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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Collected and Adapted by Craig Dominey

Kristin had always been the “black sheep” of her family. She came from a rural and very conservative Middle Georgia clan, and had fought constantly with her parents since she was a child. Kristin wanted no part of the settled and routine life her parents had lead – she was an impulsive free-spirit who would travel to the far corners of the earth at a moment’s notice, sometimes not even knowing where she was headed, or why.

So it came as no surprise when, a few weeks shy of her 30th birthday, Kristin announced that she was leaving her high-paying job at a major corporation to fulfill her life’s dream – to become a professional sculptor. She sold her expensive suburban apartment and moved into an abandoned mill in one of the rougher areas of Atlanta. She planned on converting part of the space into a full-time studio and living area.

Her parents were horrified, especially when they learned that her studio was just a few miles down the road from the county jail. And Kristin didn’t see the need to rig her studio with an expensive alarm system, for her neighbors seemed nice enough. But like every other discussion Kristin had with her father, his words of warning went in one ear and out the other.

So on her 30th birthday, her father took matters into his own hands and bought Kristin a guard dog – a Doberman named Bishop from the local humane society. The dog had been abused by his former owners, and had become mean and distrustful of humans. But Kristin always had a strong love for animals, and she took the poor dog into her care. In a matter of weeks, Bishop became very attached to Kristin, and extremely protective whenever anyone else would approach her.

One morning, Kristin came home from a trip to the hardware store to find Bishop lying in the middle of the floor, coughing and wheezing uncontrollably. She immediately rushed him to the local veterinarian, who performed a series of tests. After a while, the vet was satisfied that Bishop wasn’t dangerously sick, but he couldn’t figure out why the dog was still coughing.

“Don’t worry,” he told Kristin in his calm and soothing voice, “Bishop looks perfectly healthy. But I’d like to run some additional tests on him this afternoon. Why don’t you go home and I’ll call you when we know something. There’s no sense in sitting in the waiting room all day.”

So Kristin got back in her car, made a trip to the health food store, then returned home. As she walked through the door, she could hear the phone ringing in her bedroom. Loaded down with shopping bags, she decided to let her voice-mail catch the call. But no sooner had the phone stopped ringing then it started ringing again. Thinking it may be an emergency – or perhaps an annoying telemarketer who needed to be yelled at – Kristin dropped her bags and ran to the phone, catching it on its last ring.

“Hello?” she breathlessly answered.

She was surprised to find her veterinarian on the other end. “Kristin, we have some results on Bishop. We need you to come back to the office.”

“Okay. I’ll be there in an hour or so…”

“…No, Kristin,” interrupted the vet in a barely controlled voice. “We need you to come down now.”

Kristin was taken aback by the sound of his voice. She could hear the tension lurking behind his words. There was something he wasn’t telling her. “What’s wrong?” she asked. “Is Bishop okay?”

“We’ll talk about that when you get here,” answered the vet, his voice growing louder and more agitated. “Just get in the car now.”

“Why can’t you tell me over the phone?” asked Kristin.

The vet suddenly blurted out, “Are you in the house alone?”

A chill ran through Kristin’s blood. She slowly sat on her bed and replied, “Yes. Why?”

She could hear the vet taking a deep breath on the other end of the phone. Then, barely able to contain the tremor in his throat, he said in a hushed voice, “Listen to me carefully. We found out why Bishop was coughing.”

It was then that Kristin noticed her bedroom window. A hole had been punched through the glass, and it was unlocked.

“Kristin, are you there?”

“Yes,” Kristin answered, her voice starting to shake.

She then noticed drops of blood on her carpet. They stretched across the room and underneath her closet door. “I don’t know how to tell you this, but what we found in your dog’s throat were fingers. Human fingers.”

As the vet spoke, Kristin sat frozen as she watched the closet door slowly creak open on its rusted hinges. “Did you hear what I said? He bit the fingers off somebody’s hand!”

Kristin still didn’t answer. In the darkness of the closet, she swore she could see the hand of a large man, blood dripping from where his fingers had been gnawed off. And on his arm was the orange sleeve of a prison uniform.

“There’s somebody here,” Kristin whispered into the phone.

“Get out of the house, Kristin! For God’s sake, GET OUT OF THE HOUSE!!!!!!!”

The phone line went dead.

- THE END -

Story Credits | Story Background

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Written by Craig Dominey

When I was a kid back home in South Alabama, whenever I would get real rambunctious and wouldn’t go to bed, all my folks had to do was tuck me in and tell me about Ol’ Sleepyhead – that crazy old woman who could never fall asleep. That story could always make me go straight to sleep the minute the lights were turned out.

The story goes like this – many years ago, there used to be this old couple named Flowers who lived on a huge farm outside of town. Mr. Flowers was a very prosperous farmer; with bountiful fields and lots of livestock. Even in the driest months, the old man still found a way to make lots of money off his land. And the more successful he got, the more his farm grew.

Well, you know what they say about having lots of things – the more stuff you got, the more you have to take care of. Well, Mrs. Flowers found that out the hard way. One hot summer afternoon, her husband had a sudden heart attack while working out in the fields. He died shortly thereafter, leaving the entire farm in his wife’s care. The couple had no children, and Mrs. Flowers didn’t know the first thing about farming – she had always left farm business to her husband. Now she was all alone.

Mrs. Flowers did her best to take care of everything, but soon it became too much to bear. The house became cluttered and dirty, the fields dry and weed-infested, and the livestock grew malnourished and skinny. What’s worse, she became so consumed with what needed to be done that she couldn’t sleep at night. She’d toss and turn, making mental lists of what needed to be done each day, and what bills needed to be paid.

Mrs. Flowers tried everything to fall asleep. She’d take a hot bath, read the most boring book she could find, then count sheep in her head. And though she normally frowned on drinking, she’d occasionally crack open her husband’s whiskey and make a hot toddy before bedtime – but nothing worked. She became constantly tired and listless, having very little energy to do her daily chores. Her skin turned pale, and her eyes were puffy and bloodshot. It got to the point where she was nervous about going to bed at all. For each morning, the crowing of the rooster and the piercing beams of sunlight coming through her bedroom window signaled the end of yet another sleepless night. Friends who called on her were shocked at her appearance, and whispered to one another that she looked like walking death.

So in desperation, Mrs. Flowers decided to pay a visit to a local conjure woman who lived in an old shack at the edge of the swamp. Perhaps she could come up with some sort of spell or potion that would help her sleep. Most folks were scared to go near her, thinking she was an evil witch. But poor, tired Mrs. Flowers felt that all her other options had run out.

One afternoon, Mrs. Flowers rode down the long, boggy road toward the conjure woman’s house. The dark, mossy trees seemed to envelop her as she rode deeper and deeper into the swamp. Black clouds of flies buzzed around her face, and poisonous snakes slid to and fro beside her wagon wheels. How could anyone live in this awful place, she thought to herself.

After what seemed like hours, she reached the ramshackle cabin. The yard was barren and filled with all sorts of rusted junk. Sickly-looking chickens fluttered about, desperately pecking at whatever crumbs they could find. Looking at her eerie surroundings, she thought to herself that maybe this wasn’t such a good idea.

Nonetheless, Mrs. Flowers climbed off the wagon and hesitantly knocked on the grimy front door. There was no immediate sound from the house, and Mrs. Flowers, actually relieved that no one was home, turned to leave. But then the door slowly creaked open on its rusted hinges. Mrs. Flowers slowly turned around – and there, standing in the darkened doorway, was the conjure woman. She was an old hag with long, stringy hair that looked as if it were made of spider webs, long, dirty fingernails, and a giant wart on her chin. She recognized Mrs. Flowers immediately, grinned widely – revealing five or six rotten, yellow teeth – and hissed, “How nice to see you. Please come in.”

She led Mrs. Flowers into a dark musty room and motioned for her to sit in a dirty, overstuffed chair in the corner. Mrs. Flowers then told the conjure woman about her sleeping problem and how she would do anything for just one night of good, sound sleep. The hag nodded and disappeared into the kitchen. She then returned with a dark vial filled with a syrupy-looking substance. “This will do the trick – it’s made of cherry wine and the wings of hibernating bats. It will surely put you to sleep – the soundest sleep you’ve ever had. No one and no thing will be able to wake you until you are fully rested.”

Mrs. Flowers thought about this for a moment, then took the vial. “Thank you so much,” she said to the hag. “How much do I owe you?”

The conjure woman grinned and waved her off. “It’s my pleasure,” she hissed. “Just enjoy your sleep.”

With that, Mrs. Flowers returned home and drank the bitter liquid. She cringed at the disgusting taste, but before she knew it, it became harder and harder to keep her eyes open. She staggered to bed and plunged into a blissful sleep, a content smile creeping across her face.

Meanwhile, back at the swamp cabin, the conjure woman was biding her time. And after a couple of days had passed, she began spreading rumors throughout the community that something funny was going on up at the Flowers farm. Mrs. Flowers hadn’t been seen in days – had she finally succumbed to her poor health? After all, she was looking more and more like walking death each day.

Shortly thereafter, a group of townsfolk paid a visit to the Flowers farm to find out what was going on. They knocked on the door, but got no answer, even though they could see her wagon parked out front. They ran around the house peering into every window; but saw nothing out of the ordinary. Now very concerned, they picked the front door lock and searched the home. They soon found Mrs. Flowers upstairs, lying peacefully on her bed. They tried to rouse her, but to no avail. Her skin was cool to the touch. They listened for a heartbeat, or breathing sounds, but heard nothing. They sadly came to the realization that Mrs. Flowers was dead.

Friends in town cried at news of her death, but felt that maybe now she was finally getting the rest she craved. They laid her body out in the living room and sat up with her overnight, sharing memories of the times they had. The next day, they carried her in a pine box to the old cemetery on the hillside, and laid her in a freshly dug grave beside her husband.

As the pine box was lowered into the grave, Mrs. Flowers slowly woke from her long sleep. You see, the concoction the conjure woman had given her had caused her breathing to become so shallow, and her heart rate so slow, that they were virtually impossible to detect. It also caused her body temperature to fall so low that her skin was cool to the touch. She didn’t know where she was until she heard dirt being shoveled on top of her coffin. She banged frantically on the coffin lid and screamed, “Let me out! I’m not dead! Do you hear me? I’m not dead!”

But her screams were drowned out by the “thud, thud, thud” of the dirt landing on the coffin lid. In no time at all, she was buried alive.

All these events had gone just as the conjure woman had planned. For you see, she had always been jealous of Mr. and Mrs. Flowers, with their plentiful crops and healthy livestock. All she had were just a few skinny chickens. Soon after the funeral was over, she would sneak up to the old farm each night and steal as many chickens, horses and cows as she could handle. By week’s end, she had nearly taken all the livestock from the Flowers’ farm. To celebrate a job well done, she plopped down into a chair, cackled loudly, and took a big swig of her homemade cherry wine. She soon drank herself into a sound sleep.

Later that night, the hag was suddenly awakened by the loud crowing of a rooster. She peered out the window through bloodshot eyes, and noticed there was not a trace of light in the sky. Why was the rooster crowing so early? She rolled over with a grunt and put a pillow over her head, but still the crowing continued, growing louder and louder. Now totally awake, she jumped out of bed and ran out into the yard. “Shut up!” she screamed, chasing the terrified chickens around the yard. But though the loud crowing filled the air, she could not find the rooster.

The same thing happened night after night. The moment she would fall off to sleep, a loud crowing long before dawn would jolt the old hag awake. She would run through the yard screaming, “Where are you, you cursed rooster? When I find you, I’m gonna chop off your head!” But the crows from the mysterious rooster would only grow louder and louder. One night, after nearly two weeks without sleep, the crazed hag took an ax and chopped the heads off every chicken she could find. But the unseen rooster continued to crow.

As months went by without sleep, the hag slowly went insane. She was convinced that the rooster was mocking her, its crows turning into cackling laughter. The hag grabbed her ax and ran screaming into the night, hacking away at anything she could see. As she ran aimlessly, the swamp was filled with a cacophony of unbearable noises, as if all the trees and swamp critters were joining in the mocking symphony.

The hag never returned home again. Months later, some fishermen found her decomposed remains, still dressed in a tattered nightgown, her skeletal hand clutching her ax.Over the years, folks who were brave enough to venture into the swamp at night claimed they saw the old hag’s sleep-deprived ghost running through the trees, swinging her ax wildly into thin air. The children in town named her “Ol’ Sleepyhead,” and she became a local legend. But closer to our time, they drained the swamp and built a new freeway through the area, which brought the haunting to a sudden stop.Was that old rooster really the vengeful ghost of Mrs. Flowers? Guess we’ll never know. But if there’s one thing this story taught me, it’s the importance of a good night’s sleep. Sleep tight!!!

- THE END -

Story Credits | Story Background

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