Written by Veronica Byrd with Craig Dominey

Brother Emmet Fisher was a fine looking young man who lived in a tiny community on the Georgia coast. He was well respected in town for being an honest, hardworking fellow. Although he wasn’t wealthy, he made a nice-enough living doing handiwork for the local townspeople.

Emmet was getting close to marrying age, and every woman in town was jumping at the chance to be his chosen. He’d have unexpected visits from different women every day bearing gifts of fried chicken, gumbo, cakes, cookies and other delicacies.

But Emmet had his eyes set on a beautifully mysterious young woman who lived alone in a small cabin deep in the marsh. She was incredibly beautiful, with long dark hair, smooth skin and piercing green eyes. But word around town was that she was a little strange, and it was best to stay away from her.

Emmet, however, couldn’t get this mysterious woman out of his head. What made her even more intriguing was the fact that she would walk through town, turning heads with every step, but never did she acknowledge the admiring glances or catcalls from numerous, hopeful, would-be suitors. In fact, no one in town could ever remember this woman speaking a word to anybody.

After several months of watching this gorgeous beauty walk through town, Emmet finally worked up enough nerve to call on her at her marsh cabin. His plan was to go fishing one day in a tidal creek that just so happened to be near her home. While out fishing, he conveniently broke his water jug into a hundred little pieces. Brother Emmet walked up to the woman’s house and knocked on the door.

As the door slowly creaked open and the woman peeked out, Emmet nervously cleared his parched throat. “Excuse me, ma’am,” he stammered, “my name is Emmet Fisher, and I seem to have broken my water jug. Could you please spare me just a cup of water? I’m mighty thirsty.”

The woman smiled and invited him in without hesitation. Her voice was even more beautiful and silky that Emmet had imagined. She not only gave Emmet a cup of water, but to his surprise, asked him to stay for supper. The food was delicious, and the woman waited on Emmet hand and foot. Before he knew it, she invited him to stay for breakfast the next day, then lunch, then another dinner.

Suddenly, in the blink of an eye, Brother Emmet found himself married to the mysterious woman.

After their sudden marriage, Emmet and his bride got along reasonably well for a while. But after a few months, he began to notice that something peculiar was going on with his new wife. On certain nights, when the clock struck midnight, Emmet would sometimes wake up to find that his wife wasn’t in bed with him, nor could she be found anywhere in the house. Emmet began to get worried that she might be seeing someone else on the side, and confronted her about it. But she would just laugh and reassure him that she was, indeed, in the house, and that he must be having nightmares.

As his wife began to disappear more often, Emmet decided to confide in one of his best friends who had also just gotten married. After hearing Emmet’s story, his friend shook his head and said, “Emmet, I hate to say this, but it sounds to me like you might’ve married yo’self a boo-hag.”

“A boo-hag?” asked Emmet. “What’s a boo-hag?”

His friend went on to explain: “Well, a boo-hag is an evil spirit that wakes up at night, sheds her skin like a snake, and flies outside and sucks the blood out of victims from near and far. A boo-hag is an evil spirit that sits on your chest and steals your voice. A boo-hag is an evil spirit that sits on your back and rides you all night like a horse until you drop dead.”

Horrified, Emmet said, “Well, I sho’ don’t want to be married to no boo-hag, if that’s what she is. What am I gonna do about it?”

“The only way to get rid of a boo-hag is to make sho’ she can’t get back in her skin. When she’s gone, take a look in the closet. If you see her skin hanging in there, take it offa the hook, fill it with salt and pepper, put it back in the closet, then lie back and watch.”

Around midnight that very evening, Emmet rolled over in bed and found that his wife was gone. He did what his friend told him to do – he got up, went to the closet, and found his wife’s skin hanging there, cold and slimy to his touch like a lizard’s skin. He filled it with salt and pepper, hung it back in the closet, then went back to bed and waited for his wife to return.

Sure enough, as the sun was about to rise that morning, the door opened, and in walked his skinless wife. She opened the closet door, took her skin off the hook and spoke to it in a gravelly, witch-like hiss:

“I done been out and had my fun,

But I’m back now, and my work’s all done.

So let me in, skin, for the sun’s about to crest,

You knows I’m a boo-hag, and I needs my rest.”

She then stepped into her skin and fastened it around her body. But after a while, that salt and pepper started to itch and burn her real bad. She tried to yank the skin off, but the more she tried, the tighter the skin pressed against her body. She screamed and hollered and jumped around the room, her skin burning her alive.

With that, Emmet leapt out of bed and said, “I got you now, you ol’ boo-hag witch! You fooled me and tricked me into marrying you. So now I’m gonna kill you. Ain’t nothin’ else can be done!”

With that, he shoved the boo-hag into a large barrel of tar he had cooking on the hearth. And that boo-hag burned and melted, her screams filling the air for miles and miles.

After the boo-hag was dead, Emmet, being the handyman that he was, knew exactly what to do with that hot barrel of tar. As the sun rose that morning, he took that tar up to the top of his house, and poured himself a brand new roof.

So, all of you nice, hard working, fine-looking young men out there – the next time your eye is caught by a beautiful young girl, you’d better get to know her before you marry her. Because, one day, you, too, may wake up late in the midnight hour, roll over in bed, and find yourself sleeping next to a boo-hag!

-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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Collected and Adapted by Craig Dominey

When the Great Depression hit the South back in the 1930s, it hit the South hard. Thousands of people wandered from town to town hoping to find a job, sometimes even leaving their families behind. But most of the time, all they would find was another group of people just like them, waiting desperately for the next job to appear.

Some would say Jack was a lucky man. He was a rebellious young adventure-seeker who left his family a long time ago to ride the rails, and to see as much of the world as he could. But even a journeyman had to eat sometime, and Jack’s stomach had been rumbling like an angry bear lately. So he knew it was time to finally hop off the train and find himself a job – at least for the time being.

One day, Jack’s train pulled into the small town of Abel, Mississippi – although it would have been generous to call it a “town.” It was really a small speck in the middle of an endless sea of dry, barren farmland. Jack carefully hopped out of the dingy boxcar that had been his home for the past few days, and wandered toward a small general store. On the wooden porch, he could see a small gathering of men; all looking tired, hungry and lost.

“Howdy, fellas,” said Jack as he sauntered up. “You hear of any work ’round here?”

The men stared blankly at him, as if that was the most ridiculous question they’d ever heard. After an awkward pause, one of the men reluctantly spoke up:

“Well, you can always go out to the Davis place.”

The other men whirled around and looked at their friend in disbelief. “What kind of work is it?” asked Jack.

“Old man Davis is looking for a farmhand. He’s gotten too old to do most of the work. I hear he’ll give you a room and food and everything…”

One of the other men suddenly interrupted him and said to Jack, “I don’t think you’d want that job, mister.”

“Why not?” asked Jack. “Sounds like a good deal to me.”

The men looked at each other again before the second man replied, “‘Cause everyone who’s taken that job ain’t lived to tell about it.”

Jack studied the group for a moment, trying to figure out if this was a joke, or if maybe they were trying to scare him because they wanted the job for themselves. But the grim looks on their faces told Jack they were dead serious.

“Why’s that?” Jack finally asked. “Is this Davis fella some kind of slave driver?”

“Nobody knows,” said another one of the men. “All we know is, everyone who’s gone up there has been found dead the next morning. There’s some strange stuff goin’ on up there.”

Now Jack wasn’t scared easily. Even as a child, ghost stories and superstitions that scared other kids seemed silly to him. He flashed a confident grin and said, “A little hard work doesn’t scare me. I think I’ll take that job. And I’d be mighty obliged if one of you fellas would give me a ride up there.”

One of the men shrugged his shoulders and pointed Jack toward his wagon. An hour later, they were riding across the flat and vast Mississippi landscape toward the Davis home. The surrounding farmland was so barren and drought-stricken that Jack thought it looked sort of like the Arabian Desert. After all, he’d seen it for himself in an old magazine somebody left on the train.

Before long, Jack was surprised to see an oasis in the distance – a small cluster of lush oak trees in the middle of the brown fields. A dirt path stretched from the roadside into the center of this odd, tiny forest. The driver pointed at the trees and said, “There’s the Davis place. Sorry, but I’m gonna have to ask you to walk the rest of the way.”

Jack could see a flash of fear in the driver’s eyes. He smiled and thanked him, then hopped off the wagon toward the Davis home. The walk up the path seemed to stretch on forever, but as Jack neared the grove of trees, he saw an ominous sight. On the side of the path was a tiny graveyard without any headstones, only hastily carved crosses. What’s worse, each of the graves looked freshly dug.

Jack finally entered the grove, and compared with what he had seen so far, it looked to him like paradise. Under the cool shade of the oak trees stood a pretty white farmhouse, a wide veranda sweeping around the front. A small stream gurgled behind the house, giving the place a relaxing, otherworldly feel. Excited about his discovery, Jack marched up to the door and knocked.

After awhile, the door creaked open to the darkened house. Standing there was a feeble old man in weathered overalls, his skin tan and leathery from years in the fields. He looked through tired, bloodshot eyes at Jack and said, “Can I help you?”

“Some fellas in town told me you were lookin’ for a farmhand,” said Jack.

“I do need a hand ’round here,” said Mr. Davis. “But did those fellas tell you ’bout the problems we’ve been havin’ with the help?”

“I heard about it, but I ain’t scared,” answered Jack with a touch of brashness. “I worked on a farm many a time. And I’d appreciate the opportunity to work for you.”

Mr. Davis sighed and walked out of the house. “You look like a strong young man. If you wanna work here, that’s fine with me. But don’t say you weren’t warned.”

Mr. Davis then showed Jack to an outbuilding beside the creek. Inside was one large, comfortable room with a bed, a couple of chairs and a fireplace. A row of windows stretched across the top of the room, filling the space with sunlight. The sound of the water outside was gentle and soothing. This is the best deal I’ve found yet, Jack thought to himself.

“We’ll bring you some food to cook on the hearth,” said Mr. Davis as he slowly turned toward the door. “There ain’t no power out here, but when the moon’s out, you’ll get plenty of light. You’ve had a long journey, so just make yourself comfortable and you can start work tomorrow.”

He then turned around and said in an ominous voice, “Just make sure you’re careful.”

Jack was so tired from his trip that he went straight to bed, not giving a second thought to whatever strange things might be happening on the farm. The next day, he went out to work in the fields. Hard work never bothered Jack, but the hot Mississippi sun eventually wore him out. He returned to his room that evening and collapsed into a chair.

Beside the fireplace, Jack could see that the Davis family had left a fat meatbone, along with some rice, biscuits and fresh vegetables. Jack hungrily put the meatbone in a pan and cooked it on the fire. He noticed that Mr. Davis was right about the moonlight – between the fire and the bluish shafts of moonlight streaming into the room, one didn’t need a light bulb.

When the meat had finished cooking, Jack took out his prized carving knife, cut the meat into thin slices, and poured the gravy onto the rice. Mr. Davis had left a kitchen knife with the food, but Jack preferred his trusty silver knife – a knife his grandfather in Georgia had carried with him while serving in the Confederate army. Jack didn’t have many possessions, but his knife was one thing that stayed with him.

Jack leaned back in his chair and slowly ate his food, savoring every morsel. In fact, he was so intent on his food that it took him a while to notice that a black cat had somehow entered the room. The cat sat at Jack’s feet and started at him as he ate – looking at him more with curiosity than hunger. Being a kind fellow, Jack cut off a small piece of meat and dropped it on the floor beside the cat. But instead of eating it, the cat jumped onto the arm of Jack’s chair, staring down at his plate.

Jack shrugged his shoulders and resumed eating. The cat stared at him for a moment, then tried to stick its paw in the gravy. Annoyed, Jack swatted the cat off the chair and said, “Get out of here, cat. I just gave you some food!”

The cat growled at him and whispered, “Sop Doll.”

Jack suddenly stopped chewing – surely that cat didn’t just say something, he thought. He then shook his head and resumed his dinner. Once again, the cat leapt up onto the chair and tried to stick its paw into the gravy. Jack swatted him away, and the cat whispered again, “Sop Doll.”

Now Jack knew he wasn’t hearing things. But talking cat or no talking cat, he wasn’t about to let anything ruin his hard-earned meal. So he took out his silver knife, pointed it at the cat and said, “Now you listen here. I ain’t had a good meal in days. You try stickin’ your paw in my dinner again, I’m gonna whack it off! You hear me?”

The cat stared at him, seemingly amused. Jack shook his head and turned back toward his dinner. Sure enough, the cat jumped back onto the chair and tried to stick its paw in the gravy. Enraged, Jack whipped out his knife and whacked off the cat’s paw, sending the cat screaming into the night. Jack looked down at his plate and saw the cat’s bloody paw floating in his gravy. Disgusted, he set the plate aside and went to bed.

The next morning as Jack got ready for work, he grabbed his plate to wash it in the stream. As he looked into the gravy, he saw a horrible sight. The cat’s paw had transformed into a human hand – an elderly woman’s hand, to be exact. And on one of its fingers was a wedding ring.

Jack figured he should tell Mr. Davis about what he found. So he wrapped the hand in a towel and brought it up to the main house. When Mr. Davis answered the door, Jack told him about the cat, then showed him the hand. Mr. Davis’s eyes widened in terror as he said in disbelief, “That’s my wife’s wedding ring!”

As Jack ran this gruesome information through his head, he remembered those spooky old stories his father used to tell him about witches and haints. He figured they were just silly tales that old folks used to keep kids in line, but now he was starting to wonder if they were real.

“Where’s your wife now”? Jack asked Mr. Davis.

“She’s upstairs in bed,” he answered. “She’s been feelin’ poorly since last night.”

“Let’s go up and see her,” said Jack. “I think I may know what’s wrong.”

The two men climbed the stairs toward Mrs. Davis’s bedroom. As they entered the dark and musty room, Jack could see the old woman cowering in bed, her wrinkled skin pale and sickly looking.

“This is Jack, our new farmhand,” said Mr. Davis to his wife. “He says he thinks he knows what’s wrong with you.”

“Show me your hand,” said Jack to Mrs. Davis.

Mrs. Davis hesitated, fear filling her eyes. She then stretched her left hand from beneath the covers and showed it to Jack.

“How about the other one?” asked Jack.

Mrs. Davis refused his request, sinking deeper and deeper under the covers, as if trying to get away. Jack waited a moment, then suddenly flung the covers off the bed. Sure enough, they could see that her right hand was completely cut off!

“There’s the problem!” yelled Jack to Mr. Davis. “Your wife is a witch! She changed into a cat last night and tried to poison me by sticking her paw in my dinner! And I bet that’s what happened to all your other farmhands!”

Jack then pulled his trusty knife out of his pocket. “The only reason I’m alive is because my knife is made of silver. Witches can’t stand silver.”

With that, Mrs. Davis let out a horrifying, high-pitched scream that could have only come from one place – the depths of Satan’s lair. She then floated slowly off of her bed, her screams growing louder and louder. Jack grabbed a stunned Mr. Davis and rushed him out of the house. Even outside, Mrs. Davis’s screams were everywhere. Birds flew out of the trees, and the horses and livestock ran as far away as they could.

“What are we gonna do now?” asked Mr. Davis.

“There’s only one thing we can do,” answered Jack. “You got any gasoline?”

Mr. Davis brought Jack to the work shed and pulled out several cans of gas. Slowly and methodically, they soaked every last building and tree. As Jack pulled out a book of matches, he was surprised to see Mr. Davis turn around and walk back toward the house.

“Where are you going?” yelled Jack after him. “We gotta burn this place down before she kills anybody else!”

“Just do what you gotta do,” answered Mr. Davis. “Don’t pay me no mind.”

“But you’ll die in there!” yelled Jack frantically.

Mr. Davis stopped, turned around and, with a shrug of his shoulders, grinned at Jack. “Well, I promised the good Lord ’til death do us part.’ So I guess I’m stuck with her.”

And with that, Mr. Davis went back into the house and shut the door. Jack stood there for a moment, unsure what to do. He then went around the farm, opened each gate and let the animals loose. Then, with shaking hands, he struck a match and dropped it into the gas. A wall of fire quickly raced around the farm, consuming every building and tree. And it was said that for miles around, you could not only see the black smoke rising from the Davis farm, but you could also hear the horrifying shrieks of Mrs. Davis as she succumbed to the flames.

Jack quickly left Abel, Mississippi on the next train. And for the next few years, he continued wandering from town to town until he finally found a woman who settled him down. But ever since his run-in with the Davises, he gave his old family ghost tales and superstitions a little more credence – especially the one about a black cat crossing your path.

- THE END -

Story Credits | Story Background

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Written by Craig Dominey and Babs Bagriansky

Liz was 16 years old and sitting right in the middle of what she called “Nowheresville, USA” – Adams, Tennessee. Why her parents thought she’d be happy spending the weekend here with her “country cousins” while they were gallivanting about in New York City on vacation was beyond human reason. “It’s a peaceful place to visit,” her parents had said. “It has beautiful, scenic farmland – very bucolic.”

More like bubonic, Liz thought, with a terminal disease of the drop dead dull.

Her country cousin Jimmy, also 16, was no help. He seemed to think dodging cowchips was an athletic event. Nashville was Liz’s home; Nashville was where things were happening. All her friends were off to Halloween parties and spooky movie marathons. “Child’s play,” her father had said. “Halloween was meant for the young ones to trick and treat – older, mature folks had more serious business.” Yeah, Liz thought, like seeing Broadway shows and dancing in Manhattan nightclubs.

Liz walked out on the porch and watched the sun set over the peaceful fields. Oh well, she thought, at least I brought my iPod. She put on her earbuds, pressed the play button – and the battery died. Liz ripped the earbuds out and sighed – wasn’t anything going to go right?

Country cousin Jimmy walked out and joined her on the porch. I might as well hang out with him, Liz thought. It’s better than talking to the plants – but not by much.

Liz turned to him and said, “So Jimmy, what do you do around here besides milk cows and bring in the crops?”

Jimmy shrugged, gazed out at the fields and answered with his lazy rural drawl – “Oh, I don’t know. Fishing, ball games. I like to read, watch TV…”

“Oh, come on. There must be something to do around here. What’s the coolest thing about Adams, Tennessee?”

Jimmy thought about that question a bit and said, “Well, we got the Bell Witch Cave.”

Now that sounds somewhat interesting, Liz thought. “Why’s it called the Bell Witch Cave?”

Jimmy seemed real reluctant to talk about it. “Cause they say it’s haunted,” he said.

Liz rolled her eyes – sometimes getting Jimmy to talk about things was like pulling eyeteeth. “Whoa, don’t stop there – come on, what’s the story? You ever been there? Did you ever see any ghosts?”

“Well, I’ve only been there once with some friends. It was kinda icky and muddy, and full of spiders and all.”

Liz was now really getting impatient. “Tell me about it, Jimmy! Come on!”

Jimmy sighed, sat down and told her the story:

“Well, a long time ago, there used to be this old farm out there. That’s where the Bell family used to live back in the 1800s. They were pretty successful farmers – had a nice house, slave quarters and all. They went to church every Sunday and all that, so everybody in town liked ‘em.

But one day, they started getting haunted by this weird spirit. It started out looking like an old buzzard sitting out on the fence. Then it turned into this dog-like creature. Then they saw this mysterious old woman walking around in the orchard. Then one day, she just vanished into thin air.

But then she came back as a ghost. At night, they could hear her flyin’ ’round the house making these horrible sounds. She’d keep ‘em up all night, knocking on doors and windows, making these sounds like wings flapping against the roof and animals fighting and scratching. Then she started getting physical – pulling the blankets off their beds, punching ‘em, pinching ‘em and pulling their hair.

One day, she started talking to ‘em. She’d make fun of ‘em, argue with ‘em about the Bible, sing these nasty drinkin’ songs. They asked her over and over again why she was bothering ‘em. She told ‘em lots of things, like she was the ghost of an Indian whose grave had been disturbed, or a dead settler who’d come back looking for buried treasure.

But most folks believe she was a witch conjured up by this crazy old woman named Kate Batts. Kate Batts lived next door to the Bells. And she hated the father, John Bell, ’cause he ripped her off in a slave deal one time. In fact, the witch said several times that she was gonna kill John Bell one day.

Not long after that, John Bell got real sick and was taken to bed. The next morning, they found him dead. The witch started laughing and said she’d poisoned him. Sure ‘nough, when they looked in the medicine cabinet, they saw that his medicine had been switched with a vial of poison.

The witch laughed and carried on all during John Bell’s funeral. Then she told everybody she was leaving, but would come back one day. No one heard from her again for a long time.

But some folks in town believe that the Bell Witch has come back. They say if you make fun of her, or tell folks you don’t believe in her, that bad things will happen to you. And some say you can hear her laughin’ in that cave on the old Bell property, just waiting to put a fright into anybody who dares to go in there.”

When Jimmy finished his story, he was certain that Liz would be scared to death. To his surprise, she was more excited than ever. Her eyes bulging, she squealed, “Let’s go!”

“What? Are you crazy?” said Jimmy. “Come on, it’d be fun!”

“I ain’t goin’ in there,” protested Jimmy. “It ain’t safe. It’s muddy and dark and full of spiders…”

“Oh, come on,” interrupted Liz. “I’m not supposed to go out after dark without permission. And it’s on private property.”

“We’ll sneak the car out.” Jimmy was running out of excuses.

“It’s too far to go,” he said.

Liz gave him a teasing smirk. “Oh, I see,” she said, “you’re chicken, aren’t you? Squawk! Squawk! The country boy’s a chicken! The country boy’s a scaredy cat!”

Well, that did it – Jimmy wasn’t about to be called a chicken by no girl, especially his holier-than-thou, citified cousin. Later that night, when his parents fell asleep, Jimmy grabbed the flashlight and the car keys, and Liz taught him how to sneak a car out in the middle of the night. They quietly pushed the car out of the drive, then down the road a bit and – VAROOM! – started the engine away from the house.

When they got near the cave property, Jimmy pulled over, killed the engine and headlights, and quietly got out of the car. As they crept down the road, Jimmy was relieved to see that the current landowners’ farmhouse was dark and quiet. Jimmy and Liz hid themselves in the shadows away from the bright moonlight and snuck around the house.

They slowly made their way across the overgrown field until they finally saw it – a gaping, black hole yawning ominously out of the side of a steep rocky bluff. As they climbed up the slope toward it, Jimmy held back a bit, a twinge of fear shooting through his body. But Liz grabbed the flashlight and barreled inside more excited than ever. Jimmy sighed, took a deep breath, and entered slowly behind her.

Liz and Jimmy squeezed their way down the tight, dark, winding tunnel. In the dim flashlight beam, they could see eerie rock formations hanging from the ceiling and jutting out of the floor. Water was dripping everywhere, and their feet made squishing sounds as they moved through the muddy floor. Somewhere in the dark depths, they could hear rocks plopping, along with strange sucking sounds – but no witches laughing or moaning.

Liz kept moving rapidly forward with Jimmy tailing behind until they reached a tiny crack between two massive, fallen boulders. Liz squeezed her skinny body through, but Jimmy, who had a few pounds on her, couldn’t fit. Liz shined her flashlight around and mockingly called out into the darkness, “Here we are, you ol’ Bell Witch! Come on out and show yourself! Oooooooooo.”

Hearing no reply, Liz turned back toward her cousin and grinned. “Oh, well. Guess she’s out painting the town, Jimmy.”

“I can’t get through those rocks,” he said. “C’mon, let’s get outta here. There’s nothin’ back there worth seein’.”

“I want to keep going,” answered Liz from the other side. “Just wait for me here.”

“You can’t go back there by yourself. You ain’t ever been in a cave before. It could be dangerous.”

“I didn’t come all the way out here to stay for five minutes,” said Liz. “Just wait for me. I’ll be back in a little while.”

“No,” barked Jimmy. “I’m responsible for you!”

Liz hesitated a moment, then said in a mocking tone, “Well, if you can’t get through these rocks, I guess you can’t stop me now, can you?”

Now Jimmy was really getting tired of this cocky cousin of his. He had risked his neck sneaking out, going on private property, and all just to prove he wasn’t scared for some stupid reason. But what he didn’t want Liz to know was that he really was getting scared.

“I’ll wait for you outside,” Jimmy said gruffly as he turned and walked back in a huff.

Liz laughed after him and continued into the cave. As she crept further down the dark tunnel, she saw more strange rock formations in beautiful colors and shapes. To her, the cave was hypnotizing and otherworldly, unlike anything she had ever seen before. She wandered further and further down the tunnel in a trance, losing track of direction and time, always wondering what was beyond the next turn.

As she continued on, the ceiling pressed down lower and lower, forcing her to crawl on her knees. Suddenly, the passage ended in a tiny crawl space, leading on to who-knows-what. Now totally hypnotized by the cave, Liz couldn’t stop herself from continuing on. She wiggled into the tiny crawl space head first, pushing herself a little more and a little more until…

She got stuck.

As she tried to wiggle herself free, rocks and gravel fell around her, wedging her in even tighter. She called out for Jimmy, certain he was still somewhere near by, but he didn’t answer. Stupid boy, she thought. Then, of all the darn things, the flashlight went out, plunging her into total darkness.

Liz’s could hear her heart pounding in her chest. “Be calm,” she said to herself, “just be calm and try to move real slow.” But she was totally stuck in the crawl space, with escape all but impossible. She was really getting scared now.

Then, from somewhere deep in the cave, she heard eerie sounds moving toward her. At first, they sounded like scratching noises, then like someone gasping for air. As the sounds got louder, she thought she heard a scraping sound, like feet dragging on the cave floor.

Liz called out in the direction of the noises: “Jimmy, I’m stuck. Pull me out of here, come on.”

There was no answer except for the scraping, gasping sounds moving closer and closer.

“Jimmy come on, quit playing games. Fun’s over.”

There was still no answer.

Liz’s blood was running cold. “Jimmy, I said, get me out of here!”

The eerie sounds kept getting louder and louder as they got closer and closer until Liz could swear they were right on top of her.

Then they suddenly stopped, filling the room with horrifying silence. “Jimmy?” whispered Liz.

AAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!! Liz screamed as she felt two massive, cold, scaly, nonhuman hands grab her legs. They yanked her out of the passage like a cork out of a bottle and dragged her deep into the bowels of the cave. She could see nothing in the darkness as she was dragged away.

AAAAAAAAAHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! she screamed.

A few minutes later, the hands suddenly let her go. Liz lifted her head, cleared the mud from her eyes and found herself lying at the mouth of the cave, the bright moon filling the entrance with its blessed light. Cousin Jimmy was there, staring down at her.

As Jimmy lifted Liz to her feet, she teetered unsteadily, trying to catch her breath. “It was you!” Liz gasped. “I knew it. You really had me there. I was sure a ghost had me.” She then smiled and patted Jimmy on the shoulder. “Thanks for pulling me out. That was a good one. You know, you’re not so bad after all.”

Jimmy just stared at her in disbelief, his face white as a sheet. “I…I didn’t pull you out,” he finally replied.

They stared at each other for a moment. Then, from deep in the cave, they heard it – the horrible, cackling laughter of the Bell Witch as she floated back into the darkness. Liz and Jimmy ran back to the car as fast as two human beings could run. Jimmy gunned the engine, and they drove away like lightning, never looking back.

And even though the Bell Witch may return to that cave every now and then, Liz and Jimmy never did.

And that’s the story of The Bell Witch Cave.

- THE END -

Story Credits | Story Background

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