Scary Stories

[baha]

The Girl in White
retold by
S. E. Schlosser


He was sulking a little, standing at the sidelines while all the other men danced with their pretty partners. His girl had not come to the dance that night. Her mother was ill, and so his girl had remained at her side. A fine pious act, he thought sourly, but it left him at loose ends.

His friend, Ernesto, came up to him between sets with a cold drink and some words of encouragement. "After all, Anita is not the only girl in the world," Ernesto said. "There are many pretty girls here tonight. Dance with one of them."

Bolstered by his friend's words, he started looking around the dance hall. His eye fell upon a beautiful young girl standing wistfully at the edge of the floor beside the door to the terrace. She was dressed in an old-fashioned white gown and her skin was pale as the moon. Her dark eyes watched the dance hungrily from her position behind a tall fern, and he felt his heart beat faster. Such a lovely woman should be dancing!

He made his way through the bustling crowd and bowed to the girl in white. She looked startled by his addresses, as if she had not expected anyone to notice her that night. But she readily assented to dance with him, and he proudly led her out onto the floor for the next set, all thoughts of Anita gone from his mind.

Ernesto and some of his other friends gave him odd looks as he danced with the girl in white. A few times, the man opposite them bumped right into them as if he had not seen his partner at all. He was furious and wanted to stop the dance and make the man apologize to the girl in white, but she just laughed and hushed him.

When the dance was over, he hurried to get his fair partner a drink. Ernesto approached him at the refreshment table. "When I told you to dance, I meant with a partner," his friend teased him.

"I was dancing with a partner," he replied, irritated by his friends remark. "The loveliest girl in all of Mexico!"

"You've had too much to drink, my friend," Ernesto replied. "You were dancing by yourself out there!"

He glared at his friend and turned away without answering him. Making his way back to the girl in white, he handed her a glass and asked her to stroll with him along the terrace. The night was beautiful, the sky full of stars, and he stared at the girl in white with his heart in his eyes as they stood looking out over the beautiful scene.

The girl in white turned to him with a sigh and said: "Thank you for the dance, Senor. It has been a very long time since I had such pleasure."

"Let us dance again, then," he said infatuatedly. But she shook her head.

"I must leave now," she said, catching up her skirts with one hand and drifting toward the stairs at the side of the terrace.

"Please don't go," he pleaded, following her.

"I must," she said, turning to look at him. Her eyes softened when she saw the look on his face. "Come with me?" she invited, holding out a pale hand.

His heart pounded rapidly at the thought. More than anything in the world, he wanted to go with this lovely girl. And then his mind registered the fact that he could see the stone wall of the terrace through the girl's hand. His desire melted away before the shock of that realization. He looked into her face again, and realized that she was fading away before his eyes.

At the look of horror on his face, the girl gave a sad laugh and dropped her hand, which was nearly transparent now.

"Goodbye," she said, her body becoming thin and misty. "Goodbye."

Then she was gone.

He gave a shout of terror when he realized he had been dancing with a ghost. He bolted from the premises, leaving his horse behind, and ran all the way home.

When Ernesto came the next day to bring him his horse, he told his friend the whole story. Ernesto whistled in awe. "You saw the spirit of Consuela, my friend," he said. "She was the daughter of one of the local aristocracy who lived in this region more than a hundred years ago. She died of consumption the night before her first ball and they say her spirit sometimes attends the local dances, hoping to claim one of the dances that she missed."

He shuddered at the thought of his dance with the ghost. "I will not be visiting that dance hall again," he told Ernesto. "From now on, all my dances will be with Anita!"

And he kept his word.

[baha]

The Green Lantern
retold by
S. E. Schlosser


There once was a lighthouse keeper had once lived on St. Martin's Island with his children, whom he loved dearly. They were all alone there, for the mother had died long before. Wanting the best for his daughter and son, the keeper had insisted that they continue their education, and for this purpose had purchased a small dory for them, which they rowed across to the mainland each day to attend school. One spring after, the children were rowing home from school when they were caught in a sudden squall. Their rowboat overturned and the children were thrown into the depths of the lake, never to be seen again. Their bodies were never recovered.


The shattered father searched the beaches of St. Martin's Island every night for the rest of his life, hoping for find his children. After his death, people started seeing the light of a green lantern moving along the beaches of St. Martin just before a storm. Folks said it was the spirit of the dead lighthouse keeper continuing his search. Others claimed that the phantom lighthouse keeper was still on duty, using his lantern to guide ships to safety so their crews would not share the fate of his poor little children.

[baha]

Ghost Handprints
retold by
S. E. Schlosser


My wife Jill and I were driving home from a friend's party late one evening in early May. It was a beautiful night with a full moon. We were laughing and discussing the party when the engine started to cough and the emergency light went on. We had just reached the railroad crossing where Villamain Road becomes Shane Road. According to local legend, this was the place where a school bus full of children had stalled on the tracks. Everyone on board the bus had been killed by an oncoming freight train. The ghosts of the children were reported to haunt this intersection and were said to protect people from danger.


Not wanting a repeat of the train crash, I hit the gas pedal, trying to get our car safely across the tracks before it broke down completely. But the dad-blamed car wouldn't cooperate. It stalled dead center on the railroad tracks.

As if that weren't enough, the railroad signals started flashing and a bright light appeared a little ways down the track, bearing down fast on our car. I turned the key and hit the gas pedal, trying to get the car started.

"Hurry up, Jim! The train's coming," my wife urged, as if I didn't hear the whistling blowing a warning.

I broke out into a sweat and tried the engine again. Nothing.

"We have to get out!" I shouted to my wife, reaching for the door handle.

"I can't," Jill shouted desperately. She was struggling with her seat belt. We'd been having trouble with it recently. She'd been stuck more than once, and I'd had to help her get it undone.

I threw myself across the stick-shift and fought with the recalcitrant seat belt. My hands were shaking and sweat poured down my body as I felt the rumble of the approaching train. It had seen us and was whistling sharply. I risked a quick glance over my shoulder. The engineer was trying to slow down, but he was too close to stop before he hit us. I redoubled my efforts.

Suddenly, the car was given a sharp shove from behind. Jill and I both gasped and I fell into her lap as the car started to roll forward, slowly at first, then gaining speed. The back end cleared the tracks just a second before the train roared passed. As the car rolled to a stop on the far side of the tracks, the engineer stuck his head out the window of the engine and waved a fist at us; doubtless shouting something nasty at us for scaring him.

"Th..that was close," Jill gasped as I struggled upright. "How did you get the car moving?"

"I didn't," I said. "Someone must have helped us."

I jumped out of the door on the driver's side of the car and ran back to the tracks to thank our rescuer. In the bright moonlight, I searched the area, looking for the person who had pushed our car out of the path of the train. There was no one there. I called out several times, but no one answered. After a few minutes struggle with her seatbelt, Jill finally freed herself and joined me.

"Where is he?" she asked.

"There is no one here," I replied, puzzled.

"Maybe he is just shy about being thanked," Jill said. She raised her voice. "Thank you, whoever you are," she called.

The wind picked up a little, swirling around us, patting our hair and our shoulders like the soft touch of a child's hand. I shivered and hugged my wife tightly to me. We had almost died tonight, and I was grateful to be alive.

"Yes, thank you," I repeated loudly to our mystery rescuer.

As we turned back to our stalled vehicle, I pulled out my cell phone, ready to call for a tow truck. Beside me, Jill stopped suddenly, staring at the back of our car.

"Jim, look!" she gasped.

I stared at our vehicle. Scattered in several places across the back of our car were several glowing handprints. They were small handprints; the kind that adorned the walls of elementary schools all over the country. I started shaking as I realized the truth; our car had been pushed off the tracks by the ghosts of the schoolchildren killed at this location.

The wind swept around us again, and I thought I heard an echo of childish voices whispering 'You're welcome' as it patted our shoulders and arms. Then the wind died down and the handprints faded from the back of the car.

Jill and I clung together for a moment in terror and delight. Finally, I released her and she got into the car while I called the local garage to come and give us a tow home.

[baha]

The Ghost Ship of Captain Sandovate
retold by
S. E. Schlosser


When Captain Don Sandovate voyaged from Spain to the New World in search of treasure, he found gold in abundance. But among his crew there were many sailors who did not wish to share the new-found wealth with the monarchs of Spain. On their journey up the Atlantic Coast, the sailors mutinied and imprisoned their captain, tying him to the main mast and refusing to give him food or drink. Day after day, the captain lay exposed to the hot sun of summer, his body drying up as the treacherous sailors worked around him. Finally, his pride broken, Don Sandovate begged: "Water. Please. Give me just one sip of water." The mutineers found this amusing, and started carrying water up to the main mast and holding it just out of reach of their former captain.


In the terrible heat of a dry summer, the captain did not survive long without water. A few days after the mutiny, the captain succumbed to heat and thirst. The new captain, a greedy Spaniard with no compassion in his soul, left Don Sandovate tied to the mast, his body withering away, while the ship turned pirate and plundered its way up the coast. But Providence was watching the ruthless men, and a terrible storm arose and drove the ship deep into the Atlantic, where it sank with all hands, the body of Don Sandovate still tied to the broken mast.


Shortly after the death of the mutineers-turned-pirate, an eerie ghost ship began appearing along the coast, usually in the calm just before a storm. It had the appearance of a Spanish treasure ship, but its mast was broken, its sails torn, and the corpse of a noble-looking Spaniard was tied to the mast. The ship was crewed by skeletons in ragged clothing. As it passed other ships or houses near the shore, the skeletons would stretch out bony hands and cry: "Water. Please. Give us just one sip of water." But none can help them, for they are eternally doomed to roam the Atlantic, suffering from thirst in payment for their terrible deeds against their captain and the good people living along the Atlantic coast.

[baha]

Ghost Train
retold by
S. E. Schlosser


I was a railway fireman back in those days, working on the CPR line in Alberta. I did a hard day's work and earned me a fair wage. I was young then, and my pretty little bride was just setting up housekeeping in the little cottage that was all we could afford. Life was good, and I thought everything would continue rolling along that way.

Then came that fateful day in May of 1908. I was working nights that month, and my buddy Twohey was the engineer. We were about three kilometers out of Medicine Hat when a blazing light appeared in front of the engine. It was another train on a collision course with us. Twohey yelled at me to jump, but there was no time. The light was right on top of us. I thought we were dead. Then the oncoming train veered off to the right and ran passed us, its whistle blowing and the passengers staring at us through the windows. But there was only a single track in that stretch of hills, and it was the one we were on. I looked over at the shrieking, rumbling Ghost Train and saw that the wheels were not touching the ground!

Well, we were mighty spooked by the incident. Twohey decided to take some time off from engineering and began working in the yard; but I kept working the night shift as a fireman, not wanting some Ghost Train to drive me away a job I enjoyed.

A few weeks later, I was stoking the fire for an engineer named Nicholson when we heard the shrill whistle blast through the calm night air. We were on the same single track just outside of Medicine Hat, and the brilliant light of the Ghost Train burst out of nowhere, blinding us. Nicholson gave a shout of terror and I thought my heart would stop. As before, the Ghost Train veered off to the right at the last possible second. I saw it race passed us on tracks that did not exist, its passengers staring curiously at Nicholson and I from out of the windows.

That did it. I wasn't about to go back on the tracks after that. I did yard work for the rest of the month of May and a few weeks in June. Finally, I decided that enough was enough, and I gritted my teeth and resumed my role as fireman.

I was firing up an engine in the yard one evening in early July when the report of an accident came in. The Spokane Flyer and a Lethbridge passenger train had a head-on collision on the single track three kilometers outside of Medicine Hat, on the exact spot where the Ghost Train had appeared. The Lethbridge locomotive had derailed and its baggage car was destroyed. Seven people were killed in the accident, including the two engineers. One was my buddy Twohey, and the other was Nicholson.

[baha]

The Headless Horseman
retold by
S. E. Schlosser

One cold winter night, early in the New Year, a certain Dutchman left the tavern in Tarrytown and started walking to his home in the hollow nearby. His path led next to the old Sleepy Hollow cemetery where a headless Hessian soldier was buried. At midnight, the Dutchman came within site of the graveyard. The weather had warmed up during the week, and the snow was almost gone from the road. It was a dark night with no moon, and the only light came from his lantern.

The Dutchman was nervous about passing the graveyard, remembering the rumors of a galloping ghost that he had heard at the tavern. He stumbled along, humming to himself to keep up his courage. Suddenly, his eye was caught by a light rising from the ground in the cemetery. He stopped, his heart pounding in fear. Before his startled eyes, a white mist burst forth from an unmarked grave and formed into a large horse carrying a headless rider.

The Dutchman let out a terrible scream as the horse leapt toward him at a full gallop. He took to his heels, running as fast as he could, making for the bridge since he knew that ghosts and evil spirits did not care to cross running water. He stumbled suddenly and fell, rolling off the road into a melting patch of snow. The headless rider thundered past him, and the man got a second look at the headless ghost. It was wearing a Hessian commander's uniform.

The Dutchman waited a good hour after the ghost disappeared before crawling out of the bushes and making his way home. After fortifying himself with schnapps, the Dutchman told his wife about the ghost. By noon of the next day, the story was all over Tarrytown. The good Dutch folk were divided in their opinions. Some thought that the ghost must be roaming the roads at night in search of its head. Others claimed that the Hessian soldier rose from the grave to lead the Hessian soldiers in a charge up nearby Chatterton Hill, not knowing that the hill had already been taken by the British.

Whatever the reason, the Headless Horseman continues to roam the roads near Tarrytown on dark nights from that day to this.

Author's Note: This is a retelling of the folktale which was used by Washington Irving to create his masterpiece, The Legend of Sleepy Hollow.

[baha]

Henry Hudson and the Catskill Gnomes
retold by
S. E. Schlosser


On September 3rd of 1609, Henry Hudson sailed the Half Moon into the mouth of the great New York river that later bore his name. The explorer and his crew journeyed north for several days, trading with the native residents and searching for the fabled northwest passage to the Orient. By the time he reached the area that would become present-day Albany, Hudson knew that he had not found the passage for which he sought. Reluctantly, he turned the Half Moon and sailed back down the river.

That night, Henry Hudson and his crew anchored the Half Moon in the shadow of the Catskill Mountains. Around midnight, Hudson heard the sound of music floating across the mountains and down to the river. Taking a few members of his crew, he went ashore and followed the sound up and up into the Catskills. The sound of the music grew louder as Hudson and his men marched up to the edge of a precipice. To their astonishment, a group of pygmies with long, bushy beards and eyes like pigs were dancing and singing and capering about in the firelight.

Hudson realized that these creatures were the metal-working gnomes of whom the natives had spoken. One of the bushy-bearded chaps spotted the explorer and his men and welcomed them with a cheer. The short men surrounded the crew and drew them into the firelight and the dance. Hudson and his men were delighted with these strange, small creatures, and with the hard liquor that the gnomes had brewed. Long into the night, the men drank and played nine-pins with the gnomes while Henry Hudson sipped at a single glass of spirits and spoke with the chief of the gnomes about many deep and mysterious things.

Realizing at last how late it was, Hudson looked around for his men. At first, he couldn't locate them. All he saw were large groups of gnomes, laughing and joking as they sprawled around the fire. Then, to his astonishment, he recognized several of the gnomes as his crewmen! They had undergone a transformation. Their heads had swollen to twice their normal size, their eyes were small and pig-like, and their bodies had shortened until they were only a little taller than the gnomes themselves.

Hudson was alarmed, and asked the chief of the gnomes for an explanation. It was, the chief explained to Hudson, the effect of the magical hard liquor the gnomes brewed. It would wear off when the liquor did. Hudson wasn't sure that he believed the little man. Afraid of what else might happen to him and his crewman if they continued to linger in such company, Hudson hurriedly took his leave of the gnomes and hustled his severely drunken crewmen back to the Half Moon. The entire crew slept late into the morning, as if they were under the influence of a sleeping draught. When they awakened, the crewmen who had accompanied Hudson up into the Catskill Mountains, aside from ferocious headaches, were back to normal

Hudson continued on his way down the great river, and by October 4th, the Half Moon had reached the mouth and Hudson and his crew sailed for home. In 1610, Hudson set off on another journey, searching for a northwestern passage to the Orient. Trapped in the ice through a long winter, Hudson's crew eventually mutinied and set Henry Hudson and eight of his crewmen adrift in the Hudson Bay. They were never seen again.

In September 1629, twenty years to the day that Hudson and his crew met the Catskill gnomes, a bright fire appeared on the precipice above the hollow, and dance music could be heard floating through the mountains. The Catskill gnomes spent the evening dancing, and carousing and drinking their magic liquor. At midnight, they were joined by the spirits of Henry Hudson and crew. Merry was their meeting, and the gnomes and the spirits played nine-pins all night long. Each time they rolled the ball, a peal of thunder would shake the mountains, and the fire would flare up in bolts like lightening. The party lasted until daybreak, at which hour the spirits departed from the hills, with promises to return.

Every twenty years, the spirits of Henry Hudson and his crew returned to the Catskill Mountains to play nine-pins with the gnomes, and to look out over the country they had first explored together on the Half Moon. Now and then, one of the Dutch settlers living in the region came across the spirits as they played nine-pins. They claimed that any man foolish enough to drink of the spirits' magic liquor would sleep from the moment the spirits departed the mountain to the day they returned, twenty years later. Most folks discounted the story, although several members of Rip Van Winkle's family swore it was true. True or false, wise folks who walk among the Catskills in September do not accept a drink of liquor when it is offered to them. Just in case.

[baha]

Joaquin Murietta, The Bandit of the Goldfields
retold by
S. E. Schlosser


Joaquin Murietta and wife Rosita lived with his older brother Carlos in California. The three Mexican immigrants were living on a small, successful farm and the men were also working a claim near Hangtown. However, the other miners living nearby tried to run them off, telling them that it was illegal for Mexicans to pan for gold or hold a claim. The Murietta brother's ignored their threats and continued to live peacefully on their farm and work in the gold-fields.


Enraged by this flagrant disregard for the American laws, a drunken mob attacked the little family late one night, shooting Carlos, and then ravishing and murdering Rosita while Joaquin was forced to watch. The mob bound the Mexican to a stake in the yard, where they beat him with a whip. He strained angrily against his bonds, but finally his wounds overcame him and he slumped senseless against the post. The mob left him for dead, but when a few sober citizens came the next day to help the Mexican family, Joaquin was already gone.

A few months later, a dark-bearded, long-haired stranger with cold black eyes set up a gambling establishment in Hangtown. Shortly after the stranger's arrival in town, miners started going missing, one after another, and their dead bodies were turning up in unlikely places. All of them had their ears cut off. A few of the smarter folks realized that each of the dead miners had been a party to the illegal slaying of Carlos and Rosita Murietta. There were thirty-one men in the mob that night, and fourteen were now dead. When this became known, the other seventeen men scattered to the winds overnight; but one by one, they were hunted down, killed, and their ears were cut off.

Finally, a miner who had once had a claim near to the Murietta brothers came to Hangtown and identified the owner of the gambling establishment as Joaquin Murietta. His cover blown, the Mexican fled into the wilds and started to gather other wild and restless Mexicans to him. Soon he was the head of a mighty gang, riding a black stallion and robbing the Americans of their gold. Dangling from the bandit's saddle was the string of dried ears taken from the members of the mob who killed his wife and brother. Together with his bandits, Joaquin Murietta robbed the miners of a million dollars in gold. Yet for all his ruthlessness, Joaquin was kind to his fellow Mexicans, and would never turn down a friend who was in need. He gave his riches liberally to the poor, and avenged those who were oppressed. In turn, they sheltered him from the law, and called blessings down upon him.

Travel in the goldfields was made nearly impossible by the threat of Joaquin Murietta and his gang, so California's governor hired a group of rangers to track down and kill Joaquin. Led by a Captain Love, the rangers ambushed Joaquin and his men, and shot the Mexican bandit and his horse to death. Captain Love decapitated the Mexican bandit and put his head into a jar filled with alcohol, which he paraded through the streets of San Francisco. The head was finally placed behind the bar of the Golden Nugget Saloon in San Francisco, where it leered at the folks who came there to drink until the saloon was destroy in the 1906 earthquake.

To this day, Joaquin's headless ghost continues to ride through the gold fields, terrorizing all who crossed his path with cries of: "Give me back my head."

[baha]

La Llorona
retold by
S. E. Schlosser





Version I

Once there was a widow who wished to marry a rich nobleman. However, the nobleman did not want to raise another man's children and he dismissed her. The widow was determined to have the nobleman for her own, so the widow drowned her children to be free of them. When she told the nobleman what she had done, he was horrified and would have nothing more to do with her. As she left him, the widow was overcome by the terrible crime she had committed and went to the river, looking for her children. But they were gone. She drowned herself and her spirit was condemned to wander the waterways, weeping and searching for her children until the end of time.


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Version II

Once a poor man was married to a beautiful woman who lived in his village. The couple was very much in love, but the man insisted that they were too poor to have any children. When he found out his wife was pregnant, the man was very angry. He told the woman they could not keep the child. After the birth of his son, the man drowned the child in the river. His wife, too weak from giving birth to get up from the bed, pleaded in vain with her husband to spare the life of her child.


Several more sons were born to the couple, and the poor man drowned every one. The day the poor man took his fifth child to the river, his wife followed even though she was still weak and bleeding from giving birth. When he threw the child in the river, the woman went in after her son, determined to save the boy even though she did not know how to swim. The woman and her baby were swept away by the current and they both drowned.

The very next night, the woman's spirit returned to the river beside her home, wailing and searching for the sons she had lost. At first, the poor man was terrified by the spirit of his wife. He begged her to return to the spirit realm. But she did not hear him.

Night after night, the woman returned to the river, wailing and wringing her hands in her grief. The poor man became angry. But he could not stop the ghost of his wife from searching for her sons.

Finally, the sound of the wailing woman drove the man mad. He grabbed a knife and jumped into the river after the spirit to kill her. But the poor man did not know how to swim. The current swept him away and he drowned.

From that day to this, the spirit of La Llorona -- the wailing woman -- still haunts the waters and lakes, weeping and wailing and searching for her sons.

[baha]

The Lincoln Death Train
retold by
S. E. Schlosser


I'd been transferred to the Hudson Division of the New York Central system, and was working the rails on the main line between New York and Albany. I was on the late shift to start with, since I was a bit of a night owl. After six weeks of stomping the tracks and mending the rails, I was feeling right at home in my new job.

Then, just before midnight on a clear spring night in late April, we got a report of some brush on the track near our station. I was sent out immediately to clear it away before the next train came. I had nearly an hour before the next train, and so I did not hurry as I walked along the rails. It was surprisingly pleasant and rather warm. Overhead, the clouds were obscuring the moon, but the light from my lantern made a cheerful glow in the night.

Suddenly, a chilly wind swept over the rails with a whoosh, like a wind just before a thunderstorm. It was so strong that it nearly knocked me over. I staggered backward, swearing and wind-milling my arms to try to keep my balance. I almost dropped the lantern, but managed to get my balance just before it slipped out of my hand.

Shivering in the sudden cold, I squinted down the track and saw a huge blanket of utter darkness rolling toward me. It blanked out the rails, the trees, the sky, everything. "Good lord, what is that?" I gasped. I leapt away from the track and started to run back toward the station, but the darkness swept up and over me before I had moved a yard. The lantern in my hand was snuffed out instantly.

I stopped, unable to see more than a few paces around me. To my right, the rails began to gleam with a strange blue light. I staggered backwards from the tracks, my pulses pounding in fear and dread. What was going on?

Then the headlight of a train pierced the thick darkness. It gleamed blue-white in the strange black fog, and when it appeared, the rails brightened in response. A huge steam-engine draped in black crepe approached, stacks bellowing forth a steady stream of smoke. The brass on the engine gleamed, and it pulled several flat cars along behind it. I stared into the windows of the engine, but couldn't see any crew.

Just at the edge of hearing came the faint sound of music and turned to look at the flat cars behind the engine. I gasped and back up so far that I bumped into the trunk of a tree growing near the tracks. There was a glowing orchestra of skeletons seated in a semi-circle. They were playing a nearly-soundless funeral dirge on glowing black instruments. A violinist played passionately; a skeleton lifted a flute to its lipless mouth; a lone drummer sat waiting patiently for his cue from the skeletal conductor.

Then the orchestra was gone and another glowing headlight pierced the blackness. I was trying unsuccessfully to push my way through the bark of the tree by this time. Another black crepe draped train was approaching. A funeral train, I thought. Again, there was no one manning the engine, and no one appeared on the flat car behind it. The only thing there was a single black-crepe draped coffin. But swirling in the air around the train were the ghostly figures of soldiers dressed in the blue uniforms worn by the North during the civil war. They lined up before my eyes, saluting the solitary coffin as it passed. Some of the ghosts staggered under the weight of their own coffins; some limped on one leg or sat in a wheeled chair, legless. Their eyes were fixed upon the flat-car and the black-creped coffin. Then they were joined by soldiers from the Southern army, and all these lads saluted too, honoring the one who had fallen.

That's when I knew what I was seeing. This was the funeral train of Abraham Lincoln. I straightened up and saluted myself, having done my bit for the North many years ago.

The steam train moved slowly away and with it went the darkness and the chill and the clouds that had obscured the moon. In my hand, the lantern sprang back to life. I blinked a few times and brushed away a tear. As the world around me brightened, I saw the reported brush littering the tracks right in front of me. Mechanically, I cleared it away and made sure the track was safe for the next train. Then I went back to the station.

The next morning, all the clocks on the Hudson Division were six minutes behind and all the trains were running six minutes late. When I asked the stationmaster about it, he shook his head and told me not to worry. It was caused by the Lincoln Death Train, which had stopped time as it ran by in the night.

[baha]

Lost!
retold by
S. E. Schlosser


They say that there once was a prospector wandering through the Yukon with his two dogs, searching for gold. One evening as it neared dusk, he found himself mired down in the muskeg - boggy country with water just underneath the surface of the semi-frozen ground and just above the permafrost. It was a treacherous place, and would be very easy to sink beneath the surface and be engulfed. The more the prospector and his dogs tried to free themselves from its clutches, the more lost they became.

Finally, the prospector found a firm spot on a small hill. There were a few scraggly trees on the elevation, and he made a small fire and cooked up a bit of soup for himself and his canine companions. As the stars came out overhead, the man tried to find a comfortable place to sleep, knowing that in the morning, he and the dogs would once again face the quagmire.

At last, the prospector fell into an uneasy sleep. As he slept, he dreamt that a fierce native warrior was standing over him, threatening him with a spear.

"Why have you invaded this sacred ground?" the warrior demanded. "Leave at once or I will kill you!"

"I am lost in the muskeg," the prospector said in his dream. "Show me the way out, and I will gladly leave."

The warrior frowned down at him. "I am the protector of this place, and cannot forsake it. But I will summon a guide for you."

The warrior raised his arms toward the sky and called something in a tongue the prospector could not understand. Then he vanished.

The prospector was awakened by the sudden growling of his dogs. Sitting up, he beheld the glowing figure of a beautiful Native American woman standing at the bottom of the hill. He blinked in amazement, and felt chills run all over his body. The woman beckoned to him, and to his surprise, his dogs ceased their growling and ran up to her. They pranced around her like pups, and he felt his fear fade away.

Packing up his gear, the prospector made his way down the darkened hillock to the treacherous muskeg that surrounded it. The glowing woman smiled at him. She raised her arms in the same gesture used by the warrior in his dream, and transformed into a beautiful snow-white hare. The glowing hare hopped slowly ahead of the prospector, leading him eastward. The prospector followed it closely, deviating neither left nor right from its path. The dogs followed him eagerly and showed no interest in chasing the hare.

For several hours, the prospector and his dogs followed the glowing animal through the treacherous twists and turns of the quagmire. Just before dawn, they reached solid ground. The prospector looked around and knew where he was.

Ahead of him, the white hare became once more the beautiful, glowing figure of a woman. The dogs danced up to her, and she patted them on the head. Then she offered the prospector a sweet smile and vanished as the first rays of the sun pierced the horizon.

[baha]

Milk bottles
retold by
S. E. Schlosser


She was just another poor, bedraggled woman, struggling to feed her family. He saw them all the time, their faces careworn, and blank. The Depression had created hundreds of them. He was one of the lucky ones who still had his grocery and money coming in to feed his family.


She came one day to his shop, carrying two empty milk bottles, and wordlessly placed them on the counter in front of him. He took the empties and replaced them with full bottles, saying: "Ten cents, please."

She did not reply. She just took the bottles and left the shop. He might have gone after her to demand his money, or called the police, but he did neither. Her need was in her face, and he always felt a little guilty at being one of the lucky ones with money and a job. She was probably one of the migrant workers, he decided.

She was back the next day with two empty milk bottles. He replaced them will full bottles and watched as she hurried out the door. She looked so worried that he wondered if she had a job at all. If she came back, he would offer her a part-time position cleaning the store.

She came again the next morning, and exchanged her empty bottles for full without saying a word. He tried to talk to her, to ask if she wanted a job, but she practically ran from the store with the milk. Her urgency worried him. He followed, wondering what he could do to help.

To his surprise, she headed away from the migrant camp outside of town. She went instead to the graveyard by the river. As he watched, she hurried up to a stone marker and then disappeared into the ground. He rubbed his eyes, not believing his eyes. Then he heard the muffled cry of a baby. It was coming from the ground underneath the stone marker where the woman had disappeared!

He ran back to the store and phoned the police. Within minutes, the graveyard was swarming with people, and the workers started digging up the grave. When the casket was opened, the store owner saw the woman who had visited his store lying dead within it. In her arms, she held a small baby and two full milk bottles. The baby was still alive.

[baha]

The Phantom Drummer
retold by
S. E. Schlosser


Now when Colonel Howell of the British Army chanced to meet the daughter of the wealthy farmer Jarrett, who owned land near Valley Forge, he fell head-over-heels in love. Howell had a bit of a reputation as a womanizer, but it faded away after he met Ruth. The girl had a brother serving under Washington and none of her family liked the red coats, but so overwhelming was Howell's love for her that it conquered the reluctant maiden's heart.

Ruth and her British soldier met in a secret place near the wall of her garden, which was hidden by a small grove of trees. On the night that Howell proposed, they were standing near the wall when the sharp, merry sound of a drummer rang through the garden. At first they ignored the noise, caught up in their plans for the future, but as the sound of the drum grew nearer, Howell started looking about nervously and even peering over the wall, trying to see the drummer.

Ruth was puzzled by Howell's reaction. No one could see them in this little grove, which was why they used it for their trysts.

"What is wrong?" she cried, hurrying to him.

"There is no one there," Howell told Ruth hoarsely.

Ruth stared at him, frightened by his words. The roll of the drum still rang through the fields beyond the wall.

"But surely…" she began. She was interrupted by a phantom rat-a-tat-tat. The sound drew closer. As they listened in horror, it came right through the garden gate just beyond the trees. The invisible drummer entered their little hollow and passed right through the wall next to them. Only when it ceased altogether did Howell snap out of the fear-induced trance he was in. He convulsively clasped Ruth to his chest. No less frightened, Ruth begged Howell to tell her what it could mean.

"For the last three generations," Howell said shakily, "a phantom drummer has appeared to warn my family of a change in fortunes, some for good, most for ill." Seeing the look on Ruth's face, he tried to shake off his terror. He spoke a few words of reassurance to his newly betrothed, which neither of them believed, kissed her goodbye, and galloped away.

In a skirmish the next day, Colonel Howell was shot. He was brought to Farmer Jarrett's house for nursing, though Ruth's father was reluctant to have a British soldier under his roof. To Ruth's relief, the wound was fairly minor and would soon heal. To add to her joy, her father grew fond of the young man and consented to their marriage if Howell would leave the British army. The Colonel made this promise willingly and a secret marriage was soon arranged.

Then tragedy struck. Orders arrived demanding that Howell rejoin his regiment on the eve of an impending battle. Howell knew that to honorably resign his commission would take months, and he would be forced to fight and kill the Americans in the battle the next day. So he decided to marry Ruth, desert the British army, and hide himself away until it was safe to rejoin the Jarrett household.

Divesting himself of the British uniform, he donned the clothes of a civilian and stood with Ruth before a minister in the parlor of the Jarrett house. As he slipped the wedding ring on his beloved's finger and bent to kiss her, the roll of a drum sounded from outside. Howell and Ruth turned fearfully and listened as the invisible drummer climbed the steps, walked through the room, and exited via the far wall.

Ruth clung to her new husband in terror, while the guests and clergy murmured in awe. Then they heard rough voices outside and someone pounded on the front door. Suddenly the house was full of British soldiers, come to capture Howell based on the testimony of one of the Jarrett servants, who hated the red coats and had betrayed them. Howell was arrested, tried, and shot for desertion. At the moment he died, Ruth, sobbing alone in her bedchamber at home, heard the faint, unmistakable roll of a phantom drum.

[baha]

The Phantom Train Wreck
retold by
S. E. Schlosser


The passengers were grumpy and heavy-eyed as they boarded the train in Salisbury during the early morning of August 27, 1891. The train was headed to Ashville, and the riders settled into their seats and tried to catch a few more minutes of sleep.


Around three a.m., the passengers were suddenly awakened by suddenly bucking and rocking of the train. The engineer fought for control as the passenger train raced across the stone-and-brick Bostian Bridge near Statesville, but the train suddenly derailed. The chug and whoosh of the rushing train was replaced by the scream of metal and the sounds of the huge train falling, falling down towards the creek bed sixty feet below the bridge. The horrible thunder of the train as it smashed into the stream was quickly replaced by the equally terrible sound of trapped passengers screaming and moaning in agony as the twisted wreckage of the train was encompassed by the waters of the creek. Twenty-two people were killed that night in the worst train wreck in the history of North Carolina.

Fifty years to the day after the wreck, a woman waiting by her stranded car near the Bostian Bridge in the early morning hours of August 27 saw a train come rushing down the track, its head light gleaming brightly in the darkness and the whistle blowing. As it raced across the bridge, it suddenly derailed, screaming its way down and down sixty feet to smash into the creek bed below. The woman was terrified. She ran toward the wrecked train and gazed down into the creek. She could hear the frantic cries and agonized moans of the survivors.

At that moment, a car pulled up beside her stranded vehicle and her husband jumped out, followed by the owner of a local store who had come to help them fix their flat tire. She ran towards them in a frenzy, desperate to get help down to the poor trapped passengers below. When they heard her story, the men ran to the edge and looked down into the creek bed. There was nothing there. The woman had seen the train wreck of Statesville re-enacted before her eyes.

Some people say the phantom train appears each year in the early morning hours of August 27m and is wrecked before the eyes of any who watch for it.

[baha]

Presumed Drowned
retold by
S. E. Schlosser


In 1914, the Newfoundland sailed up to the Ice with a crew of 250 men. On March 30th, seventy-seven men went out on the Ice to kill seals. A mighty storm came up while the men were out, that lasted two days, and the men could not make it back to the ship. When the storm ceased, other ships came and helped the crew of the Newfoundland search for the missing men. Seventy two were found dead, and five were missing and presumed drowned. The ship sailed home in sorrow and did not go to the Ice at all the next year. She was considered to be unlucky.

To break the curse, the ship was rebuilt and changed, so that she would drown no more men. Her new name was the San Blanford, and she was sent to the Ice two years after the terrible storm.

On the thirtieth day of March, she met up with another ship called the Terra Nova. As dusk fell, a fog rolled in, and the crew of the San Blanford heard the Terra Nova blowing her whistle. This was a signal that she still had men out on the ice. As was customary, the crew of the San Blanford started blowing their whistle, and those above deck could hear voices calling out from the Ice and presumed they belonged to sailors from the Terra Nova. The two ships kept up their signals until 10 pm, when the voices ceased and all were presumed safely aboard ship.

The next morning, a sailor from the San Blanford boarded the Terra Nova to conduct some business. The captain of the ship immediately asked the sailor what time the members of the San Blanford crew had gotten aboard the previous night. The sailor was puzzled. "We didn't have anyone out on the Ice, sir," he told the captain. But the captain and his crew swore that they had seen several men board the San Blanford shortly before 10 pm.

When the sailor returned to the San Blanford, he reported the incident to his captain. The captain took him quietly aside and told him that the report was true. A few members of the night crew had seen five men climb aboard the San Blanford shortly before ten pm. The men were wearing tattered clothing that looked as if it had been ripped and worn out by the waves of the sea, and the crew could see right through their shining bodies. One of the sailors on duty that evening had been on the Newfoundland when she lost the seventy-seven men two years ago that very night. He had recognized the faces of the ghosts as those belonging to the five men who were presumed drowned. Their spirits had finally returned to the ship from which they had been lost and could now rest in peace.