Halloween: A Ghost Story

50 this morning, overcast with threat of rain. Cool all day.

A good story for this Halloween evening, from Greenbrier county, West Virginia. Meet Sam Hart.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Ghost Stories

Ghost stories abound at this time of year. Fall is a time of death, really, as trees shed their leaves and frost kills what is left in the gardens. Night comes early and the chill, damp air lifts fog from the valleys to cover the land with an ethereal glow. It's a time for drawing in, hunkering down, shuttering the windows, stoking the fire and contemplating the end of life we all face at some time. Why are there so many ghost stories? What gives this particular type of tale its longevity and popularity? The answers are as varied as the tales themselves. In West Virginia, we have many such tales, from vanishing hitchhikers to malevolent peddlers to crying ghost babies. The degree of "hauntedness" varies. Some are fragments, really, a mere whisper of a tale or piece of memory passed down as a "they say" story. Others are well-known, documented in books and occasionally on film or in photos. My interest in ghost stories started as a child when my parents told us the story of the haunted house in Royston, England, where they had an apartment as newlyweds. Add to that the big old house in Manassas where we lived when I was a child, with its chipping plaster walls, spooky basement and Civil War relics in the yard, and my fertile imagination was well supplied. When I moved to West Virginia, however, I found that I had moved to the mother lode of ghost stories. It seemed like every place in the state had a story connected with it. In my own county, I heard almost a dozen stories of haunted places or events. As I learned more about my new home, I found books by Ruth Ann Musick, collections of ghost stories from around the state. Many were vague, others were more developed with names and specific locations. The stories grabbed me because they were told by ordinary people living their ordinary lives--except there were these weird things that had happened that they knew about and were willing to share. I wondered why we had so many ghosts in this state. Was it because of the valley fogs that can look pretty spooky in the evening light? Was it that people who live here just have more active imaginations than people in other places? Did it have to do with the ancestry and cultural background of West Virginians? Did religion play a role? I've come to the conclusion that it is all of the above. We are a state of storytellers, as you would know if you stood in line at any grocery store. We talk to strangers and we talk in stories. West Virginians tend to be a religious people too, and ghost stories often carry lessons of forgiveness, retribution, unrest because of a grave sin, or warnings to listen to elders. We're imaginative--some of my posts recently demonstrate the imaginative and creative minds of our residents: the plane van and the big eye, for example! Our heritage here is Scottish, English, Irish and German predominantly, but with a good helping of Italian and a seasoning of Polish, Russian, African-American, and many other nationalities. British folklore, particularly that of Ireland, includes revenants of all kinds, along with both little people and giants. Some of those tales were simply transplanted and adapted to a new environment. The German tales also moved to the mountains, with their often darker themes. Then there is our environment: towering dark mountains, deep shadowy hollows, evening and early morning fogs, the intense quiet broken only the falling leaves, an owl's call, the cry of some unnamed night creature. All lend themselves to a sense of the supernatural, of someone or something watching, lurking, in the dark and hidden places along our roads. On this Halloween, take some time to travel into the countryside. Find a quiet place, stop your car, get out and listen. You too may find, even if you are not in West Virginia, that there is something in the air that sends a shiver down your spine, and has you looking over your shoulder. You may go home with your own tale to tell.

I've posted many ghost stories here in the past 3 years. Here are a few you may want to go back and read:

My most recent ghost story was written from a prompt in a newspaper article.

The story my parents told about their haunted house in England.

A couple of ghostly poems; and here is another. And a classic from Thomas Hardy.

Ghost story and comedy, all in one! The Gatehouse Ghost story is a true story that happened to me.

Links to other ghostly information.

Strange photos we took at the old Moundsville State Penitentiary, which now does ghost tours.

Raw Head, Bloody Bones was a look into the background of this chilling tale used to scare little children.

A recipe for Bony Fingers? Why not?

Jump Tales for Halloween--just the bare bones, but easy to develop for telling.

West Virginia's most famous ghost story, The Greenbrier Ghost. This is on my new CD Beyond the Grave both as a ballad and a story. (Yes, I finally found a melody for it)

A ghostly tale from Rowlesburg, West Virginia.

The Wizard Clipp, another famous story in our state. Another one that's on my new CD.

How to keep the haints away from your house--timely tips!

Short tale, easy to tell.

I've written about the "why" of ghost stories before; this older post contains a good booklist.

A true story of something that happened to me. It still gives me shivers to remember it.

One of the stories from Jackson County, Sidna is a tale I often tell. It's on the CD!

A story told to me by a young girl, this story is on my new CD too.

Want a copy of my new CD, Beyond the Grave; Ghost Stories and Ballads from the Mountains?

Email me at susannaholstein@yahoo.com and I can tell you purchase details.

Guest Blogger Dustin Fife and The Cabin on Vantage Road

Good Halloween Eve to you, my friends! I hope you have been enjoying the ghost stories this week. 

I have another treat in store for you: a strange, spooky tale by author and blogger Dustin Fife. We thought it would be fun to do a post swap for Halloween! Dustin's blog is a fantastic read, with stories that touch the heart and spirit of all of us traveling this earth. He's funny, thought-provoking, caring and a fine wordsmith. I hope you will zip over and check out his writings. (There's a link to his site in my sidebar too.) Dustin's story about a weird cabin adventure is sure to raise the hairs on the back of your neck. Read on!


The Cabin on Vantage Road

Are you a believer in the supernatural?

I’m not.

Or am I? Every time this here skeptic (me) wants to roll my eyes at someone’s story of ghosts or ghouls or aliens or vampires, I remember that day…

I was seventeen-years-old. My dad pulled a boat behind a suburban, two hours across the Cascade Mountains to Vantage Washington. It was a common camping spot for us; a nearby convenience store carried pop rocks and baseball cards. There was a playground standing atop wood chips, complete with rusted monkey bars and love notes sprawled on the back of the slide. There was also a swimming pool with a deep end (10 feet) and a bathroom that smelled like an expired outhouse.

It was a kid’s dream. (Not the outhouse part…but the rest of it).

Perched on a hill, surrounded by desert shrubs and deciduous trees, stood a cabin. We’d never stayed in that cabin before (as far as I can recall), but it seemed we were moving up in the world. Gone were the days of wind sweeping our tents into the highway while we skied in the lake. No, we were high rollers that vacation.

Dad pulled the boat next to the building and with the efficiency of a nomadic army, we unpacked our bags and entered the cabin. The door creaked as it swung on rusted hinges.

“I’ve got top bunk,” I said and leaped inside, throwing my bag atop the bunk bed. Nick, my little brother’s friend grumbled and dropped his gear on the bottom bunk. The entire structure was made of wood that had long faded to gray with cracks haphazardly closed with wood putty, rusted screws, and/or duct tape. No air conditioning, no electricity. Just the creaky door that swung ominously in the wind.

Eeeeek. Eeeeeek. 

Something felt off about the place. It was that feeling you get when you know you forgot to do something, like you left the oven on. You know in the back of your mind that something terrible could happen, but it’s distant enough that you can forget it. But all the while, you know that if you ignore it, the inevitable only draws closer and closer and closer, until…

Boom.

What was the feeling?

I shook my head. No matter. Yet the rumble of my stomach remained.

The sunlight faded and we stood next to a crackling fire. The scent of burning wood followed me like a midnight shadow. Cough cough, sputter, gag. It chased me, haunted me.

If I only knew the real haunting wouldn’t come until later.

I stood to go to bed. Austin, my little brother stood with me and held out a fist. “Rock, paper, scissors?”

I scoffed. “Too late, dude. You’re sleeping in the Burb.” (Slang for “suburban”).

He glared. “Fine.”

I climbed up to the bed and closed my eyes, waiting for sleep to caress me into unconsciousness. But she was a stubborn caretaker, that one. I shifted and turned, fighting to find a comfortable position. My dad, Nick, and my sister’s snores filled the silence. Sleep came to them. Why not me?

Nothing.

So I shifted some more. Still, nothing.

I resigned myself to laying on my side, staring between the rails of the bunk bed. The wind howled and whistled, tossing the sheer curtains of the window. Moonlight shone through, hypnotic.

Something was off. What was it?

Silence. That’s what it was. Except for the snores of those inside the cabin, there was nothing. No crickets, no hum of distant cars…

Nothing.

My breaths came faster. My mouth went dry. The cool breeze seemed to turn to ice.

And that feeling returned–nagging in the back of my mind with haunted whispers.

Okay. I was going crazy. I closed my eyes, promising myself I wouldn’t open them until morning.

Silence.

I felt something–some primal sense that someone watched me. But that was silly. Everyone was asleep.

Don’t open your eyes.

I shut them tighter. That feeling of being watched returned, like a wolf breathing into my face. I had to look–had to prove to myself that it was nothing, that I was only imagining things.

Nothing was there, dude. Open your eyes, see it’s nothing and chill out.

Fine. That’s what I’d do.

With one final breath, I pried my eyes open and stared at the gauzy windows.

My body went ice cold. I trembled, struggling to let out the scream that bubbled in my throat, begging to be released, fighting the tightness that would consume me if I didn’t just let. it. out!

I screamed.

Standing there, with the fabric of the curtains passing right through her bodywas a little girl, no more than eight years old. She stared at me with vacant eyes–dead eyes.

My dad jumped from his bed. “Wh–wha—what? What happn? Whas gone on?”

“I-I-I-I,” I pointed to the window.

He turned to look.

And she was gone.

“I-I-I.”

My dad barked something unintelligible and lay back down.

And I was alone. So pitifully, miserably, terrifyingly alone. I couldn’t be there anymore. i had to get out of there. I jumped from my bed and went to the Burb. The door light flashed on and Austin shielded his eyes. “What the heck, dude?”

“G-g-ghost.”

He grumbled and turned over. I crawled in the front seat, intent on sleeping in there.

“Dude,” he said. “What’r you doing?”

“Sleeping in here.”

“Fine.” He gathered his blanket.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Sleeping in the cabin.”

“No!” He couldn’t do that. If he did, I’d be alone. And probably die a horrible terrifying death.

“Then you sleep in the cabin. Just leave me alone!”

I sat there, paralyzed by indecision. Do I sleep next to the ghost? Or alone?

Alone it was.

Austin stormed off in a huff and I remained alone.

Alone. Alone.

The rest of the evening passed uneventfully, except for, perhaps, a trickle or two of urine down my legs.

The following morning, I endured the jests of Nick and Austin who were convinced I was pulling their leg. (Really? Me pull a prank? Never!) We spent the remained of the day on the Columbia River, knee-boarding, water-skiing, and wake-boarding.

I tried to have fun. But all I could think about was what waited for me in that cabin. The dread of the night to come followed me. I tried to push it to the back of my mind, where the memory of it remained as nothing more than a pit in my stomach.

For dinner, we ate in a local diner walking distance from the cabin. It was a 50s-style diner, with red booths lining the walls and swivel chairs right at the counter. We sat at the swiveled chairs and ordered our food. I chewed on my french fries, thinking of that girl.

We were served by a brother and sister, about my age.

“Hey,” Austin asked them, “what’s with the haunted cabin?”

I punched him.

“You see the girl?” the guy asked.

My eyes widened, but I tried to hide my surprise. “What girl?”

“The ghost girl. About 8-years-old? Blonde hair? Holds a cat over her forarm?”

I hadn’t seen a cat, but everything else was spot-on.

Should I feel better about this? Should I feel somehow validated that the locals had heard rumors of a haunted cabin? That I wasn’t crazy.

Maybe. But instead, it turned my stomach in knots. Up until that point, I could believe it was a trick of the light or that I had stayed up too late the night before or that the roasted chicken had done funny things to my visual cortex.

Not anymore. I was in a silent panic.

“Sleep well,” the female local said as we left the restaurant.

As we walked back, my stomach twisted tighter and my fingers trembled.

“Austin,” I said. “You. Me. Burb. Tonight.”

He scoffed. “If you’re in the burb, I’m in the cabin.”

But I couldn’t be in the burb. I couldn’t spend another night alone.

“Please?” I said. And, truth be told, I sounded really pathetic. My voice must have trembled and, if I had any less self-control, I probably would have cried. A desperate plea from brother to brother. Surely, the bond of brotherhood couldn’t be broken with such a desperate plea.

“Nope,” he said. “Suck it up, big boy.”

But I wouldn’t sleep alone. Instead, I told Nick he was sleeping in the top bunk. I’d remain in the bottom bunk where I couldn’t even see the window. I’d turn my back to the ghost, lock my eyes shut and keep them closed no. matter. what!

That was the plan, at least. Funny how plans never work out.

I remained, back turned to the window, trembling. Don’t open your eyes. Don’t open your eyes. Dad’s breaths turned to snores.Then Nick’s. Then my sisters.

I was alone.

My body begged to move, shouting for a change in positions. Don’t move. Don’t open your eyes. Just fall asleep! The agony of remaining in that one position intensified like I was sitting on a bed of coals.

Move move move! Open your eyes. Open your eyes. Open your eyes!

A guttural sound echoed outside the cabin’s door, like the moan of a zombie.Roooooomphf, Rooompht, Roooooooooooooooooomphtuf. A light flicked on. I yelped.

“Nick!” I shouted. “Stop messing around. Stop it Nick!”

“Dustin’s got type II schizophrenia,” he said. “He not only sees things, he makes sure others see them too.”

“Tell me your kidding!” My voice trembled, coming out as a choked cry.

“I don’t even have the flashlight!” he shouted.

I looked beside my bed. Right within arm’s reach was the source of the light–my dad’s coleman’s flashlight.

It was on. I was the only one within reach. I was the only one who could have turned it one. 

But I didn’t turn it on.

I reached forward and felt as if my hand were reaching through a pit of snakes. I grabbed the flashlight and flicked it on, then off. On, then off. And considerable force was required to turn it on, mind you. These things just didn’t turn on accidentally.

“I’m outta here,” I said. I went outside to the burb and crawled inside. Austin pitched another fit, but I threatened to pound him if he left. “Stay here and protect me, dag-nabit!”

One good thing did come as a result of that second night–my family believed me. Once I convinced them I wasn’t holding the flashlight, and once they realized I had no way of making that weird ominous sound, they acquiesced to my non-craziness.

The only person that remains a skeptic is myself, I suppose. In the years since, I’ve watched Host-Hunters International, Fact-or-Faked, and a host of other TV shows. It’s amusing really. As I sit on my couch with a bowl of cereal, I watch these people with their Ouija boards, infrared meters, and EVPs. I laugh and I mock.

And yet…it’s not until the show concludes that I realize my uneaten cereal remains in its bowl, soggy and warm. I look at the clock to find two full hours have passed and I hardly breathed.

I’m a skeptic. It’s all bunk. It’s all hokum.

Or maybe there really is something out there.

Hi! I’m Dustin. I am a novelist, podcaster, YouTuber, and blogger. I write science fiction, as well as stories about everyday humans with everyday struggles. (Think Humans of NY meets Chicken Soup for the Soul.) I’d love you to visit my website and read some fantastic stories, or subscribe to my weekly podcast. I'm looking forward to connecting!

Left Behind: A Shorty and Shivery Tale

A friend issued a challenge to write a short scary story in just 100 words. That intrigued me! I'll be posting one of these a week during October, just because, you know, it's the season for ghosties and ghoulies and frightful things. My friend will be collecting these short-shorts from other writers and will have them all posted on his website a few days before Halloween. I'll post the link to that as soon as it's available.

And now, the story:

from publicdomaintreasurehunter.com

“Feels good to move, doesn’t it?” The voice from the window was deep, smoky.

“Yes. I’ve been sitting too long.” Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

“Here they come. Too soon, too soon…” She reached out as if to push something away.

“Steady,” the voice whispered. “All will be well, you’ll see.”

Cold air entered with two men dressed in black. “Here she is. Died right here in her favorite chair.”

The men lifted a limp form and moved slowly out the door.

“Wait! I’m still here!”

The curtains stirred. “Hush, dear. Come with me. All will be well, you’ll see.”

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Call for Help: A Story for Halloween

"What's that, Grandma? Did you hear that? It sounded like someone tapping on the window."

Grandma looked at the window. It was dark outside, but a light suddenly glimmered as the tapping came again.

"It's nothing. No one is there. Let me tell you a story."

"It was a favorite gathering place for the young people. The pool was deep, cool and secluded from prying eyes. They came often in the hot afternoons, but their favorite swimming time was in the dark of night, when the air was cool but the water still warm from the day's sun.

She was the most beautiful of them all: raven-haired, with cheeks like Maiden Blush apples and lips as red as the juice of blackberries. She did not come often to the swimming hole; her watchful father made sure of that. But this night he went to bed early, worn out form a double shift at the mines, and he was sleeping soundly when she slipped out the door. Her mother, a poor mouse of a woman, watched the girl leave without interest. From the shadows of the porch she watched her daughter carefully closing the door so that the latch made no click, watched her swaying walk down the path.

At the gate a boy's voice whispered, "Ready? Did you have any trouble gettin' out?"

The girl laughed. "None at all. He's asleep and she's too scared to wake him to say anything to me."

There were already a few people at the pool when the girl and her boyfriend arrived. She quickly stripped off her sundress, smoothed her swimsuit over hips that were already filling out to womanhood, and stepped to the diving rock.

"You gonna dive, or you wanna swing out on the vine?" a red-headed girl asked.

"Swing! It's more fun than anything!"

"I'll say! I'm after you."

The dark-haired girl grabbed the vine and took a running start. Her feet lifted from the rock and she soared out and over the bank, shining like an angel in the darkness. Her boyfriend caught his breath.

That was when it happened. The vine broke. With a high scream the girl plummeted towards the bank, and the sharp, broken branch that jutted upwards from a storm-struck sycamore tree. Her scream cut off as her body struck the branch and impaled on its sharp point.

The stunned silence was broken by a loud cry.

"Oh no oh no oh no oh no!!!" screamed her boyfriend. The others began to yell and run. Some jumped into the water to try to climb low-hanging limbs to help the girl; others raced to the tree and tried to clamber up.

"Someone go for help! Go for help!" someone yelled. Her boyfriend grabbed the lantern.

"I'll go! Get her down, please get her down!" He could hear her soft whimpering cries that tore at his heart. He raced off through the dark woods towards where he knew he would find the closest house."

Grandma paused. She looked again at the window. There was no light now, no tapping.

"He never made it. They found him the next day. He was so scared, so horrified by what had happened to his girlfriend that he had a heart attack and died on his way. He was coming here, you see. Ours was the closest house. But he never got here. The girl died too. It was all so sad.

"That's him tapping on the window, and that's his light. He's still trying to get here, and to get help for her. He's still trying."

Based on a story told to me yesterday by a 6th grade boy in Richwood, WV.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Halloween! Some Stories for this Evening's Fire

Tis then night for the unseen to be seen once more, and prowl the earth. Are you ready with your treats and tales for this evening's fun? Here are a few short and slightly spooky tales (the bones, really--you can fill in the details as you tell) to tell while you keep watch for the things that go bump in the night...or the hall...or on the stairs...

Tailypo: an old man who lives alone in a cabin in the woods with his three dogs (Uno, Ino, and Cumticocalico) thinks he'll have to go to bed hungry. Then he hears "scritch, scritch"--a critter is trying to get in his cabin through a gap between the floor and the log wall. He sees two little pointy ears, two red eyes, and big fluffy tail. He grabs his hatchet and cuts off the tail of the unusual creature. He tries to cook the tail for dinner but it tastes terrible so he throws it in the yard fofr his dogs.The creature returns again and again for its tail( "Tailypo, Tailypo, all I want is my Tailypo"), and with each appearance another dog disappears, until finally it is just the old man and the creature. “All I want is my Tailypo,” the creature says. "I don't have your ol' tailypo!" the old man cries. "You know, and I know, that you....DO! No one ever saw gthe old man or his dogs again, but on moonlit nights, listen and you might here the creature saying, “Now I’ve got my taily-po!”

Big Hairy Toe: someone digs up a big hairy toe in their garden. They take it home, cook it, and eat it. And...you guessed it...the owner of the toe follows them home, moaning, "who's got my great big hairy toe?" Through the house, up to the bedroom, locked the door,repeat the refrain “Who’s got my big hairy toe." And finally inside the bedroom…"YOU DO!"

Coming to Get Your Liver: little Johnny is scared to go to bed alone.He is in bed with the covers pulled up. Then he hears a spooky voice saying, "Johnny, I'm on the first step, coming to get your liver!" Johnny hides under covers, etc (you can stretch these tales out as far as you have the imagination to do!) until finally the voice is...right...outside...his...door... Then it's in the room and...gotcha! 

Golden Arm: a man or woman loses an arm and replaces it with a gold prosthetic limb. When the person dies, the arm is buried with them. Somebody digs up the grave and steals the golden arm. And of course, the thief is hounded by a voice that keeps repeating "who's got my golden arm?" (sound familiar?). You know the rest.

The tales are all similar, but so much fun to tell, especially if you can get the pacing right.

The photo above was taken by William Hope, a famous "ghost photographer" at the turn of the 20th century. To read a play based on this photo, check out this blog. It's a good read, and would be fun to do as reader's theater too. And for moreabout William Hope and his photos, go here and here. Arthur Conan Doyle always believed in Hope's authenticity, although others proved his photos were frauds. Such a shame--wouldn't we all love to believe such photos are real?

 

Happy haunting!

 

Copyright 2012 Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

Halloween Stories For October Evenings

It's the season for spooky stuff! I combed back through my blog to find some posts that fit this time of year.

Ghost Stories lists links to other posts with stories and crafts fit for the season.

The Hello Man is the most recent story I've posted.

Ikie's Tomb is a strange, sad tale of an unusual grave.

Mill Creek Hunter  is a story I wrote based on a local legend.

The Amazing Trestle and a Ghost Story is blog about a wonderful railroad trestle and another story I developed based on a snippet of a tale found in a newspaper clipping.

The Gatehouse Ghost is a true story that happened to my family.

Enjoy!



Copyright 2012 Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.

A Story and Some Winners

I taped a new ghost story for airing by WV public radio this week. They played it yesterday. If you'd like to hear the story, just click this link. It's based on a true story from Wetzel County, WV (actually, it was still part of Virginia at the time of the story, 1850) about a murdered man's return from the dead to seek justice.

Today I will be helping with the awards program for the winners of the first-ever ghost story writing contest at our local library. I am looking forward to this. Winners will read their stories, I'll tell a tale and sing a ballad or two, we'll have some refreshments...a nice time, I think.

Later in the day...it's turkey time! Time for those BIG birds to be put into the freezer. That will take up the rest of the weekend I'm sure, because there are 13 of them, and did I mention that they're BIG? I'm guessing each one weighs at least 20 pounds. 20x13=260 pounds of meat for the coming year. That will meet most of our poultry meat needs.

What's on your agenda this weekend? Oh goodness, I almost forgot, it's trick-or-treat tonight too! Well, there may be plenty of blood and guts around my place to creep 'em out. (Insert evil grin here)

Some Storytelling Photos from Last Week

Many people would not go near a roomful of 7th grade students. How many times have I heard, "Those who teach middle school kids are a breed apart!" It's true--they are. A special breed that loves and understands this age group, appreciates the delicate balance of their lives between young adulthood and childhood, a fragile place at best, often difficult but always unexpected. Can you tell it's one of my favorite age groups?

For seven sessions last Thursday, I told ghost stories to 7th graders at a school near Morgantown, West Virginia. Although teachers tried to warn me about the groups that were more difficult than others, I found each class to be attentive, interested and absolutely a joy to be with. What we had was an old-style front porch kind of storytelling, just 30 or so students in a group, sitting in a circle in the library and listening to stories. We talked too, a little give-and-take that I think enhanced the experience for all of us. As in the past, I found once again that children with behavior issues will listen to stories--perhaps their behavior stems from overactive minds that find plenty to work with in stories; perhaps stories offer them an escape vehicle from the messiness of their family life or personal problems. Whatever the reason, they listen and take the stories to heart.

The next day, we were in Sutton, WV at an elementary school's Heritage Festival. Here the costumed children begin their parade into town before the storytelling, music, games and other activities of the festival.

I love using participation stories. Here we tell the Noisy House, a folktale that I tell based on a version created by storyteller Marilyn Kinsella that includes seasonal creatures--bat, cat, owl, ghost, etc. It was fun, noisy and a good way to channel some of the high energy of the day.

Here we are telling a Jack tale, one of my favorite story characters. The kids loved the story of how Jack defeated the Ol' Fire Dragaman. One thing about Jack--he entertains all ages. I saw several young fathers during the story sessions, and it was clear that storytelling was new to them--and that they liked it!

Yet another group telling of the Noisy House. The "little old lady" is almost swallowed up by her bonnet and apron, but she did an amazing job. For a little person, she had a big, expressive voice and got right into her part.

Working with kids in participation stories takes high energy, quick wits, and a willingness to go with the flow. Although the end of the story is supposed to be that the little old lady removes the creatures from her house one at a time, in one group the ghost decided it was his job to scare them out--so that's what we did! You never know where you might end up when the kids take an active role in the telling, and that is why I love to include them. What better way to make a story come alive.

Here are the bones of the Noisy House story:

A person is in their house. Something (a baby, a creaking chair, etc) is making an annoying, repetitive sound. Too much noise! The person goes to a wise one (can be a wizard or whatever you choose--I use a wise owl because I have a good owl puppet) and asks for help. The wise one advises to bring some other noisy thing in the house (farm animals, wild animals, whatever your imagination can bring to the story. The person follows the advice, the house gets noisier and the person gets upset with the wise one. So of course, the wise one advises taking the noisy things out of the house one at a time until all that is left is the original annoying sound--which, when compared to the noise of all the creatures, seems lovely and quiet!

For some other versions, visit Story-Lovers.com.

Bony Fingers

Melissa at the library made the most delicious treat for the program last night--Bony Fingers! Sounds terrible, tastes wonderful.

Here's how to make them for your ghoulish group:

Melt white chocolate. Dip large stick pretzels into the chocolate. Press a sliced almond or pumpkin seed onto the top of one side of the pretzel to be the fingernail. Let dry on waxed paper.

There you are--Bony Fingers! So simple, and absolutely delicious. I wish I had a photo, but I sort of...ate mine.

Here's an old favorite story to go with the recipe:

A boy was walking home from the store just as it was getting dark when he head something behind him. He turned around quickly and was scared out of his wits to see a horrible, bony creature following him. When the creature saw him staring, it said:

"Do you know what I can do with my long bony fingers and red, red lips?"

"No!" the boy shouted. He turned and ran as fast as he could, but he had to cross the street and there was a lot of traffic. As he waited for the traffic to pass, the creature caught up to him.

"Do you know what I can do with my long bony fingers and red, red lips?"

"Go away!" the boy screamed. He darted between cars, almost causing a crash, but at least he got away from the creature which was stranded on the other side of the road. He breathed a sigh of relief and slowed down. Just as he passed a shadowy doorway, something jumped out right in front of him! It was the creature, who looked at him with big staring eyes and said:

"Do you know what I can do with my long bony fingers and red, red lips?"

"AAAAGGGHHH!" The boy yelled as loud as he could and took off running again. But he tripped over a tree root and the creature caught up again. It stood right over top of him, pinning him to the ground with its bony legs and feet.

"DO YOU KNOW WHAT I CAN DO WITH MY LONG BONY FINGERS AND RED, RED LIPS!" the creature screamed at him.

The boy laid on the ground, blubbering. "I give up! What can you do with your long bony fingers and red, red lips?"

"THIS!"

(and do a raspberry by moving your finger up and down over your lips to make a blib-blib-blib sound).

Jump Tales for Halloween

I mentioned "jump tales" in my last post, with a quick explanation of what the term means. Most of us have been the target of such a story--the kind that end with a boo, a scream, or a "gotcha!"

There are several traditional folktale jump stories that are excellent for telling at this time or year, or around a campfire in any season.

Here are some of the ones I like best. There are many variations to these stories, so what you find online may not be the same story you remember, and may not be exactly like my synopsis below or the way I tell the story, but you can find more versions at your library or bookstore:

Tailypo: an old man who lives alone in a cabin in the woods with his three dogs cuts off the tail of an unusual creature. The creature returns again and again for its tail, and with each appearance another dog disappears, until finally it is just the old man and the creature. Who wins? (For book titles and other information, visit the Applit site . To read a version by my friend and fellow storyteller Marilyn Kinsella, go here.)

Big Hairy Toe: someone digs up a big hairy toe in their garden. They take it home, and...you guessed it...the owner of the toe follows them home, moaning, "who's got my great big hairy toe?" Does the creature regain its toe? (find out in this online version of the story.)

Coming to Get Your Liver: little Johnny is scared to go to bed alone. Then he hears a very spooky voice saying, "Johnny, I'm on the first step, coming to get your liver!" Johnny hides under covers, etc (you can stretch these tales out as far as you have the imagination to do!) until finally the voice is...right...outside...his...door... Then it's in the room and... (read a version online that was collected by another storytelling friend, Tim Jennings.)

Golden Arm: a man or woman loses an arm and replaces it with a gold prosthetic limb. When the person dies, the arm is buried with them. Somebody digs up the grave and steals the golden arm. And of course, the thief is hounded by a voice that keeps repeating "who's got my golden arm?" (sound familiar?). You know the rest. (read Joseph Jacobs' classic version here.)

For more good Halloween stories to tell, visit Bare Bones for Storytellers: Halloween Stories. This is part of Jackie Baldwin's Story-Lovers site; it's a compilation of stories submitted by storytellers all over the world.

Okay, that's my list. tell us your favorite jump tale in a comment. We'd all love to read it--and jump!

(For free Halloween clip art, visit the hershey's chocolate website. They've got some great art for free: http://www.hersheys.com/trickortreats/downloads/clipart.asp#inner1 ).