The Halloween Countdown

[Raven]

Every day you can put one of your favorite ghost, creature, or scary stories, not all have to be scary, until the arrival of Halloween. Please keep it mildly appropriate and only one per day. There will be a topic posted everyday with an example story. Feel free to elaborate and make suggestions for what days should come up.
It is helpful if you put a rating of such:

G-Gory (Blood, guts, gross things, etc)
L-Language (Mild language at the most)
S-Scary
F-Funny

[Blade]

S

I'd like to introduce The Rake...

For those who want to read it as originally written:
http://creepypasta.wikia.com/wiki/The_Rake

Now, on to business. "The Rake" is described as a misshapen humanoid figure with black circular eyes that bulge far out of his head. He, or rather "it" as its exact gender is unknown, is a malnurished form wielding in some cases a sickled-finger glove. Accounts range from the 12th century to present day.

Seems terrifying enough, right? Nope. This thing comes to people while they sleep, and if it comes to you you may not even know it's there. It doesn't kill you, oh no... it watches you. With its big, piercing eyes. Some say it speaks, though what it says aren't really known and in most cases no one has ever repeated exactly what it told them. When it is seen, people's reactions range from childish curiosity to absolute terror. The latter is the sensible but not single reaction to it. Many people have committed suicide after encounters with the rake.

As one suicide note read:
"As I prepare to take my life, I feel it necessary to assuage any guilt or pain I have introduced through this act. It is not the fault of anyone other than him. For once I awoke and felt his presence. And once I awoke and saw his form. Once again I awoke and heard his voice, and looked into his eyes. I cannot sleep without fear of what I might next awake to experience. I cannot ever wake. Goodbye."

Whether or not you know it's there, the Rake will. He watches you. He speaks to you. He will come, night after night, and nothing you do will stop him. Good luck... and remember; if you wake up around 2am for no apparent reason, there is an 80% someone... or something... is staring at you.

[Raven]

S
Army of the Dead
A South Carolina ghost story

A laundress, newly moved to Charleston following the Civil War, found herself awakened at the stroke of twelve each night by the rumble of heavy wheels passing in the street. But she lived on a dead end street, and had no explanation for the noise. Her husband would not allow her to look out the window when she heard the sounds, telling her to leave well enough alone. Finally, she asked the woman who washed at the tub next to hers. The woman said: "What you are hearing is the Army of the Dead. They are Confederate soldiers who died in hospital without knowing that the war was over. Each night, they rise from their graves and go to reinforce Lee in Virginia to strengthen the weakened Southern forces."

The next night, the laundress slipped out of bed to watch the Army of the Dead pass. She stood spell-bound by the window as a gray fog rolled passed. Within the fog, she could see the shapes of horses, and could hear gruff human voices and the rumble of canons being dragged through the street, followed by the sound of marching feet. Foot soldiers, horsemen, ambulances, wagons and canons passed before her eyes, all shrouded in gray. After what seemed like hours, she heard a far off bugle blast, and then silence.

When the laundress came out of her daze, she found one of her arms was paralyzed. She has never done a full days washing since.

http://americanfolklore.net/folklore/2010/07/the_army_of_the_dead.html

[Raven]

S
The creation of the Jersey Devil
A New Jersey folk story

    A storm was raging that night in 1735, when Mother Leeds was brought to bed in childbirth. The room was full of woman folk gathered to help her, more out of curiosity than good will. They had all heard the rumors that Mother Leeds was involved in witchcraft, and had sworn she would give birth to a devil.  

Tension mounted when at last the baby arrived.  It was a relief (and to some a disappointment), when the baby was born completely normal.  But a few moments later, before their terrified eyes, the child began to change. The room erupted with screams as the child grew at an enormous rate, becoming taller than a man and changing into a beast which resembled a dragon, with a head like a horse, a snake-like body and bat's wings.

As soon as it was full-grown, the monster began beating all the woman (including his mother) with its thick, forked tail. With a harsh cry, it flew through the chimney and vanished into the storm.

The Monster of Leeds, or the Jersey Devil as he was later called, still haunts the pines of New Jersey, wrecking havoc upon farmer's crops and livestock, poisoning pools and creeks, and appearing on the New Jersey shore just before a ship wreck.

http://americanfolklore.net/folklore/2010/07/birth_of_the_jersey_devil.html

[Raven]

F
Ethan Allen
A Vermont Legend

Ethan Allen, the leader of the Green Mountain Boys, who defeated the British at Fort Ticonderoga, was known as a gruff-mannered, hard-drinking man. But Ethan Allen had a gallant streak which would exhibit itself in unexpected ways.

Once, when visiting with one of his friends, who was a dentist, a woman came in with a terrible toothache. The dentist took a look at the tooth and told the woman it would have to be pulled. But the woman was terrified by the thought of having her tooth pulled, especially when she saw the tools the dentist was preparing for the extraction. Ethan Allen gently encouraged the suffering woman to have the work done, but she was utterly panicked by the idea, and refused.

"Madame," Ethan Allen said at last, "I will prove to you that there is nothing to fear."

Ethan Allen sat down in the dentist's chair and instructed his friend to remove a tooth. So the dentist removed one of Ethan Allen's teeth while the woman watched. Then Ethan Allen turned to the woman and said: "There, you see. I didn't feel it at all."

Thus reassured, the woman proceeded to have her tooth extracted, while Ethan Allen stood by and suffered in silence!

http://americanfolklore.net/folklore/2010/08/ethan_allen.html

[Raven]

S
Lovers of Dismal Swamp
A Virginia Ghost story

He couldn't believe it when she fell ill just a few short weeks before their marriage. His betrothed was beautiful, strong, and healthy, but she just faded away before his eyes. He held her in his arms as she gasped out her last breathe, and was inconsolable long after her body lay buried beside the Dismal Swamp.

Day after day, night after night, he grieved for his lost love. He scorned food and sleep, depriving himself until his mind gave way under the strain and he became obsessed with the idea that his beloved was still alive somewhere just out of reach. Her family had sent her away into the swamp, he reasoned, and she was waiting for him to come and rescue her.

"I will find her," he told his worried family, passionate in his conviction. "I will find her and hide her away from Death, so that he will never find her when he comes."

In vain, his family tried to convince him that his beloved laid dead beside the swamp. He would listen to none of their pleas, breaking away from them violently and plunging into the swamp. He wandered for days, living on roots and berries and sleeping at night among the dank marshland.

One evening at dusk, he stumbled upon Drummond's Pond, which was a five-mile expanse of water in the middle of the Dismal Swamp. Upon the surface of the water, he saw the soft blinking of a firefly dancing hither and thither across the black surface.

"It is her!" he exclaimed in join. "I see her light!"

He rushed around, frantically constructing a raft of cypress branches so that he could reach his love before she disappeared. Lashing the branches together with vines, he leapt on top and floated out to join the girl he had lost.

As he drew near the center of the pond, a wind sprang up and the raft was tossed and tumbled in the sudden waves it cause. With a cry of alarm, he fell from the raft, sank down into the murky waters, and was drowned.

If you visit Drummond's Pond after the last light fades and the fireflies come out, you may sometimes see the phantoms of the man and his love, reunited at last. Side by side, they float across the pond on a raft made of cypress branches, carrying a firefly lantern to light their way.

http://americanfolklore.net/folklore/2010/07/the_phantom_lovers_of_dismal_s.html

[Raven]

S
The Black Dog of Hanging Hills
A Conneticut Legend


He smiled as he sipped at his coffee. It had been an excellent hike. He was glad his friend had recommended coming to the Hanging Hills in Connecticut; not the first place that had come to his mind when considering a vacation. But it was beautiful here. When his friend arrived tomorrow they would tackle some of the more challenging terrain.

“Did you have a nice hike?” asked the innkeeper as she refilled his cup.

“Yes indeed. I had some unexpected company,” he said with a smile.

“Really? I thought you were the only one crazy enough to go hiking in the rain,” she teased.

“It was a little black dog,” he said. “Cute fellow. Followed me all the way up the mountain and down again.”

He looked up from his coffee to see the innkeeper’s face had gone pale.

“A black dog?” she asked. “That’s not good.”

“Why not?”

“We have a saying around here,” she replied. “’And if a man shall meet the Black Dog once, it shall be for joy; and if twice, it shall be for sorrow; and the third time, he shall die.’” He laughed. “That’s just superstition.”

“That’s what Mr. Pynchon said. He saw the black dog twice. The second time he saw the dog, the friend he was climbing with fell to his death. And later, Mr. Pynchon decided to climb the same mountain, and he died too. Everyone here believes he saw the dog just before he fell.”

“Nonsense. It was just a cute stray,” he said uneasily. She shrugged and took the coffee pot over to her other customers.

His friend arrived the next morning and they both laughed about the story of the black dog. They set out on their climb. About halfway up the mountain, he looked up and saw the black dog.

“There’s the dog,” he called to his friend.

And then his foot slipped and he plunged down the side of the hill, desperately grabbing at saplings and rocks, trying to halt his descent. It seemed to take forever for him to stop sliding. There was a stabbing pain in his leg. When he looked at it, his head swimming, it was bent at an odd angle. They had to send in a mountain rescue team to get him down. At the hospital, they told him his leg was broken in two places and he was very lucky it wasn’t worse.

“You know, that was a very strange fall,” said his friend uneasily. “You don’t really think it had anything to do with that black dog?”

He looked down at the cast that extended all the way up to his hip.

“I don’t know. But I don’t really want to find out. Next time, let’s go to Colorado.”

His friend agreed.

http://americanfolklore.net/folklore/2010/07/the_black_dog_of_hanging_hills.html

[Raven]

F
Crows are in the Corn
Georgia Folk Story


It happened in Georgia not long ago, that a farmer and his wife decided to sleep late, like the rich folk do. It was a beautiful Sunday morning, the kind that brings all God's creatures out to play. But not these farm folk. No, they just slept and slept and slept.

The crows were gathered in a large oak tree, having a big morning meeting. They noticed that there was nobody stirring around the house, and that the corn was ripe in the field. So they adjourned their meeting mighty quick and flew over to the field to eat some corn.

"Caw-n, caw-n," they cackled excitedly.

The old rooster woke up to their activities and started to crow excitedly to the sleeping family. "Wake up, wake up, wake up!"

The farmer and his wife just kept sleeping, and the crows kept eating the corn.

"Caw-n, caw-n," they called.

"The crows are in the corn! The crows are in the corn!" The rooster cock-a-doodle-dooed with all his might.

The farmer kept snoring, and his wife just rolled over and pulled the pillow over her head.

The rooster was frantic. He tried once more: "The crows are in the corn. They're pulling up the corn!"

The farmer and his wife kept right on sleeping. And the crow's kept right on eating.

The rooster quit crowing in disgust. Nothing would wake the farmer and his wife.

The old turkey came strolling into the yard and watched the proceedings. Finally he said to the rooster: "The corns all et up, all et up, all et up."

When the farmer and his wife finally rolled out of bed, they found that the corn was all gone. That is why in Georgia we say "the crows are in the corn" when it is time to get up.

http://americanfolklore.net/folklore/2010/08/the_crows_are_in_the_corn.html

[Raven]

S
Fatal Glass Eye
New England Story

My friend Liverpool Jarge was a small man, wiry and tough, but soft-spoken. Jarge had one glass eye that was an ugly shade of blue which clashed something terrible with his real eye, which was brown. Then one day Jarge met up with a glassblower, a real artist, who make him a special red eye with a star. After that he started collecting glass eyes. They were the fanciest things you ever did see, with stars and pretty stripes and more colors than any real eyes could ever have.
I went with Jarge when he placed his next order. By that time, he had so many glass eyes that he was hard to please. So I kidded Jarge that he should get an evil eye. Right away the glassblower said he could make a glass eye that was hollow so it could be filled with deadly poison. Jarge was as pleased as punch, sayin’ that a man never knew when he might get to the place where he’d want to commit suicide, and what could be easier than to pop the eye into his mouth and bite down?
Well, me and Jarge signed onto the same ship, and Jarge’s new eye was delivered the day before we set sail. What a creepy eye it was, too—the perfect evil eye. It was made up of rings of color that narrowed into a single red spot. If you looked at it just right, the colors ran together and the red spot popped out and would scare the life outta you. It was hollow, too, like the man promised, and filled with a white liquid.


Jarge tried that evil eye on everyone on board ship—includin’ me. Scared the bejesus outta me, and I’d already seen the blasted thing. ’Course, all of us told him to lay off or we’d brain him. All of us ’cept a little Cockney feller name of Bell.


Everyone called Bell “Ding Dong” on account of his name. Bell nearly shriveled up with fright each time Jarge appeared with the glass eye. Jarge was tickled to death by Ding Dong Bell’s reaction and took to plaguing the life outta him, putting the “evil eye” on him whenever he passed until Ding Dong truly thought he was bewitched.

So the other men told Ding Dong Bell that he had to steal the evil eye. ’Course, Jarge overheard them and he kept the eye hidden from Ding Dong. Turned out that the harder the eye was to steal, the more Ding Dong believed that stealing it was the only way to lift his “curse”. Finally, Jarge started wearing the evil eye all the time—to protect it, he claimed, though in truth it was to torment Ding Dong.

One day while we was docked in Port Said, Jarge went aloft on a footrope to scrape a spar. Well, something musta fetched loose, ’cause suddenly I heard a yell, and when I turned around, Jarge was plummeting forty feet headfirst onto the deck. Cracked his skull open like an eggshell and his evil eye came rolling out.

This was Ding Dong Bell’s chance. He darted out from a corner and grabbed up the eye. When he saw the mate running toward us, he popped the eye into his mouth to hide it from the mate. In less than a minute, ol’ Ding Dong Bell started shivering and fell dead on the deck, right beside poor Jarge. He’d accidentally bit into the eye and swallowed the poison hidden inside.

What with Jarge and Ding Dong both being dead, I figured maybe there was something in that evil eye business after all, and I was real glad it was gone.

http://americanfolklore.net/folklore/2010/11/the_fatal_glass_eye.html

[Raven]

S/G
The Bleeding Sink
A Montana Urban Legend


I found it extremely annoying that one of the bathrooms on my dorm was permanently closed. Especially since the cause was an urban legend. An urban legend, I tell you! According to the story, years and years ago some bloke got himself massively drunk at a bar in downtown Helena and had passed out in the bathroom on the fourth floor. Apparently, he hit his head on the sink as he fell, and his blood had spattered the sink as he slid senseless to the floor and silently hemorrhaged to death. His death was considered a “sad accident” by faculty, staff and townspeople. But that was no reason to shut up the bathroom for decades! I completely discounted the story of the bleeding sink. That was just an urban legend the students circulated to explain the locked door.

“I’m sick of sharing a bathroom with you disgusting lot,” I grumbled to my roommate. “I’m going to break into the fourth-floor bathroom.”

My roommate’s eyes widened. “Don’t you know that bathroom is haunted?” he exclaimed. “The bloodstains on the sink are as fresh today as they were when the accident happened back in the 1960s, and sometimes you can hear the boy moaning as his life ebbs away on the bathroom floor!”

“Romantic twaddle,” I snapped. “My granny lives in a haunted castle in Scotland with ghost stories that would make your hair stand on end. She’d laugh at me if she found out I ignored a perfectly good bathroom because of a few bloodstains. Besides, the maintenance staff told me the bathroom was shut up pending renovations. No big deal!”

“You’ll be sorry,” my roommate said darkly. I ignored him. He was just sore because I’d lumped him in with the disgusting lot of fellows who mucked up the bathroom on my floor. You’d think someone would teach them to pick up their dirty clothes and clean the sink once in awhile.

When the dorm quieted down for the night – which wasn’t until late – I hurried up to the fourth floor with a bit of wire I’d purchased at a local hardware store. My little brother and I had become expert lock-pickers over the years, since our mother had a bad habit of locking her keys into the house or the car at least once a week. With all that experience, the lock on the bathroom door gave me no problems.

The bathroom was rather old-fashioned in appearance and had a disused air. There was dust in the corners, and a spider web drooped from the ceiling. But I heard no unearthly groaning, no mysterious footsteps. I carefully inspected the sink, the walls and the floor. Other than a smallish orange discoloration on the sink, there was no blood anywhere. Ha! So much for urban legends. There was probably something in the water that caused discoloration over time. I turned a tap experimentally, sure that the maintenance staff had shut off the water long ago. To my surprise, water gushed forth instantly. I smiled. Well, well. It looked like I had a bathroom to myself after all! I carefully locked the door behind me when I left.

I got up late the next morning, and had the downstairs bathroom all to myself. So it wasn’t until evening, when everyone was back in the dorm, crowding in and out of the bathrooms, that I slipped away to use the locked up facilities. It was still early in the evening, and I made sure no one was around before I headed to the abandoned bathroom. With a few twists of the wire, I opened the lock. As I stepped inside, the air temperature plummeted twenty degrees or more and my nose was hit by the pungent, strong smell of fresh blood. A second later, I saw the blood-spattered sink.

Bright-red gore was everywhere – on the porcelain, on the walls, oozing down the sides of the sink. And hovering before it, his feet a good six-inches off the ground, was the luminous form of a college-aged boy wearing old-fashioned clothes in the style of the 1960s. His forehead had a disfiguring dent smashed into it, and blood was dripping down his face. As I gaped at him, horrified and frozen in terror, he turned and looked at me. Then he held out a blood-stained hand. His eyes were desperate, pleading for help, and I heard a low moaning sound coming from between his blood-stained lips. The sound raised every hair on my body and made the skin prickle in sheer, cold horror. I backpedaled fiercely, my legs scrambling to get away while my eyes and head remained fixed on the ghost, on the bloody sink. A drop of red blood fell from his outstretched hand as I stared at him. Then the momentum of my legs carried me through the door, which slammed shut behind me, and the hot, pungent smell of fresh blood followed me through the halls and down the staircases until I was outside into the chilly air of autumn, breathing deeply. My knees shook so bad that I fell onto the nearest patch of grass, stomach heaving. Oh lord! The ghost was real! No wonder they kept the place locked up.
I lay on the grass for a long time, ignoring the chill in the air. This was a natural chill which comforted, not that unnatural chill that had frightened me upstairs. I breathed in and out, in and out, watching the stars above me, bright even through the campus lights. I took comfort from the huge, clear expanse of sky. But I still felt reluctant to go back inside that haunted building. I shuddered once, from head to toe. Oh how my granny would laugh if she knew her big brave grandson was too scared to go back inside a haunted dormitory. It was the thought of granny that got me back onto my feet and upstairs to my room. But I didn’t care what granny or anyone else thought of me. I was never going back to the fourth floor bathroom. Once was enough.

http://americanfolklore.net/folklore/2009/08/the_bleeding_sink.html

[Raven]

F
Adventure on the Rogue
An Oregon Tall Tale


We were up-river with a tour group looking at all the natural beauties here on the Rogue River when I spied a young sasquatch hiding in the shadow of a tree near a gravel bank. I swung the tour-boat around so we could get a better look, and all the tourists exclaimed and took pictures. It’s not too unusual to see a sasquatch in the spring. That’s the time they migrate through here to their summer stomping grounds up North.

We were in for a treat today. The sasquatch jumped out of the shadows suddenly, leapt into the river, and wrestled a seven-foot sturgeon onto the gravel bank. I blinked in astonishment. I didn’t know sasquatch liked sturgeon. As we watched, the sasquatch belted the big fish with a rock to stop its flopping.

Right at that moment, a big black bear came stomping down the bank on the opposite shore looking for a snack. The bear took one look at the sasquatch with the sturgeon, sitting on the opposite shore, and leapt into the water. In the blink of an eye, that ol’ bear was across the river and wading out of the water, while the tourists babbled and took pictures. The bear shook itself dry like a dog, and then jumped onto the back of the sasquatch, beating on him until he ran away from the sturgeon, leaving the bear to sniff in triumph over the large fish.

Well, I thought that was the end of it, until the sasquatch came running back down the hill holding a dead tree in his hands. He started beating on the bear and the bear was whomping back at him something fierce. Fur was flying everywhere; blood spurted out like a geyser. I don’t know where it would have ended if I hadn’t waded in there and broke it up!

http://americanfolklore.net/folklore/2010/08/sasquatch_and_the_bear_1.html

[Raven]

S
Cows Head
A Ukrainian Ghost Story

Oksana lived in a small house on the edge of town with her father, her stepmother and her stepsister. Oksana's stepmother disliked Oksana, favoring her true daughter, Olena.

Soon after her father's remarriage, Oksana found that all the housework fell to her while Olena idled her days away. Oksana's father was a timid man, and could not bring himself to defy his wife. So Oksana wore Olena's cast off clothes, and her hands grew red and chapped from scrubbing in the cold, while Olena attended parties, growing lazy and spoiled.

One year, when the winter snows were particularly fierce, Oksana's family ran out of money. Oksana's stepmother began nagging her father to send Oksana away, because they could not afford to keep two girls. Reluctantly, Oksana's father agreed. He took Oksana to a cottage deep in the woods and left her there.

Oksana was very frightened. The woods were said to be filled with demons and monsters. But Oksana was also practical. She entered the cottage with her small bundle and found a fireplace, a lopsided table and a rusty old pot. Oksana put away the loaf of bread, the knife and the slab of cheese her father had given her. She folded the blanket and laid it near the fireplace. Then she collected wood and built a fire.

Oksana knew the bread and cheese would not last her all winter. So she made a snare using the thin, flexible branches of the trees and caught a snow rabbit to eat. She also dug under the deep snow, and found some roots and berries for food.

By dark, Oksana had melted water for drinking, and used the rest to make a stew. So Oksana ate well. Then she lay down near the fire for the night, listening to the wind howl and pretending to herself that she was not frightened of the woods.

It was midnight when the knock came.

Knock, knock, knock.

It echoed hollowly through the dark cottage. Oksana woke with a start, her heart pounding in fear. It came again.

Knock, knock, knock.

Oksana thought of the monsters. She hid under her blanket, praying the thing would go away.

Knock, knock, knock.

Oksana rose, grabbing a branch. She crept towards the door. The wind howled eerily down the chimney. Oksana swallowed and swung the door open. There was nothing there. Her heart pounded fiercely as she stared out at the snow whipping about in the light of her small fire. Then she looked down. Oksana let out a shriek of terror and leapt back, dropping her stick. It was a demon. An evil spirit.

It had no body!

"Who are you?" Oksana stuttered, clutching the door with shaking hands.

"I am Cow's Head," it replied.

Indeed, Oksana saw at once that it was. The head was brown, with curved horns and strange, haunted eyes.

"I am cold and hungry. May I sleep by your fire?" the Cow's Head asked. Its voice was cold and lifeless.

Oksana gulped down her horror.

"Of course," she said.

"Lift me over the threshold," demanded the Cow's Head hollowly. Oksana did as she was bidden.

"Place me near the fire."

Anger warred with compassion inside her, but compassion won. Oksana put it next to the fire.

"I am hungry," said the Cow's Head. "Feed me."

Oksana thought of her meager food supply. The stew left in the pot was for her breakfast. She fed it to Cow's Head.

"I will sleep now," it said. There was no softening in its attitude toward her. Nonetheless, Oksana made it comfortable for the night, giving it her blanket and sleeping in a cold corner with only her cloak to keep her warm.

When she woke in the morning, Cow's Head was gone. Where it had slept was a large trunk, filled with the most beautiful gowns she had ever seen. Under the gowns lay heaps of gold and jewels.

Oksana stared blankly at the riches in front of her. Her father's voice roused her.

"Daughter, I am come."

Oksana forgot the trunk in her joy. She ran into his arms. He had defied her stepmother to come and bring her back to their home.

"Papa, come see!" Oksana exclaimed as she pulled him into the cottage. Her words tumbled over each other as she explained.

Her father took her home. She was honored in her town for her compassion and her bravery, and won scores of suitors. She married soon after her return from the cottage.

Hearing Oksana's story, and seeing the riches she had received, Olena went to the cottage in the forest and spent the night there. But when Cow's Head appeared, she was too lazy to serve it. In the morning, all her gowns had turned to rags and her possessions to dust.

But Oksana lived to a ripe old age in happiness and prosperity.

http://americanfolklore.net/folklore/2010/07/cows_head.html

[Raven]

F/S
Tommy Knockers
A California Ghost Story

Tommy Knockers are the spirits of departed miners that help miners find ore. They also knock on the walls of the mines right before a cave-in. When you hear a Tommy Knocker knocking, it's best to depart the area right quick. They have saved the life of many a miner who has been in a danger. Some folks say that the very first man to hear the sound is jinxed, but that is not always the case.

It's important to stay on the good side of the Tommy Knockers. Many miners leave a bit of their lunch for the spirits, and to please them, they fashion the little clay figures of their spirits. The Tommy Knockers can be spiteful creatures if they don't like you.

One unlucky miner named Eddie became a target of the Tommy Knockers. They drove him crazy, pelting him with stones, stealing his tools, blowing out his lantern. He couldn't figure out why the Tommy Knockers had singled him out until one day he heard a voice calling to him from the dark opening of a nearby shaft. "Eddie, I want my five dollars!" the Tommy Knocker said.

Eddie was so startled he dropped his tools all over the ground. The voice sounded just like that of his old friend Joe who had died in a cave-in a few months back. Eddie had borrowed five dollars from Joe and had never returned it. Eddie went into the shaft, and sure enough there was Joe Trelawney's ghost, shrunk to the size of a two-foot dwarf with a big ugly head, large ears and a crooked nose. He wore a peaked hat, a leather jacket, and water-soaked leather boots.

The Tommy Knocker was not pleased to see Eddie. "Give me back my five dollars, Eddie!" the ghost of his old friend demanded.

"I don't have any money on me, Joe," Eddie said, patting his pockets for emphasis.

"I've heard that before," said the Tommy Knocker dryly. "I didn't believe it then, and I don't believe it now!" The Tommy Knocker disappeared into thin air, leaving an uneasy Eddie to wonder what the ghost would do next. He soon found out! All day long, Eddie was plagued by the Tommy Knocker. His ladder was shaken so hard that he almost fell. The loud tapping noise of an invisible drill nearly drove him mad. He just missed being buried by a rock fall. And through it all, Joe's voice would taunt him: "Give me back my five dollars, Eddie!"

"All right, Joe, all right!" Eddie finally yelled into the mouth of the tunnel where his friend had appeared. "I'll get your bloody five dollars!" Abandoning his work for the day, Eddie made the long climb to the surface and took five silver dollars from the moneybox he kept under a loose board in his bedroom. The he climbed back down into the mine and stuck the five dollars into a crack in the wall next to the place Joe's spirit had appeared to him.

"There's your five dollars, Joe!" Eddie shouted, his voice echoing oddly in the dark tunnel.

"It's about bloody time," Joe said, appearing next to him and peering critically into the crack where the money lay.

"Are you going to leave me alone now?" Eddie asked.

The Tommy Knocker grinned impishly at Eddie. "Maybe," he said. He scooped up the five silver dollars and disappeared into the dark.

http://americanfolklore.net/folklore/2010/07/tommy_knockers.html

[Raven]

S
The Cursing of Colonel Buck
A Maine Legend


Now Colonel Buck was not what you'd call the most virtuous man in town. No sir! He had an eye for the ladies, did Colonel Buck, and he would chase them 'til he got what he wanted. Then he would drop them like a hot brick.

Well, Colonel Buck has a pretty maid working for him. It weren't long before he started noticing her and she, poor lass, started looking back. One thing led to another, don't you know, and one day Colonel Buck turned out his pretty maid, seeing as she was unmarried and in the family way.

Well now, that pretty lass had a deformed baby boy, and she had a hard time making ends meet with a growing son. She began putting pressure on ol' Colonel Buck to take responsibility for the boy. Well, Colonel Buck weren't having none of that. He began putting it about town that this lassie was really a witch. The rumor spread and spread. The townsfolk became a-feared of the lass and one day they grabbed the woman and brought her before Colonel Buck. He condemned her to death for sorcery, and had her burned at the stake. The woman shouted a curse at the Colonel as she burned, swearing that he would always bear the mark of this injustice.

Her poor young son was forced to watch his mother being burned as a witch. When one of his mother's legs fell from her burning body, he broke away from the crowd, ran forward to pick up the leg and fled. It was the only piece of his mother he had left to bury.

After Colonel Buck's death, a grand tombstone was erected in his honor. A few weeks later, a strange discoloration began to form on the stone. It was the picture of a woman's leg. The reminder of the woman and her curse embarrassed the people of Bucksport. They had the stone thrown out to sea. But the stone was washed ashore, the image of the leg still branded upon it. The town leaders had the stone smashed to bits and they put a new tombstone on Colonel Buck's grave. But the image of the leg reappeared on the new stone, and could not be removed. It remains there to this day; a reminder of a poor girl who was robbed of her innocence and later her life by Colonel Buck.

http://americanfolklore.net/folklore/2010/08/the_cursing_of_the_colonel_buc.html

[Raven]

None
The Ten Red Crows
Chinese Folktale

First the world was in darkness, my son. All who dwelt in the shadow of the East Mulberry Tree had never seen the light, nor could they imagine what it was. And so ten red crows – each with three paws – began a perilous journey away from the tree seeking to bring light to this dark world.

Long they flew, through paths both dangerous and dull, until their eyes saw something glowing before them in the darkness of space. They came to a heavenly realm; a place of brilliant light and heat. The red crows were delighted with the new-found realm, and dwelt there a long time, learning the secrets of light and heat. As they grew more skilled in the magic of the heavenly realm, their bodies were transformed so that they gave forth brilliant light of many colors and radiated the same intense heat as their hosts.

When they had plumed all the mysteries in the brilliant heaven, the ten red crows turned and flew back toward Earth. They were each as bright as a star, and the heat they emitted from their bodies was intense. Those who dwelt near the East Mulberry Tree first knew of their coming when a faint glow appeared on the dark horizon. Then the world lit up, colors shining brilliantly against a sky that was azure blue. But as the crows grew nearer, the light became a searing blue-white light, and with it came heat that was unbearable. It burned everything it touched. When the ten red crows perched in the East Mulberry Tree, the whole of the Earth began to dry up and wither in the intense heat. All who dwelt in the shadow of the Tree were afraid.

“Help us!” they cried in pain, rolling on the green grass and covering their sore eyes against the heat and the brilliance of the ten red crows.

Yi, the Good Archer, heard their cries and saw that the ten red crows were bringing death to the world instead of light. So he took up his bow and counted out nine arrows. Then, one by one, he shot the red crows. Each fell out of the brilliant blue-white sky and burned away to nothing in the darkness of space. But Yi spared the life of the tenth red crow so that light would not be lost to the world. To this day, the tenth Red Crow rises each morning from his perch on the East Mulberry Tree and flies once around the world until he comes to rest once again in the Great Solar Tree.

And so it comes to pass that the Tenth Red Crow now dwells in the Heavens as the Sun.

http://americanfolklore.net/folklore/2012/07/ten_red_crows.html

[Raven]

A personal favorite....

G/S

Old Raw Head & Bloody Bones
Missouri Ghost Story


Way back in the deep woods there lived a scrawny old woman who had a reputation for being the best conjuring woman in the Ozarks. With her bedraggled black-and-gray hair, funny eyes - one yellow and one green - and her crooked nose, Old Betty was not a pretty picture, but she was the best there was at fixing what ailed a man, and that was all that counted.

Old Betty's house was full of herbs and roots and bottles filled with conjuring medicine. The walls were lined with strange books brimming with magical spells. Old Betty was the only one living in the Hollow who knew how to read; her granny, who was also a conjurer, had taught her the skill as part of her magical training.

Just about the only friend Old Betty had was a tough, mean, ugly old razorback hog that ran wild around her place. It rooted so much in her kitchen garbage that all the leftover spells started affecting it. Some folks swore up and down that the old razorback hog sometimes walked upright like man. One fellow claimed he'd seen the pig sitting in the rocker on Old Betty's porch, chattering away to her while she stewed up some potions in the kitchen, but everyone discounted that story on account of the fellow who told it was a little too fond of moonshine.

"Raw Head" was the name Old Betty gave the razorback, referring maybe to the way the ugly creature looked a bit like some of the dead pigs come butchering time down in Hog-Scald Hollow. The razorback didn't mind the funny name. Raw Head kept following Old Betty around her little cabin and rooting up the kitchen leftovers. He'd even walk to town with her when she came to the local mercantile to sell her home remedies.

Well, folks in town got so used to seeing Raw Head and Old Betty around the town that it looked mighty strange one day around hog-driving time when Old Betty came to the mercantile without him.

"Where's Raw Head?" the owner asked as he accepted her basket full of home-remedy potions. The liquid in the bottles swished in an agitate manner as Old Betty said: "I ain't seen him around today, and I'm mighty worried. You seen him here in town?"

"Nobody's seen him around today. They would've told me if they did," the mercantile owner said. "We'll keep a lookout fer you."

"That's mighty kind of you. If you see him, tell him to come home straightaway," Old Betty said. The mercantile owner nodded agreement as he handed over her weekly pay.

Old Betty fussed to herself all the way home. It wasn't like Raw Head to disappear, especially not the day they went to town. The man at the mercantile always saved the best scraps for the mean old razorback, and Raw Head never missed a visit. When the old conjuring woman got home, she mixed up a potion and poured it onto a flat plate.

"Where's that old hog got to?" she asked the liquid. It clouded over and then a series of pictures formed. First, Old Betty saw the good-for-nothing hunter that lived on the next ridge sneaking around the forest, rounding up razorback hogs that didn't belong to him. One of the hogs was Raw Head. Then she saw him taking the hogs down to Hog-Scald Hollow, where folks from the next town were slaughtering their razorbacks. Then she saw her hog, Raw Head, slaughtered with the rest of the pigs and hung up for gutting. The final picture in the liquid was the pile of bloody bones that had once been her hog, and his scraped-clean head lying with the other hogsheads in a pile.

Old Betty was infuriated by the death of her only friend. It was murder to her, plain and simple. Everyone in three counties knew that Raw Head was her friend, and that lazy, hog-stealing, good-for-nothing hunter on the ridge was going to pay for slaughtering him.

Now Old Betty tried to practice white conjuring most of the time, but she knew the dark secrets too. She pulled out an old, secret book her granny had given her and turned to the very last page. She lit several candles and put them around the plate containing the liquid picture of Raw Head and his bloody bones. Then she began to chant: "Raw Head and Bloody Bones. Raw Head and Bloody Bones."

The light from the windows disappeared as if the sun had been snuffed out like a candle. Dark clouds billowed into the clearing where Old Betty's cabin stood, and the howl of dark spirits could be heard in the wind that pummeled the treetops.

"Raw Head and Bloody Bones. Raw Head and Bloody Bones."

Betty continued the chant until a bolt of silver lightning left the plate and streaked out threw the window, heading in the direction of Hog-Scald Hollow.

When the silver light struck Raw Head's severed head, which was piled on the hunter's wagon with the other hog heads, it tumbled to the ground and rolled until it was touching the bloody bones that had once inhabited its body. As the hunter's wagon rumbled away toward the ridge where he lived, the enchanted Raw Head called out: "Bloody bones, get up and dance!"

Immediately, the bloody bones reassembled themselves into the skeleton of a razorback hog walking upright, as Raw Head had often done when he was alone with Old Betty. The head hopped on top of his skeleton and Raw Head went searching through the woods for weapons to use against the hunter. He borrowed the sharp teeth of a dying panther, the claws of a long-dead bear, and the tail from a rotting raccoon and put them over his skinned head and bloody bones.

Then Raw Head headed up the track toward the ridge, looking for the hunter who had slaughtered him. Raw Head slipped passed the thief on the road and slid into the barn where the hunter kept his horse and wagon. Raw Head climbed up into the loft and waited for the hunter to come home.

It was dusk when the hunter drove into the barn and unhitched his horse. The horse snorted in fear, sensing the presence of Raw Head in the loft. Wondering what was disturbing his usually-calm horse, the hunter looked around and saw a large pair of eyes staring down at him from the darkness in the loft.

The hunter frowned, thinking it was one of the local kids fooling around in his barn.

"Land o' Goshen, what have you got those big eyes fer?" he snapped, thinking the kids were trying to scare him with some crazy mask.

"To see your grave," Raw Head rumbled very softly. The hunter snorted irritably and put his horse into the stall.

"Very funny. Ha,ha," The hunter said. When he came out of the stall, he saw Raw Head had crept forward a bit further. Now his luminous yellow eyes and his bears claws could clearly be seen.

"Land o' Goshen, what have you got those big claws fer?" he snapped. "You look ridiculous."

"To dig your grave…" Raw Head intoned softly, his voice a deep rumble that raised the hairs on the back of the hunter's neck. He stirred uneasily, not sure how the crazy kid in his loft could have made such a scary sound. If it really was a crazy kid.

Feeling a little spooked, he hurried to the door and let himself out of the barn. Raw Head slipped out of the loft and climbed down the side of the barn behind him. With nary a rustle to reveal his presence, Raw Head raced through the trees and up the path to a large, moonlight rock. He hid in the shadow of the huge stone so that the only things showing were his gleaming yellow eyes, his bear claws, and his raccoon tail.

When the hunter came level with the rock on the side of the path, he gave a startled yelp. Staring at Raw Head, he gasped: "You nearly knocked the heart right out of me, you crazy kid! Land o' Goshen, what have you got that crazy tail fer?"

"To sweep your grave…" Raw Head boomed, his enchanted voice echoing through the woods, getting louder and louder with each echo. The hunter took to his heels and ran for his cabin. He raced passed the old well-house, passed the wood pile, over the rotting fence and into his yard. But Raw Head was faster. When the hunter reached his porch, Raw Head leapt from the shadows and loomed above him. The hunter stared in terror up at Raw Head's gleaming yellow eyes in the ugly razorback hogshead, his bloody bone skeleton with its long bear claws, sweeping raccoon's tail and his gleaming sharp panther teeth.

"Land o' Goshen, what have you got those big teeth fer?" he gasped desperately, stumbling backwards from the terrible figure before him.

"To eat you up, like you wanted to eat me!" Raw Head roared, descending upon the good-for-nothing hunter. The murdering thief gave one long scream in the moonlight. Then there was silence, and the sound of crunching.

Nothing more was ever seen or heard of the lazy hunter who lived on the ridge. His horse also disappeared that night. But sometimes folks would see Raw Head roaming through the forest in the company of his friend Old Betty. And once a month, on the night of the full moon, Raw Head would ride the hunter's horse through town, wearing the old man's blue overalls over his bloody bones with a hole cut-out for his raccoon tail. In his bloody, bear-clawed hands, he carried his raw, razorback hogshead, lifting it high against the full moon for everyone to see.

http://americanfolklore.net/folklore/2010/07/raw_head_and_bloody_bones.html

[Raven]

 Happy Halloween Everybody!  

[Sponsored content]