Written by Priscilla Howe

Some of the best stories you’ve ever heard were probably passed down from storyteller to storyteller – across cities, states, even countries! Need proof? Here we have two storytellers telling the same ghost story but with slight differences. One teller is from the United States (Kansas), the other from Montreal, Quebec. See which one you like best!

Priscilla Howe travels the US and abroad (Brazil, Germany, Bulgaria, Mexico and Belgium, to date) with a bagful of puppets and a headfull of stories. Her favorite audience is the one in front of her at any given moment. A full-time storyteller since 1993 and a former librarian, Priscilla lives in Lawrence, Kansas. She’s also searching for the best restaurant pie on earth.

John David Hickey has been telling fables, folktales, and legends for over 15 years. He delights in telling stories from all over the world, but has a particular fondness for quirky, underdog stories. David has an animated, energetic telling style that appeals to both children and adults. He has performed in schools, libraries, pubs, cafes, and various festivals across Canada. He lives in Montreal, Quebec and tells tales in English and in French.

You can also hear John’s stories at Shortening The Road.
 

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Written by Bill Darby

He had seen her twice before she called out to him. He walked up to her porch and took a seat by this lively country lass.

“What’s your name?” she asked as he stretched out his legs.

“Frank, Frank Gorin. I moved here just a few weeks ago.”

“I’m Carol Haislip. I seen you a walking down through the road there.”

Frank almost laughed at her slurred words and grammar. She was charming to look at… to be with. He took her to be in her twenties; but she didn’t seem to be very mature. Oddly, he liked that about her.

“I need to take walks,” he said. “It helps me get the layout of the town. I moved from a bigger city. Had to change jobs, ways, a life.”

He was beginning to like this town. His new job was tolerable. The slower pace was getting hold. Somewhere in the distance he heard some kids playing – a sound that he had almost forgotten. He wondered if this Alabama town was typical of other southern communites.

“You like walkin’?”

“Sure. There’s not much else to do here.”

“You like runnin’?” he eyes brightened as she sat up a bit.

“Pretty much,” he said almost laughing again. “I was on the track team in high school. Boy, that seems like such a long time ago.”

“I love to run,” she said sitting back. “I run most every day. I was always the fastest one in my school. I bet you couldn’t keep up with me.”

Again, he was almost startled. She sounded like an eight year old.

“Oh, I imagine I could,” he argued nudging her slightly.

“I’ll take you around the block, right now.”

“Here? Wouldn’t we look kind of silly?”

She giggled. “Folks around here just expect to see me runnin’. It won’t matter a bit. They know me.

“Maybe some other time,” he said.

He felt her relax next to him. He felt strange; but he was enjoying this. The dusk had begun to creep in; and there was a slight August wind whispering through the street.

“There’s this lake, Peterson’s lake that’s a beautiful place. We could go there,” she said softly.

“That sounds fine,” he agreed. “What do you say, you show me the lake this weekend.”

“OK,” she said.

So he had a date. When he knocked on her door that fine Saturday morning, she appeared in a long skirt, obviously worn a long time. It was sad how these people lived, he thought. But, also, there was an alluring charm about it as well. He drove her to a beautiful lake beside several green hills.

After they ate, they were sitting in the shade of a big oak. The talk was scattered and unimportant. This was a new experience for him.

“Hey,” she said suddenly, “Why don’t we race?”

“We just ate,” he protested.

“So,” She stood up, looking around like an excited school girl. “I race ya to that tree over there.”

He laughed, starting to get up. “What is it about you and racing?”

She was off. He took off after her; but to his amazement, was unable to gain on her. Her legs ran with precision as she flung the long dress wildly. He turned on the speed, determined to catch her; but he gave out. A stab of pain in his side reminded him that he hadn’t run for a long time. She stopped and looked back.

“What’s the matter?” she called out.

“Give me a second,” he said bending forward.

She strode back up to him with a smirk on her face. “I got you on that one.”

“It’s been a long time,” he heaved. “Longer than I thought.”

“Oh, that’s OK,” she said. “Let’s go for a walk. There’s some really neat trails up on those hills.”

He straightened up. Those hills looked tall; and he wasn’t in a hurry to climb them. Still, he couldn’t let her show him up so. Without a word, she took his hand, and off they went at a lively pace.

They arrived at a small stream that fed into the lake. They stepped across, seeing a winding trail that led upwards into green thicket. She started up with agile steps. He followed more cautiously.

“You must come out . . here a lot,” he said.

“All the time,” she said. “I like it here.”

The climbing became more difficult; and again, he found himself being outpaced by this sturdy country girl. “Try to keep up,” she said.

A few minutes later, he was alone on the trail, his progress reduced to to a slow plodding. She was nowhere in sight. He looked upward trying to see.

“Come on,” she called out some distance away. He continued on; but his side was hurting him again. After a few more minutes, he had reached the hilltop. He struggled over to a fallen log and sat down, getting back his breath.

“What’s the matter?” came a voice beside him. She was there. He jumped over to the right.

“I didn’t see you,” he heaved. “Where did you come from?”

“Right here. Come on, there’s a neat little cave down at the bottom of this hill.”

“Can’t we rest a minute. That climb almost killed me.”

“Ohhh, ” she mocked. She sat down. “What’s wrong old man. You can’t keep up with me.”

“Maybe you’re right,” he said. “like I said, ‘s been a long time. . ”

He was cut off in mid sentence. He saw something. Slowly he got up and walked over to a large maple. The rounded object looked, at a glance, so much like . . He moved it with his foot. It was an old yellowed skull – a human skull.

“Look at this,” he almost said to himself. Carol came up beside him.

“Carol. Somebody died up here.”

“These hills are haunted with ‘em,” she said with her eyes sparkling. “At night you can hear them whispering and crying to each other. Awful sound.”

A chill went down his spine. “But, we need to report this,” he said looking for something to say.

“You can tell old Rodgers about it,” she said. “He couldn’t even climb these hills if he had to.”

“Well, I’ll look him up and let him know about it. This was probably a missing person or something. I wonder how he could have died.”

“He couldn’t keep up,” she said perkily.

“What do you mean by that?”

“Come on,” she said tugging at his arm. He followed her. She was headed down the hill – in the other direction.

“Oh, not that way,” he said. She was running ahead. “Wait.”

He regretted this date. He had gotten a lot more than he had bargained for. He went down a slope which suddenly turned steep. The trail was hard to see. He was holding limbs and small trees to keep his balance. He swore, falling a few times.

After several more minutes of this, he found himself at another stream bigger than the one before. He would have to wade through it to get to the other side. But there was no sign of a trail now.

“I see you,” came a distant voice.

He looked for her without success. Noticing the sun, he saw it lowering through the western trees. How could that be? How long had he been here with this wild lass?

“Carol,” he called out.

“Up here.”

Groaning, he stepped through the water and began to climb the hill. This one was not as steep; but he was fatigued, and every step hurt. He didn’t want to think about the trip back. He would take a few steps, then rest against a tree. He temples were throbbing.

At last, he reached the top. He was in a canopy of green, sweat pouring off of him. He heard some footsteps beside him and looked.

“Don’t tell me you’re sittin’ again,” she said.

“Carol. It’s getting late. We’ve got a few miles of hills to cover before we get back to the lake.”

“All right,” she conceded. “But I can get back there in no time at all.”

“Yes,” he agreed, but I can’t.

“Old man,” she muttered.

His humor had quite disappeared. He only wanted to get back home and take a cool shower. He stood, because his left leg was getting cramped. That is when he saw the rib cage.

Walking over to it, he knelt down. It had to be human. And here was an arm bone, and some other smaller pieces.

“Holy cow! Here’s where somebody else died. What is this place? Do people just come up here and drop dead?”

“Listen,” she giggled. “They’ll start telling you secrets if you listen real close.”

Something was working in his mind – something really dark and sinister. There was some very uncomfortable questions forming. He had heard really strange tales about lynchings and murders in the country. But all of that was over now, right? That sort of thing did not happen any more.

“We’d better go,” he said.

“OK lazy bones, I’m off.”

“No ! Carol, wait.”

But she had run down the hill. Incredibly she wove through the trees without so much as a bump. He took off as well, making about fifty feet before he fell. His side was killing him now. He could not run.

It seemed that dusk was coming. He knew the way back, he thought. Sure. Down this hill to the stream. And wouldn’t the stream lead right to the lake? But he couldn’t leave her on the hill. He had to find her again. In time, he made it to the stream. He looked around.

“Up here slow bones,” he heard her say from above. Another hill.

He climbed. He rested. The sun was now low and red, peeking at him through the forest tangle. His side hurt. His legs were numb. Years of neglect were showing. But finally, he had topped the first hill. It would have been beautiful to view if he wasn’t in such pain. Again, she was beside him as if she had appeared.

“Come on,” she said.

“I can’t. In a minute. Carol, I found another body on that other hill. We’re going to have to report this. People don’t just come up here to die. Something’s wrong here.”

“You couldn’t keep up with me,” she said slightly pouting.

“All right!” he shot back. “I couldn’t keep up with you. What is the big thing about keeping up?!!”

“Nobody can,” she said. “You’re just like all the rest.”

He tried to stand back up; but he collapsed again. “What do you mean ‘all the rest ‘ What are you talking about?”

“I’m going,” she said disappointedly.

“Wait,” he moaned with closed eyes. “I don’t know the way back. There’s . . . there’s no trail. Just give me a minute. Ohh.”

But she disappeared down the hill, out of sight, still gaily bouncing. She paused a moment to look back at him. He saw a look of teasing glee in her eyes as she turned away to resume her escape. Again he tried to rise; but he could not. His legs seemed to be paralyzed.

He was alone. The sun was setting. He was terribly thirsty; and he knew, somehow, that he would be spending the night there. And slowly, his mind echoed her last words to him – ‘You’re just like all the rest’. Slowly, painfully, he now realized just what she meant.

- THE END -

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A creek in the woods, wandering lost,
ripples beneath the low hanging moss
and carries falling leaves for a ride,
they swirl in the eddies and raft on the tides
and rush to and fro to the swampy lows,
then slow, to unfold in a pool of shadow.

And only be chance do the leaves arrive
at the hidden pond where Joeabb resides.

Here, the sunlight is filtered by shade
of trees in the water. Their trunks colonnade
at the edge of the pond like sentries at guard;
banishing all who would venture this far
to spy on creatures asleep on the logs,
that swim in the cattails or slog thru the bog
or perhaps the reclusive Joeabb the Frog,
the once famous tenor, ghost of the fog.

Leagues to the south, as the blackbirds fly,
at a green lily pond in times gone by,
a young Joeabb, just tadpole to frog,
soon discovered his gift from the fog;
a beautiful voice, hauntingly tender
with range and power – basso to tenor.
Those who heard him were staggered with awe
and news spread quickly of Joeabb the Frog.

Come evening, the pond was symphony hall,
crickets would fiddle, hoot owls would call,
heron and egrets swooshed in the shallows
and frogs by the scores puffed their bellows.
Birds of all feathers flocked the trees,
lightning bugs lighted the mist magically,
a lodge of beavers thumped hollow logs
but all would go still, for Joeabb the Frog.

It seems he would sing to the night, unaware
that a throng of listeners had gathered there
and often his eyes would drift to his maid,
a spotted she-frog, he called Lilyjade;
crooning sweet tones for her alone
as if his songs were a lover’s poem.
And after the throng of the gathered had gone,
they’d snuggle together to wish on the dawn.

Joeabb rejected the trappings of fame;
refused the gifts, ignored the acclaim.
Offers of travel and sing on the lake,
though tempting, he thought, tempted the fates.
Until he was nudged by his own Lilyjade;
with a goodbye kiss, he was whisked away
and night after night he sang for her sake,
while millions listened around the great lake.

The fog rolled in, his tenor voice soared
and those so impressed by this frog troubadour
thundered a cheer that rippled the lake
at the end of the concerts of Joeabb the Great.
Each morn, he vow to the great beyond
that soon he’d return to the green lily pond
where surely his mate ponders the dawn
and lingers with fading stars to wish on.

At the final performance, a fierce wind blew
and everyone, looking for cover, withdrew.
Joeabb impulsively headed for home
and wrestled the gales of the night alone.
He arrived along with the calm of day
and met by the creatures who weathered the fray,
he saw his pond completely transformed
and heard cruel stories wrought by the storm.

Heads bowed when he called Lilyjade,
for she was swept by the hurricane’s rage.
Joeabb searched thru the woods for leagues
and refused to accept what the others believed.
He swam the swamps and the waterways,
journeyed farther and wider each day,
and after months of the same, on and on,
he never returned to the green lily pond.

Some say he’s lost, others he died;
fell in a cavern, buried alive.
Some say he found a moonbeam of blue
and climbed to the sky for a better view.
But in truth he repaired to this swampy glade,
so cloistered by backwater bramble and shade
and began a song so incredibly strong
that time itself refused to move on.

When the mist comes from the trees beyond
he croons to a moon and a love that is gone
and endeavors to conjure his Lilyjade
from the ghostly haze that glides the glade;
certain that when his voice becomes pure,
she’ll respond from beyond the misty moor.
But the fog only drifts thru his sad serenade,
years into decades and age upon age.

Now, a thousand years have gone by;
his voice so pure, just a note makes you cry.
And so, the angels who bring forth the dawn
were moved to tears by his woeful song.
With a touch they placed this hidden pond
between the here and the great beyond
and nestled the souls of two little frogs
who live forever in love in the fog.

On warm summer evenings while lying your bed
or rocking the porch with stars overhead,
you may hear a voice so incredibly pure
you’ll clutch at your heart in rapture, assured,
if you close your eyes and breathe the night air
you’ll drift with the mist that lifts you to where
a blithe little spirit sings in the fog
and you’ll hum along with Joeabb the Frog.

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Adapted from folklore by Craig Dominey

Now this story happened long before there were cars, or highways, or motels. Back in the old days, folks would travel or haul things by wagon, riding miles down long dirt roads to get from one place to another. And the wagoners – that’s what the old folks used to call guys who hauled things – would get mighty tired after being on the road so long, and were always looking for a place to sleep.

That’s the dilemma Joe Bates found himself in. For two days, he’d been steering a wagon full of farm equipment destined for Red Springs, Alabama. Night was falling fast – as were his drooping eyelids. The last thing he wanted was to fall asleep and steer his team of horses into a ditch. So he figured he better find a place to catch a wink or two, even if it was on the cold, hard ground.

As luck would have it, Joe passed an old farmer walking home from a long day in the fields. Joe stopped him and asked where he might find some lodging. “There ain’t nothin’ between here and Red Springs,” the farmer said. He then pointed toward a small dirt path that split away from the main road into a dense pine forest. “That there’s a short cut that’ll git you there in half the time. But I wouldn’t travel on that road at night.”

“Why’s that?” Joe asked.

The old farmer spit a stream of tobacco juice into the bushes and said, “‘Cause ever’body knows that road is haunted.”

Well, Joe had been traveling through Alabama long enough to know that country folk made up a lot of tall tales to pass the time. So Joe grinned, patted the old man on the back and said, “Thanks, old timer, but I’ll take my chances, ghosts or no ghosts.” And with that, he steered his wagon into the forest.

A couple of hours went by, and Joe was starting to think that this so-called “short cut” wasn’t so short after all. All he could see around him in the darkness was thick, impenetrable forest. His lantern cast eerie shadows on the stark pine trees. Strange night creatures chattered amongst themselves in the shadows, as if waiting for the forest to swallow Joe alive.

Finally, the trees broke on one side to reveal a small, white clapboard church sitting on a small rise. The windows were dark, but Joe knew the door was probably unlocked. After all, preachers encouraged their flock to pray whenever they could, even at odd hours of the night. So Joe tied his team to the front post, walked up the stairs, and opened the heavy door with a loud creak.

Sure enough, the church was empty, So Joe stretched himself out in a pew in the back and chuckled to himself. He couldn’t believe his luck, finding this place so far out in the woods. It was almost enough to make him consider going to church again on Sundays! But he quickly shook that thought off and fell into a deep, much-needed slumber.

Moments later, Joe awoke to a sudden thumping sound coming from the front of the church. He lay quiet for a moment, thinking an animal had crawled inside. He heard it again, louder this time. Joe reached for his extinguished lantern, but couldn’t find a match to light it with. Cursing under his breath, he peered over the pew in front of him. His eyes took awhile to adjust to the darkness.

But when they did, he saw something that made him jump. Standing by the pulpit was a small figure in white, rocking back and forth on her heels slowly. “Who’s there?” Joe called out, only to be answered by a low, painful moan.

Joe found the matches in his pocket. He tried to light the lantern, but no luck. He looked up, and a chill ran through him as he saw the figure had moved closer. He could see it was a woman in a torn white dress, her long, stringy hair hanging over her face. She was moaning louder now as she approached him. Joe found himself backing away toward the door. He tried to light the lantern again, but still the flame wouldn’t catch. He looked up and saw that the woman had moved even closer. He noticed that the front of her dress was stained with mud.

“Wh…what do you want?” Joe asked her, his voice cracking with fear.

He backed up against the door, but it was closed. The woman moved closer and closer, her moans growing louder and louder. Joe fumbled with the lantern again, striking another match. This time the flame caught, and as he lifted the lantern in the air, he gasped – the woman was standing right in his face, her eyes crazed and bloodshot, skin pale and cracked like some long lost china doll! She reached for his face, and even in that split second, Joe could see that her fingernails were broken and dirty.

Joe flung the door open and ran to his wagon. He could hear the woman’s bare feet thumping down the church stairs behind him. He frantically untied the horses and leapt into the driver’s seat. And right before he sped away, he swore he felt the woman grab his shirt, trying desperately to pull him off the wagon.

Joe rode swiftly away from the church and did not stop until he reached Red Springs, just as the morning sun cracked the horizon. He found a local restaurant and collapsed into a chair. With trembling fingers, he lit a cigarette as the morning breakfast crowd stared at him strangely.

“You all right, Mister?” the Manager asked as he poured Joe a steaming cup of coffee.

Joe shook his head and told him the story of the ghost he’d seen in the church. The Manager stared at him for a moment, then sat quietly beside him and said, “That weren’t no ghost you saw. I think you saw Mary Ann Finch. And the Sheriff’s been looking for her for days.” The Manager went on to explain that Mary Ann was a young woman who’d escaped from a nearby mental hospital. Seems she had delivered a baby girl out of wedlock a year or so ago. She was so scared that the townsfolk would shun her that she killed her baby, and buried it deep in the forest where no one would find her. But her guilt only festered inside her, eventually making her crazy. So much so that her family put her in the hospital. But while she was in there, she cried out that she had had a change of heart, and wanted to dig up her baby, lying somewhere out there in those piney woods, cold and alone. Problem was, she couldn’t remember where she had buried her.

One night the doctors went to Mary Ann’s room to give her her nightly sedative, but she was gone. Most folks figured she had run off into the forest, but nobody was too eager about going in there and finding her.

After Joe told the Manager his story, the police went back to the old church, but all they found were a bunch of muddy footprints. But Joe didn’t stick around long enough to find out what ever happened to Mary Ann Finch. He delivered his equipment as promised and rode back home, swearing never again to take a questionable short cut, no matter how much time it saved.

And he also learned that he shouldn’t easily dismiss the tall tales that older folks might tell him. ‘Cause there may be a germ of truth in them after all, if you listen hard enough.

-THE END-

Story Credits | Story Background

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Written by Craig Dominey

To some folks, Christmas might not seem like the right time of year to tell ghost stories. But I’ve got a spooky tale to share with you. And to understand my story, you first have to understand the relationship between my father and his dog.

You see, my father loved his dog more than anything else in the world, including his own family. Or at least that’s the way it appeared to me. There were no pictures of my mother and I in his wallet, only that big, sloppy, clumsy dog. He took his dog everywhere he went – on family vacations, out in the fields, even to bed at night! He showered every ounce of love he had on that dog, and it made my blood boil.

Back then, I was an only child growing up in a farmhouse deep in the South Georgia countryside. The wooden house sat at the edge of a thick forest that stretched on for miles. It was a drafty old place with high ceilings, cavernous hallways and dark hardwood floors that creaked loudly with each footstep.

My father was an ex-army colonel, and a strict disciplinarian. He had a cold and stiff demeanor, as if some army trainer along the line had squeezed every ounce of emotion out of him. As the years passed, I grew more and more distant from my father. In fact, sometimes I was downright scared of him. And I paid little attention to any awkward attempts he made to show his affections. But every human being needs an outlet for their emotions, so my father got something that wouldn’t talk back or challenge him – a dog.

As if by divine intervention, a stray black lab came bounding onto our property one day, wet and starving. After some half-hearted attempts to locate the original owners, my father named him “Mac” and welcomed him with open arms into our home. Mac constantly tried to play with me – jumping up on my lap, nudging me with a dirty tennis ball in its mouth, licking my face. But I shoved him away each time, sending him running back to my father. Over the years, Mac never seemed to get the message that I wanted no part of his affection. I even shut the door to my room to keep him out.

When I was about 13 years old, Mac grew sick with cancer. My father watched in horror as his dog deteriorated before his eyes. Mac spent his days lying in the middle of the family room, panting and unable to eat, his sharply defined ribs heaving with each pained breath. When my father would reach down to pet him, a joyous recognition would flash in his eye, only to be extinguished by his agony. We had no choice – my father made the hardest decision of his life and had Mac put to sleep.

After it was done, he wept and spent many hours alone. Each part of his daily routine – driving to the store, walking around the property, reading the paper in the morning – seemed empty without Mac around. But to be honest, I felt no sadness. Deep inside, I felt like we could now be a normal family with Mac out of the picture.

One day, I walked into my parents’ bedroom and noticed a strange wooden box sitting on my father’s nightstand. It was nailed shut, and had the name “Mac” engraved on a brass plate. When I confronted my mother about it, she rolled her eyes and told me the ghastly story. Shortly after Mac’s death, my father had had him cremated, and now kept his ashes beside the bed. Well, that was the last straw. My father couldn’t stay away from that dog when he was alive, and now he was clinging to him in death. I simply could not live another moment with that dog in the house. So one night when my parents were away, I grabbed a shovel, stole the box from their bedroom and ran through the dark into the forest. I buried that box under a tree and covered it with pine straw. It was so far out in the woods that there was no way my father would ever find it.

I knew I’d get the beating of my life when my father came home, and I didn’t care. The look of agony on his face made it worth it to me. Now he would pay for not being the father I wanted. Hysterical with rage, he dragged me out into the forest the next morning and made me dig under every tree for that box. But I honestly couldn’t remember where I had buried it. After days of trying, we finally gave up.

Needless to say, our relationship soured even more after that. We rarely spoke to one another, and when I grew older and left for college, I rarely returned home. Christmas seemed like a painful obligation, with a cold chill hanging over us as we sat silently around the festive table. My poor mother tried everything she could to bring us together as a family, but the damage had been done.

I eventually married and moved far away from my parents. They barely knew my wife, and we spent most holidays with her parents up north. But the bitterness of my childhood wormed its way into my marriage, and before I knew it, we were divorced. In the following years, my parents passed on, leaving the old family house cold and empty.

I dreaded the Christmas season of 1985, for I knew that for the first time, I would truly be alone. The sounds of Christmas cheer were like nails under my skin, and I drank heavily to block them out. So when I was asked one day to look after the old family house while it was being put on the real estate market, I quickly agreed. Perhaps deep in the country I could get away from all the bright lights and wretched merriment.

What I discovered was that the old house was a dark crypt of painful memories. Although the outside was run-down, everything inside was left as it was, as if my parents had suddenly been plucked from the earth by some unseen force. Fortunately, this also meant that my father’s bar was still fully stocked. Without hesitation, I grabbed a bottle of scotch, made myself a fire in the old stone fireplace in the den, and drank myself to sleep.

Sometime in the middle of the night, I was awakened by an odd thumping noise coming from upstairs. The house was dark and cold, and my fire was long extinguished. In my drunken stupor, I had forgotten to leave any lights on, and now I was enveloped in the blackness. After an eerie silence, I heard the thumping again, this time sounding like something moving about in the upstairs hallway, the floorboards creaking under its weight. I remembered that squirrels and other small creatures sometimes found their way into the house when I was young. But this sounded larger than a squirrel.

The thumping sound descended the stairs and moved closer and closer toward the den. Through my drunken haze, I recognized it as the rasp of claws on wood. I heard it enter the room, then stop. I fumbled around me in the dark for a candle, found one on the mantle, and lit it.

I could scarcely believe my eyes. Sitting in the doorway, slobber dripping from the sides of his mouth, was Mac, looking strong and youthful. He made no move toward me, but just stared at me with twinkling, excited eyes. After a long pause, he whirled around and ran out the door, barking loudly.

I guess it crossed my mind that this was very strange, being visited by a dead dog in the middle of the night. But I found myself following him as he bounded through – and I do mean “through” – the front door. Before I knew it, we were running through the frosty night deep into the woods, the brittle pine needles crackling under my feet. My flickering candle cast strange shadows on the dark trees towering ominously overhead, as if they were encircling me for the kill. After what seemed like miles, Mac suddenly stopped under one of the trees and began pawing at the ground.

Now, have you ever have one of those moments when you finally realize you’re dreaming, and you have the power to wake yourself up? Well, this was one of those moments, and I wasn’t about to be fooled. “Okay Mac, I know what this is about,” I heard myself say. “I ain’t digging up your ashes, you hear me? I know this is a dream, and I’m gonna wake myself up now. You ain’t ever gonna leave these woods.”

With that, I pinched myself on the arm. Mac stopped digging, looked at me with that goofy grin of his, then slowly vanished. I could feel chill bumps on my skin, and I knew that, any minute now, I would be awake.

To my surprise, I found myself still standing in the forest. Mac was gone, and the ground showed no signs of his paw prints. But now the trees had taken on a strange, burnt orange glow, and the air was thick with smoke. Was I awake, or had I just moved into another dream?

I turned around, and my jaw dropped. The old family homestead was on fire – a giant tower of flame licking the night sky. I ran back to the house, but it was too late. The fire had been burning for almost an hour, and everything was gone.

Shortly thereafter, fire investigators reasoned that a stray cinder falling out of the fireplace as I slept caused the fire. The house was so old and wooden that it burned in no time at all. What was miraculous to them was that I had somehow walked out the door in my sleep when the fire started burning. Otherwise, in my drunken stupor, I certainly would have died.

But I knew there was another part of the story: that Mac had come back and guided me to safety. And I also knew that there was only one thing I could do to thank him. I grabbed a shovel and went back to that spot in the woods where I had stood the night before. I dug right where Mac had been digging, and sure enough, I found the box I had buried many years before. I then bought a plot near the foot of my father’s grave and laid Mac to rest – much like he had slept at the foot of his bed when I was young.

My life changed after that Christmas. I married again, had a son of my own, and have tried every day to be the best father I can be. I told no one about what really happened that night, but I think of Mac every day. Most importantly, I learned that you must give of yourself if you expect anything in return. And that everyone is capable of unconditional love – not just four-legged creatures.

Happy holidays, everyone.

- THE END -

Story Credits | Story Background

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Written by Craig Dominey

Have you ever heard someone use the expression, “My life flashed before my eyes”? People use it so much it’s become a cliche’. But such a thing really happened to me. Although it wasn’t my life that I saw.

When I was a young man growing up in Chattanooga, Tennessee, I was dating a girl named Melissa. She lived just over the state line in the small town of Lafayette, Georgia. When this incident happened, I’d only been seeing her for a couple of months, so I was still trying to impress her as best I could. So you can imagine my anxiety one Friday night – the night of a big date I’d been planning for days – when my car broke down right after I’d gotten off work. I kicked the tires so hard I almost broke my foot!

Well, I frantically located my big brother and coaxed him into letting me borrow his old beat up truck. Sure, it wasn’t the fancy chariot Melissa was expecting me to show up in. But all I cared about was finding four wheels that could take me straight to Lafayette – via Chickamauga Battlefield.

Now if you’ve never heard of Chickamauga – think of it as the Gettysburg of Georgia, but bigger. Chickamauga is actually an Indian word meaning “River of Death.” And it lived up to its name during the Civil War when a bloody battle was fought there. The Yankees were trying to capture Chattanooga, which was a major rail center at the time. The Rebels drove them back, but not before nearly 40,000 soldiers died.

Of course, the history behind the battlefield wasn’t important to me that night. What was important was getting to Melissa’s house, and I was already over an hour late. So I knew the quickest way to get there was the two-lane road that cut straight through the heart of the battlefield.

As I gunned my brother’s truck over the state line, a hard rain that had been falling all day was tapering off. But it left behind a thick and eerie mist that crept through the open battlefield like ghostly fingers. The park had closed for the night, and there were no cars in sight. The road was almost impossible to see. But I had used this park as a short cut a million times before, and knew it like the back of my hand.

As I was driving down the main road, I noticed the faint headlights of a car approaching in the distance. For a split second, I wondered if this was someone just like me, late for an important date with a Georgia beauty. I could only hope he saw me in the swirling mist between us.

But as the car drew closer, I noticed it was unlike any vehicle I had seen before. The headlights appeared to be a strange greenish color. I knew a thing or two about cars, but I’d never seen headlights like that. Maybe they helped the driver see in bad weather conditions, I thought.

The car drew closer and closer, and those green lights were burning at a wattage I’d never seen from any headlight. And they seemed to bounce up and down, and weave from side to side, as if the car was riding on springs. I politely tapped my horn, hoping the driver could see me in front of him.

But as the mystery car got closer and closer, the driver appeared to swerve further into my lane. This time I laid on the horn – what’s wrong with this guy, I thought, is he drunk? Then I saw something that really shook me. There were no beams shooting out of those green lights – they looked like two floating orbs, powered by some other source. They even looked like…eyes.

I frantically blared my horn again as the green lights drew near. And just before we passed each other, the driver suddenly swerved into my lane! I reacted quickly, spinning the wheel the opposite way. My truck flew off the road and onto the battlefield grounds, swallowed by darkness. I slammed into a tree, and the world turned black.

When I came to a few moments later, the battlefield was silent, save the hissing sound coming from the crushed hood of the truck. My headlights were smashed, and the only light was from the bright stars above. I felt the large bump on my head and groaned.

It was then I saw the green lights again, sitting silently in the darkness, observing me. I watched as the lights floated closer and closer toward my vehicle. In the silence, I could hear no car engine sputtering toward me. It couldn’t be a car that I had seen. But what was it?

Suddenly the lights disappeared. I began to tremble with fear for the first time. “Who’s out there?” I called out, but no one answered. I then heard a rustling sound against my car. I peered out the window, and in the darkness I could just make out a large shadowy figure circling me. I thought it was a large man, for it shuffled about on two legs. But as my eyes adjusted, I could see that it’s hair was long, right down to the waist. And it made a horrible moaning sound, the saddest sound I’d ever heard.

Just like that, the figure disappeared, and the night was quiet again. “Is anyone out there?” I yelled, but there was still no answer. After a long pause, I slowly reached for the door handle with shaking fingers.

Then something pounced onto the hood of my truck. I looked out the cracked windshield, and what I saw was no man. It was a beast, with long dirty hair and huge, mangled jaws from which two long, sharp fangs jutted out. And it had two burning green eyes, fueled by some otherworldy evil I couldn’t begin to comprehend.

I tried to scream but found myself mute, hypnotized by those green eyes. And as the creature and I stared at each other in silence, the battlefield began to transform around us. The darkness gave way to a strange green glow. There was no road, no cars and no monuments. Instead, I was surrounded by smoke, fire, scorched grass and the charred remains of warfare. The sickening stench of burning flesh filled my nostrils. At my feet were piles of bodies in blue and grey unforms, drenched equally in blood. Some were missing arms, others legs. There were heads without bodies, their eyes shut tightly as if afraid of their ultimate fate. And everywhere were the low and agonizing moans of pain and death, filling the skies along with the black smoke in a hellish symphony.

Suddenly, a curtain of darkness fell down on the battlefield. I could hear a car horn behind me. The creature leapt off my hood and disappeared into the night. It was then I realized I was back in the wrecked truck. A couple of rangers ran down the hillside to my aid. “Are you alright?” they asked.

“Did you see that animal that attacked me?” I asked them breathlessly. “The one with the green eyes?”

The two rangers looked at me strangely. “That’s a serious bump you got on your head, son,” they answered. “You must be seein’ things.”

“But something jumped on my truck,” I yelped. “I saw it!”

But the rangers never found evidence of any creature. Even when daylight broke, and my truck was towed away, not a single animal print could be found. And I soon gave up my argument about the creature, fearing that people would think I was crazy.

Believe it or not, in later years I ended up becoming a park ranger myself at Chickamauga Battlefield. The area was no longer just a shortcut between Chattanooga and Lafayette. To me it was hollowed ground, from which I could point out every military maneuver, every act of bravery, and every tragic defeat.

But as time passed, other folks insisted that they, too, had spotted the mysterious “Green Eyes” while driving through the park at night. And they would ask me what I saw that fateful night as a teenage boy. You know what I told them? I would say that what I encountered that night was no monster, but the shadow of death that creeps around every town, alleyway and battlefield where men go to war – and will keep doing so as a reminder of our tragic mistakes.

- THE END -

Story Credits | Story Background

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Written by Craig Dominey

They say there are places on this planet which have seen such tragedy and sorrow that they are forever cursed. It’s as if the earth itself holds some dark supernatural force beyond our understanding. A few years ago, I found such a cursed place just a few miles west of Atlanta, Georgia – a tiny hamlet called New Hope. And even though many people don’t believe the story I’m about to tell, my visit there haunts my dreams to this day.

At one time, I was a 35-year-old small business owner living in a tiny town in rural Virginia. This town was so tiny and remote that it took us several years to finally discover a brand new invention that was already revolutionizing the world – the Internet. But once I was online, I quickly left my nine to five job and went into business for myself in the new “dot com” economy.

I didn’t have a brilliant business mind, but my father, a rabid Civil War enthusiast, had taught me to do one thing very well – hunt for Civil War artifacts. Bullets, belt buckles, coins, uniform buttons – the Virginia battlefields were full of them. So I quickly opened up my own Web site hawking Civil War memorabilia at high prices.

I’m a bit ashamed to admit it now, but profit was much more important to me in those days than respect for the dead. It didn’t matter to me if a battlefield was located on protected land or not. Under cover of darkness, I would sneak onto the property with my shovel and trusty metal detector, and would steal away as many artifacts as I could find. But it wasn’t long before other relic hunters got in on the act, and competition became fierce. Verbal threats and fistfights became common amongst rival hunters, and I knew it was time to hunt for relics elsewhere.

I remembered studying about Union General William T. Sherman’s devastating “March to the Sea” in Georgia, and figured that somewhere along that long path from Chattanooga, Tennessee, down through Atlanta, and south to Savannah there must be a treasure trove of artifacts. So that spring, I hopped in my truck and drove south to Georgia to see what I could find.

I was especially interested in a small town located near the Pickett’s Mill Battlefield called New Hope. It was here that one of the bloodiest battles of the Civil War took place. And to understand my story, you must understand the carnage that took place there.

It was May 1864, and General Sherman had begun his relentless march toward Atlanta. His men were hungry and battle weary, but knew that to destroy Atlanta would mean destroying the heart of the Confederacy and finally bringing an end to this horrible war. Standing in Sherman’s way was a stubborn Confederate Army led by Joe Johnston. Johnston’s men resisted the Union onslaught, forcing Sherman into flanking maneuvers. But like a bloody chess game, Johnston countered each of Sherman’s moves, slamming his army into the Union forces day after day.

It was during one of these flanking maneuvers that Sherman’s men marched into the area of New Hope Church. What they didn’t know was that Confederate forces were lying in wait with sixteen cannons and some 5,000 men. As the Union troops struggled through the thick underbrush into the clearing, they were suddenly hit by a vicious firestorm of artillery. Confederate guns and cannons blasted away at them from behind makeshift log walls. The Union soldiers were sitting ducks.

As the battle raged on, legend has it that a vicious thunderstorm blew into the area – a storm unlike anything the men had ever seen. The skies turned black as night. Lightning flashed and thunder boomed around the battlefield, sometimes drowning out the relentless artillery barrage. Wounded Union soldiers desperately crawled through the torrential rain into a ravine to escape certain death from the Confederate guns. And it was said that, even with the storm and battle raging around them, one could still hear the agonizing moans of the wounded soldiers rising from the ravine.From that day forward, the Union troops gave a new name to the ravine near New Hope Church – “Hell Hole.”

Like other battlefields, New Hope was rumored to be haunted. It had a reputation amongst learned Civil War historians as being a creepy and unsettling place. But I had heard plenty of ghost stories about the battlefields in Virginia, and they had never stopped me before.

I drove into the town of New Hope just before sundown. It wasn’t as much a town as it was a country intersection, with a small auto repair shop, a couple of churches and a cemetery. But the historical markers lining the road betrayed its bloody past. I reasoned that the Confederate battle lines must have been spread out across the area where the cemetery now stood. There was a heavily wooded area beyond the graveyard that I reasoned must have been the location of the “Hell-Hole.” I spotted several homes on the other side of the woods, and decided to wait until nightfall to begin digging.

I parked across the street behind one of the churches and waited. An hour later, I was blessed with a beautiful, clear night sky and a full moon. As I crept through the cemetery with my equipment, I noticed that the tombstones seemed to reflect an eerie white light from the bright moon above. More fainthearted relic hunters might have turned back at that point, but not me.I reached the woods and soon found myself struggling through a thick jungle of thorn bushes, vines and trees. For a brief moment, I thought about what it must have been like to have been a solider back then, already weary and hungry and now having to fight your way through this hellish Georgia forest. But then my thoughts drifted back to the business at hand.

The ground suddenly sloped downward, and I figured I was on the lip of the ravine. Since I was now totally enveloped in the forest, I figured it was safe to use my flashlight. Shining it around the ravine, my heart sank. Some of the residents were now using the ravine as a garbage dump. There was plenty of scrap metal scattered about, including a rusted old car. But I had come this far, so I was going to at least give the place a try.I crept down into the ravine, chose an area that seemed the least polluted, and began clearing away some of the garbage. Once that was done, I swept the area with my metal detector and picked up plenty of readings. Whether or not this was from buried garbage I did not know, but I soon began digging in earnest.

In fact, I was so intent on my digging that I didn’t notice a strange noise – heavy raindrops plopping onto the thick canopy of leaves above. This seemed impossible to me, as the skies were beautifully clear just a few minutes before. But as the raindrops fell harder, I looked up into the sky and saw that a sudden storm front had blackened out the stars and moon, leaving me in total darkness.

A jarring blast of thunder shook the forest, and I quickly moved into the only shelter I could find – the inside of the junked car. I didn’t want to run out of the woods and be caught, and I hoped this was one of those hit and miss thunderstorms so prevalent in Georgia. But the storm grew louder and more intense, the booming thunder shaking the earth, and the torrential rain drenching everything, even through the thick trees.

It was then that I heard it – a low moan drifting out of the bottom of the ravine. At first I thought it must be some wounded animal, or perhaps a dog lost in the storm. But as it grew louder and louder, I realized the voice was definitely human. Soon other agonizing moans could be heard, seemingly feeding off the horrifying thunder crashing around me.Then I smelled a repugnant odor that I can only describe as the smell of rotted flesh. It must be from a dead animal, I thought, desperately trying to rationalize what I was experiencing. But the odor seemed to grow stronger and stronger as the moans grew louder.

A bolt of lightning suddenly illuminated the forest, and in that brief second I swore I saw a shadow darting though the woods – a human shadow. As the storm reached its crescendo, the intense lightning lit the forest like some harsh florescent light, the gnarled trees taking on odd and terrifying shapes. My blood ran cold as I spotted more of these shadows darting amongst the trees, as if fleeing in terror from the storm. And in the bright flashes of lightning, I began to notice details on the shadows – a military cap here, a rifle or bayonet there. They could only be one thing – soldiers.

But the worst was yet to come. The temperature seemed to drop twenty degrees around me, and I was hit with the most sick and agonizing feeling I had ever felt. I can only describe it as a feeling of devastating loss and pain, as if I had learned that my entire family had suddenly died at the same time. I couldn’t take it anymore – I kicked the car door open and hopped out into the storm. Then I was hit with a debilitating feeling of exhaustion that raced through my whole body, as if I had walked a hundred miles. I left all my equipment behind and desperately clawed and sputtered through the rain-drenched forest until the cemetery was finally in sight.

As I burst free of the forest, the storm inexplicably stopped. The clouds blew away, and I found myself standing in the midst of the glowing white tombstones. I had seen enough – I crossed the street and ran back to my car, only to spot the silhouette of a man standing beside it, peering into the windows. I stood frozen in my tracks until he yelled out in a warm, inviting Georgia drawl, “Hello there! I was getting worried about you!”It was the minister of the church. He had come out to check the building after the storm, and had discovered my car. Road maps and Civil War books scattered across the seats had betrayed me as the tourist I was.

I tried to avoid telling him what I was doing in New Hope by commenting on the thunderstorm that had passed, and how I had never experienced such a ferocious storm. The minister chuckled and replied, “Yeah, we seem to get them this time of year, especially on this date. Some folks think this place is haunted, but I don’t believe in such things.”

My blood suddenly ran cold, and I heard myself ask him, “What’s so special about today?”

The minister cocked an eyebrow at me and grinned. “Well, from all them Civil War books in your car, I thought you’d know. Today’s May 26th – the Battle of New Hope was fought 136 years ago today.” And that’s my story of the Hell Hole.

- THE END -

Story Credits | Story Background

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Adapted from folklore by Craig Dominey

Near the mouth of Dunbar Creek on Georgia’s St. Simons Island, there’s a section of swampy marshland where some fishermen refuse to cast their lines. In the daytime, it doesn’t look any different from the other vast marshes stretching across Georgia’s coastal islands. Elongated white herons call to one another over the endless plain of reeds and mosquito infested marsh grasses. Fiddler crabs scurry across the sands. Unseen creatures plop into the black waters.

But when night falls, it is said that one can hear a different sound entirely. Swamps are known to make strange sounds at night. But if you listen closely, you may hear what sounds like the faint rattling of chains drifting across the marsh, followed by an eerie chant: “The water brought us the water will take us away.”

If you think your ears are deceiving you, think again. For the old timers in the area will tell you that what you’re hearing is the brave warrior Oba, leading his people on their final march home.

Oba, as you may have guessed, is an African name. So our story begins in early nineteenth century Africa – the coast of West Africa to be exact, in the country now known as Nigeria. It is in the southeastern part of this country that the Ibo tribe lives, and has lived for hundreds of years. Early European explorers once called these people “savages,” but the Ibos were anything but. They were spiritual, highly intelligent people well trained in the arts of agriculture, education and war. They tamed miles of tropical rain forests and coastal swampland into cultivable fields and wealthy cities. In fact, the Europeans found that there was little they could trade with the Ibos that the Ibos couldn’t produce themselves.

Oba lived deep within the interior of Iboland in a village founded years before by his great-grandfather. Oba was the proud father of two sons, with a third child on the way. He was tremendously excited about the new arrival, and even talked to the unborn child in his beautiful wife’s womb. For the Ibo believed that the dead and the unborn were always present in their daily lives, and that their homeland was holy ground that they could never leave.

As a hunter and a warrior, Oba was one of the most respected and relied upon members of his village. For it was his job to protect the village from enemies, both human and animal. Oba wore his responsibilities proudly, adorning his body with beautiful emblems that reflected his power and status.

Early one morning, Oba prepared to leave on a hunt with some other men from the village. As he sharpened his arrows, he suddenly heard the voice of his unborn child, whispering cryptically…

“The waters will bring you back to us.”

Startled, Oba looked back at his wife, still sleeping on their bed. “What does that mean?” he quietly replied in her direction.

Again, the unborn child whispered, “The waters will bring you back to us.”

Oba thought about this strange message for a moment, then shook it off. Maybe my unborn child thinks I’m traveling by canoe on this hunt, he thought. But he wasn’t – he was traveling on foot.

Oba told his two sons to help their mother with the daily chores, then tenderly kissed his wife goodbye. “I’ll be home soon,” he said with a smile. Then he confidently walked away.

Hours later, Oba found himself alone in the vast grasslands. In the distance, he spotted a herd of antelopes grazing peacefully, oblivious to his presence. Oba crept closer to the herd, stealthily removed his bow and arrow, and aimed.

In a flash, the antelope suddenly scattered. Oba watched them run away in disbelief. He had been as quiet as the wind, just as he always was. What caused the antelope to run?

Without warning, something hard struck him on the back of the head. He crashed to the ground, his head throbbing with pain. As he tried to get up, he was struck again across the face, this time by something that felt like a fist. He could hear excited voices swarming around him. Then two strong men lifted him to his feet, holding his arms behind his back. Too delirious to fight, Oba offered little resistance as the men tied him up tightly in a grass rope and shackled his ankles and neck.

As his eyes clouded with blood from the deep gash on his head, Oba could see that his captors were rival tribesmen, gleeful at their fine catch. One of them yanked on a chain attached to his neck shackle, dragging Oba through the grasslands like a dog.

Oba’s captors dragged him miles away from his village. The rope and shackles dug into his skin, and the neck shackle made it difficult to swallow or breathe. But the most intense pain came from the helplessness he felt. For Oba knew that other invaders must be close to his family, and there was nothing he could do to protect them. The thought of his wife and children in shackles made his blood run cold. He shook it off, thinking desperately about escape.

Hours later, they reached the wide banks of the monstrous Niger River. Other enemy tribesman had gathered there with similar “catches” of all ages, many weak and malnourished. Oba’s spirits lifted briefly, until he realized that his family wasn’t among the captured. Some captives he knew by sight, others he had never seen before.

The captives were thrown into waiting canoes and paddled down the mighty Niger. Oba writhed in pain on the dirty, water-soaked floor, covered in sores, intense pain shooting up his back. He watched the wispy clouds drifting through the hot African skies above him, and prayed silently to the spirits of his ancestors to watch over his family.

Oba had drifted off to sleep before he was suddenly awakened by a tremendous commotion. Night had fallen, and the canoes were docked in what Oba guessed was a large river village. His captors suddenly yanked him to his feet and ordered him and his fellow captives onto the dock.

As he stood upright, Oba’s jaw dropped. They had landed in a bustling coastal town on the banks of a vast ocean. Tall masted merchant ships, bigger than anything Oba had ever seen, were lined up on the dock.

From out of nowhere, a group of white skinned beings suddenly surrounded Oba, inspecting him carefully. Oba had heard about these white beings before, but this was the first time he had seen them in the flesh. With their cold eyes, angry mannerisms and colorful, otherworldly garments, they didn’t look like human beings at all, but white monsters that had come to terrify him. What were they doing here?

One of these white monsters suddenly nodded, and Oba was dragged to an area near the ships. He was humiliatingly held down, stripped of his clothes and proud adornments, and shaved from head to toe. Oba screamed with pain as a white monster stuck him with a red-hot iron, branding a strange symbol into his skin. He was then lead down into the dark bowels of a waiting ship, where he was chained to a rack and left.

Oba squinted through the darkness. He could make out hundreds of other eyes staring back at him, filled with the same unspeakable fear. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that the hold was filled with other Ibos from across Iboland – men, women and children of all ages, shackled together in pairs onto racks. No one spoke, afraid of what the white monsters might do next.

The large boat suddenly lurched into the water, its massive wood frame moaning and creaking. The captives were tossed back and forth, some screaming and crying. But Oba could only stare into the darkness, a horrifying thought chilling him to the core. For he felt in his heart that he might never see his family, his ancestors or his homeland again.

Weeks went by, and the massive boat lurched across the storm swept seas. Fearful of the boat collecting water, the white sailors closed off nearly all of the air openings below, turning the hold into a hellish world of disease, bodily waste and death. The stale air below was so rank that the candles wouldn’t remain lit. Food and water were scarce. Many Ibos died quietly in the foul darkness.

The sick and the dying were thrown overboard. The others were occasionally taken up to the deck to dance for the amusement of the sailors, who played strange musical instruments with strings and a stick. As they danced, the Ibos could see swarms of sharks in the waters below, eagerly waiting for the next captive to be tossed over the side.

Some Ibos attempted suicide by rubbing their wrists against their shackles until they bled to death. Others thought of mutiny, but were terrified of being severely beaten.

But Oba somehow kept his head, for he had become something of a leader while on the boat. For the Ibo children who had been torn from their families, Oba provided a smile, a knowing wink and, when the white sailors weren’t looking, words of comfort when needed. When rival tribesmen turned on each other, Oba was the mediator. When desperate captives thought about suicide, Oba reminded them of the inner strength that all Ibos shared.

But Oba’s thoughts were always with his family. He wondered if his wife and child were crossing the water on similar boats, destination unknown. No matter how hard he tried to shake these thoughts off, they nagged him day and night. Sometimes, under cover of darkness, Oba would cry silently to himself.

But then he would hear a faint whisper – the same cryptic whisper he heard as he was sharpening his arrows that morning before the hunt. It was his unborn child telling him:

“The waters will bring you back to us.”

As the weeks passed, his unborn child’s voice was the only comfort Oba had. Oba still wasn’t sure what this message meant. But he felt that it wouldn’t be long before he found out.

One evening, the Ibo captives were suddenly awakened by an explosion of activity on deck. Though they could not understand what the white sailors were saying, they noticed that the boat had slowed, and some sort of landing preparations were underway. After three torturous months, they would finally be able to disembark. But where would they be?

The white men gruffly unchained the captives from the racks and shoved them up on deck. In the bright moonlight, Oba could see that they were drifting down what looked to be a creek of some sort. He also noticed that the white men’s voices had suddenly become hushed and anxious.

The boat finally came to rest on a bluff near the end of the creek. The plank was gently lowered and, one by one, the terrified Ibos were marched into the black night, their ankles shackled together. They shivered as the cold, muddy soil of this alien land squished under their bare feet.

Oba could now see that they had landed in some sort of salt marsh ribboned with tidal creeks. Rustling palm tree fronds and Spanish moss filtered soft streams of moonlight down onto the black waters. In the stillness, Oba could hear the eerie sounds of night birds calling one another, crickets and frogs chirping in the grass, unseen creatures splashing into the water. The air was thick with the salty smells of the sea.

This new world, in fact, felt like the Niger Delta marshland back home. Oba suddenly had a glimmer of hope. After all that time, had they turned around and returned to Africa?

Then the glow of pine torches emerged from the black forest, and Oba could see that they belonged to more white people, their garments as strange as those on the white merchants back home. In hushed tones, they closely inspected the Ibo captives – pinching them, prodding them, stripping them of their clothes. Liking what they saw, these new white people produced wads of money and bartered with the sailors.

Now Oba realized the horrible truth: he and his people were being sold into slavery. This wasn’t a strange idea to him – his village back home had used prisoners of war as slaves before. But what lay in wait for them deep within this black, alien swamp?

Oba looked into the eyes of his fellow captives. Some were vacant and weary, others wide with terror. Some captives even flashed sparks of humiliation and anger. They all seemed to know that their fate had been sealed – that they would spend the rest of their lives enslaved to these brutal white monsters, in a world they could never hope to understand.

Again, Oba thought of his family back home, both above and below the earth. He took some comfort in knowing that, as all Ibos believed, his soul would one day return to Iboland upon his death. But his soul could not return while his living body remained in the white man’s world. Besides, he thought, the white man does not deserve to reap the fruits of my labor.

It was then that Oba again heard the voice of his unborn child, this time booming through his ears:

“The water will bring you back to us! The water will bring you back to us!”

Oba suddenly understood what his unborn child was trying to say. As the white people hastily negotiated with one another, Oba leaned over and whispered something into the ear of the captive next to him, who in turn passed it down the line. All looked back in agreement with Oba – men, women and children, some with tears in their eyes. And as they slowly turned together and walked away from their captors, they began to softly chant the words that Oba had whispered to them:

“The water brought us the water will take us away.”

Up on the ship, a white sailor suddenly noticed what was going on. He rushed to the side and looked down upon the Ibos, walking hand in hand into the black water, their shackles clanking around their ankles.

“They’re walking into the water!” he screamed.

The other sailors snapped to attention and ran after the Ibos, sloshing blindly through the dark marsh. They pointed guns in their direction and ordered them to stop. But the Ibos kept walking deeper and deeper into the water, their eerie refrain growing louder and louder:

“The water brought us the water will take us away.”

Oba placed his hand down the head of a young boy about his son’s age who had been ripped away from his parents. There was no fear in the boy’s eyes, only a defiant certainty. The two smiled at one another as the waters rose to swallow them, their loud voices trailing off behind them:

“The water brought us the water will take us away.”

Within seconds, the rattling of the chains stopped, and the voices were silenced. The white sailors watched with horror as men, women and children sank together into the murky depths, never to return.

This act of defiance did not stop the slave trade in coastal Georgia. For over sixty more years, slaves from Africa continued to toil on the vast cotton plantations that blossomed throughout the area.

But when work was done, the slaves would sometimes gather around the fire and tell the story of the Ibos. For to them, the Ibos’ defiance gave them hope that one day they, too, would return to the motherland – if not in body, then in spirit.

And to this day, they say that if you sit near the mouth of Dunbar Creek on certain nights and listen closely, you’ll hear the sound of the Ibos’ rattling chains, along with the sounds of bare feet slapping against the dark waters. And, if you’re not too frightened already, you may also want to keep an ear out for their solemn, defiant refrain as it drifts like a whisper through the marsh:

“The water brought us the water will take us away.”

- THE END -

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Written by Craig Dominey

Jack’s friends always told him he had the ultimate job. For fifteen years, he had been working as one of Hollywood’s most trusted location scouts. Now, in movie lingo, a location scout is someone hired by a producer to find locations where a movie can be shot. Jack was a seasoned pro who could find even the most obscure locations anywhere in the world.

One spring day in 1998, Jack received a script from a major Hollywood studio that sounded like an easy job. The film took place in the 1940s, and many scenes occurred in a ritzy downtown hotel. Since the script also called for scenes in a cypress swamp, Jack decided to take a journey through the American South to see what he could find. Jack had never been to the Deep South before. Since he had plenty of time and was on the studio’s payroll, he took a leisurely train ride through the area to absorb this new world.

After several weeks of searching, Jack boarded a train for Atlanta. He had found plenty of swampy locations in Louisiana and Mississippi, but still hadn’t found the right hotel. Certainly in the so-called “capital of the New South,” he could find what he was looking for. The studio made reservations for him at the Barrow Hotel; a historic downtown building that Jack had researched on the Internet, and figured might work for the film.

Jack’s train arrived in Atlanta that night in a pounding thunderstorm. Thick sheets of rainwater obscured his view of the city, and power had been knocked out on the streets. Jack waited in the empty depot for his driver, but no one arrived. The only car sitting outside was a restored, 1940s-era taxi with the name “Hotel Scofield” painted on the side. Sick of waiting, Jack marched up to the taxi and tapped on the window. The window rolled down, and Jack was surprised to find that the young driver was dressed in a 1940s-era cabby uniform.

“Excuse me, I don’t mean to bother you,” said Jack. “But could you tell me how far the Barrow Hotel is from here?”

“Why on earth would you want to go there?” asked the driver in an incredulous, though mannered, tone of voice.

Jack explained that he was looking for a film location in Atlanta. The driver shook his head and replied, “You won’t have any luck there. They just renovated it a few months ago. Now it looks like every other modern hotel ’round here.”

Taken aback, Jack replied, “But I saw their Web site, and it looked like…”

“…I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, mister,” interrupted the driver. “But that’s the way Atlanta is. They tear down historic buildings left and right. A cryin’ shame if you ask me. Now, I don’t mean to push my hotel on you, but the Scofield may be what you’re looking for. It’s one of the few old hotels that’s still standing. They’re kinda busy this time of year, but they might have one more room.”

Cold and drenched, Jack quickly hopped into the cab. “You got a deal,” he said. “Anything to get out of this rain.”

As the taxi rumbled through the dark Atlanta streets, Jack noticed that the interior of the cab was in great shape, but not overly so. It didn’t look like it was restored as much as it was used carefully. Jack had worked on cars long enough to know that, from the sound of the engine, the Hotel Scofield must have taken great care of its taxi fleet.

After what seemed like hours driving through the misty darkness, the cab finally pulled up to a brightly lit building. “Here we are, sir,” said the driver as he pulled beside the doors.

Jack got out, and his eyes widened immediately. The Hotel Scofield was a grand, 15-floor brick edifice very much in the style of 1940s luxury hotels. It was a solidly built, narrow building, with a golden awning, red carpet and gas lamps glowing warmly in the foggy night. The doorman smiled at Jack and opened the door into the lush lobby. Sparkling crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling, red velvet curtains flowed over the windows, and plush chairs and sofas invited weary guests to relax in luxury. Jack smiled as he looked about – he had hit the jackpot.

Like the taxicab, the hotel didn’t look restored as much as it did looked after. The management seemed to take great pride in transporting its guests to another time. It would work perfectly for the film.

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Jack walked up to the front desk – which was made of deep blue marble with polished gold trim – and asked the manager for a room. The slightly plump man smiled warmly and replied, “Well, we tend to be busy this time of year, but we might have one more room.” After checking the registry, the manager said, “You’re in luck – we have a room available on the top floor. Best view of the city!”

With that, he signaled a bellhop to grab Jack’s bags. As Jack followed him toward the elevator, he noticed something strange. The guests in the lobby wore fancy eveningwear – the men in tuxedos, the women in long vintage dresses. There were also soldiers milling about in green, World War II-looking uniforms, grabbing the attention of the giggling single ladies. Champagne was flowing everywhere. Children in their best suits and dresses ran laughing around their parents’ legs. All smiled warmly at Jack as he walked by. Have I wandered into a costume party, thought Jack. Or worse – is someone already shooting a movie here?

Jack heard a piano player playing the standard “Auld Lang Syne” in the smoky cocktail lounge. Then he noticed the decorations – a giant Christmas tree glowing brilliantly in the main sitting area, a wreath hanging over the fireplace, greenery with red bows draped over the railings. Nothing unusual – except that it was mid-April.

It was then that Jack froze in his tracks. Across the fireplace was a huge banner that read, “Happy New Year 1946.” At the end of the hall, the golden elevator doors suddenly swung open. Inside was a car full of holiday revelers, all smiling warmly at Jack. One of the men reached out his hand and said, “Come on up, buddy. I think there’s room in here for one more.”

Jack didn’t move – something was definitely odd about this place. Better to stay somewhere where he felt comfortable. “That’s alright,” he said to the man. “You go on.”

The festive piano music suddenly stopped, leaving an eerie silence. Jack heard a rustling sound behind him. He turned and saw that the party crowd had gathered behind him, still smiling. The man in the elevator reached out again for Jack and said, “You don’t understand. We have room in here for one more.”

The crowd suddenly closed in behind Jack. Jack was not an easily scared man, but he was impulsive. He whirled around and charged back through the crowd. Two soldiers grabbed his arms and dragged him back to the elevator. The room began to spin around them, and Jack could swear he saw the Christmas decorations starting to melt. The walls morphed into a sooty black color, and the stinging smell of smoke was everywhere.

“Come on friend,” said the smiling man in the elevator. “There’s no need to fight – I told you, there’s room for one more.”

Horrifying screams filled the room, but the revelers stood silent, the same silly grins plastered on their faces. The room heated up rapidly to an unbearable temperature. Black smoke now filled the air, and Jack’s blood ran cold as he realized that the place was on fire – but no one wanted to leave.

With every ounce of strength he had, Jack wriggled free of the soldiers and charged back though the crowd, knocking over anyone who stood in his way. Hands grabbed desperately at his clothes through the blinding smoke, the screams deafening.

Suddenly, the ground dropped beneath Jack’s feet. He tumbled down the lobby stairs, his head smashing against the marble floor. The room spun wildly around him, then went black.

Moments later, Jack opened his eyes. He found himself lying on a dirty floor littered with garbage, chipped marble and broken glass. He sat up dizzily, wiped the trickle of blood from his forehead and gazed about the room. He was shocked to find that the ornate hotel lobby had fallen into ruin long ago. The windows were broken out, and the rooms were black and gutted. Vagrants had spray-painted graffiti on the walls.

“Hey!” shouted a gruff voice behind him.

Jack whirled around to find a police officer standing in the doorway, his hand on his gun. “What are you doing in here?”

“I…I don’t know,” was all Jack could say.

The policeman studied Jack for a minute, then helped him to his feet. “Did somebody attack you?” he asked.

“No, sir,” answered Jack. “I just checked in here a few hours ago and…”

“…What do you mean ‘checked in’?” asked the policeman. “This hotel ain’t been open since the great fire years ago.”

Jack suddenly turned pale and asked, “What fire?”

“Just the worst hotel fire in U.S. history,” said the policeman. “Didn’t you see the historic marker outside? Over a hundred people died in here. They said this place was fireproof – you know, kinda like they said the Titanic was unsinkable. But they were obviously wrong.”

Jack looked about the room in disbelief as the policeman continued: “Most of the folks who survived were on the lower floors. Our fire department didn’t have ladders tall enough back then to reach the top floors. It was a horrible sight.”

“When did it happen?” asked Jack, almost afraid of the answer.

The policeman scratched his head and said, “I believe it was New Years Eve, 1946.”

- THE END -

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Adapted from folklore by Sherry Norfolk

The Civil War had ended, and the weary, defeated Southern soldiers had straggled back home to what was left of their families and farms. The slaves had been freed, but some had stayed on in the places where the family had been kind, or where the family had scattered and never returned.

There was one such place in South Georgia – a once-beautiful plantation that had been abandoned before the war had even begun, and where the slaves had stayed in safety during the war, and had remained when freedom came. The land was rich, and Thomas, the young master of the plantation, had said it was theirs to farm and live off of until he came back came to claim it. So many of his former slaves chose to stay.

The memories and the story of the plantation had stayed, too. The story of the young master who had built the house for his beloved bride. The story of the sweet-smelling flower garden that his bride walked in every day from spring till fall.

The story of her ghost.

Melviny was only a young girl living in the slave quarters when Thomas lost his bride. She had held onto the memory of the young bride’s beauty and kindness throughout the dark and ugly years of war.

Melviny had held onto the other memories, too. The memories always began with laughter – happiness seemed to come out of the windows and doors of that house, seemed to be part of the very walls and floors. It was the happiness of Thomas and his bride that made the plantation a good place to be: happiness breeds kindness and gentleness, they say.

The story starts – and ends – in the flower garden of the big house. Every fine day, the young bride found time to come and sit in her garden, to smell the fragrant blossoms and cut the prettiest ones to decorate the house. Every day, Melviny worked in that garden, pulling the weeds and picking off the dead blossoms.

“Melviny,” the young bride would call, “just come and smell this rose! Isn’t it the prettiest thing you ever did smell?”

And Melviny would run to the rosebush and inhale deeply. “Oh, yes, ma’am, you’re right! It is the prettiest smell in all the world!”

Or, “Melviny, you take some of these dahlias to your mamma. She likes pretty colors and these are the brightest I’ve ever seen. Run, now!” And Melviny would run with the handful of brilliant flowers, grinning to her mama, who would put them in a jar of water on the mantelpiece.

But one evening, when the moon shone full and bright, a screech-owl began to make a terrible noise outside the cabin where Melviny and her mama lived. Melviny ran to her mama in alarm at the screeching, unearthly sound, and her mama held her close.

“Never mind, child,” she soothed. “Just an ol’ screech-owl calling to his kin.”

“But, Mama, I’ve heard the others say that when you hear a screech owl keep hollerin’ and carryin’ on like that, someone’s gonna die!”

“No, child, they’re just trying to scare you. Now you settle down and eat your supper. Nothin’ to worry yourself over.”

But Melviny wasn’t comforted. She watched everyone she loved, fearful of the screech-owl’s curse.

Two days later, as Melviny worked in the garden, she watched Thomas and his bride stroll out arm-in-arm. She saw the young lady bend to smell a new blossom, and she saw her drop to the ground in a dead faint.

Thomas cried out for Meviny, and she ran to his side, staring stricken at the lady’s pale face. “Melviny, run to the house and tell your mama I need her to bring smelling salts,” Thomas gasped. “And tell one of the men to go for the doctor! Run, now!”

And Melviny flew off to the house, while the master came behind with his bride in his arms. Melviny and her mama stayed at Melinda’s side with cold compresses and smelling salts, and they heard her weak voice when at last her eyes fluttered open: “Thomas, Thomas are you there?” Thomas hurried to her side. “Yes, my love, I’m right here. Are you feeling better? You gave us all quite a scare!”

“Thomas, I’m dying. It’s true – I know it is. But nothing can take me from you forever. Our love is too strong. Thomas, I’ll come back to you. I’ll come back as a white bleedingdove and live in the snowball bush in the garden.”

“No, my love, you’re not dying, you’re not!” Thomas pleaded.

But three days later, his young bride passed away without saying another word, and her grave was planted over with the flowers that she loved. Melviny and her mama felt sorry for Thomas, and watched him grieve until he himself was almost in the grave beside his bride. But finally his grief forced him to close up the house and to go away to Europe, where the sights and the scents and the very air would not remind him of his beloved. He told Melviny and her mama and all the rest of the slaves that the land was theirs to work and live off of until he came back. And he went away.

Melviny continued to work in that garden every day. And every day, she looked for the white bleedingdove, but it didn’t come. War broke out, and the master stayed away. Then freedom came, and Melviny and the rest of the slaves were freed. But Melviny and her mother stayed on at the plantation, harvesting a good garden crop that year and fixing their cabin snug against the winter winds. They had stopped expecting to see the master again, but they hadn’t forgotten the snowball bush, still living – though not blooming – in the otherwise ravaged flower garden.

Then one day a letter came, announcing that Thomas was returning with a new bride. Melviny and her mama made the house ready for his return – and Melviny did her best to straighten up the garden, pulling the biggest weeds and pruning back the rampant growth. She was surprised to see that the snowball bush was in full, glorious bloom – the first time it had bloomed since Melinda had died. But she didn’t have time to tell her mama until they stood together at the end of the drive, waiting to greet Thomas and his new bride.

“Mama, did you see it? The snowball bush is just covered all over with flowers this morning! You think maybe because Mr. Whitledge is coming home today? You think we’ll see the white bleedingdove?”

“Hush, girl, you can’t still be dreaming about that white bleedingdove. There’ll be no such thing. Look, now, there’s a carriage coming this way!”

And there was. Thomas stepped out, and helped his new bride from the carriage. And as she was lifted down a mournful sound came from the garden. Melviny turned to see a white bleedingdove, sitting amid the blooms of the snowball bush.

“Look, Mama! Just look there!” But her mama shook her head, and greeted the couple and ushered them into the house. The white bleedingdove came every evening after that, and sat moaning in the snowball bush. The sound could be heard plainly in the big house, no matter how loudly Thomas’s new bride played on the piano or how far away she tried to get. It seemed to pierce her heart, and she cried all the time, and she never went into the garden.

“Make it stop,” she pleaded to Thomas. “Make that bird stop crying!”

Finally, Thomas had had enough. He took his gun and marched into the garden. And when he came near the bush, the bleedingdove rose up out of the bush and fluttered right in the air above his head. He raised the gun, and fired.

“THOMAS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” A human scream sounded over the garden, and the bleedingdove flew away with a red stain over her heart. That night, as Thomas lay in his bed, he died suddenly of a heart attack. His new wife left, her heart also broken, but with grief.

The old house is still sitting there, neglected and decaying. A snowball bush still blooms each summer in its ruined garden, the petals foiling like tears into the rampant weeds. And flying in and out of the broken windows, nesting in the snowball bush, are dozens of white bleedingdoves with red stains over their hearts, grieving all the time.

-THE END -

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