By Tara Fox Hall

“Where do we start first?”

“Near the far edge,” I sighed. “We’ll work our way back.”

As we trudged toward the edge of the forest, my thoughts lingered on how far I’d come in the months I’d had my new house. I’d cleaned up the broken glass, the rusty nails, and the garbage. The new roof was on, the small garage in its first stage of becoming. But there was still the edge of the woods to fix.

The previous owners had tried selling firewood when other funds ran out. They’d gone about it by marking the biggest trees with paint and cutting them down. Then after cutting up a few into pieces, they’d decided the work was too hard and quit, leaving the rest to rot.

The moment I’d seen that, I’d made plans to get a woodstove. The problem was, the trees had been down at least a few years, if not more. I was now in a race against time to harvest as much usable wood as possible.

That was where my friend Rick came in. I didn’t know jack about cutting firewood, but he did, having grown up on a farm.

“Do you want to start with those small ones?” I asked, indicating a small pile of logs. “Or should we work on one of the big trunks?”

“That basswood,” Rick replied. “We’ll be lucky if we can get half of it. That stuff rots quick.”

Nodding, I went to his side as the high-pitched whine of a chainsaw cut the air.

***

That night, we sat on the porch after dinner, talking.

“You could have horses,” Rick said musingly. “Or cows. You’ve got enough land. You could even rent out the stalls, or the pasture.”

I gave him a wry grin. “Those fences are falling down. No, I’ve got my hands full right now. But thanks for showing me how to handle the chainsaw. I appreciate the help.”

“You and me both,” Rick said, rising stiffly to his feet. “I’ve got to go, I’ve got work early. You have a good night.”

I gave him a hug goodbye, then watched his taillights fade into the blackness.

He was right; there was a lot of possibilities. But there would be time enough for that in the fall. I had too much to do now to think about it.

Maybelline, my calico cat, hopped up on my lap, letting out an almost inaudible mew.

“I don’t know either,” I said, absently stroking her. “I’m beginning to feel that I’ve bitten off more than I can chew, May.”

May’s only answer was a slight purr, her paws kneading rapidly.

***

In the next weeks, I made a lot of headway in the forest. Much of that was Rick’s frequent visits with his own chainsaw. When we cleared the downed trees and brush piles, we saw what lay under them.

“This wasn’t a tree, this is cut wood,” Rick said, hefting a large rotted beam. “Do you know what was here?”

I shrugged. “They told me that there was a barn here once that burned. But that was up by the existing barn, where the rock wall is, not down here.”

“Whoa,” Rick exclaimed, reaching down. He pulled off a part of a tire to reveal a three-foot silver saw blade, the steel teeth dotted with rust. He bent down. “That’s what this was,” he said, setting down the beam. “This was the brace for the saw.”

I nodded. “They built the existing barn by hand.”

Rick replaced the tire. “We’ll pull this out of here later. Falling on that would be easy. Let’s get back to work”

I nodded, glad to turn my mind away from all those sharp steel teeth.

***

As the summer progressed, we made more and more progress, not only in cleaning the deadwood up, but also in dragging out the junk we found, including the saw blade, which we stored in the barn, complete with its tire covering. In addition, we discovered mattress springs, old floodlights, several types of old rusty drags for farming, and other pieces of metal. I put out everything for the garbage man, save one of the drags that still worked, and a hooked piece of metal that appealed to me. Those I painted silver, and leaned against the woodshed for decoration.

Rick admired them on his next visit. “You know you could probably sell those, if you wanted.”

“No, I like them,” I replied. “Where do you want to start today?”

“There’s only that one brush pile to deal with,” Rick said. “Now that you’ve got the tractor, that shouldn’t take long. Then we’ll see a movie.”

A weekend that was actually relaxing was an oasis. “Sure.”

We walked to the edge. “You know, I’m not going to be able to visit for a while,” Rick said. “School’s starting.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “It’s almost winter, anyway, and I’ve got enough wood. We can meet in town and visit at movies, or lunch. Thanks again for all your help. I couldn’t have done it without you.”

“No problem,” he said, beaming. “What are friends for?”

“It’s made such a difference,” I said, surveying the trees. “The younger trees covered with brush or bent under fallen trunks are now reaching for sunlight—”

“Do you hear something?” he interrupted.

“No.”

“I do,” he said, pointing. It’s coming from that brush pile. Something’s growling.”

“Brutus was sniffing that last night on our walk,” I said, backing up. “I didn’t think anything of it, but you’re right, he was acting like there was something in there.”

Rick lifted some brush off the pile. Something inside growled louder.

I’d been reaching, but now I snatched my hand back. I had on leather gloves, but whatever was in there was angry.

Rick lifted off the top brush to reveal a furious groundhog. “You stay where you are. I’ll get him out of there.”

The groundhog seemed aware of what we planning on doing to his beloved home. When Rick poked him with a stick, but he snapped at it, breaking it. When Rick used a metal bar, the groundhog grabbed it in his teeth, and wouldn’t let go, growling loudly.

“Let’s have lunch,” I suggested. “Maybe if we go, he’ll leave.”

***

An hour later, we returned to find the groundhog still angry, still waiting to take us on, his eyes blazing, and his growl rumbling.

Conceding defeat, we left to see a movie in town to sooth our sore egos.

***

Everything was quiet for a few weeks, as fall deepened, the trees becoming colorful in the cooling evenings. Then one evening in October, I was awakened by the throaty growl of a chainsaw. Brutus began barking excitedly, his paws on the window ledge, his tail stiff.

That was coming from my land; it had to be. Swearing, I hustled into some clothes, and grabbed a flashlight. My hand was on the doorknob when I heard a high-pitched whine, then a bloodcurdling scream.

I took my hand off the door. No way was I going out there.

Another scream sounded. I dropped the flashlight, heading for the phone.

***

Lights flashed red and blue in the darkness, the black bag disappearing into the ambulance. The engine started, then it moved away slowly over the rough field road.

“So you heard nothing?” the policeman said for the fourth time.

“Nothing,” I echoed, my eyes still riveted on the bloody saw blade, chunks of flesh and hair sticking to the inch long teeth. “My dog barked, and then I heard a scream. Then I called you.”

“Horry was an idiot for trying to saw in the dark,” the sheriff said, coming up to us. “It’s easy to see he was poaching wood. Not a surprise; he’s been arrested twice this year for doing it.” He looked over at me. “If you don’t mind me asking, ma’am, what is that saw blade doing out here? It looks like you maintain it well.”

I looked over the oiled contraption, the rough-hewn wood frame sturdy and solid. The blade had been in the barn last I saw, the frame in rotted pieces. But he wasn’t going to believe that. “I had a friend up last weekend. We got through cutting, and must have forgot to put it away.” I shrugged. “I can’t move it by myself.”

“That’s a fact,” the officer said. He turned to his deputy. “The coroner is calling this an accident. Had to be. No fool would lay down on a moving blade.” He tipped his hat. “You best go inside ma’am. Use some Clorox on that saw tomorrow, before it rusts.”

“Will do,” I said, flashing a nervous smile.

***

“That’s unbelievable,” Rick said, after I related my story.

“I know,” I said. “So I did some digging.” I took out a sheet of paper. “There was a guy who lived here in the seventies. He was big into forestry, and built his own barn and furniture from this forest. He had a business selling woodworking. He died of a heart attack when he was out here cutting one day.” I showed him the picture. “His name was Red. They called him the Saw Man.”

“His ghost killed that man for poaching his wood,” Rick said slowly. “So why hasn’t he killed us, or the other owners over the years?”

“He must recognize we have a legal right to the trees,” I said, shrugging. “But maybe he did manifest before. The person I bought this from; the guy who left those cut trees to rot? He broke his leg out here. It was ruled an accident, but maybe it wasn’t. He put the place up for sale right after.”

“I’ll help you get the saw inside and cleaned,” Rick said, standing. “If the ghost left it here, he must want you to take care of it.” He paused. “Did this Red like groundhogs?”

“It doesn’t say,” I answered, giving a small smile. “But we’ll leave him be, just in case.”

Tara’s educational background is in math and science, and she is currently employed as a safety inspector in a metal fabrication shop. Her writing credits include over thirty short stories published in the nature magazines Catnip Blossoms, Meanwhile, and On The River. Her short horror stories have appeared in Deadman’s Tome, Flashes in the Dark, Halloween Alliance, Black Petals, and Ghastly Door. She also coauthored the essay “The Allure of the Serial Killer,” published in Serial Killers – Philosophy for Everyone: Being and Killing (Wiley-Blackwell, 2010). Mélange Books published both a short e-book romance, Surrender to Me, and a short horror story, “The Origin of Fear” in their Spellbound 2011 anthology in October 2011. Return to Me, another short e-book romance, is also due out in October 2011 from Mélange Books. Dark Moon Books will publish both “Night Shift” and “Hold Your Breath” in their Frightmares Anthology coming out in November 2011.

You can visit her website at www.tarafoxhall.com

Eric glared back at his kid sister, scowling as she struggled along in her pink princess outfit. “I told you to go home, Tina.”

“No,” she whined. “I want to trick or treat with you. Dad said I could.”

“I said you can’t,” Eric said, exasperated. “You can’t keep up. Me, Billy and Jordan are going from Maple St. to West End.”

“But I want to go with you,” Tina pleaded. “I can’t go with Dad, he’s—”

“Tough luck,” Eric said, darting off.

Tina let out a howl, but Eric was soon beyond her wails.

Jordan and Billy were waiting at the corner. “Oh look, it’s a black cat,” Billy snickered. “Run, Jordan!”

“Shut up,” Eric said angrily. “It’s the only costume Mom agreed to buy that was all black. Did you get the toilet paper?”

Jordan nodded, his cloth dog ears flapping. “And the eggs, too.”

“I brought the firecrackers,” Billy said proudly, stretching out a red and black clawed hand. “What do you think of the costume? I saved up all summer for it.”

“It’s great,” Eric replied, glancing at the elaborate costume. “At least it’s dark.”

“Where are we hitting first, Eric?” Jordan asked eagerly.

“Down on Poplar. I’m going to pay back Mr. Sherland for giving me an F in summer school.”

“Then let’s go,” Billy said, his black and red painted face grinning. “Halloween night is a-wasting.”

***

Gunther stood on tiptoes at the cabin’s rear window, staring out excitedly at the deepening dusk. The cornstalks in the big field waved in the cold breeze, their long dry leaves rustling. Behind him in their small kitchen, Mommy was busy, her large cauldron bubbling on the stove. Delicious smells wafted to him, making his tummy grumble in anticipation.

“You’re sure it will work?” he asked for the seventh time.

“My spells always work,” his mother assured. “Go get my wand. It’s almost time.”

Gunther hurried to comply. After all, tonight was Halloween. Tonight, Mommy had promised him a new brother or sister.

***

Hours later, the three tricksters rested on a park bench, laughing over their exploits.

“Did you see her face?” Billy guffawed. “That scream was loud enough to wake the dead.”

“You did use the whole carton of eggs on her,” Eric replied. “Those fairy wings aren’t ever going to fly again.”

They all laughed.

Jordan grabbed a handful of candy. “What about that odd kid? Don’t you think it was strange he let us take his candy? Maybe we shouldn’t eat it.”

Billy grabbed a handful himself. “You don’t have to eat any if you don’t want to. That makes more for us.” He shoved the chocolate into his mouth. “Wow, that’s good.”

Jordan quickly grabbed a handful.

Eric snorted, then grabbed a piece. “This is odd candy. It looks like chocolate pieces, but it’s shiny—”

“That wasn’t meant for you,” a voice said. “You should’ve have stolen it.”

Eric started. A woman stood over him dressed in a witch outfit. His eyes narrowed. “You can’t tell me or my friends what to do—”

“What friends?” the witch replied, her palms open. “You’re alone, child.”

Eric looked wildly around. His eyes fastened on some small toys at his feet: a stuffed dog and a shiny-skinned demon. He picked them up with trembling fingers.

“Don’t worry,” the woman said. “They’ll change back in a few hours, and be no worse for wear. Hopefully they’ll be better mannered.”

“What are you?” Eric stammered.

“Just your average good witch,” the woman answered, picking up the candy and moving away. “But my patience isn’t vast. Beware.”

Eric’s scream came out a yowl, his features changing as he shrunk into a cat. He let out another yowl, then dashed away into the night.

The witch walked home, smiling at passing trick-or-treaters while inside, her heart shriveled. If only Ray hadn’t left years ago. Now, not only had her spell to make Gunter a sibling failed, but he’d had his Halloween present stolen. Children today had no manners at all…

She passed West End and entered the forest beyond, the worn path leading her to her cabin in the clearing. Kicking at pumpkin pieces, she walked up the lighted path to the small figure crying on the stone steps.

“Here,” she said, offering the candy. “I’m sorry, Gunther.”

He took the candy, sniffling.

“I know you were angry the spell didn’t work, but you shouldn’t have walked beyond the woods. I told you how mean children are, especially on this night of all nights. That candy was for you alone to use—”

Gunther wiped at his red eyes. “I wanted some friends. I don’t have anyone to play with.”

“You have me,” his mom said, sitting down beside him.

“Mom, it’s not the same.”

Curse unfaithful men, old age, and fly-by-night spells, the witch thought. “You were angry—”

“Mom, look,” Gunther interrupted, pointing.

His mom looked up. A little girl stood at the base of the stairs.

“Who are you, Princess?” she asked.

“Tina,” the girl said shyly.

“Why are you out here alone?”

“My brother left me, and my dad’s passed out.” Tina swallowed. “My mom’s with her new husband tonight. Are you a real witch?”

“Yes, but there are worse things than witches,” the witch said, holding out her hand. “You’re a very polite child, Tina. Why don’t you come in?”

Written by Tara Fox Hall. Her writing credits include over twenty short stories published in the nature magazines Catnip Blossoms, Meanwhile, and On The River. Her short horror stories have appeared in Deadman’s Tome and Ghastly Door. You can visit her site at http://tarafoxhall.com

Hauntingly pale with long canines for biting into flesh, vampires are much feared creatures of the night who survive off the blood of the living. Strolling neighbourhoods after dark in search of their next innocent victim, vampires are horrifyingly resilient and show no mercy.

They can’t be starved of oxygen, they can survive under water and they don’t die of lack of food, so how can these ghastly beings of the underworld ever be slain? Here are top ten ways to repel or kill a vampire.

10. Lock your doors

One thing many people don’t realise is that the walking dead can’t simply waltz into your bedroom to feast on your lifeblood of an evening. To enter a home, vampires must be invited by whoever lives there. The rules get a little bit fuzzy when it comes to hotel rooms, camper vans, tents and other non-permanent homes; so beware at all times.

9. Stock up on garlic

One of the best ways to repel vampires is with garlic, otherwise known as the stinking rose. Vampires simply hate the very concept of the stuff and can be driven away by the pungent smell, so wear a garland round your neck, keep several bulbs in your pockets or simply rub your body with garlic juice. If you want to be prepared at all times, make sure you include a lot of garlic in your daily diet and the smell of your breath and sweat should be enough to keep the night prowlers at bay.

8. Keep the faith

Symbols of faith will make a vampire recoil in an instant, so long as the person holding it has enough belief and conviction. Traditionally, crucifixes have been used to repel these deadly beings, however, Stars of David, Wiccan pentacles and other symbols are now also thought to be just as effective. Vampires are so petrified of the potential wrath of higher powers; they steer clear of true believers.

7. Visit your local font

Water that has been blessed by a priest is also widely believed to repel evil and ward off dark forces. Vampires are forever damned and are literally terrified of religion, so anything sacred is the perfect deterrent. Just a few drops of holy water could burn their skin, so keep a little nearby for your own protection and be ready to douse them at any time — you never know when one might strike. For the ultimate vamp repeller, fill a water pistol with holy water and mashed-up garlic. One tip for wannabe vamp hunters; don’t help yourself to your local church’s font, the vicars don’t appreciate it.

6. Keep the count counting…

If you suspect that a vampire prowls in an area near you, sprinkle poppy seeds, sand, beads or anything small and grain-like all around the site. Vampires are compelled to count and will be forced to tally up every single grain. The obsessive-compulsive nature of nosferatu is not well-known, so using this little trick will almost certainly surprise your blood-sucking target, giving you plenty of time to put some distance between you.

5. The classic stake-through-the-heart

Driving a stake through a vampire’s heart is one of the most traditional methods to kill the undead. Any wooden stake should be fine (though different woods are popular in different countries — Hawthorne is favoured in Serbia, for example), however, a silver one is guaranteed to reduce it to ash and cinders. With a good aim and a strong arm, victory could be yours, but watch out as with one bite you too could become a creature of the night.

4. Kill the leader

Folklore has it that the destruction of the leader of a group of vampires will free his minions from his dark thrall, returning their souls and rendering them human again. Unfortunately, vampire leaders tend to be powerful, well-protected, well-connected and skilful fighters, so only the most hardened vampire hunters should go after them.

3. Silver projectiles

Like a silver stake, a silver bullet spells instant death for vampires. They are violently allergic to the pure metal and will crumble to dust just seconds after the bullet penetrates. If guns are inaccessible, then silver arrowheads, slingshot rounds, darts, or even cutlery will do — so long as you fling it hard enough.

2. Sunlight, maybe

Vampires are creatures of the night, lingering in shadows and only emerging from their dank and dusty homes after the sun has set and most mortals are tucked up safely in bed. Vampire hunters agree that the undead shun sunlight, but there is some debate over its lethality. Some argue that even the briefest exposure to UV radiation will turn a vampire into a pillar of screaming flames; others maintain that truly powerful vampires can move around freely during the daytime, suffering only the temporary loss of their super-human abilities.

1. The Slayer

The slayer is a notorious vampire killer who goes out on the hunt for these deadly bloody suckers (think Buffy). They have no fear and are willing to risk their life to benefit others. Abraham Van Helsing is possibly the oldest and most well-known slayer in the world known for killing Count Dracula. To every generation a slayer is born — so watch this space.

Vampires really are chilling beasts of the night, so stay alert at all times. With these ten ways to repel and kill them you should be safe, but beware of those who feast off blood!

Find chessington tickets for 21 days of vampire celebrations at ChessingtonHolidays.co.uk

I remember years ago my grandfather telling me stories about a man who use to live off in the woods in the Pine Barrens of southern New Jersey. His name was Joe, Joe the Skinner they use to call him because he did a lot of the taxidermy work for the hunters in the area. He also did some butchering.

Gramps said he was a tall man well over 6 feet may be closer to 7. Gramps had and old picture of him. Where he got it or who took it I don’t know I never asked Gramps, but remember seeing it as a kid. The picture was an old black and white one, wrinkled some and a little faded, but there was a man standing in it, a real big man in front of an old log cabin. He was tall as his shoulders were above the top of the doors frame.

Gramps said he use to hang out by Joe the Skinner place when we was a kid; a lot of the kids did Grandpa said. Joe always had about 6 or 8 deer dressed out and hanging in his back yard. Bear too, and at times a big bearskin would be nailed right to the side of his cabin. Rabbit, muskrat and beaver were stretched out too in small hoops that looked like shields.

The place always smelled of blood. Even years later after Joe was gone and his cabin had fallen in on its self, you could still smell the blood grandpa would say.

Joe was an ok guy until it seems he went crazy, or maybe he always was. It was kind of a local joke whenever someone was missing, people would say maybe Joe the skinners got him? Mothers would scare their kids off to bed by saying, “Better get to bed or Joe the Skinner will get you!”

The Pine Barrens like today is a dangerous place in some ways. More so back then. There were black bear some say mountain lion and always quicksand. Then too this was during the depression and someone who couldn’t find work would just sometimes take off for the big cities like Philly or New York that seemed always to promise work. Even the smaller cities like Newark. Patterson or Passaic, beckoned with a good paycheck from work in a factory.

So it wasn’t that odd that someone would turn up missing.

As time passed it seemed less and less people were hunting and didn’t need Joes work. But Taxidermy and butchering was all Joe knew. Joe the Skinner wasn’t seen for week’s maybe even months at a time. But then this wasn’t odd for Joe. If you didn’t go out into those woods to see him for skinning work or a butchering you might not have seen Joe for months some times.

Gramps said Joe had an old model T that he would take down to the dry goods store every now and then to buy supplies. Gramps said it never had any license plates on it at all. Gramps said he guess Joe figured he didn’t need any as he never left the Pine Barrens only went from his cabin to the dry good store and back.

It was some time in the 1940’s one winter that Joe wasn’t seen for a very very long time. The damp wet winters made travel into the Pines Barrens difficult at best. If there wasn’t snow, the unpaved roads were frozen over in deeps hard ruts. And with the spring thaw they were a sea of deep mud.

As springtime dried the Pines Barrens the sheriff drove back to see Joe. What he found could only be described as what the myth of local legends are made of. Joe’s cabin had actually fared the winter well. Flowers had sprung up everywhere yellow forsythia almost blocked the one small window of the cabin while a huge weeping willow dusted the roof with its long thin branches. The door of the cabin was shut and looked as if it wasn’t opened in a long time. The sheriff blew the loud horn of his old back and white squad car and waited.

“Joe?” Called out the sheriff, but not a sound came from the cabin except the chatter of squirrels and the singing of meadowlarks.

The sheriff stepped from his squad car and walked up to the door of the cabin. It wasn’t locked it never was. He gave the door a few strong raps with his worn night stick that looked more like a child’s baseball bat. He pushed the brim of his cap up with the tip of the night stick. He saw no footprints other than his own at the door so he knew no one had been in or out of that cabin for a while.

He expected the worse, that being that Joe was dead. He pulled the string that hung through the door that lifted the latch inside. He pushed the door open and stepped in.

Light filtering in through the small window was enough for him to see that Joe was dead on the floor with one of his butchering knives in his hand, a big old curved knife that most would have called an injun scarping knife. What the sheriff didn’t expect to see was the rest of Joe’s hobby or past time.

Inside the cabin were the mounted deer heads more than you could count; beaver, rabbit and squirrel pelts were everywhere. Even a red fox stuffed and done up nicely standing on a good size log.

But that wasn’t the surprise – it was the bodies, the human bodies Joe was working on that made the sheriffs jaw drop.

10 or 12 done up just as well as any other of Joes work. Some naked standing in the back of Joes cabin. Others dressed and sitting at the table as if waiting for coffee and pie. The men dressed in suits, one even wore a stiff straw hat. The women dressed well, and an older one with a full bonnet, a younger one with a pretty dress and blond hair hanging down in fine curls …

About the author:

He has written articles for Backwoodsman and Reminisces magazines and is the author of the book CLIDE AND DRUCE A Repulsive Tale of Trolls and Tax Money.

His love for Halloween had lead him to become a member of New Jersey Ghost Hunters. And, as lover of history and everything old most of his stories as well has his poetry are echoes of past.

The Pine Barrens of Southern NJ is a particular abode of strangeness. From ghost to the Jersey Devil to eccentric people it is to some a world of its own. My story, Joe The Skinner is only one whispered about and said to be a cousin to who?

This is a story of fiction based on many local myths and legends in my area. The time frame, towns, roads, rivers and likewise the relationship to the names and actions of the old Bergen County names used in this story are purely factitious. I am, through my mother’s side of the family, related to most of the Colonial families of Bergen Count, so indeed do them no discredit. This is a story.

- Bradley Shane

Rain dripped from the front peak of his tri corner hat, the shawl like collar of his great coat was turned up yet still rivulets of water ran down his neck and his queued dark hair hung heavy from the base of his skull. His horse was wet and no doubt tired so he did not hurry the beast along but let it walk at its own pace.

He dug his fingers into the thick wool of the great coat to grab the leather strap of the mailbag that hung over his shoulder and under the coat that for a long time now was digging into his neck. As he did this he reached with his left hand beneath the coat and lifted the leather mailbag he was trying his best to keep try and to relive some of the pressure on his neck.

Looking for the New Jersey Devil – Photo by Wireguy

He knew it was going to rain. In Elizabethtown he was told that it was going to rain and to spend the night there, that the mail could wait another day. But his choice was to ride on. He had friends just before the Delaware and was sure he would make it there to spend the night before crossing at Coryell’s Ferry and into Pennsylvania. Once ferried across he’d travel on to Philadelphia where he would deliver the mail, spend a day or two resting and then with new letters return to Elizabethtown and then to New York.

He knew the York Road well, and knew too that the small town of Larison’s Corner was not far. If he chose not to push on in the storm to his friend’s home he would stay in Larison’s Corner. Here he knew of an inn where he could find hot food, dark ale and a warm enough bed with a corn shuck mattress and maybe a feathered pillow. Another mile or two and he would be there he thought.

It was a dreary night for the last day of October. The day had started out that way too; a gray sky with strong winds that had the remaining leaves being torn from their branches. As for the nights rain it was a rain that seemed more as a prank at times, as if someone was tossing a bucket of water at you. The rain switched at the whim of the wind, one time it was a driving rain on your back at another it was buffering you from one side and then the other. The lighting split the sky and the thunder rumbled like a new wooden cogwheel in an old mill that had to learn to settle in. He wished now he did spend another night in Old Elizabethtown.

It wasn’t long until he could see a glimmer of gold light a head of him. It was blocked from his sight at times by the trees or a turn of the road but he knew Eerie Tom’s Inn was just up ahead and it made him feel warm just knowing that.

Eerie Tom’s Inn was run by Tom Eerie but everyone who had ever known Tom called him Eerie Tom; the name fit him too. Tom was a little man almost goblin like who always walked with a limp. He had a tuff of gray hair that ran above each ear and a brow that was deeply lined. He was thin boned with curving shoulders that added to his over all smallness but his hands were large and strong.

Lighting flashed again and silhouetting the man at the doorway of the inn. He turned to close the door but the wind the very storm he sought shelter from seemed to fight with him to hold the door open a little longer. He shook his hands dry then took the tri corner hat from his head, water poured from its up turned brim upon the wood floor of the inn. He shook the hat then hung it upon one of the wooden pegs that ran along the wall beside the door. He then removed his soaked great coat and added it to the dozen or so coat, capes and blankets that also hung on the pegs.

For a minute or two the inn was silent as all eyes watched the actions of the tall man, but then the hum of voices and the occasional laughter returned.

“William? William Reyerson is that you?” called out a voice over the inns chatter.

William Reyerson turned upon hearing his name. John Van Riper razed a hand from a small table across the dimly lit inn to catch Williams’s attention. William gave John Van Riper a wave back and headed a cross the inn to where John sat. He carried the mailbag with him setting it on the floor beside the small round table that was just large enough for drink a plate or two and a slender candle. Eerie Tom knew everyone by name that had ever stopped at his inn and he knew the mail rider William well. With his shuffling limp Tom approached the table were the two men sat and said.

“Where is you horse Will, out front?”

William nodded yes.

“I’ll have the boy tend it.”

Eerier Tom snapped his thick fingers and a young lad who sat crossed legged at the fire jumped up and came over to Tom.

“There is a horse out front, tend to it quickly now. Put it in the barn with some good hay.” The lad didn’t speak just nodded. At the door he stopped and put a dirty looking blanket about his shoulders a blanket that lay like a heap on the floor besides the inn door; he put it on and went out into the night and rain. Eerie Tom poured dark ale into a thick pewter mug for William and as he set it upon the table he said,

“He’s’ a good boy, even though he doesn’t speak.”

“Kin of the Jersey Devil.” said Van Riper cutting another slice of meat from his plate. Eerie Tom waved a hand at John’s words and walked back to the hearth where he swung a large kettle forwards. Grabbing his cloth apron with his hand he used it as a potholder and took the heavy lid off the stout round kettle. With his other hand he picked up a long wooden spoon stirred the kettle and tasted what was probably stew cooking.

“I know that story,” said William. “Never thought all of it true.”

“It’s true! I knew the mother well, well enough,” said John. “Old woman Depister it was. She use to cures that child.” John pointed with his knife to the boy who was tending Williams’s horse as if he was still standing there at the table. “From morning tonight always calling him the devil because he wouldn’t work much, rather spend the day fishing.”

“So did we all as a kid,” said William. “So would I today,” he added.

“True enough,” said John taking a sip of his ale and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “But Depister didn’t see it that way. She expected her son to fill her husband shoes you remember Richard don’t you? Richard Depister?” John Van Riper interrupted his own story. Will nodded saying, “A big man wasn’t he?”

“That was him,” said John. “Never thought anything would kill a big man like that but he took ill working in the rain, winter came on and next thing he was dead. That spring that other was born.” John didn’t even refer to the other child born to Hester Depister as even being human just as “that other.”

“You could hear the screams of the midwife. The other women who came to help said it was just as bad. They sent for Reverend Bogart but he didn’t come quick enough never saw that thing for himself. But from what I heard when it was birthed it was red some say blue but I was told by a woman who was there it was red.

“First she thought it was just a dead child as happens but she said the little thing razed its head and bare teeth like you never saw and made a hiss like a snake. Next it opened wings on its back stood on the mattress and then flew out the door as the midwife ran out. Everyone said it came from a life time of calling her own son the devil.”

John when he was finished speaking took another drink of his ale setting the mug down hard on the dark table.

William had heard most of the stories; it was said after that that Hester was never the same. Gave her son to Eerie Tom and took off to live in the swamps by herself.

The boy, who also was named Richard never, spoke a word again. The Reverend Bogart prayed over the boy but he just never spoke another word. Even a surgeon from Hackensack looked the boy over but saw nothing wrong. Some took it as a sign of end times that if the boy did speak the end of the world would be coming.

But Eerie Tom and the boy got along fine. Tom’s wife had died of fever and never having a child the young Richard filled that void. He was young 11 or 12 then or as close as any could figure out, maybe older, maybe younger, now he was near on twenty. He wasn’t baptized until he came to live with Tom. But even the Reverend Bogart didn’t know if the boy fully understood why he was being baptized, but it seemed the right thing to do. He was a good boy, he slept beside the hearth in the inn, it was warm and dry and the lad had a dog he loved for company. He was a skinny wimp of a dog that would never stand up in a fight to any of the other dogs. But the boy Richard feed him scraps from the kitchen and the two seemed happy enough with life.

William shook his head not in disbelief just in shock of the story. He had heard some of the story over the years a bit here and a bit there.. Some says it spoke a few words cursing Hester before it flew off. Some said it had a tail and some said it was covered in dark long hair or fur.

“It’s still out there,” said John. “That’s what those people see, The Jersey Devil is what its come to be called.”

Every thing was blamed on the Jersey Devil from torn up roofing to a dead cow or even a dead dog or cat found in the lane. Tracks were found everywhere too in the mud on wet grass and even on a rooftop. True in some ways they looked nothing more than the hoof prints of a deer, be it a very large deer! And the local boys (no matter what their age) always thought it fun to spoof someone making mischief and saying it was the work of the Jersey Devil. But hoof prints on the roof in the snow? William could think of no answer to that. Either way it was something William didn’t want to meet on the roads of Jersey as many had claimed they had.

As for Hester Depister her home was in the swamp. Some called her a witch, others just called her crazy, either way most people rarely if ever saw her. From time to time some one would come back with a story saying they were riding along Meadow Road and saw and old woman who looked like Hester. They tried to talk with her but before they could she would dart back into the woods. Others said they knew where she lived in the swamp where her cabin was, that they would be hunting and see the smoke from its chimney. They wouldn’t go near though, there were stories about her too, stories of evil.

Hester’s house the one where the devil was supposedly born was a small one-room house. Now it was just a crumbling pile of red sand stone. Whether this was really Hester’s home no one knew; legend and story built up fast in the Dutch mind. Either way the local children would go to this site and call and make fun of Hester and the Jersey Devil. They would pitch pebbles into the pile of rocks taunting and teasing. Of course any sound that followed be it a bird in the trees or a rabbit in the brush was thought the Jersey Devil and send all the children running.

Hester and the Jersey Devil wasn’t the only thing that haunted the woods or minds of the locals. From the beginning of the Dutch, to the coming of the English, Irish, Scottish, German and others came stories too. There were the slaves of old who treated cruelly by their master knew cunning ways taught to them by their ancestors on their island homes far far away. A dead chicken was a dead chicken to some but to the ones who knew and understood the way that fowl was killed and saw the small droplets of wax from tallow candle knew better. There was always the solider who lost and arm, leg or even a head and was always on the outlook for it. There were the lovers separated by class who taking their own young lives because they could not live together in life yet in death the brambles of their graves entwined bringing them together forever. A rusted flintlock found in the woods would awaken a story about alone outpost guarding the edge of the once hostile wilderness, over run and taken by Indians his scream by torture could be heard on a still dark night. To the Scottish, Highlanders roamed the misty hills, fallen in battle they played their pipes searching for their dead comrades. The Irish had their banshees but it was their wee folk mischief elves that did the most harm. And the English, the English had their ghost too, specters often warring of grave things to come.

“Have you ever seen the devil John?” William asked.

“I haven’t but Hans has seem him, more than once too!”

“Hans Brinkerman,” called out John. “Come over here if you don’t mind. William wants to hear your tell of the Jersey Devil.”

A man at another small table turned at John Van Ripers words, his sandy shoulder length hair swung as he did. He took a few more gulps from the mug he was drinking from said something to the men he was talking with at the table then stood pulled his weskit down and walked over to the table where John and William sat. John pulled an empty chair over and Hans Brinkerman sat.

“You’ve see the Jersey Devil,” said John. “Tell Reyerson your story.” Hans motioned to Eerie Tom for more ale and then began his tale.

“The devil it was,” said Hans. “I was walking home from here one night,” Hans swayed a little in his chair as he told his story. William put his hand out thinking he might have to catch him should he fall.

“You know my place isn’t that far just a tad up the road and next to the river,” he continued. Eerie Tom set a mug down on the small table and quietly walked away. Hans took a drink.

“It was a hot summer night. I was walking when suddenly I heard what I thought was hoof beats coming fast behind me. I turned to see who was riding so hard.” Hans took a large drink from the pewter mug spilling some of the ale down upon the striped ticking of his weskit and wiped at it with his hand, then continued with his story.

“And what the alarm might be. But when I turned I didn’t see a horse but and animal that I thought a deer at first for it had antlers.” Tom but this thumbs to his head fingers spread wide showing what the antlers may have looked like.

“Now I’ve hunter all me life.” Hans razed his hand to show he was telling the truth. “But never, never did I see a deer run as fast and as hard.” Hans sway a bit again.

“That’s when I saw what it wasn’t a deer but a beast, the devil himself as big as I or bigger! Cloven hoofs it had on its hindquarter and it was covered in fur but the hands the hands were that of a man. Its face looked like a skinned deer all red with a hideous row of white teeth. It ran past me paying no heed to me at all and I was glad for it. That was the first time.” Hans ended his story by taking another large drink.

“Tell him of the second time,” coaxed John.

Hans took some more drink then rapped the empty mug on the dark table letting Eerie Tom know he wanted more ale.

“The second time I was hunting a ways out.” Hans motioned again with his hands and arms showing the distant but looking more as if he was waving to someone.

“I was by a small stream when I saw something brown with fur. I thought it to be a bear so I stopped to check my powder. I was resting a shoulder against a tree,” Hans leaned against the back of the high ladder back chair he was sitting in to show how he rested against the tree, “To get a better sight of it to plan my shot. That’s when I saw it wasn’t a bear. It was leaning over on its forearms as it lapped water out of that stream with a very long tongue. Suddenly it saw me, it stood up and open great wings upon its back.”

Hans spread his arms wide making John and William lean back in their seats as not to get hit by Han’s hands as he showed the size of the beasts’ wings.

“It jumped that stream and took off into the deep woods. But the jump, the jump wasn’t that of a man or a deer. It’s a small stream but wide, wide enough but it jumped clear across sailing on those wings, far enough on the other side to not even come down close to its bank.

“I had no reason to go after it so I turned for home.”

William Reyerson smiled to him self thinking as if Hans the mighty hunter would have gone after such a beast. Eerie Tom carried over a large red wear pitcher with a bright yellow design on it and filled the mugs on the table. Hans picked up the mug with two hands and drank nearly all of it. Eerie Tom also brought a plate of steaming stew and bread for William. William thanked Tom as he picked up the bread and dipped it into the hot stew.

William shook his head and said.

“Not something I want to meet.”

“These woods are full of ghost,” said Hans when he finished drinking. “Full,” he added. “Just ask Dan Perry he can tell you a story or two.. Dan, Dan” called out Hans. “Come here me boy.” Another man at the table where Hans was sitting earlier turned in his char.

“Come over hear and tell some of your stories,” shouted Hans beckoning with his hand. The noise of the inn quieted as Hans spoke loudly. Daniel Perry a young man in his mid thirties came over to the three men.

“You talking about the ghost?” said Daniel as he set his chair and mug down and smoothed back his dark queued hair as he sat.

“We are,” said John. “Hester and that devil son of hers. Hans seen him,” added John.

“That I have,” said Hans as he put his head on his forearms and rested them on the table, his hair almost covering his face.

“I too,” said Dan. “I have had the devils foot prints all over my land right up to my door and windows as if he must have been looking in!” Another man hearing the conversation came near smoking a long thin clay pipe and said, “Taking of ghost?” He puffed a mouth of smoke with each word.

“We be indeed Tice,” said John. Roy Tice drew another mouth of smoke as he pulled a chair closer to the men at the table. Roy was a lean thin man in fact every thing about Roy was thin even his tri corner hat was dawn together in a long thin point, his nose was long and his chin was long too.

“Look at Ben Cross,” said Roy taking deep breaths on his pipe. He was a solider of the 35th Regiment Afoot.

“Aye Benjamin Cross,” mumbled Hans who still had his head down upon his arms on the table.

“He still roams these woods,” continued Roy Tice. “Lost both legs to cannon ball. I heard he dragged himself back to camp begged to be buried with his legs. They never found his legs never could blown too bits they were. Now he roams the woods and the church graveyard looking for his legs. The women see him often. My own wife tells the tale of seeing him sitting atop his tombstone in the old churchyard. Sitting their bloody stumps and all crying he was saying have you see my legs!”

Tice breathed deeply on his pipe then said, “These parts seem to be full of ghost.” The smoke from his pipe hung thickly in the air.

William Reyerson noticed the inn was quite all seemed to be listening to the tales being told. The rain outside picked up and the wind blew strong but the stone inn seemed to fear nothing.

The mellow glow of the fire bathed all in its orange light and smoke from the many pipes hung like ghost about it dark hewn beams. Eerie Tom and the boy went on about their work. When they weren’t refilling tankers with ale they were putting pewter plates and mugs back in cupboards. Roy Tice pulled from his sleeved weskit pockets a pinch of tobacco and refilled the clay bowel of his pipe. He pressed the tobacco firm with his thumb. Suddenly the boy Richard was next to him holding a lit twig from the fire. Startled for a moment Tice smiled at the lad taking the twig from him and lit his pipe. The boy sheepishly smiled then hurried back next to Eerie Tom.

“There’s that river down by Stagg farms,” said Daniel Perry. “It’s not a big river but I’ve been there on a night like this when the water is high and running fast, it’s then you can just hear a voice above it a voice saying I’m going to kill you.”

“I’ve heard that voice too,” said John van Riper. Dan nodded and said,

“Some say it is Sarah Mayers and her lover Jacob Stone being chased by her father trying to kill Jacob before they could get away and marry. They say old Joost even though he’s dead now is still searching the river for Jacob to kill. The kids use to say that if you said Joost it’s me Jacob that Joost would suddenly appear before you. That’s what the kids say, but still I wouldn’t be trying it,” Dan leaned forward in his chair setting his elbows on his knees and said,

“They stole an Indian dig out and tried to run away together. No one could ever blame Joost Mayers for their deaths but they said he was searching the riverbanks for them, to stop them. I don’t know if old Joost was really set on killing Jacob or just trying to stop them, either way if it wasn’t raining so and if old Joost just let them marry they wouldn’t have been trying to make their get-a-way in such bad weather. That river is not wide but the current swift even on a good day.

“With the storm that was blowing that night not many would have even set out on that water. In the morning they found their bodies. Joost stayed out all night looking for them. I think as many people came out looking for Joost, as did they for Sarah and Jacob. The dug out capsized and end up down river. Sarah and Jacob either tried to wait out the storm on a fallen tree that was in the river or that tree fell and is what did them in.

“Either way they were both found in each other arms and in the arms of the tree. That’s their graves in the old graveyard the ones with the vines all intertwined on that old oak.. The families wanted to burry them close to each other but old Joost wouldn’t hear it. So they buried them about twenty feet apart with that big oak between them. That’s, as close Joost would allow. It wasn’t long after their burial that those vines came up by their graves and met on that big oak. Joost still mad cut the vines back, pulled them out by the roots and all. Yet by next spring the vines were back clinging to that oak and cling to each other.”

“What God has brought together,” remarked Tice. The others gathered at the table nodded their heads.

“What happened to Joost?” asked William.

Dan Perry sat back in his chair. “Joost didn’t live long after that maybe a year or two. He knew he did wrong. He’s buried in that graveyard too not far from his daughter Sarah. Funny thing is while her gave and Jacob Stones’ grave are covered with green grass and little flowers in the spring, Joost grave is bear, some rocks here and there, but not a blade of grass on it. You know of the ghost at the old mill don’t you?” Dan asked almost eager to tell another tale.

“The Zerbriskie mill?” William Reyerson responded. “That ones a ways north from here, up in Arcola. Never heard anything about it though. ”

“That’s the one,” said Dan going right on with the tale. “It seems this little boy was playing on its water wheel. The mill wasn’t running at that time but with him climbing all over it he must have shaken something lose because some how the flu opened and the water started the wheel turning. The boy was carried under the water by the wheel and drowned.. Now some say on some nights you can see a boy all in white almost as if he is glowing play and climbing all over that wheel.”

Suddenly a strong gust of wind blew, so strong that it blew open the inns door, the wood and glass sided barn lanterns that hung from the inns dark beams swayed and rocked while the candle that was set upon the inns window sill toppled to the floor. The thin candle that was upon the table were the men sat was blown out too. Eerie Tom carried another lit candle over to their table cupping the flame with his large hand while young Richard ran to close the inns’ door and pick up the fallen candle. William watched Tom as he relit the candle.

“As I rode in,” began William as the inn came back to light, “Just as it was getting dark I saw Francs McKearny had pumpkins set in his windows. He put candles in them to light them up.”

“The Irish,” said Roy Tice repacking and lighting his pipe again. “They say it will keep away the dead that will walk tonight. They think by carving those evil looking faces in those pumpkins that the dead will be frightened off and not come into their homes.” Reyerson nodded they did look evil seeing those glowing faces in the windows of homes set back a cross fields now dead with dried corn storks.

“Any one see the dead walking this night?” asked William.

The men at the table shook their heads no.

“Maybe they work then,” laughed William.

“Terhune did,” said Roy Tice suddenly.

“John Terhune?” John Van Riper asked.

Roy nodded puffing on his pipe and said,

“Not tonight, but last year this night. He’s got that field next to mine. He said he was done for the day, the moon was up and he was waking back to his barn when he saw someone in his fields. He walked out towards him. He said he thought it was me or one of my boys needing to talk with him. When he got closer he saw it was an Indian. Terhune didn’t have his musket with him that he usually plows with but he did have his ax and was glad he did even though the Indian didn’t seem like he wanted trouble.

“As John got closer he said he could see right through the Indians’ body, his body was there but John could still see his fields behind him. He said the Indian just waved one hand out in front of him saying ‘My land my land,’ over and over.

“John said he looked at the Indians head as he turned and pointed to his fields still saying my land. As he did could see that half his head was blown away, you know the way a musket ball can do. John said no body could live after a wound like that, not be standing they’re talking with him. John said he shut his eyes to rub them for moment and when he looked again the Indian was gone.”

The men at the table were silent.

“That whole field he plants on they say was and Indian burial ground. Who knows what Terhune churned up with that plow and ox of his. You know Terhune he wouldn’t care, would have just kept plowing.”

“You’ve got Schuylers’ copper mines up north too,” said John Van Riper. “I hear they’re full of ghost.”

“I heard that too,” said William. “With those cave-ins from time to time. Sometimes they never get those bodies out. And if they’re slaves they don’t even bother.”

“Digging into the belly of the earth,” said Roy Tice. “That can’t be good..”

“You need ore,” said William.

Tice didn’t answer just pulled deeply on his pipe.

“I hear after some of those cave-ins they only find pieces, heads or arms or legs,” said Dan Perry. Tice shook his head.

“Bring that back to your family to burry? How are you supposed to tell one hand or foot from the next person? No wonder these ghosts walk among us. You don’t have a body to give back to the earth, or burry a part with the wrong name,” Tice shook his head again then said. “I’d wander too.”

William Reyerson finished his stew and bread then sat back saying

“I heard from some of the miners at that mine that at night they’ve seen dead miners still working the mine, pushing ore carts. Candles whether in lanterns or not are always going out, and they always hearing the swinging of pick ax and shovels when they know no one is working! A lot of the men won’t go down, back down in the mine after hearing that.”

“Can’t say I would,” said Dan Perry.

“I may have been out by that shack,” said a voice over he din of the inn. The men gathered at the small table turned as a young man a hunter by looks razed from his chair and walked over. It seemed another man was listing to the tales told this stormy night.

“Hester is that the hags name?” said he.

“Bromcombes son aren’t you?” asked Roy Tice.

“That’s right,” said the hunter. “Samuel’s’ my father, and I’m Sam too. If that is she and that’s her cabin it’s a ways out there. Not likely she’d be coming back into town for anything being that far out.

“A woman with piercing blue eyes?” asked John Van Riper who then said, “Small frame, plan but pretty?”

The tall hunter made a face. “Maybe at one time,” said he. “Hard to tell on a face that wrinkled by time. But she did have blue eyes.” They turned to Van Riper the only one of them who seemed to know Hester well.

“That is she,” said Van Riper nodding. “How’d you happen out her way? Hunting?

“I was,” said Sam. “I was gutting a rabbit when I slipped with my knife.” Sam turned the palm of his hand up so that the group of men could the deep scar running a cross his palm. “I was looking for a stream to wash the cut. I thought I was near by one. I must have made a few wrong turns but did find a stream; but not the one I was looking for.

“I was leaning down washing it out when I heard what I thought might be a bear. I grabbed my horn and powered my rifle when a voice said ‘I hope you’re not going to shoot me with that’. I never expected to hear a voice this far out let alone a woman’s.

“I set my rifle down then she came into view on the other side of the small stream. I was losing a lot of blood and she saw that and said you better tend that. I nodded and knelled back down by the stream but the blood was coming fast. She then said my cabins not far why don’t you come back and I’ll fix that up for you.

“I was a bit lost and knew I had no way of stopping the bleeding quickly so I tied some rag about it and followed her. Not more than a half a mile was her cabin. If it wasn’t for the smoke coming from its chimney I would have hunted all of a stones throw from it and never have seen it. Logs mostly but with hides on the outer walls and not chinking to keep out the wind. Even the roof that looked like at one time to be thatched but now that too covered with hides. Like I said would have just about walked right past it.

“Out front she was boiling something maybe hides in huge kettles.” Sam circled his arms in front to himself to show the size of the kettles. “Hanging from try-pods of saplings they were. How she got those big kettle pots out there is anyone’s guess.”

“She didn’t cause you no trouble boy did she?” asked Tice.

Sam shook his head. “No sir,” said he. “She was as nice as any. She took me into her cabin, I almost feel bad calling it a shack, being that she was so nice, but that’s what it was.” Sam took a large drink from the tankard he held, wiped his mouth with his sleeve and continued on. “The cabin was a sight, very dark except for the open door and the one open shutter window. Smelled of flesh, human and animal. The rafters were covered with drying herbs and such, the place even had two or thee big spider weds.” Again Sam used his hands to show their diameter. “Furniture was nothing, a log or two for a chair, a plank over more logs for a table. The bed if that is even what you could call it was a few dark wool blankets and what looked like a bearskin on top. Can’t imagine that was none to warm on a really cold night.

“But like I say I do feel bad talking like this because she did fix my hand up fine. She got some of those herbs down and washed it well. Then put a large amount of spider’s webs over the deepest part of the cut then wrapped it with a strip of cloth. She told me to hold it up like this.” Sam razed his hand above his head. He then lowered his hand and rubbed at the old scar. “In and hour or two the bleeding had stopped. Hurt like the devil and took a long time for the cut to close but it did,” said Sam flexing his hand. “I thanked her. She would take no coin what little I had on me, but she did ask for some of my powder.”

“They use it in a poultice,” said John Tice. “They say the sulfur and saltpeter is good for deep cuts.”

“I gave her what I had,” said Sam. “She thanked me and I her. She then told me to follow the stream west and that would lead me to the stream I was first looking for. I could probably find her cabin again, but like I said she is a ways out there.”

Sam kind of nodded when he finished rubbed the side of his tankard and walked back to the table where he was sitting with some others. Roy Tice pulled on his pipe it was getting low on tobacco. John raised his own tankard and took a long slow drink.

Roy walked over to the large hearth. There on the wall was fastened a narrow box holding five or six white clay pipes, their bowls brown with the stain of tobacco. Next to it hung another wooden box with a lid. Roy opened this box and took out a pinch of damp tobacco and pressed it into his pipe. He checked its draw then took a twig from the fire and lit the pipe. He puffed deeply and any could see that it brought him joy. He stood there a moment filling his small tobacco tin and slipped it back into his pocket.

“Well,” said William standing. “I think I’m going to be needing bed about now.” He rubbed his eyes with two fingers then leaned down and picked up the large and heavy mailbag. As he did the other men who had gathered to hear the tales drifted back to other tables in the inn. Thin Roy Tice had returned to the table and stood there stroking his chin his mind thinking of the stories told and perhaps more.

“It’s been good talking with you Will,” said John as they shook hands.

“You have a bed Tom?” asked William.

“I do indeed,” he answered. He called young Richard over and told him to fetch a candle and show Mr. Reyerson to the room atop the stairs. The boy nodded his unkempt hair swing as he did. The boy quickly returned with a small tallow candle in a tin candleholder. He cupped the flame as William followed him up the narrow step that went up behind the encaged bar of the inn. The boy lifted the wooden latch on a door atop the stairs, the room looked darker than the night outside as William entered. The boy pushed past him and set the candle on a small candle stand.

In the darken room the merger light started to glow though never reaching the still dark corners. William set the mailbag on the floor besides the rope bed. He pushed on the roping; it needed to be tightened, but not tonight.. He smiled to himself and thought of the saying sleep tight and don’t let the bedbugs bite. Tonight he didn’t care about a tight bed just as long as there were no bedbugs. He scratched his arm just thinking of them and how no matter what you did or how many layers of clothing you wore they found their way to your skin. As he sat on the bed the corn shuck mattress rustled beneath him. He breathed deep as he took from his own weskit pocket a silver coin and handed it to Richard. The boy’s young eyes lit up at the sight of the coin.

“Spend it well laddie,” said William. “Spend it well.”

THE EXPERIENCE

Walking down a dark street
Lit with candle flames
Knocking on a strange door
Being asked your name
Creatures roaming everywhere
Giving you a fright
Oh, it must be Halloween
The very best’est night

HALLOWEEN MEMORIES

Memories of days gone by
Jack o lanterns glowing
Trick or treaters everywhere
With pure excitement showing
Friends and family gather ‘round
Party times then abound
These are things that we hold dear
Building memories year by year

SLEEPY DAYS

The rustle of dry leaves under your feet
The distant smell of fire
Oh how warmth feels when its leaving the air
Our days are growing tired
Rally in the season
Enjoy it till the end
Capture the feeling
Its Halloween once again

ORANGE SOLDIERS

Ever grinning
Shining bright
Lit within by candle light
From our porches they are seen
Orange soldiers of Halloween
Always watchful in the night
To guard us from an awful fright

My name is Cindy Tevis – I am a Halloween artist
I re-paint vintage décor in a style that I call “ShabbyHag”
You can find my art on ebay, under the ID halloweenspirit01
I have a showcase blog – http://www.shabbyhagdecor.blogspot.com
I also create Halloween poetry at http://www.idreamofhalloween.blogspot.com

Everything Old is New Again

Ever wonder the origins of our modern-day Halloween? Our holiday represents a merging of ancient Celtic culture and 8th Century Catholicism. Pope Boniface IV designated the day as All Saints’ Day. The day was spent in honor of martyrs and saints of the Church. The festival, originally called “All Hallows’ Day” actually started the evening before, since back then “next day” began in the evening. Thus, October 31st was “All Hallow’s Evening”, shortened to “All Hallow’s Even”, to … you guessed it! Amazingly, many of our modern-day holiday traditions come directly from these days of ore.

The UNDEAD and Costume-Donning

In ancient Celtic times, it was believed that on one day a year, the dead revisited the Earth on a day called Samhuinn, meaning hallow tide or season or the feast of all souls. So emerged the contemporary theme of Halloween as revolving around the undead and monstrous, decomposed figures. Dressing in costumes is a tradition dating back to Celtic times, when people would dress as dead figures in order to disguise themselves from the real spirits. It was believed that, in so doing, protection would inure to the wearer of the costume. Any journey was to be completed by sundown, roughly akin to our practice of having Trick or Treaters finish their travels in early evening.

Bonfires

Bonfires also date back to the Celtic times. It was believed that by throwing a lock of one’s hair into a bonfire on Samhain would enable one to see their future spouse in the fire. In Scotland, one would throw nuts into the fire to create the vision. Today, we do not incorporate such fanciful practices into Halloween bonfires, but the bonfire remains a symbol of the autumnal season nonetheless, as does the practice of fortune-telling on Halloween. Again, that which is considered ancient is still in use today!

The bonfire tradition in Celtic culture did have a more ominous side. After the bonfire went out, ashes were swept together and placed in a huge circle. Each village family would then place a stone inside the circle and, if the stone was moved in any way the next day, death would come to someone within that family. Chilling, isn’t it? Today, our Halloween folklore incorporates tales of various untimely and dreaded ends for revelers, too.

Turnip Anyone?

So what about the old Halloween pumpkin tradition? Again, the practice stems from the ancient Celts, who carved turnips into skeleton head figures to protect their homes from evil spirits at night. The turnip would be made into a lantern to ward off such unearthly ne’er to wells. Because turnips were less available in the New World, the practice developed into pumpkin carving on this side of the Atlantic.

Then:

Carved turnip picture from the University of British Columbia

And now:

The Author (far right), with her pumpkin in 1969

Knowing just a bit about Halloween in ancient times adds richness and texture to a modern holiday that might otherwise seem a bit outlandish. Our current traditions seem a little less absurd when one realizes just how such practices emerged over thousands of years.

Outside the Manitoba morning sky was an acrylic palette of blended hues; reds, oranges, yellows; all highlighted by golden light. The morning sun lit a world filled with buds and shoots hungering for the caress of the fiery orb rising higher.

Steven sipped his coffee, his kitchen forgotten as he stared out of the picture window. It was best to start long days early, but to forget to stop and see the world was a sin he would no longer commit. Had not Julia accused him of such? The coffee was bitter without sugar. Only the kitchen clock broke the morning silence.

With a sigh he checked his watch. It was time to start; he threw back the last of the bitter aromatic liquid. The garbage bag waiting by the kitchen door brought another sigh. It was the little things you miss, he realized. Not the arguing, the yelling; not the long conversations, but the constant sense of another in the house. The lingering scent in the washroom, flowers on the table, the gentle touch of her hand as she passed him in the hall. The smell of bread, the sound of her breathing at night, her scent on the pillows…

Opening the door he swung the bag up and walked into his yard. It took his mind a moment to register the dark thing that appeared in front of him as a gun. Yes, a gun, he told himself. He turned to the man holding it, mouth opening but no words came out.

“Inside, now.” The Man with the Gun hissed.

Steven stepped back, the bag falling from his hand. He tried to speak but no sounds came from his open mouth; behind the Man with the Gun, two more shapes appeared huddled together. As Steven backed through the open door, they followed him into the house

“Back up Doc! Back!” The Gun rose higher, the barrel a black hole.

“Ento, ent, bugs, bugs,” Steven tried to see around the gun’s muzzle, it consumed his world. An event horizon with it’s black hole, his death its centre.

“What?” The voice behind the gun was louder as Steven fell into a dinning room chair.

“Bugs! I work on bugs, I’m an entomologist. I work with bugs!” How here? This was a private community! This didn’t happen in Manitoba. Gated! Everything was locked down, secure! What could the Man with the Gun want? Drugs! “I don’t have any drugs!”

The other two shapes had huddled through the door and now the smaller one had flowed into the chair opposite him; while the other’s dirty hands closed the door. Steven jumped at the sound of the first bolt being driven home. He’d never noticed the sound of the other locks being so loud, so final. As the dirty hands touched the last bolt, he tore his eyes away from the black metal, grimy fingers slid the shiny steel home. The room was silent but for distant ticking and clicking. He could read the entire logo of the security company next to the locks.

He saw the shape opposite him now. Not something formless, but a person, a young person.

“She’s hurt!” The Man with the Gun shoved Steven toward her.

A girl, Steven blinked, sliding to his knees. The girl pulled back a grimy sweatshirt. Dirty rags encrusted with dark stains encircled her forearm.

“I have a first aid kit,” Steven looked up at the Man with the Gun. “Under the sink. I’ll need it.”

The Man with the Gun motioned the one who’d locked the door. Steven looked back at the girl. Under the filth and soiled hoody she was what fourteen, fifteen?

“Where?”

Steven looked over at the crouching boy by the sink. The doors were open showing boxes of cleaners, a container of pot scrubbers, a box of garbage bags and attached to the door the white and red first aide kit. The boy looked blankly at all the boxes.

“Where?” the boy repeated. He started pounding the flooring, “Where! Where! Where!”

“David! Shut up!” the Man with the Gun snarled, the gun bouncing about Steven’s head as he watched the hand tighten its grip.

“Please! It’s the white box on the door.” Steven started to stand up but the Man with the Gun pushed him hard.

“He’s not stupid!”

Steven went down hard, cracking his head on the table. He looked into dark eyes, cold dark eyes.

“No, no,” Steven breathed as the gun locked onto him, dead centre on his chest. “No, he’s not stupid.”

“Here,” David put the box on the table. He seemed to loose interest as he strolled to the buffet and looked through the glass doors.

“Get up and help her, now,” the Man with the Gun’s voice was very low, his mouth tight.

Steven got up and moved closer to the girl. He should have done something, he thought, he should have done something when the Man with the Gun was distracted. He motioned to the girl.

“You need to take that off. The bandages.” The girl looked down at her arm. Steven noticed how shiny her eyes were. Touching her hot skin, he started chewing his lip. Undoing the rags released the order of rot. He realized that much of the black on her hand wasn’t dirt. Peeling back the last of the rags he looked away. Steven covered his mouth and tried not to gag.

“It’s infected. Badly, she needs to go to a hospital.”

“Very funny, you’re a comedian. My medical insurance has expired.” The Man with the Gun leaned close. “I know who you are, Doctor Steven Eberius.”

Steven heart took his ability to speak away. “I don’t understand. I don’t know you, I can’t help her.”

“University of Manitoba. I was in your graduating class of 2008, don’t remember? I must have changed some over the years.” The Man with the Gun took a step back. “But you haven’t changed a bit. That gene therapy’s pretty expensive. How you managing that?”

The Man with the Gun crossed his arms and tapped the gun against his face. “Haven’t seen that pretty wife of yours around, have we David, Emily? No, not a trace. Not even at Services.”

Steven looked from the Man with the Gun to Emily; there was a resemblance there. His sister? His daughter?

“So here’s the joke doc, tell if you’ve heard this one before, Emily was-”

A scream turned them all toward the hall. David let out a second cry as he ran into the kitchen and hugged the Man with the Gun.

“Butterflies! Butterflies!” he pointed toward the living room.

“Shh, David, shhh. The doctor is going to show us,” the Man with the Gun hugged the boy. He motioned Steven to get up and lead the way.

Steven tried to think, to remember. Class of 08’ seemed a lifetime ago. Was a lifetime ago. Had the Man with the Gun been watching him? His house? Where was the security hired to keep him safe?

They stepped into a short hall; to the right was once the family room, now his office. The vaulted ceilings had the height for the cages holding the delicate insects and the vegetation they needed within. Each cage had insects at different life stages.

“Monarchs,” whispered the Man with the Gun. “Monarchs!”

Wonder appeared on his face making the years drop away, still, Steven couldn’t place him. As the Man with the Gun stepped closer, David hugged him again and tried to hold him back.

“David, these are real butterflies, real ones! They can’t hurt you like the ones outside.” He looked down at the boy. “Its okay. Do you remember when you were little and we’d go to the park with Emily and Mom?”

The boy looked up at his father, eyes tearing. “Mom’s gone. The butterflies got her. Will Emily die?”

The Man with the Gun hugged the boy tight. “You’re right, we need to tend to your sister.”

He turned back to Steven. “You save Emily, or you die.”

Steven felt his heart speed up again. “She needs a hospital, the infection is spreading.”

“She was bit by a Pog at around midnight. So if you don’t want to take a walk in Assiniboine Park…” the Man with the Gun waited, letting understanding sink in.

“No,” Steven shuddered. Definitely not the park… “I have some stuff in my desk, anti-venom. It also has a powerful anti-viral and antibiotic dose…it might work.”

“Let’s hope so,” the Man with the Gun’s smile was as hard as his eyes. “Get it.”

Steven opened his desk drawer and was pushed aside. The Man with the Gun looked inside then took out the white and red emergency kit. He stepped back and opened it, quickly reading the instructions.

As he read, Steven leaned onto his computer table and squeezed the buzzer sitting by the mouse pad.

“Okay, give it to her.” The Man with the Gun said, tossing the pack to Steven.

They went back into the kitchen. Steven gulped. The girl was now slumped on the table. The Man with the Gun stood next to her.

“Emily,” he whispered into her hair. “The doctor’s going to give you something. He’s going to help you.”

Emily opened her eyes and smiled faintly. She was quite pretty, Steven realized as he opened the syringe package and taking her clean arm gave her the injection. Her eyes looked at the packaging.

“It says I’ll need probiotics, what’s that?” Emily asked.

“Don’t worry about it right now, Emily,” the Man with the Gun said.

“Look! Pretty!”

Steven turned to see David pulling a picture from behind the buffet and hutch. The enlargement showed Steven receiving his Lifetime Achievement Award for his Stars and Stripes Butterfly. An inset showed a close-up of the butterfly and across the bottom the embossed words, ‘with love, for my Butterfly Man from your loving wife, Julia.’

Steven felt his chest tighten at the picture…Julia. David had pulled off the bow that had caught his attention, letting the picture drop.

“You bastard!” The Man with the Gun stepped around the table. He picked up the picture, staring at it, his eyes wide, “You! You killed my wife! You killed my brother! You started this…do you realize you’ve killed millions?”

He flung the picture aside, “What gave you the right!”

The Man with the Gun stepped forward, then jerked. He screamed, dropping the weapon, and seemed to be dancing. The door behind Steven burst open and security personnel overran them. The Man with the Gun was grabbed and dragged along with David and Emily out of the house.

“Are you okay, sir?” One of the guards said as he helped Steven up.

“Yes, thank you, I’m fine,” Steven took a deep breath. “What, what will happen now?”

“We’re checking them for contamination, sir,” the security officer said as Steven followed them out. Lying on his lawn, the man seemed small now, but still not familiar. The girl, Emily, cried out as they handcuffed her wrists. The boy, David, was still kicking and fighting, but a zap took most of the fight out of him.

Behind them the dead maples stood branchless; the crews had already started taking the old trees down. The recycling truck’s chipper shredder ate the branches as fast as they could be fed into it. The workers darted glances at the security guards.

Near him a voice was talking. Steven blinked away the sight of the dead trees and looked at the security guards.

“The boy’s neurally challenged. It’s developmental plus he’s infected,” the man shrugged.

“No! No!” The man who had held Steven hostage screamed until they zapped him. He moaned as the guard next to his son hit the boy with a club across the back of the head.

“You there, we have recycling here,” the Captain called to the tree trimming crew. Four of them walked over and took the boy’s body. Steven looked away, but he heard the chipper shredder’s engine work hard for a moment.

“Don’t worry, Doctor Eberius, we’ll send a clean up crew to make sure your home is disinfected. Do you wish to sponsor any of them, sir?”

Steven turned to the security guard, momentarily confused, “Sponsor?”

“They were seized on your property. They’re not registered persons. Do you want to keep either one? Otherwise we sell them to the lab. Spilt the commission, of course.”

“Right, I’m sorry, I…” Steven focused on Emily a moment. “Yes, the girl. Send me her clean up costs and I’ll keep her.”

“Yes, Doctor. Blessings of fortune on you and happy birthday.”

Steven realized they were waiting for something…right the response. What was it? Right, “Thank you and a blessing of security to you and yours.”

* * *

Steven entered his home, under his arm another award, this time for corporate earnings. The luncheon had been not just to celebrate his birthday, but his long record of biogenetic innovation. He placed the plaque on the kitchen table and allowed himself a sip of his twenty-year-old Canadian Club Whiskey.

The house’s quiet was a welcome relief from the noise and questions of those attending the banquet, too many asking about the incident. The quiet was nice.

Quiet, very quiet. Steven turned; the kitchen clock had stopped. Checking his watch, he headed to his workspace.

Emily sat in the middle of the room. Around her butterflies danced, some landing for a moment on her arms or knees only to flutter off.

“Emily, what are you doing out here?” Steven stepped forward.

Emily turned toward the sound of his voice. Her once dark eyes were milky now and sightless. Her arms and legs had developed red welts from the injections and bites. Steven didn’t doubt that the neurotoxin inhibitors were playing havoc with her immune system. But he was under contract; after all, how many people tried reproduction without the proper permits? Without paying the patent fees?

Steven looked at the Monarch Butterflies. They were his. Without patent protection where would he be?

“Well, lets get you off to bed,” Steven muttered. Perhaps he’d have to take on an assistant, but where would he find someone qualified? Someone who wouldn’t try to steal his work?

Emily didn’t resist him as he pulled her to her feet. She surprised him by reaching up and touching his face.

‘Mmm,’ she said softly. Steven leaned forward.

“I’m sorry, what was that?”

Emily opened her mouth. Steven pulled back but not fast enough. The red, white and blue butterfly launched itself. He struggled to bring up his arms, but she was surprisingly strong. The butterfly’s bite burned his cheek, then his neck.

He kicked out, freeing himself even as the pain flowed from the bites. He tried to scream as he pulled himself to the desk. His right hand spasmed but he managed to open the drawer — it was empty.

He flipped onto his side as he lost control of his body. Emily had crawled to the window. Steven watched her, trying to focus on what she had in her hand. He saw the white and red box drop to the floor as she reached for the clasp.

“No,” he gasped. The open window seemed to draw them. They flew from the room into the darkening sky. Their black and orange wings vanished into the coming night.

“No,” Steven gasped, “No, they’re mine.”

The spasms ended with his heart.

About the Author

T. Masters-Heinrichs has been writing cross genre and regular genre fiction for years. Co-authored the 10 story anthology, ‘Don’t Worry, It’s Just the Wind’ with Eric McKinnon ,which is out this October. First novel, “Blood Is Black In Moonlight” is expected out by or before December 2008. Doesn’t swim too well for someone whose lived their entire life by the shore …

Favourite authors include Neal Stevenson “Snowcrash”, Jim Butcher “Dresden Files”, and the creators and writers of the ‘Firefly’ series, Joss Whedon and ‘Babylon 5’ series, J. Michael Straczynki.

© Copyright by David Lady

“Aww, COOL!” exclaimed Jody as Susan turned the page. The eight-year-old smiled broadly at the picture of his Aunt Susan, taken when she was about his age, dressed in an implausibly bright and colorful witch costume for Hallowe’en. “That was the first Hallowe’en costume your great-grandma ever made me,” smiled Susan, “and I drove my parents nuts with it! I wanted to wear it around even after Hallowe’en, I loved it so much.” “Did Grandma and Grandpa let you?” asked ten-year-old Tyler, who sat on the sofa with Susan and Jody. “Well, not much,” she answered. “They finally had to literally take it away from me, and make Grandma store it at her place.”

“Great-Grandma musta been cool”, declared Jody. “I wish we could got to meet her.”

“Boy, Aunt Sue, it’s weird to think of you being a little kid and trick-or-treating and stuff,” marveled Tyler.

Susan turned the next page in the photo album, revealing more pictures of her childhood Hallowe’en shenanigans.

“Now, I was seven when I got the witch dress you just saw,” she went on, “and that started the tradition. The next year, my Grandma made me this outfit for trick-or-treat night!”

Jody looked at the brown furry animal in the photo Susan was pointing to. “You were an Ewok, from Star Wars, right?” he asked confidently.

“An Ewok?”, she chuckled, “No, sorry, ‘BUUUZZZ!’–Do we have any more guesses?”

“I know it, it’s a raccoon, right?” asked Tyler.

“You got it, whiz kid, I was a raccoon to end all raccoons that year. . . complete with a big striped, fuzzy tail! Dad said it was a wonder one of the neighbors didn’t shoot me, running around dressed like that!”

“I know the next one!” Jody interrupted. “It’s a mermaid!”

“That was an easy one, Dick Tracy,” said Tyler, “Did ‘ja want to wear that one around all the time too, Aunt Sue?”

Susan looked longingly into the picture of herself at age nine.

“Not Really, Ty, that tail held my legs together, so I could only walk in little teeny steps. I’m afraid some of Great-Grandma’s ideas weren’t terribly practical. . .I sure did always have fun, though!” She turned to the next page, which showed four shots of a little girl in a blue and white outfit with an odd, six-pointed face mask.

“Then the year after that,” she went on, “I was a Snow Queen.”

“What’s a Snow Queen?” asked Jody.

“I was never sure, exactly,” replied Sue, “It was from some old fairy tale Grandma liked. . .I was just crazy about that beautiful costume, though.”

“Cool,” commented Jody.

Susan looked wistfully at the photos a moment longer and then heard the back door swing open, which meant her sister Barb and Barb’s husband Jack were home. Barb was dropping her keys back into her purse as she entered the room. “Hey, Susie-Q!–How’d it go?” she asked as the boys jumped off the sofa and bounded toward her for a hug. “Great, Barb. . . the boys were just humoring me by letting me talk about my misspent youth again,” Susan answered, closing the photo album and rising from her seat. Jack stuck his head into the room and waved. “Looks like your sentence is up, Sue,” he announced. The boys said goodnight to their aunt and followed their dad upstairs, ready to be put to bed.

“Thanks again for watching the guys, Sis,” said Barb as Susan put on her jacket. “No problem, Barb. . . they were great tonight,” she replied, “and I got to help get ‘em all excited about it being almost Hallowe’en. . . We talked about costumes and dressing up and trick-or-treating almost the whole night.”

“That they don’t need any help with,” said Barb, rolling her eyes for emphasis. “They’ve been excited about Hallowe’en for weeks now. . . you should hear the way they flip out every time we see a plastic pumpkin or a paper skeleton at the mall. . .”

by Michael J. Smajda

Never again on a Halloween night

Will I ever go near a graveyard site.

For when last I did, this is what I saw

Zombie-like creatures, large and small,

Ascending from their graves, one by one,

Moaning and groaning in unison,

Wandering about like flocks of blind sheep,

Relieved to be awakened from years of dead sleep.

Having never seen corpses upright before,

Much less, decomposed, I viewed them in horror.

And seeing skeletons still wearing their coffin best,

Did very little to slow the heart in my chest

From rapidly pounding all due to the fright

That overwhelmed my being this October night.

But just when I was about to flee from these grounds,

A gruesome figure appeared with two gutless hounds

That, also, had been entombed for many-a-day,

Heading socket-less eyes, too, smelling of decay.

While the mongrels wagged their tails of bones in glee,

This one ghoulish member of the vast cemetery

Started, with a wave of his badly deformed hand,

The humming of fright songs only dead understand.

And they did so to the music played by a dire crew,

Who never played instruments or their notes, too.

And what I saw more horrific and not by chance,

Most of the dead paired off and began to dance.

The musicians played tunes only partners could hear,

Each woman was a princess, each man a cavalier,

Waltzing and fast-stepping as they once did in life

When many lived together as husband and wife.

From behind a tombstone, I was watching all of this

When a depraved youth spied me, sputtering a hiss,

Alerting all ghastly heads to look toward my place,

Frightening me so, sheer terror disfigured my face.

From all sides, they came with frothy mouths agape,

Circling my being so as no way could I escape,

And deny them their craving for the blood in my veins,

They would be sipping along with my flesh and brains.

Conceding the fact I was their Halloween treat

And their numbers too many for me to defeat,

My only recourse was to resist to the end

Their attempts to devour me like some uncooked hen.

Soon as one reached out to claw away at my clothes,

I crazily fought back fisting defending blows

For I had no intention to be like all these knaves

That death confined eternally to spooky-like graves.

Just about the time I thought my end was near,

Their assaults abruptly stopped, just why was unclear.

Then, I recalled what living dead feared most at night,

Which, was, now, the obvious presence of raying daylight.

Hurriedly, they shuffled back to their former state

While I, as quickly, exited passed burial ground’s gate,

Vowing never again to ever be seen

Lurking about cemeteries during Halloween.

© 2003 Michael J. Smajda