Written by Craig Dominey

Pastor Fitch was a serious and humble man – a might lacking in the humor department, but still a pleasant sort of fellow who was always confident that the good Lord was standing by his side. He was working hard not to let pride overcome him this night as he drove his lovely, young bride, Sarah Sue, toward their honeymoon suite in New Orleans. Gazing across the horse-drawn wagon at her, he admired her beauty, appreciating what a fine pastor’s wife she would become – with a little guidance.

Soon after they crossed into Louisiana, a hard rain suddenly poured down upon them. At first, the good Pastor kept on going- nothing was going to stop him from having a blissful honeymoon with his beloved. But as the cold rain came down harder and harder, he figured he’d better find shelter for the night.

By the side of the road, he spotted a small, run-down house with a light on in the window. He pulled up the drive, knocked on the door, and asked the elderly woman inside if she had a spare room. The elderly woman shook her head, then pointed toward a winding dirt road that disappeared into a thick, menacing-looking forest.

“There’s a pretty big house up that road,” she said. “It’s empty – folks there moved out a long time ago. Nobody’ll care if you stay there. But I wouldn’t recommend it.”

“Why not?” asked the Preacher.

“‘Cause some strange things happen up there,” she answered. “They say the place is haunted.”

The Preacher smiled and patted the well-worn Bible under his arm. “No ghosts will harm me, ma’am,” he said. “I’m a man of God.” The elderly woman chuckled and said, “Yeah, do what you want. Just don’t say you weren’t warned.”

Pastor Fitch and his wife rode up the long, bumpy dirt road, the thick oak trees sheltering them from the rain. Soon they spotted a large, gloomy-looking mansion peeking out of an overgrown yard. Thick strands of kudzu covered the weather-beaten stone walls, but for the most part, the house was in reasonably good shape.

The couple got off the wagon and slowly opened the rotted door, its rusty hinges creaking loudly. Inside the dark, musty house, they could see that most of the furniture was still inside, covered in dust. A large stone fireplace filled the living room. Long hallways led to other darkened rooms, but they had no interest in finding out what lurked in the house’s unseen depths.

The Pastor gathered some wood and started a roaring fire. Even though the warmth felt heavenly, the flickering flames cast eerie shadows on the empty walls and high ceilings, making the spooky house even more sinister. The Pastor sat his shivering wife in front of the fire, handed her his Bible and suggested she read some selected verses to combat any fears she might experience.

After an hour of sitting by the fire, the couple suddenly heard a strange noise from somewhere in the darkness. It sounded like faint footsteps walking up and down a distant hallway, pacing anxiously.

“Do you hear that?” asked Sarah Sue.

“It’s nothing, dear,” answered the Pastor, working on notes for a future sermon. “Read your Bible.”

The footsteps grew louder and louder, as if walking down the hallway toward them. Sarah Sue looked at her husband, but he kept his face buried in his notes, writing furiously.

The footsteps then entered the room. Sarah Sue looked anxiously about, but could see nothing. What followed next chilled her blood – a low, painful moan, filling the cavernous room with its misery.

“Dear?” started Sarah Sue.

“Ignore it!” said the Pastor. “Read your Bible!”

The footsteps circled her chair, the moan growing louder and more anguished. Her hands shook as she flipped the dog-eared pages of her Bible, reading the most inspirational, evil-fighting passages out loud with uncommon fervor. The front door then slammed, and slammed again, over and over, until it completely flew off its hinges! A fierce wind blew into the home, snuffing out the large fire, plunging the room into total darkness.

“Dear?” yelped Sarah Sue.

“I said, ignore it!” blurted the Pastor. “Keep reading your Bible!”

The howling wind roared through the house, knocking over lamps, dishes, statues and books. Sarah Sue read her verses louder and louder, while the Pastor wrote furiously. Suddenly, the noises stopped.

Sarah Sue turned and looked at her husband. He smiled back and said, “See? I told you no harm would come to us. The Word of God is like a sword by your side.”

No sooner had these words escaped his lips when a heavy object fell down the chimney with a large thump. It rolled into the center of the room between the Pastor and his Wife. They looked at each other for a moment, then the Pastor struck a match and held it down toward the object…

It was a man’s bloody head! What was left of its worm-eaten flesh hung in thin strands off its cheek bones. To the Pastor’s horror, the head opened its eyes and began to speak:

“Lord Almighty!” it said. “What’s it take to get some attention ’round here?”

Sarah Sue shrieked and fainted dead away on the floor. The Preacher stood and clutched the cross around his neck. “Back away, you demon of Hell!” he screamed. “I’m a man of God!”

The head rolled its eyes. “Easy, preacher-man,” it said. “You broke into my house, remember? What are you doing here, anyway?”

“My wife and I were caught in a rain storm,” the Preacher answered. “We’re on our honeymoon. This is the only shelter we could find until the storm cleared.”

The Preacher suddenly remembered his Wife, and rushed over to revive her.

“Wait,” said the Head. “You may want to hear what I have to say before you wake her up.”

The Preacher glared at the Head. “I’m not interested in anything you have to say. You’re obviously a cursed spirit.”

The Head laughed and replied, “Ain’t that the truth. And I’ll tell you why. A few years ago, I, too, married a beautiful young woman. I wasn’t the most handsome man in the world. But I did have a lot of money, as you can see by this nice home you’ve so conveniently broken into.”

“I was so blinded by love that it never occurred to me that this woman might have married me just for my money. But sure enough, a few months into our marriage, she started disappearing on me. Her errands in town took a little longer than usual. There were whispers in town that she had found another man, but I didn’t believe them. Oh, no, I said – not my lovely wife!”

“Then one night, I was awakened by my wife coming home at a very late hour. But she wasn’t alone; she was with her new lover – a muscular young man who worked down at the mill. They stabbed me to death and cut off my head. Then they buried my headless body out in the woods.”

The Head then grinned, its brittle jaw making a gruesome cracking sound. “But I got the last laugh,” it said. “You see, what they really wanted was my stash of gold that I kept hidden in the house. They tore the place apart looking for it, but couldn’t find it. So they fled the county empty-handed. That gold’s still in this house, and I’m the only one who knows where it is.”

As the Head said this, the Preacher backed away from his unconscious wife and sat attentively on the floor. The Head sighed wearily and said, “I’m tired, Preacher-man. I can’t find no peace until my head is buried with my body. If you’ll bury me out in the woods with my body, I’ll give you all my gold, plus the house.”

The Preacher’s eyes sparkled for a moment. “Show me where the gold is,” he said, “and I promise, I’ll do as you ask. And it’ll be a decent Christian burial.”

The Head smiled and said, “It’s buried in the fireplace. There’s a pick-ax down in the cellar.”

The Preacher ran down to the cellar, found the pick-ax, then ran back up and frantically hammered away at the massive fireplace, his face drenched with sweat. The Head shouted words of encouragement, egging him to dig further. Finally, after what seemed like hours, the Preacher’s ax struck a wooden chest deep in the rock. He yanked it out, bashed open the lock and found that, sure enough, it was filled with gold.

The Preacher then picked the Head up with a shovel and went out into the yard. The Head directed him to a mound of earth deep in the woods. The Preacher dug inside and found a headless corpse, still dressed in its bloody nightgown. The Preacher set the Head beside the corpse and started flinging dirt back into the grave. As he did, he could hear the Head yell up to him: “Remember what I said, Preacher-man. Don’t be blinded by love!”

As the years went by, the young couple settled into the house and lived a life of domestic bliss. The Preacher founded a church and became one of the most beloved men in the community.

But deep in the woods, just a few yards from the unmarked grave, the Preacher buried that chest of gold, far away from his Wife’s curious eyes – just in case.

- THE END -

Story Credits | Story Background

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Written by Thomas E. Fuller

Hungry for the Gulf, the Dark River flows broad and wide after River Bend. The marshlands appear as the riverbanks fade. But if you go far enough into the marshes…

The swamps begin.

Now Chancy Fox was a gambling man, and a good one. So it was just damn laziness that ran him afoul of Sheriff Black Mountain Kincaid and his two brothers, Kennesaw and Stone. That was up at Swann’s Landing, right above Meridia. Chancy may have been lazy, but he wasn’t a total fool. He was up and out of there before that fifth ace he’d tucked up his sleeve hit the table. He figured as soon as he was outside of Swann’s Landing, he’d be out of the Sheriff’s jurisdiction and free.

He figured wrong.

Chancy Fox had offended something deep in Black Mountain Kincaid’s rusty soul. The Sheriff reached the limits of Swann’s Landing and just kept going. And where Black Mountain went, his brothers were sure to follow.

That gambler ran south, hugging the banks of the Dark River. Past Carpenter and Egret. Past Meridia itself. And everywhere he tried to get a friendly game of cards going, here they would come, riding into town on their black horses, close as memory, relentless as death. Sheriff Black Mountain Kincaid and his brothers.

Chancy Fox was getting right desperate. So he came up with a plan. He took a ride on the Blue Stag Packet steamship when it stopped for wood at Paradox. He knew the Brothers Kincaid would be right behind him. Soon as the steamer hit the marshlands, he undid the dingy tied to its side and slipped away into the night. Into the marsh he went. Twist right, twist left, twist right again. Soon as he was well in, he rowed into the grass and waited. Sure enough, another dingy came slipping past with three large men and a lantern. Chancy Fox waited for a few minutes, chuckled and stared rowing back the way he’d come.

Two hours later he was still rowing.

Now you’d think a man couldn’t lose something as big as a river, but Chancy managed it. He turned and turned and turned again and still couldn’t see anything but marsh grass. He was so busy not seeing things that he didn’t notice all the Cyprus trees until he was surrounded by them. Spanish moss like old men’s whiskers brushed his face and he couldn’t see for the mosquitoes. Then two things happened. He saw the huge rotting old plantation house rise up out of the darkness.

And someone coshed him a good one on the back of the head.

When Chancy came to, he was lying on a dank, mildewed old chaise in the middle of a dank mildewed old room. And three women were fussing over him. Well, at least they looked like women. Kinda. They were are tall and thin, like paper fold herons, and dressed in ragged finery at least sixty years out of date. And their eyes were very, very bright – and their teeth were very, very sharp.

At first, Chancy was enjoying all the attention. Then he actually started listening to what the sisters were saying and the enjoying stopped right fast. Their voices were dry and rustley, like mice scampering through old newspapers. They’d been in that decaying house ever since Daddy died and the swamp rose, and they were right lonely…

…And right hungry. And Chancy he remembered that mosquitoes ain’t the only things that drink blood.

But Chancy could think fast when he had to, and he thought fast now. “Ladies,” he said with a courtly cough, “I am flattered by your attention, but there are three of you, and I’m right poorly. But out in that swamp is a boat with a lantern, and three of the finest men it is my privilege to know. And while I am loathed to share, whatever are friends for?”

The sisters looked at each other and tittered and suddenly they were gone, like herons flying off into the night. Having effectively taken care of Black Mountain Kincaid and his brothers, Chancy Fox tipped his hat over his eyes and went to sleep. Later, he thought he heard screams coming up outa that swamp, but it was probably a dream.

As day started to break, there was a dry rustling like birds with paper wings, and the sisters were back. Now instead of being tall and thin like herons, they were round and blotted like ticks and not paying any attention to Chancy. But Chancy was paying attention to them. They disappeared into the bowels of the house and Chancy waited until the sun was up full, broke three legs off a chair, and went hunting.

He found them in three separate rooms, lying in three separate coffins, and without so much as a thank you, he drove a chair leg through each of their hearts. Black blood erupted all over the place, but Chancy didn’t mind. And when they were dead, they were really dead.

Now if Chancy had been as smart as he thought he was, he would have found his dingy and gotten far, far away from there. But he figured ladies like that would have jewels or some such, and it took him a while to find them. But find them he did, even though it took him all day. Night was falling when he finally headed down the crumbling steps and the deep cavernous voice rumbled at him out of the night.

“Evenin’, gambler.”

And Chancy Fox turned and stared at the tall bulky figure of Sheriff Black Mountain Kincaid looming in the dark, his two giant brothers on either side of him.

“Evenin’, Sheriff,” Chancy answered. “Heard you was dead.”

“That’s strange, gambler. Heard the same thing about you.”

And the Sheriff smiled and his brothers smiled. And their eyes were very, very bright, and their teeth were very, very sharp. And Chancy Fox remembered a few other things about bloodsuckers.

He didn’t even bother to scream as they closed in on him, their blood-soaked clothes rustling like paper wings.

Hungry for the Gulf, the Dark River flows broad and wide after River Bend. The marshlands appear as the riverbanks fade. But if you go far enough into the marshes…

The swamps begin.

- THE END -

Story Credits | Story Background

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Written by Craig Dominey

It was another crowded Saturday night as Josie Arlington sat wearily on her plush couch, lit a cigarette, and silently observed the crowd gathered in her parlor. Standing around the lavishly decorated room were the most powerful men in New Orleans high society – politicians, judges, lawyers, doctors, even a police commander or two. And she knew the money would be flowing into her coffers once again.

Most club owners would be ecstatic at such a large crowd, but not Josie Arlington. She dragged on her cigarette and bitterly whispered to herself, “What hypocrites.”

For she also knew that not one of these gentlemen would dare acknowledge her presence outside the secretive walls of the club that bared her name: “The Arlington.” For Josie was the most infamous Madam in the most scandalous district in New Orleans: Storyville.

Josie always said that the life of a Madam chose her, she didn’t choose it. She was orphaned at age 4, and the only parents she knew were the nuns at St. Elizabeth’s Home who took her in. But their attempts to scare the fear of God in her over the years eventually drove her away – and straight onto the mean streets of New Orleans.

Now as crazy as New Orleans is these days, back in the nineteenth century it was downright lecherous. There were red light districts all over town, and while the trade was not officially accepted, it was certainly tolerated. Josie knew where the real money was to be made, and became a teenage prostitute under the control of an older lover.

Life as a prostitute destroyed many women in New Orleans, but not Josie Arlington. As the years went by, she gained quite a reputation as a tough, no-nonsense woman of the night. She even got into a legendary fistfight with a rival prostitute, biting off part of her lips and ears!

But Josie knew she couldn’t work as a prostitute forever, and to make a life for herself, she would have to take advantage of the very men who were taking advantage of her. She would have to become a Madam.

So Josie opened a bordello in one of the largest red light districts in New Orleans. The district was located along the Basin Street rail line, just a few blocks from the French Quarter. Despite her rowdy reputation, Josie wanted to clean up her image and open a refined establishment where true gentlemen could pay for the services of, as she put it, “amiable, foreign girls.”

While her brothel became quite successful, the city of New Orleans was about to make her richer that she could have imagined. For in 1897, the city leaders decided upon a bold experiment. Rather than fight vices like prostitution and gambling, they decided to control them by confining them to one supervised area – the exact district where Josie had set up shop.

The area was named Storyville, and it soon became an amusement park of sin. The densely packed neighborhood was filled with saloons and brothels. High class gentlemen and rogues alike staggered through the streets, fueled by exotic drugs and overpriced booze, listening to the sounds of piano jazz in-between trysts with the endless collection of prostitutes.

And of all the bordellos in Storyville, none was larger and more lavish than the Arlington. Beautiful women in exotic European lingerie waited in the grand parlor for the most powerful men in New Orleans to walk through the door.

But while Josie reveled in her upper class status within the walls of Storyville, she soon found out she had a much different reputation within New Orleans high society. When she left the streets of Storyville on any given day, her male customers would suddenly look away when she passed them in the street. Some would grab the hands of their confused wives and dart to the other side of the street to avoid her approach.

Even when she bought a mansion in one of New Orleans’ most affluent neighborhoods, she was still an outcast to the high society women of New Orleans. She could hear them whispering and giggling behind her back when she came home at night. “I wonder how many of these ladies know that their husbands visit me on weekends,” she thought to herself. But she kept silent, her bitterness festering inside her.

In later years, Josie fell into ill health, and the piles of money she made at the Arlington began to seem meaningless. She began to fixate on her approaching death, and knew it would provide her one more opportunity to get back at those who shunned her. So she shocked New Orleans one more time by purchasing a plot in Metairie Cemetery, the most expensive and fashionable graveyard in town.

Now the high society women were truly mortified! They couldn’t imagine a dirty, low-life prostitute being buried within the same cemetery as their loved ones! But there was nothing they could do.

Now, Metairie Cemetery was, and is to this day, one of the most impressive cemeteries you’re ever likely to see. It’s a bewildering maze of giant mausoleums and monuments, with some of the most powerful and well-known names in New Orleans history chiseled onto their stone facades. Josie knew she needed a special monument in such a place, and commissioned an architect to design her a tomb unlike any other.

The monument was made of red granite, topped with two flaming urns. A statue of a young woman bearing a wreath stood on the stairwell, touching the bronze door that led to Josie’s future resting place. The tomb cost Josie a fortune, but the aggravation it caused the high society ladies was well worth the price.

Josie eventually passed away at age 50. A few years later, Storyville itself was shut down by the U.S. Navy, which was concerned about the effect it was having on its young sailors stationed in New Orleans. The brothels and bars were leveled to build a housing project. There is no sign today that Storyville ever existed.

But some believe that Josie Arlington stuck around long after the death of Storyville for one last bid for attention.

In the years after Josie was buried, rumors began to spread about strange goings-on at her grave. Curiosity-seekers who visited the grave ran back to town claiming they saw the urns on top of the tomb burst into flames before their eyes! Others saw an eerie red glow coming from the tomb at night, as if the granite walls were burning like hot coals. Josie’s grave was soon nicknamed the “Flaming Tomb.”

Of course, the symbolism of a red light on Josie’s tomb was not lost on many folks. Another rumor spread that the statue of the young girl would bang on the door of Josie’s tomb, trying to get in. But Josie would never answer, since she had always claimed that no girl had ever lost her virginity at the Arlington.

But the reports didn’t stop there. Two gravediggers swore they saw the female statue walk away from her post and wander aimlessly amongst the graves before vanishing. Was she really the ghost of Josie, still unable to find a home within the high society world she craved?

As the stories spread, the cemetery became overrun with visitors wanting to see the strange events for themselves. The families of those buried in the surrounding graves were horrified at the thought of their loved ones being trampled upon. So the cemetery agreed to remove Josie’s remains and bury them in an unknown location. The “Flaming Tomb” was sold to another owner, strangely enough with the same initials: “J.A.”

But next time you travel to New Orleans, you can still find Josie’s old tomb deep in Metairie Cemetery. And even though Josie may not have found the acceptance she wanted in life, I imagine she’d be pleased to know that folks are still talking about her to this very day. And that her name, like Storyville itself, would pass into the history – and mythology – that is unmistakably New Orleans.

- THE END -

Story Credits | Story Background

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Adapted by Craig Dominey and Veronica Byrd

One morning, in a small shack deep within a Louisiana swamp, Sister Jones woke with a start. She looked at her husband who was sleeping soundly beside her. She was a bit uneasy, for she had dreamed of a beautiful wedding, and she had been taught since the time she was little that to dream of marriage was a sure sign of death. Sister Jones lay there and wondered who was going to be the one to pass from this earthly life to the next – she or her husband, Cephus.

Well, about a week later, she got her answer. Her husband, who had been suffering with the consumption, took a turn for the worst and slipped from this life into the spirit world. Now, the widow Jones was sad to see her husband go, but she should have seen it coming, for she had been warned by the dream.

Sister Jones immediately covered all of the mirrors in the house soon after her husband Cephus died, ’cause everyone in town knew that, if you didn’t, the image of the dead would remain in the mirrors. Now, Sister Jones loved her husband, but she didn’t want his image hanging around in those mirrors.

The next day, Sister Jones buried her husband. Afterwards, she and the mourners came back to the house and were just sitting around talking about how they were going to miss poor ol’ Cephus, stubborn though he was, when the front door swung open. A cold breeze filled the entire room – and in walked Cephus! He walked up to the mourners and said, “Y’all talkin’ ’bout me?”

He then pulled up his favorite rocking chair and sat down right between his widow and the lead mourner and said, “What’s all this about? Y’all act like somebody’s dead. Who’s dead?”

Well, needless to say, by this time all the mourners had jumped up and run clean out of the house. But the widow, who was also very frightened, managed to blurt out, “N…now Cephus, y…you know you is dead! So why are you s…sittin’ here in the living room and not in the g…graveyard?”

“Dead?” said Cephus. “How come you say I’m dead? I sho’ don’t feel dead!”

The widow was quite confused by now, and she simply told him, “Y…you may not feel dead, Cephus, b…but you look dead as can be. You b…better get back in the grave where you belong!”

Now, even though Cephus was dead, he was still very stubborn. He said, “No! I ain’t going back to any grave until I FEEL DEAD!” He then moved closer to the fire and tried to warm his cold hands and feet, all the while giving the room an icy chill. And from sundown to sunup, day after day, that’s all he did – sit by the fire, rockin’ back and forth.

After a few weeks of Brother Cephus just sitting around, things started to get bad in the household. Cephus’s skin turned a funny gray color, and it looked real dusty. Every time he’d move, his joints creaked and cracked. And as the days wore on, he’d creak and crack more and more.

The widow Jones, who hadn’t received any company since her husband’s untimely return, began to wonder just how long this corpse would last. Their insurance company refused to pay the insurance because Cephus declared to everyone that he wasn’t dead. To make matters worse, the undertaker threatened to take back the coffin if Cephus refused to lie in it!

Now, the widow Jones needed that insurance money awfully bad, and what’s more, she was getting really tired of her dead husband sitting around the house, creakin’ and crackin’. She tried to convince Cephus time and time again to get back in the grave. But each time, he’d protest, “Leave me alone woman! I ain’t going back to no burying ground ’til I’m dead – and I DON’T FEEL DEAD YET!”

Widow Jones just knew that something had to be done.

Well, Cephus had been sitting around the house for about a month before, one night, the best fiddler in town built up enough nerve to go by and visit the widow Jones. After all, she hadn’t had any company since Cephus came back.

The fiddler came in and sat on one side of the fire and Cephus, in his favorite rocking chair, sat on the other – cracking, creaking and still trying to warm his cold hands and feet. They exchanged glances and made small talk – as small as a human and a corpse could make. But after a few minutes of this, it was very obvious that the two men were rather uncomfortable.

By and by, Cephus blurted out, “All this sittin’ around is boring. Let’s the three of us do something fun. How ’bout some music, Brother Fiddler? Let’s dance an’ limber up our joints a bit!”

Still trying to get used to the fact that he was sitting and talking with a corpse, the fiddler got out his fiddle and started to play. When Cephus heard that music, he jumped up, shook himself about, and he started buck dancing around the room. “Now that’s more like it!” he hollered as he skipped and pranced about, his old rotten bones creaking and cracking even louder than before. For a dead man, he sure could dance!

In fact, he danced so hard that a piece of his arm flew loose and fell on the floor. Not believing his eyes, the fiddler stopped playing and said, “Good golly, look at that!”

The widow Jones grinned at the sight, an idea coming to her head. “Play faster!” she demanded.

The fiddler played faster, and Cephus danced faster. He danced so fast that pieces of bone went flying everywhere!

Now, by this time, the po’ fiddler was so scared he didn’t know what to do. “W…w…what should I do now?” he pleaded to the widow. The widow kept hollerin’, “Faster! Faster! Keep playing faster!” The fiddler, too frightened to do other than what he was told, played faster. Cephus danced faster, and the fiddler played faster still. Cephus danced faster, bones droppin’ all the time, until all at once Cephus crumbled to the floor in a big heap of bones.

There lay the bones of Cephus, still as they could be – except for his big ol’ bald head! Why, it kept dancin’ all by itself, just-a-grinnin’ up at the fiddler! That head was bouncing all over the floor just-a-dancin’ and a-grinnin’!

The widow hollered, “Play faster, Fiddler! Play faster!”

Well, the fiddler wasn’t hearing none of that. He said, “I’m sorry, Sister Jones, but I gotta go run and get me some rosin for my bow. I’ll be right back.” Well, I’ll have you know, that fiddler ran out of that front door in a flash, and he hasn’t been seen since.

When the fiddlin’ stopped, Cephus’s bald head grinned up at his wife and said, “What happened to the music? I wanna dance some more!”

The widow simply looked at the head and said, “The music has stopped, Cephus, and so have you. You’ve danced yourself into a big heap of bones, and now it’s time for you to go back to the graveyard.”

Cephus’s big ol’ eyes looked around, and he noticed that he didn’t have a body. So he sighed a big sigh and said, “Okay, wife. I guess I do feel dead now. Go on and take me to the graveyard.”

So the widow Jones gathered up all the bones and took them back to the graveyard. But she was careful to lay those bones all crisscrossed-like, so Cephus could never jump up and dance some more. After that, Cephus didn’t get up outta that grave no more.

And, it’s sad to say, the po’ widow Jones remained a widow for the rest of her life. Most folks think it was that dancin’ head that kept all the men away!

- THE END -

Story Credits | Story Background

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Written by J.J. Reneaux

Around La Ville, New Orleans, the land is so low and wet that the dead have to be buried above ground in a vault. Folks don’t bury their dead in a grave in the ground. If the river were to overflow the levee, or a hurricane to flood the land, your loved one might just float back up from the grave and pay you a return visit!

Down the river a little ways from La Ville, there once lived an old man with his only child, a jolie fille called Therese. Her maman had died and Therese was left in the care of her papa, a greedy, miserly man who worked his girl like a mule and dressed her in rags. Though she was of a marrying age, he would not allow any young man to court her. She saw no one except her mean ol’ papa.

All he ever cared for were the gold coins that he kept hidden under a loose board in the floor beneath his bed. Every night he’d lock the door, and by the light of a flickering candle, he’d count his golden coins. He loved the way they clinked and glowed and weighed so heavy in his hands. But poor Therese, she was so lonesome. Every night she’d come knocking on his door, knock, knock. Her papa would yell out, “Who’s there?”

“Papa, c’ est moi,” she’d say. “It’s me, Therese. Papa, let me in, talk with me. I am so lonely.”

But her papa would only holler back at her, “Girl, get on outta here and get back to work. You only wanta get your hands on my gold, and thatta be over my dead body!”

And so it went until one night, knock, knock. “Who’s there?”

“Papa, it’s me, Therese. Me, I’m sick-sick,” she moans. “Papa, let me in!”

But he just yells back, “You lazy good-for-nothin’! Get outta here. You’re not sick. You just wanta get your hands on my money, and thatta be over my dead body!”

Again and again Therese returned to her father’s door, knock, knock. “Who’s there?”

“Papa, c’ est moi. Papa, let me in. I’m bad sick. I need the healer. Please, Papa, send for the traiteur!”

Knock, knock. “Who’s there?”

“Papa, please help me. The pain is worse. Oh, Papa, open the door!”

But her papa’s heart was as cold as his golden coins. At last the girl’s cries faded to silence, and she knocked no more. The old man was full of curiosity, and so he opened the door. There, lying lifeless on the porch floor, was jolie Therese. The old man was too stingy to buy a vault for his daughter. Instead, he laid Therese in a crude wooden coffin and buried her in a shallow, swampy grave down by the cypress tree.

The neighbors all shook their heads. They warned there would be trouble. How could poor Therese rest in peace in such a grave?

Three weeks went by and a storm began to coil up out over the gulf. The winds churned and rain fell like needles as the hurricane passed over the land. Night found the old man sitting in his room counting his gold coins by flickering candlelight. Outside, the wind howled and blew sheets of rain against the house. The old man did not know that the river had already spilled over the levee and sent its dark water across the land. He sat in his rocking chair, his lap full of gold, rocking and counting, “Un, deux, trois …”

Something thumped against his porch with a hollow, wooden clatter. Knock, knock, knock sounded at his door. “Who’s there?” he hollers.

Only a great sigh like the wind answered. “Just a loose shutter bangin’,” he thinks, and went on counting his shining gold. “Un, deux, trois …”

Knock, knock, knock pounded at his door, stronger this time. “Who’s there?”

Only a whining wind answered him. “Just that good- for-nothin’ hound dog tryin’ to get in,” he thinks. Again he returned to his golden coins. “Un, deux, trois …”

Knock, knock, knock! Three great booming knocks hammered at his door. “Who’s there?”

Only a low, sad moaning. A cold shiver ran down the old man’s back. “Storm’s gotcha all jumpy,” he says to himself. “It’s just the wind blowin’ that ol’ live oak tree, scrapin’ its branches against the house.”

But the moaning rose and rose above the wailing wind until it became a horrifying scream. “Papa, c’est moi, Therese! Let me in! It’s me, Therese!” Knock, knock, knock! “Papa, let me in!” Knock, knock, knock! “Papa, let me innnnnn!”

As the eye of the storm passed over the house, a bloodcurdling shriek pierced the deadly calm. Three days passed and the waters receded. Neighbors came by to look in on the old man. They rode onto his land, and as they passed by the cypress tree they saw that the flood had washed all the dirt away from Therese’s grave and it was empty. They knocked at the back door but no voice answered. Fearing some harm had befallen the old man, they went inside.

They found him sitting like stone in his rocking chair, cold as marble, his hair gone snow white. A silent scream was frozen on his face, and his eyes bulged in glassy terror.

Across the room, the door hung limp from one hinge, as though some monstrous fist had pounded it down. Before it lay a battered, splintered coffin and, inside, the gruesome corpse of Therese. Her withered hands clutched her papa’s golden coins, and a ghastly smile lay fixed upon her decaying lips.

With the money, the neighbors bought Therese a whitewashed vault and gave her a proper above ground burial. There was not enough money to buy the old man a vault, so they buried him in a pine coffin down by the cypress tree.

Since that time, whenever the river threatens to flood the land, the old man’s troubled spirit rises to warn all that danger is at hand. Folks know he’s payed them a visit when they hear someone knock, knock, knocking at their door but nobody is ever there!

- THE END -

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Written by Veronica Byrd and Bert Tanner

Now I’ll just bet that none of you have ever heard the story of Mama Coon Coon and the blue waters of the bayou, have you? Well, we know the story, and I think we need to tell it to you right now.

Once upon a time, the waters of the bayou were black – as black as ink. Now, even though these waters were black, they were still filled with lots and lots of fishes, shrimp and crab. And all of the fishermen would wake up early in the morning, long before the sun had even come above the horizon, and they would cast their nets down into the deep, black water. And what a wonderful sight it was at the end of the day to watch those fishermen pulling in their nets overflowing with all kinds of fishes, shrimp and crab.

Now all the fishermen fished early in the morning, with the exception of one fisherman – or should I say fisherwoman. Her name was Mama Coon Coon. You see, that is the name the local village children gave her because she had deep, dark circles around both eyes just like a raccoon.

Now Mama Coon Coon was a very strange woman indeed. No one really knows where she came from or how she got to our village. It’s as if one day she just appeared out of the clear blue sky – POOF! And come to think of it, that little shack she lives in at the edge of town seemed to pop up out of nowhere also. Like I said, she was a very strange woman indeed. Mama Coon Coon was always seen wearing a big blue dress and a white, clean bandanna tied around her head. Why that bandanna was so white it seemed to glow in the dark.

Now even though she was a little on the weird side, she was known for miles around for making the best seafood gumbo. Her gumbo was so good it would make you lick your lips more than once or twice. She would make her delicious gumbo every Friday night. Now even though she was known for miles and miles around for making seafood gumbo, she was not at all known for her singing. If you ever hear Mama Coon Coon sing, it would best to put both hands over your ears and run the other way!

Well, it happened one day that Mama Coon Coon had everything for her gumbo except crab, and she HAD to have crabs in her seafood gumbo. Now Mama Coon Coon didn’t fish like all the other fishermen. She fished late at night after everyone else had gone to bed. And she didn’t use fishing poles, fishing nets or crab baskets. “Those contraptions are a little too cumbersome for me,” she’d say. All she used to catch her crabs was her big blue dress. What she would do was open up her refrigerator and take out what ever she had left – like an old piece of fried chicken, grits, eggs, sausage from breakfast, old pieces of pizza, and even some items which were just indistinguishable.

You see, Mama Coon Coon said that the crabs just loved her leftovers. She would tie all of those leftovers to her big blue dress and she would go down to the water’s edge. When she’d get to the water, she’d walk right out into that water until it was about waist high. That dress with all the leftover bait on it would just float on top of the water; and she’d stand there and wait for those crabs to bite.

Well, it happened one night that Mama Coon Coon had been standing in the water for hours and hours and hours, and not one crab had bitten the bait. So Mama Coon Coon looked into the black water and said, “Well, I guess it’s too dark tonight. I guess the crabs don’t even know I’m standing here. Maybe I need to do something to attract them.” It was then that Mama Coon Coon began to sing. She sang, “Little crabbies, little crabbies, come and climb upon my dress. Little crabbies, little crabbies, if you don’t it’s gonna be a big mess!!” Well, Mama Coon Coon looked down and not one crab had bitten the bait. So she tried one more time. She sang, “Little crabbies, little crabbies, come and climb upon my skirt. Little crabbies, little crabbies, if you don’t you gon’ get hurt!”

Once again, not one crab had bitten the bait so Mama Coon Coon decided, “Well, well, well – if the crabs will not come to me, I will have to go to them! I will reach down into this black water with my bare hand and pull me out a couple of crabs if I have to!!” And that’s exactly what she did. “Little crabbies, little crabbies, come and cliiiiiiiiii……..”

What happened then was awful and terrible. Mama Coon Coon’s singing was so bad and terrible that folks were running ever-which-a-way with their hands over their ears. Houses were falling, the ground was shaking, and dogs were barking like this: “HowwwwwwwwwWooooooooooow!” And those crabs in that deep black water got angry – they had had it with that terrible singing. So they reached up with their claws and grabbed Mama Coon Coon by the nose and pulled her down, down, down into the deep black waters of the bayou.

And Mama Coon Coon has not been heard from or seen since. But if you happen to go down bayou way, you will notice that the water down there is no longer black – it is now very, very blue. And folks tell me that that is not blue water at all. They say that it is only Mama Coon Coon’s big blue dress still floating on top of the water, waiting for those crabs to bite. And that white moon you see reflecting off of that blue water, why that is no moon at all, child – that is only Mama Coon Coon’s big white bandanna reflecting up through that blue water.

And even today, if you go down to the bayou on any bright moonlit night and stand right at the water’s edge, right where the water meets the shore – if you listen very carefully, I guarantee you can still hear Mama Coon Coon singing to her crabs. She still sings, “Little crabbies, little crabbies, what’s a girl to do? You have pulled me in the water, now everything is blue.”

- THE END -

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Adapted from folklore by Craig Dominey

Deep in the hot steamy backwoods of Lost Creek, Louisiana, there once lived two young boys named Tom and Clay. They were the best of friends – so much so that they each made a solemn promise to be the best man at the other’s wedding when they grew up. They cut open the palms of their hands with hunting knives and shook hands on it, sealing their promise in blood.

As they got older, the two friends became very different men. Tom was a soft-spoken and humble fella who was quite content working his family’s small livestock ranch. But Clay was a hothead who frequented the local tavern almost every night. “That temper of yours is gonna get you in trouble one day,” Tom constantly warned his friend. And sure enough, his warning came true. Clay got in a barroom brawl one night over a gambling debt, and was promptly shot dead.

Tom spent many months grieving for Clay, and visited his grave every week at the tiny local cemetery a few miles outside of town. But Tom knew he eventually had to get on with his life, and so he did. A year later, he met a young woman named Isabelle, whose family had just moved into the area. After a six-month courtship, the two decided to get married.

It was then that Tom remembered the promise he’d made to Clay when they were kids. Since Clay was dead, he obviously couldn’t be the best man. But Tom felt he should show respect for their friendship and at least ask him, no matter if he was alive or dead. Besides, Tom was kind of a superstitious fella. And he figured with a temper like Clay had, he might just come back as a ghost and make his life miserable if he didn’t!

So one night, Tom walked down the long dusty road to Lost Creek Cemetery, lantern in hand. He opened the rusted cemetery gate with a loud CREAK and walked past the crumbling tombstones to Clay’s barren grave. He took a deep breath, then told Clay about his wedding plans. “Remember that promise we made when we was kids?” asked Tom. “Well, it’d be great if you could be my best man. But since you’re dead and all…”

Before Tom could finish this sentence, he felt the ground start to shake underneath his feet. It got louder and louder, and lightning crashed across the sky.A giant sinkhole opened up where Clay’s grave used to be. Then Tom’s blood ran cold as he saw Clay’s corpse rise slowly out of the earth, a big grin on his face, looking no different than the day they buried him.

“‘Bout time you came ’round here and asked me!” Clay said. “I thought you’d never make it!”

Tom could barely speak. “But…but you’ve been dead all this time! How come you don’t look any different?”

“They don’t let folks in Heaven who’ve made promises they don’t keep.” Clay answered. “So I’ve been lyin’ here this whole time. And I’d be much obliged if you’d let me keep my promise and be the best man at your wedding!”

Well, Tom figured he had no choice but to help his friend out. So he brought him back to town. Needless to say, the townspeople were quite scared when Clay – who they’d put in the ground not more than a year ago – came back looking no worse for wear. But once they saw he was the same old Clay, they gradually started to accept him again, even if he was dead.

Tom’s wedding day finally came, and there was quite a party at the local dance hall afterwards. Local fiddlers kept the guests dancing until the wee hours of the morning. Much beer and Cajun sausage was consumed by all. And as the party wound down, and Tom enjoyed another slow waltz with his new bride, he felt Clay tap him on the shoulder.

“It’s time for me to go,” said Clay. “Could you walk me back to the graveyard? That way we can say goodbye – for good this time.”

Tom noticed that Clay had a new look on his face – a peaceful, content look he’d never seen before. Tom looked at his bride, who nodded her approval with a smile and gave him a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be right back, I promise,” Tom said to Isabelle.

With that, Tom walked with Clay down the cemetery road. They walked in silence most of the time, Clay looking up at the bright stars with a grin on his face. When they reached the rusted cemetery gate, Clay opened it wide with a loud creak. But this time, there weren’t any old, crumbling tombstones on the other side. Instead, Tom’s jaw dropped as he saw a sparkling gold path leading through a beautiful forest of multicolored fruit trees. Songbirds sang the most beautiful songs Tom had ever heard.

“Is this Heaven?” Tom asked his friend.

“Must be,” Clay answered, “But you can’t go there. It ain’t your time. Besides, you have a new bride waitin’ for you back in town.”

Tom knew he had to get back, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away from the beauty on the other side of the gate. “Let me walk with you a bit,” Tom said. “I’ve gotta see what it’s like. I’ll turn back in a few minutes, I swear.”

Well, Clay figured he owed his friend a favor, so he held the gate open for Tom to follow. And as they strolled through the beautiful forests, meadows and beaches of Heaven, Tom thought it was a thousand times more beautiful than the local preacher said it would be. Tears streamed from his eyes at the beauty of the place.

It was then that Tom looked at his watch. He was shocked to see that hours had passed since he left Isabelle back at the dance hall. It had only seemed like a few minutes. He desperately wanted to keep walking, but with every ounce of willpower he had, he tapped Clay on the shoulder and told him it was time for him to go.

“Alright, then,” said Clay with a smile. “Maybe I’ll see you again one day.”

And with those words, the glorious world around them vanished, and Tom found himself back in the dark cemetery. He couldn’t wait to get back to town and tell Isabelle about what awaited them on the other side.

But as he walked through the graveyard, he noticed that something was strange. The tiny old cemetery was now filled with new graves, huge monuments and mausoleums. Tom ran down the long, cemetery road back toward town, but stumbled across a strange city he’d never seen before. Large buildings of glass and steel towered overhead. The townspeople were dressed in odd garments, staring at Tom like he was some sort of strange creature.

Tom figured he was disoriented, and must have taken the wrong road back home. “Where am I?” he asked the passers-by. “You’re in Lost Creek,” they answered with a chuckle. “What’s wrong? You drunk or somethin’?”

Tom was starting to get scared. He asked around for Isabelle, but no one had heard of her. He tried to find the dance hall, but no one had heard of it. He went to every church he could find, banging on the door to find his pastor. But he was nowhere to be found.

Finally, a sympathetic elderly pastor let Tom into his office. Tom frantically told him the story of his wedding, and how he had walked his friend Clay back to the graveyard. Now he couldn’t find Isabelle or the pastor who had married them. The old man laughed and shook his head. “C’mon, son. It isn’t Halloween yet. Besides, I’ve heard that old ghost story a million times.”

“What are you talking about?” said Tom.

The pastor lit his pipe, then told Tom the old tale of the bridegroom who disappeared on his wedding night. It was said that the bridegroom walked back to the cemetery with his dead friend and was never seen again. The bride was so grief stricken that she fell ill and died.

“That’s not possible!” Tom blurted out.

The pastor sighed and grabbed a large, dusty book from the top of his bookshelf. He flipped back the yellowing pages and said, “I’m not saying it’s a true story. But I happen to have the old church records from back then.” He found a wedding ledger and pointed two names out to Tom. “See? Here they are – married 150 years ago this night!”

Tom looked where he was pointing and froze. The names were his and Isabelle’s.

So like Clay before him, poor ol’ Tom had made a promise he didn’t keep. For Tom promised he’d be back for his bride, and never returned. But Tom never believed he’d really been away for 150 years. In fact, they say that Tom’s ghost still haunts the old section of the cemetery in Lost Creek, Louisiana, stranded outside the gates of Heaven.  And if you should go there and hear him ask you to help him find his bride, turn around and walk away. ‘Cause you might never come back.

- THE END -

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Written by J.J. Reneaux

Down in the bayou country there was once a beautiful girl named Marie. She was so pretty, so jolie, that all the people called her Marie Jolie. She was as sweet as sugar cane, but if you did her wrong, look out, for that girl could show a temper as hot as cayenne pepper!

Now Marie Jolie grew to be of a marrying age, but to her maman’s disappointment, she wasn’t yet of a mind to be married. First, she wanted to have adventures and see the big world, so she found something wrong with every young man who came to court her. This one was too short; that one was too tall; the next one had the ears of an elephant.

After a while her maman got impatient with Marie, for she worried that her daughter would wind up an old maid – a terrible fate in those days. So Maman says, “Marie Jolie, it is time for you to take a husband. You can’t pick one to suit you, so me, I’m gonna do it for you. We gonna have us a contest. You see this pumpkin? I’m gonna get M’su Carencro, the buzzard, to put it on the highest little skinniest branch of that big cypress tree out there in the swamp. Chère, the man that can fetch that pumpkin down without fallin’ in the water is gonna be your husband!”

“Well, Maman,” says Marie, “if it’s got to be, I s’pose – that’s as good a way as any of choosin’ a man.”

The contest was held the following week. Men came from parishes far and near, each one more eager than the next to win the hand of Marie Jolie. But one, a tall, dark, handsome man, stood out from the crowd. “Ooh, Maman,” says Marie, “I hope he gets the pumpkin! He’s a good-lookin’ devil for true.”

One after the other, the men tried to climb the great cypress, but they all ended up spitting swamp water. At last the good lookin’ stranger’s turn came. Quick as lightnin’, he scaled that tree like a cat, snatched the pumpkin, and landed with his boots on dry land. Before she knew it, Marie Jolie was a married woman!

She climbed proud as could be into her husband’s wagon, and they started driving down the road. It wasn’t long, however, before she noticed that things were getting strange. The path was growing darker and darker, and her new husband uglier and uglier.

Suddenly, a fearsome man appeared beside the path. “Gimme my tie and collar which I lent ya!” he calls out. Marie’s husband took off the tie and collar. “Here, then,” he says, “take back your ol’ tie and collar.”

A little farther down the road, they met another man. He says, “Gimme back my coat which I lent ya!” “Take your ol’ coat,” says her husband.

Yet a third man appeared and demanded his trousers; a fourth demanded his hat. A little while later, her husband stopped the wagon, disappeared briefly into the swamp woods, and returned just as well dressed as before!

Finally, a fifth man, fiercer than all the others together, his face hidden in the shadow of his tall hat, appeared before them and pointed a long, bony finger. “Give me the horses which I lent ya!” he roars. “Go to the devil, then,” says her husband with a wicked laugh, “and take your ol’ horses with ya.”

He watched as the man led the animals away, then he turned to his wife and hissed, “Girl, get down and hitch ya’self to the wagon and pull us home !” Marie Jolie could feel her temper rising. She was gonna tell him a thing or two! But a terrible change had come over her husband. His icy glare and ugly scowl frightened her. She thought she had better do as he said at least for a little while. She climbed down, hitched herself to the wagon, and began to pull with all her strength.

At last they arrived at her husband’s cabane. It was a gloomy lookin’ place, set way back in the swamp woods. “Marie Jolie,” says her husband, “I must leave. While I am gone, you will stay here and see no one. My maman will take good care of you ” And he disappeared in a burst of flames and smoke.

Marie was scared for true. She begged her new momma-in-law, “Please, Belle-Megrave, tell me why my husband is so strange.”

Belle-Megrave, who was a kind woman at heart and felt worse than anybody about how her son had turned out, sadly shook her head. “Oh, chère fille, ” she says, “you’ve made a terrible match. You have gone and married M’su Diable, the devil himself!”

Marie couldn’t believe her ears. “Old woman, you are only jealous. You just want to break up my marriage.”

“You do not believe me, p’tite fille? Come with me,” the old woman whispered. She led Marie Jolie inside the house to a secret door. She unlocked it with a big brass key and the heavy door creaked open. There, inside that dim room, Marie saw the devil’s other wives – each one hanging from a hook!

Now Marie Jolie knew the truth. “Oh, please, Belle- Mère,” she cried, “you gotta tell me how I can escape! How can I get out of here?”

“Girl, do you not see what became of the others who tried to escape? Stay with me, little one, I will keep you company and ease your suffering,” Belle-Megrave pleaded. “Do not bring down the terrible wrath of my son, the devil!”

But Marie Jolie was growing angry, and in her anger she grew bold. “No,” she insisted, “I will not be the devil’s wife! If you won’t help me escape, then I’ll find a way on my own.”

Belle-Megrave sighed. “The devil knows many tricks. He can change into fire and smoke and ride the wind. You cannot outrun him, but maybe if you are brave enough you can outsmart him. Even the devil cannot defeat a strong heart. But if your courage fails, he will destroy you.”

Marie was determined. “My heart is strong and my mind is made up,” she said. “M’su Diable will not destroy me.”

“All right then,” says Belle-Megrave, “here is what you must do. M’su Diable will return in the deepest night, at three o’clock, the soul’s hour. He hates dawn and the rising sun. In its light he cannot hide his true self, so he sleeps. His spy, Gaime, the rooster, keeps watch. If he catches you tryin’ to escape, he will crow. Tonight you must feed Gaime three bags of corn instead of one, so that he will oversleep. At sunrise, go and gather six dirty eggs. They will protect you. Do not take the clean eggs, for they are bad luck. Then, chère, run as quick-quick as you can away from this place!”

Marie did as she was told. Rooster overslept and she got the six dirty eggs. She tiptoed out, soft-soft, but the gate hinge squeaked and Gaime woke up crowin’ full-throat. “M’su Diable, M’su Diable, wake up! Vite-vite! Your wife is gettin’ away!”

Marie ran for her life as M’su Diable came screaming after her. She had not gone far when she turned and saw a cloud of smoke and fire approaching. She took one dirty egg and threw it over her shoulder. Boom! It exploded right in the devil’s path, and a fence of wood as high and wide as the eye could see sprang up. M’su Diable snorted and stomped in fury and flew back to his cabane. When he returned, he had his magic golden axe. The axe chopped through the fence at once, and the devil was again hot on the trail of his runaway wife.

Marie grabbed a second dirty egg and heaved it straight at the devil. Crack! It flashed like a bolt of lightning, and a fence of brick sprang up as high and wide as the eye could see. The devil cursed and spat, and his magic axe smashed the brick to splinters.

Marie took aim and flung the third dirty egg. It shattered like thunder, and a fence of stone sprang up as high and wide as the eye could see. The devil shrieked and set his axe to ripping through the wall, and soon the cloud of fire and smoke again threatened to destroy her.

Marie took the fourth egg and hurled it through the air. The earth shook with its force, and a fence of iron sprang up as high and wide as the eye could see. But it, too, was little trouble for M’su Diable’s fearsome magic.

Marie ran as fast as she could, but M’su Diable was almost upon her. She grabbed the fifth egg and pitched it straight into the fireball behind her. A wall of flames roared to the sky, and a deep bayou appeared before the devil. The water stopped him cold. But suddenly a great gust of wind blew the evil cloud of smoke and fire over the bayou, and the waters began to boil.

Marie’s blood ran cold as ice when she looked back this time. For M’su Diable had dropped his disguise, and now she saw the ol’ devil himself as he truly is. His forked tail whipped wildly about, his cloven hooves raised clouds of dust, and his goat beard flapped wickedly in the wind. The bright sun glinted off his sharp, curved horns, and his beady eyes burned like hot coals. Crusty red scales covered his body. For true, M’su Diable looked a whole lot like a boiled crawfish!

Only one dirty egg remained, and Marie threw it with her last ounce of strength. But her hand trembled so that she completely missed her mark. The egg fell at her own two feet and exploded. The earth rumbled and cracked. A mighty river came rolling by. It was the Mississippi! Marie was trapped. How could she ever swim such a wide, dangerous river?

But wait – wasn’t that ol’ Grandmaman Cocodrie sunning herself out there in the shallows? Marie cried out to the alligator, “Je vous en prie, Grandmaman, traver-sez-moi. Sauvez ma vie! Aidez-moi, vieille Grandmaman! I beg you, carry me across. Save my life. Help me, old Grandmother!”

Grandmaman Cocodrie, always on the lookout for an easy meal, swam up to Marie without a moment’s hesitation. “Maybe I will carry you across,” she growled. “But tell me, what makes you think I won’t eat you up?”

“Grandmaman,” says Marie, “I’d rather be your supper than be the devil’s wife!”

“Climb on my back, p’tite fille, I like your courage!” says the old cocodrie, and she carried Marie quickly and safely to the other side.

Just then, M’su Diable came running up to the bank. In his most charming voice he called out, “Traversez-moi, Grandmaman, traversez-moi! Belie, belie cocodrie! Carry me across, old Grandmother, carry me across! Beautiful, beautiful alligator!”

“Climb on my back, M’su, I’ll give you a ride for sure,” says ol’ Alligator with a snap of her jaws. M’su Diable stepped onto her scaly back, holding his forked tail out of the muddy water, while Grandmother Alligator swam out into the deep river.

Things were looking awfully bad for Marie, with M’su Diable closing in on her. But, if there was anything that Grandmaman Cocodrie hated, it was a mean ol’ devil on her back, and suddenly, way out there where the water was swiftest and darkest, she dived. M’su Diable didn’t have a snowball’s chance in August. M’su Diable, of course, can’t swim a lick – not much water down where he comes from. The 0l’ Muddy took that devil kickin’ and sputterin’ all the way downstream to New Orleans. Some say he washed up in the French Quarter, right smack dab in the middle of Bourbon Street, but then, that’s another story altogether.

As for Marie Jolie, she lived to be une très vieille femme, a very old woman. She had many adventures before her black hair turned snow-white. People called her Marie Esprit, the spirited one. When they asked why she never married again, she’d just smile and say, “You know, chère, once you been married to one devil, there’s no need to go out and look for another one!”

- THE END -

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Written by Tom Coleman

“DON’T GO INTO PATIN’S PUMPKIN PATCH. THEY GOT TATIES IN THERE!”

How many times have I heard that growing up in South Louisiana? Seems like every time I’d turn around to go outside my momma and papa would tell me, “Don’t go into Patin’s Pumpkin Patch. They got taties in there!”

Now for those of you who don’t know, a tati is like a Cajun boogyman. They love to scare bad little childrens.

But I could never understand why outa all of the punkin patches in Acadia Parish, any Tati would want to live in Patin’s pumpkin patch. I mean, it was all overgrown with weeds. And the punkins were so villain – ugly, all twisted out of shape.

My papa used to tell me stories about old man Patin, and how he put a gris gris on his punkin patch – you know, an evil spell to keep the taties there.

He went out into that punkin patch one time a year, on Halloween night at midnight, to put a fresh gris gris on his field. Don’t never go into Patin’s punkin patch. They got Taties in there. Well, me and my best friend Shawee, decided we was too old to believe in taties anymore. So we was gonna play a trick on old man Patin.

We sneaked into his punkin patch on Halloween night and we was gonna take our pocket knives and carve some Jack O’ Lanterns out of them old scraggly punkins. Yeah, we was gonna fool old Patin into thinking that the Halloweenies had passed, and scare him real good.

We sat down with a couple of punkins and was just about to carve them up when we heard a noise, like something moving in the field. Me and Shawee stopped what we was doing and looked into the field. It was a full moom so we could see everything like it was daytime. But we couldn’t see what was moving.

So I sat back down and was fixin to start cutting when I saw that someone had already carved a scary face into that punkin. I was surprised, but when I looked closer at it, it didn’t look like it was carved at all. It looked different.

Then all of a sudden that punkin blinked! I jumped to my feet and threw that punkin down. That old punkin face started getting meaner and meaner, and that thing started rocking back and forth, like something was coming out of the ground and pushing it. Then I saw that every punkin in that field was moving from side to side.

They rocked so hard that they started popping loose from their vines. Then they started rolling. That whole field was moving now. Rolling toward me and Shawee.

You think we ran?

Flame de cheu cabris! We ran like a goat with our tail on fire!

Them punkins started chasing us, rolling right behind us. We ran through that field towards the town. We heard that rumbling sound like an earthquake, and I looked back over my shoulder, and saw a mountain of punkins tumbling toward us; each one of them had a mean, scary face. And their mouths were getting bigger and bigger like they was gonna swallow us whole!

Shawee and me ran toward the big dith at the edge of the field as fast as we could. We ran down the side of that ditch with all these punkins close behind. But they could roll down faster than we could run and I felt tham big orange things hitting the back of my boots. I knew we was done for. But then we started running up the other side of the ditch. Now those punkins could roll uphill as fast as they rolled down, so when we finally reached the top of the other side, me and Shawee finally stopped and looked back. The punkins that had rolled up this side were rolling back down. We made it.

But then we saw the punkins roll back up the other side and then back up this one, each time getting higher and higher. They were trying to get over this side!

Me and Shawee started running toward town, screaming at the top of our lungs, “HELP ME! SAVE ME! PATIN’S PUNKINS ARE TRYING TO EAT ME!”

We ran straight to the fire hall where there was a bunch of men sitting outside playing cards. When they heard our screams, they didn’t laugh or ask any questions. Instead they ran into the fire hall and grabbed those big chopping axes, and then they ran back toward Patin’s field.

We finally caught up to them in the ditch where they were smashing all of those punkins with their axes. When they had busted up every last one, they went into Patin’s patch and set that whole field on fire.

It was the biggest fire me and Shawee ever saw. That black smoke curled up to the sky and completely blocked out that full moon.

Now I’m gonna tell you something, and if you doon’t believe me you can ask Shawee. But above the roar of that flame we heard screams, hundreds of screams rising up from that smoke. Oooh, it gives me the frissons just thinking about it right now.

Now old man Patin was never seen again since that night. Some people say he ran away, some think that something bad happened to him. And that punkin patch? Well, it never grew another punkin since then. In fact, if you go to Acadia Parish today, you won’t find another punkin patch anywhere around there. But if you ask somebody around there where old Patin’s field is, they sure can tell you. But they also gonna tell you:

“DON’T GO INTO PATIN’S PUNKIN PATCH. THEY STILL GOT TATIE’S IN THERE!”

- THE END -

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Collected and Adapted by Craig Dominey

If there’s one thing New Orleans is famous for besides jazz and gumbo, it’s ghost stories. Why, it’s almost a matter of public shame if you own an old building that doesn’t have a ghost or two lurking about. And the more gruesome the tale, the better.

But this story is one of the most gruesome of them all. And the scary thing is – some folks say it actually happened.

Back in the 1800s, a young German couple opened a sausage factory in New Orleans. They were well respected for being hard workers and very pleasant sort of people. They’d greet everyone with a smile, and happily called out their regular customers’ names as they walked through the door. On top of that, they made some of the most delicious pork sausage you ever put in your mouth.

But of course, like a lot of other marriages, there was darkness lurking behind the public smiles and affection. Behind closed doors, the husband was getting a bit tired of his wife. In his eyes, all their hard work had made her old and wrinkled before her time. It wasn’t long before he found a young mistress and eventually fell in love with her.

And he knew he could never have a life with his new lover as long as his wife was around.

So one night after the shop closed, the man crept up behind his wife as she swept the floor, wrapped a cord around her neck, and strangled her. She was a strong woman, and put up quite a fight, but her husband was stronger. As he pulled the cord tighter and tighter around her throat, he could feel her body collapse until she finally fell dead onto the dirty floor. The husband gazed down at her body and smiled – at last, he thought, I’m free!

Now if you’ve ever been to New Orleans, you know it’s awfully hard to conceal a murder down there. Because there’s so little land space, all the houses are built right up against one another. So you become very aware of what your neighbors are up to.

But the sausage maker had a gruesome plan. With great effort, he lifted his wife’s body off the floor – and stuck her headfirst into the sausage grinder!

As the days passed, the man reveled in his happy new life with his mistress. But he continued to keep their relationship a secret so he wouldn’t raise any suspicion. Whenever customers walked into his shop and asked where his wife was, he’d say she was ill, or she was visiting relatives out of town. Nobody thought twice about it, and life went on as normal.

But shameful secrets have a way of creeping up on people eventually. And the longer the wife stayed missing, the more the neighbors began to whisper that something was wrong. The sausage maker’s appearance had become unkempt and haggard, his eyes tired and bloodshot. What’s more, the quality of his meats had deteriorated. Some customers had even bit into bits of hair and torn fabric in their breakfast sausage.

Late one evening, the sausage man was cleaning the front of the shop, trying desperately to think of a new excuse for his wife’s prolonged absence. Suddenly, he heard a strange thumping noise coming from the back room. It sounded to him like somebody was grinding sausages. He ran into the back – and what he saw next froze him in his tracks.

Climbing out of the sausage vat was his dead wife. Her shop apron was covered in blood, and her head was horribly mutilated. She walked slowly toward her husband, arms outstretched, her agonizing moans filling the room. The sausage maker ran out into the street in a panic, screaming loudly. One by one, his neighbors rushed out of their homes and asked what was wrong. Gathering himself, he claimed to have had a bad dream, and thanked them for their concern.

Night after night, the hauntings continued, and the neighbors became more and more suspicious. Dark rumors spread that the man had murdered his wife – but where was her body? The answer came one day when a customer bit into a piece of a gold wedding ring in her sausage. She informed the police, who raided the sausage factory that evening.

As they busted into the back room, they found the sausage maker huddled in a corner, screaming uncontrollably like a maniac. He pointed a shaking finger at the sausage grinder and cried out that his wife was coming to get him. The police grabbed him and promptly locked him up in the nearest insane asylum.

But the asylum provided no safe haven for the sausage man. He screamed day and night that his wife’s ghost had entered the room, and was coming to get him. He eventually had a complete mental breakdown, and committed suicide.

During the time the sausage maker was locked up, the factory was sold to another man, who claimed the ghost of the sausage maker’s wife continued to haunt the building. Immediately after her husband’s suicide, the hauntings stopped, and the ghost was never seen again.

Nowadays, you might find a longtime New Orleans resident whose ancestor was one of the unlucky ones who ate the tainted sausage that year. Needless to say, that’s one of those deep, dark secrets that’s probably best taken to the grave.

- THE END -

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