where a thriving butcher’s shop had conducted their business.  I blinked cautiously as I looked around the room, but everything stayed in focus, for which I was grateful.  It was fascinating to see the old posters advertising low prices for meat, the old-style cash register and the cold room where the meat was kept.  I was feeling much more myself now, and had thrust away the odd occurrences to think about when we were above-ground.  

     Then I stepped into the next room, an old card-room that had been used as a bar during Prohibition, and heard an alarm bell jangling desperately from somewhere overhead.  In front of me was the recreated scene of a card party with rough-looking fellows sitting around a table, eyeing each other suspiciously.  Above the mannequins, a little bell was still vibrating a little, as if the string that activated it had just been pulled.  No one else seemed to notice the vibrating bell, or the sound of feet thudding rapidly for an exit that filled my ears. 

      By now, I was so tense with superstitious dread that I felt as if I’d been punched in the stomach.  My husband noticed my distress and whispered:  “Are you all right?”  I nodded slightly, unable to speak, and gratefully followed the rest of the tour down another tunnel and into a brighter room once used as a bowling alley.  Then we were back on the street in the fresh air, and I was panting with combined fear and exhaustion.  What was happening to me?  Was I losing my mind?

     My husband was truly concerned by this time.  “You look ill, honey,” he said.  “Do you want to go back to the hotel?  We can take the rest of the tour another day.” 

     “I’m fine,” I snapped a little sharply.  How could I explain to my pragmatic husband that I was seeing things in the tunnels?  He’d put it down to tiredness or say I was coming down with something.  And maybe he’d be right. 

      The tour was heading down the street now, toward the old bordello which was the next stop, and I determinedly followed.  My husband shrugged and came with me, taking hold of my hand and eyeing me sideways once in a while to make sure I was all right. 

     We climbed the “steps to heaven” and toured the rooms of the old bordello without any distressing color flashes or visions on my part, though I thought my husband’s eyes would pop out when he saw some of the decorations on the walls.  Then we were at street level again, watching our guide open the locked door leading to our last stop on the Underground tour.  I started to shake slightly at the thought of going back underground.  We were going to see a Chinese jail just below our feet.  Apparently the Chinese did their own policing in the early days.  I drew in a deep breath and followed my husband downstairs into a musty room filled with bunk beds and tables and a cooking stove.  There were Buddahs on the top shelf by the stove, and Chinese hats. 

     A gong hung next to me, and as I looked at it, the not-quite-nausea swept over me and the tour guides voice faded away.  I stared at the gong in a cowardly manner, listening to Chinese being spoken by several male voices, conversing leisurely with one another.  I heard someone laugh – a merry sound – and finally looked around at a merry faced man cooking something over a stove that looked – and did not look – like the one in the recreation.  Behind him, a group of men sat around a table playing mah-jongg, and another man was lighting incense before a little altar in the corner.  It was all so clear that for a moment I thought I could walk right up to the table and join the game.  Then my husband’s voice cut through the scene, urging me along, and we went into a small side-room once used as an opium den.  I stared for a long moment at the old platform where the opium users once lay smoking their pipes, almost willing myself to see them.  But all I saw was an old opium bed – nothing more.  And then the tour was over, and we were back at tour headquarters, thanking our guide, buying a souvenir book, and heading out into the street. 

     As we walked back toward the car along the crowded street, I looked at one of the purple-glass windows in the sidewalk that helped light the tunnels below.  In my mind, I saw a pair of hands busy with an abacus.  I’d never been psychic before, but I was convinced in that moment that I had truly seen back into the past during my time in the tunnels below Pendleton.  Glancing up at my pragmatic husband, I wasn’t sure what I should tell him – if anything.  Would he believe me?  I still was not sure I believe it myself, and it had happened to me!  Maybe I’d tell him later! 

      “What’s next on the Roundup schedule?” I asked him, and watched his face light up.  We headed away from the past and its ghosts, and into the future.

There is only one word for Fort Mifflin during a siege reenactment.  LOUD!  My ears were ringing as I hurried inside the ammunition mound, according to my assigned role.  The mound muffled the sound of canons a little bit.  But I still reckoned I'd be deaf all day tomorrow! 

The air grew chillier as I moved deeper into the mound.  It felt as if I'd entered a cavern, and the tiny hairs on the back of my neck bristled.  I rubbed my neck, trying to make the feeling go away, and shivered as another gust of cold air hit my face.  I was freezing cold in spite of my heavy Revolutionary uniform, and I almost turned and left the mound in spite of my errand when I heard someone crying at the very back of the mound. 

I hurried to the sound, and saw a boy curled up into a ball, crying hard because he was scared by the sound of the cannons.  I couldn't blame him.   

"Are you lost?" I asked him.  "Shall I get your parents?"

He didn't seem to see me, and he kept crying into his tattered sleeve.  His costume looked even more realistic than mine, down to the poor dirty little bare feet. 

"Stay here, and I'll go find your parents," I told him.  I hurried toward the door through the freezing air - really, it felt cold enough to snow! -- and out into the comparative warmth of a November day.  I motioned to a friend of mine who was guarding the mound, and told him about the child.  He ducked inside to have a quick talk with the boy, but he returned moments later to say that the child had ignored him and kept crying into his sleeve.  So my friend stood watch over the door to make sure the little fellow wouldn't slip away and I ran off to try to locate his parents.  But no one on the battlefield was missing a child.  That surprised me.  I figured I'd better go back and question the lad further. 

I hurried back to the mound and went inside with my friend at my heels.  The air inside was much warmer than it had been when I walked into the mound the first time.  And the weeping boy was gone.  With no way in or out of the mound except the door my friend guarded, the boy had somehow vanished.  I got goose bumps all over my skin when I saw the empty floor where the boy had lain weeping.  Oh lord, I had seen a ghost!  I could tell from my friend's white face that he realized it too.

"I hope that he made it safely out of the ammunition mound that day," I said to my friend. 

He nodded gravely.  "I hope so too," he said. 

Here are some spooky stories for the younger folks at your Halloween bonfire!  Read a  ghost story, check out our Halloween jokes page, or try saying some spooky tongue twisters for more Halloween fun!

Children's Halloween Stories 

• Bear Lake Monster
  Be careful swimming in Bear Lake!
  
  
• PODCAST: The Black Cat's Message
  An old man is followed home by a couple of black cats with a message for the mysterious Aunt Kan.
  
  
• Never Mind Them Watermelons
  Sam Gibb accepts a dare to stay in a haunted house, never expecting to meet a ghost.
  
  
• Podcast: Pecos Bill and the Haunted House
  Pecos Bill takes on several hundred ghosts in the most haunted house in the West! From Spooky Southwest.
  
  
• Piece-by-Piece
  A man decides to visit a haunted house against the advice of his friend.
  
  
• The Headless Horseman
  One cold winter night, early in the New Year, a certain Dutchman left the tavern in Tarrytown and started walking to his home in the hollow nearby...
  
  
• Sasquatch
  A couple of hikers encounter Bigfoot while out on the trails.
  
  
• The Skeleton's Lantern
  An eight-foot skeleton roams the Arizona desert near Yuma.
  
  
• Spuyten Duyvil
  Once in old New Amsterdam, there was a brave trumpeter named Anthony Van Corlaer who would blow his trumpet when Peter Stuyvesant wanted to call the people together...
  
  
• That Pesky Fellow
  A fisherman from Newfoundland was having difficulty finding someone to assist him until a mysterious stranger comes along...
  
  
• Podcast: Tug of War
  A young man plays tug of war with a mischievous ghost haunting his house. From Spooky New York.
  
  
• Wait Until Emmet Comes
  Do you really want to wait for Emmet?
  
  
• You can't get out
  The town drunk falls into a grave on his way home

Retold by S.E. Schlosser

I heard the neighbor's car running in the garage as I got into my car to drive to the grocery store.  That seemed a bit odd, since it was summertime.  Why would they need to warm it up?   I shrugged the thought away and drove to the store.  An hour later, I heard the car again as I unpacked the groceries from the trunk.  I frowned.  Maybe they'd just gotten back?  I couldn't see anything because the garage door was closed. 

As I was putting the groceries away, my mother phoned about some arrangements for my son's third birthday party.  We talked for nearly an hour.  Then I ran back out to the car to get a bag I'd forgotten.  And heard my neighbor's car again.  Maybe they forgot it was still running?  I walked over to their house and rang the doorbell repeatedly.  No answer. 

Now I was getting worried.  There was no sign of anyone home, and normally the kids would be out playing in the backyard with their father at this time of day.  I phoned the house.  No answer.  I phoned both parents' cell phones.  I got voice mail.  I couldn't leave things there.  A car running in a closed garage was dangerous.  Reluctantly, I called the police and explained the situation.  They sent someone over. 

And found the father dead in the car.  Suicide.  Worse, the carbon monoxide had crept into the house, and all the children were affected.  The eldest girl and the baby were far enough away from the garage to recover quickly.  But the middle daughter was hospitialized in a coma.  I went every day with her hysterical mother to visit.  Poor woman.  A dead husband, traumatized children, and a daughter who would be a vegetable all her life, even if she woke from her coma.  My family did everything we could to ease her burden, as she waited for her family -- who lived overseas -- to arrive.  I took her to the hospital to see her child and my mother watched the other kids while we were out.  My husband even went over to cut the grass and fix the leak in her sink. 

On the fourth visit to the hospital, something strange happened.  While I was watching by the side of the little girl and my neighbor was talking with the nurse in the hall, a breeze swept suddenly into the room and seemed to whirl about the little girl.  It flattened the hair on her head as if it were a hand patting it.  I heard the murmur of a man's voice.  Then the breeze vanished, and in that instant the child's eyes popped open and she sat up in bed. 

I exclaimed in surprise, bringing my neighbor running with the nurse.  And the child called out to her mother in a perfectly rational voice.  "Mama," she said, holding out her little arms.  Her mother swept her up into a huge hug.  The child hugged her back and said:  "Daddy was here.  He said he was sorry I had gotten hurt, and that he missed me.  He told me to wake up, so I did.  He said he missed you too." 

I know I gasped.  So did the nurse.  My neighbor was crying -- tears of joy for her daughter and pain for her loss.  Quietly, we tiptoed out of the room and left them alone.  But I wondered, looking back over my shoulder, about that strange breeze that had swept through the room.  Was it possible I had seen my neighbor's spirit talking to his daughter?  I shivered a bit, and went to phone my husband with the good news. 

retold by S.E. Schlosser

Well, it was a crisp autumn day, don't ya know, and Brer Fox, he decided he wanted to go hunting.  He'd made his peace with Brer Rabbit a few months back, and he thought it would be a fine thing if they went hunting together.  So Brer Fox stopped by Brer Rabbit's place and invited him to come along. 

"No sir, Brer Fox," said Brer Rabbit.  "I'se tired today and intend to take it easy." 

Nothing Brer Fox could say changed his mind, so Brer Fox went hunting alone.  And what a grand hunt it was!  He ended up with a bag full of game, and was whistling merrily as he headed down the road toward home. 

After spending a lazy day in his garden, Brer Rabbit was feeling a mite peckish, and was wishing he'd gone hunting with Brer Fox, on account of all the good game he could be cooking up right this minute if he did.  Then he got an idea.  Maybe he could still get some of that there game. 

Brer Rabbit went running down the road in the direction of the woods, listening for Brer Fox.  When he heard Brer Fox a-whistling as he trotted down the road, Brer Rabbit laid himself down on the road and pretended to be dead.  A moment later, Brer Fox rounded the bend and spotted the big fat bunny a-laying beside the road.  Whew-ee did that rabbit look good.  He was big and fat and round.  Brer Fox poked at Brer Rabbit a bit, and even turned him over.  What a fat tummy he had!  But then he shook his head and said:  "I reckon this bunny's been dead a long time.  He won't be good eatin' after all this time.  I'd best leave him be."  And Brer Fox went on down the road. 

As soon as he was gone, up jumped Brer Rabbit.  He took a short cut through the meadow and got ahead of Brer Fox.  Then he lay back down on the road and played dead again.  Well, when Brer Fox saw a second fat, dead rabbit, he decided he'd better do something about it.  Chuckling with delight, he set down his heavy bag of game next to the "dead" Brer Rabbit, and thrust him inside it.  "I'd best run back and get that other fat bunny afore someone else does," Brer Fox said to himself.  Leaving the heavy bag where it was, Brer Fox hurried back to the place he'd seen the other "dead rabbit".  

When Brer Fox was out of sight down the road, Brer Rabbit scrambled out of the bag, gathered the game up in his arms, and ran home to make him some stew.  A few minutes later, he saw Brer Fox stalking down the lane toward his house.  He looked plenty mad, did Brer Fox.  Brer Rabbit grinned and called to him:  "How was yer hunting, Brer Fox?"  

Brer Fox glared at him and said:  "Not so great, Brer Rabbit.  All my game seems to have run away on me!" 

Brer Rabbit laughed and laughed at him.  "Well now, that's too bad.  But I jest so happen to have a spare bag full of game right here.  How 'bout you sit down and have some stew with me?"     

"You rascal!  I outta make you really dead 'stead of jest playin' it!" shouted Brer Fox. 

But Brer Rabbit only laughed at him until finally Brer Fox laughed too.  Then they both sat down and had some stew. 

by S.E. Schlosser

She was nervous and excited as she approached the psychic's store.  Normally, she didn't go in for fortune telling.  But her best friend had visited the psychic a few months ago, and everything the woman had predicted came true.  Everything!  The new boyfriend, the new job, the marriage proposal, a small win in the local lottery.  Obviously, the psychic was a genius! 

The room she entered was surprisingly open and pleasant.  She smelled coffee in the air, and fresh flowers were on a stand by the window.  She smiled to herself.  Somehow, she had pictured an old gypsy caravan and a dark-haired woman in flowing robes.  But the pert, crisp woman approaching her did not look psychic at all. 

They sat down at the table, and the woman did a reading of her palm.  The psychic frowned a bit in concentration.  Then the psychic asked if she would like a Tarot card reading too -- free of charge.  That was different from what had happened to her best friend.  For a moment she felt a trace of unease.  Then she shrugged and said okay. 

The psychic studied the cards carefully.  Then she looked at her palm one more time.  Finally, the psychic looked up into her eyes, realized that she was feeling nervous, and said soothingly:  "Your future is very clear, my dear.  I've recently changed my policies, and now put my predictions in a sealed envelope for my customers to read in the privacy of their homes.  It is to show customers my credibility in the psychic arts -- that I am not "reading their expressions", but have truly seen something in the palm and cards."

She blinked a bit, but was impressed.  It made sense, after a fashion.  The psychic had asked her no questions at all, just read her palm and the cards.  So any prediction she put in the envelope would be proof of her powers.  The psychic hurried into a back room, where she could hear the faint sound of pen and paper.  Then the woman returned with an envelope.

"Thank you," she said to the psychic, and shook her hand.   Then she hurried out to the car, eager to get home and read the predictions in the envelope.  What would they be?  A rich husband?  A career change?  Travel to exotic places? 

She had just pulled out into the fast lane on the highway when a semi-truck swerved to miss a careless sedan that pulled into the lane right in front of it.  She had a single glimpse of a massive shape coming toward her when the truck slammed into her car, crushing it completely against the cement divider. 

When the girl's body was removed from the wreckage, the envelope was found lying beside her.  It was presented to her grieving parents, who opened it.  The note inside contained four words:  "You have no future."

Story contributed by Jim Harold from the Paranormal Podcast.  Listen to his interview with S.E. Schlosser in which he tells his own version of "The Future". 

retold by S.E. Schlosser

In the middle of St. Mary Lake in Glacier National Park is a small island halfway between two shores.  Many moons ago now, there were two tribes living on either side of the lake.  While there was no direct warfare between them, the two tribes avoided one another and had no dealings one with the other. 

All this changed one day when a handsome warrior on the near shore saw a lovely maiden from the other tribe swimming toward the small island in the middle of the lake.  He was instantly smitten by her beauty and leapt into the lake to swim to the island himself.  They met on the shore of the little islet, and the maiden was as taken with the warrior as he was with her.  They talked for hours, and by the end of their conversation, they were betrothed.  After extracting a promise from his beloved that she would faithfully meet him at the island on the morrow, the warrior swam home to his tribe, and she returned to hers. 

Oh, what an uproar they met upon their return.  Neither tribe was happy at their meeting, and all were determined to break the betrothal instantly.  What to do?  The man and the maiden had no doubts at all.  In the wee hours of the morning, each swam out to the little island to meet one another -- from their to flee to a new land where they might marry.  As soon as they were discovered missing, warriors from both tribes set out in pursuit, to bring the renegades back by whatever means available. 

But the Great Spirit was watching, and took pity on the young lovers.  He transformed them into geese, which mate for life, so they could fly away from their pursuers and so that they would always be together.  When the warriors arrived on the island, the found not a man and a woman, but two lovely geese walking among the small trees and bracken.  At the sight of the warriors, the two geese stroked their necks together lovingly and then flew away, never to return. 

From that day to this, the little island at the center of St. Mary Lake has been known as Wild Goose Island.