Halloween Stories

[Sergevna]

The Appointment
A sixteen year old boy worked on his grandfather's horse farm. One
morning he drove a pickup truck into town on an errand. While he was
walking along Main Street, he saw Death. Death beckoned him.
The boy drove back to the farm as fast as he could and told his grandfather
what had happened. "Lend me the truck," he begged. "I'll go to the city. He
won't find me there."
His grandfather lent him the truck, and the boy sped away. After he left, his
grandfather went into town looking for Death. When he found him, he
asked, "Why did you frighten my grandson that way? He is only sixteen. He
is too young to die."
"I am sorry about that," said Death. "I did not mean to beckon to him. But I
was surprised to see him here. I have an appointment with him this
afternoon in the city."

[Sergevna]

Something Was Wrong
One morning, John Sullivan found himself walking along a street
downtown. He could not explain what he was doing there, or how he got
there, or where he had been earlier. He didn't even know what time it was.
He saw a woman walking toward him and stopped her. "I'm afraid I forgot
my watch," he said, and smiled. "Can you please tell me the time?" When
she saw him, she screamed and ran.
The he noticed that other people were afraid of him. When they saw him
coming, they flattened themselves against a building, or ran across the
street to stay out of his way.
"There must be something wrong with me," John thought. "I'd better go
home."
He hailed a taxi, but the driver took one look at him and sped away. "This is
crazy!" he said to himself.
John did not understand what was going on, and it scared him. "Maybe
someone at home can come and pick me up." he thought. He found a
telephone and called home, expecting his wife to answer. Instead, a
strange voice answered.
"Is Mrs. Sullivan there?" he asked.
"I'm sorry, she isn't," the voice said. "Her husband died a few days ago in a
horrible car crash, she's at his funeral."

[Камень]

Последнее сообщение порадовало! Забавно!

[Sergevna]

What is a ghost’s favourite dish?
Ice-Scream!

Where did ghosts love to swim?
The Dead sea!

What did Dracula said about her new girlfriend?
Oh, she is my love at first bite!

[Sergevna]

During the Halloween party, the first prize for the best costume is given to a little boy. But he seems very unhappy. His friend asked him why he is so sad. The little boy replied that “oh, I just came here to pick up my sister”!

[Sergevna]

The Boarded Window (By Ambrose Bierce)
In 1830, only a few miles away from what is now the great city of Cincinnati, Ohio, lay a huge and almost endless forest.

The area had a few settlements established by people of the frontier. Many of them had already left the area for settlements further to the west. But among those remaining was a man who had been one of the first people to arrive there.

He lived alone in a house of logs surrounded on all sides by the great forest. He seemed a part of the darkness and silence of the forest, for no one had ever known him to smile or speak an unnecessary word. His simple needs were supplied by selling or trading the skins of wild animals in the town.

His little log house had a single door. Directly opposite was a window. The window was boarded up. No one could remember a time when it was not. And no one knew why it had been closed. I imagine there are few people living today who ever knew the secret of that window. But I am one, as you shall see.

The man's name was said to be Murlock. He appeared to be seventy years old, but he was really fifty. Something other than years had been the cause of his aging.

His hair and long, full beard were white. His gray, lifeless eyes were sunken. His face was wrinkled. He was tall and thin with drooping shoulders—like someone with many problems.

I never saw him. These details I learned from my grandfather. He told me the man's story when I was a boy. He had known him when living nearby in that early day.

One day Murlock was found in his cabin, dead. It was not a time and place for medical examiners and newspapers. I suppose it was agreed that he had died from natural causes or I should have been told, and should remember.

I know only that the body was buried near the cabin, next to the burial place of his wife. She had died so many years before him that local tradition noted very little of her existence.

That closes the final part of this true story, except for the incident that followed many years later. With a fearless spirit I went to the place and got close enough to the ruined cabin to throw a stone against it. I ran away to avoid the ghost which every well-informed boy in the area knew haunted the spot.

But there is an earlier part to this story supplied by my grandfather.

When Murlock built his cabin he was young, strong and full of hope. He began the hard work of creating a farm. He kept a gun--a rifle—for hunting to support himself.

He had married a young woman, in all ways worthy of his honest love and loyalty. She shared the dangers of life with a willing spirit and a light heart. There is no known record of her name or details about her. They loved each other and were happy.

One day Murlock returned from hunting in a deep part of the forest. He found his wife sick with fever and confusion. There was no doctor or neighbor within miles. She was in no condition to be left alone while he went to find help. So Murlock tried to take care of his wife and return her to good health. But at the end of the third day she fell into unconsciousness and died.

From what we know about a man like Murlock, we may try to imagine some of the details of the story told by my grandfather.

When he was sure she was dead, Murlock had sense enough to remember that the dead must be prepared for burial. He made a mistake now and again while performing this special duty. He did certain things wrong. And others which he did correctly were done over and over again.

He was surprised that he did not cry — surprised and a little ashamed. Surely it is unkind not to cry for the dead.

"Tomorrow," he said out loud, "I shall have to make the coffin and dig the grave; and then I shall miss her, when she is no longer in sight. But now -- she is dead, of course, but it is all right — it must be all right, somehow. Things cannot be as bad as they seem."

He stood over the body of his wife in the disappearing light. He fixed the hair and made finishing touches to the rest. He did all of this without thinking but with care. And still through his mind ran a feeling that all was right -- that he should have her again as before, and everything would be explained.

Murlock had no experience in deep sadness. His heart could not contain it all. His imagination could not understand it. He did not know he was so hard struck. That knowledge would come later and never leave.

Deep sadness is an artist of powers that affects people in different ways. To one it comes like the stroke of an arrow, shocking all the emotions to a sharper life. To another, it comes as the blow of a crushing strike. We may believe Murlock to have been affected that way.

Soon after he had finished his work he sank into a chair by the side of the table upon which the body lay. He noted how white his wife's face looked in the deepening darkness. He laid his arms upon the table's edge and dropped his face into them, tearless and very sleepy.

At that moment a long, screaming sound came in through the open window. It was like the cry of a lost child in the far deep of the darkening forest! But the man did not move. He heard that unearthly cry upon his failing sense, again and nearer than before. Maybe it was a wild animal or maybe it was a dream. For Murlock was asleep.

Some hours later, he awoke, lifted his head from his arms and listened closely. He knew not why. There in the black darkness by the side of the body, he remembered everything without a shock. He strained his eyes to see -- he knew not what.

His senses were all alert. His breath was suspended. His blood was still as if to assist the silence. Who — what had awakened him and where was it!

Suddenly the table shook under his arms. At the same time he heard, or imagined he heard, a light, soft step and then another. The sounds were as bare feet walking upon the floor!

He was afraid beyond the power to cry out or move. He waited—waited there in the darkness through what seemed like centuries of such fear. Fear as one may know, but yet live to tell. He tried but failed to speak the dead woman's name. He tried but failed to stretch his hand across the table to learn if she was there. His throat was powerless. His arms and hands were like lead.

Then something most frightful happened. It seemed as if a heavy body was thrown against the table with a force that pushed against his chest. At the same time he heard and felt the fall of something upon the floor. It was so violent a crash that the whole house shook. A fight followed and a confusion of sounds impossible to describe.

Murlock had risen to his feet. Extreme fear had caused him to lose control of his senses. He threw his hands upon the table. Nothing was there!

There is a point at which fear may turn to insanity; and insanity incites to action. With no definite plan and acting like a madman, Murlock ran quickly to the wall. He seized his loaded rifle and without aim fired it.

The flash from the rifle lit the room with a clear brightness. He saw a huge fierce panther dragging the dead woman toward the window. The wild animal's teeth were fixed on her throat! Then there was darkness blacker than before, and silence.

When he returned to consciousness the sun was high and the forest was filled with the sounds of singing birds. The body lay near the window, where the animal had left it when frightened away by the light and sound of the rifle.

The clothing was ruined. The long hair was in disorder. The arms and legs lay in a careless way. And a pool of blood flowed from the horribly torn throat. The ribbon he had used to tie the wrists was broken. The hands were tightly closed.

And between the teeth was a piece of the animal's ear.

[Sergevna]

Room for One More
by Alvin Schwartz
A man named Joseph Blackwell came to Philadelphia on a business trip. He stayed with friends in the big house they owned outside the city. That night they had a good time visiting. But when Blackwell went to bed, he tossed and turned and couldn’t sleep. Sometime during the night he heard a car turn into the driveway. He went to the window to see who was arriving at such a late hour. In the moonlight, he saw a long black hearse filled with people.

The driver of the hearse looked up at him. When Blackwell saw his weird, hideous face, he shuddered. The driver called to him, «There is room for one more.» Then he waited for a minute or two, and then he drove off.

In the morning Blackwell told his friends what had happened. «You were dreaming,»  they said.

«I must have been,» he said,» but it didn’t seem like a dream.»

After breakfast, he went into Philadelphia. He spent the day high above the city in one of the new office buildings there.

Late in the afternoon he was waiting for an elevator to take him back down to the street. But when it arrived, it was very crowded. One of the passengers looked out and called to him. «There is room for one more,» he said. It was the driver of the hearse.

«No thanks,» Blackwell said. «I’ll get the next one.»

The doors closed, and the elevator started down. There was a shrieking and screaming, then the sound of a crash. The elevator had fallen to the bottom of the shaft. Everyone aboard was killed.

[Sergevna]

Coat from the Dead
One evening a man called James was on the road from Oxford to London. There weren’t many cars on the road because it was late. Suddenly in the lights of his car he saw a woman by the road – she was quite young and very pretty. ‘It’s dangerous to walk along the road when it’s dark and late,’ he thought. He stopped, opened the window and asked the young woman, ‘Where are you going? It’s dangerous to stand here at night… perhaps I can take you to London with me.’ The young woman didn’t answer but she opened the door of the car and got in.

James asked her e a lot of questions: ‘What’s your name? Where do you live? Why are you on the road at night? Is your family in London? Where are your friends? Have you got any money? Are you hungry?’ The young woman sat next to James but she said nothing. Not one word. She only looked at the road.

Soon James stopped asking questions and they drove along without talking. Coming into London there were more cars and James had to drive more slowly. Suddenly the young woman started to open the door so James stopped the car quickly. They were in front of a house on a long street. The woman opened the door and got out of the car, then she slowly walked up to the front door of the house. James watched her and thought angrily, ‘She didn’t say «Thank you».’

Three days later he opened the back door of his car and found a coat. ‘This isn’t my coat,’ he thought. Then he remembered the young woman. Perhaps it was her coat. He had to drive to London again that evening so he thought, ‘l’ll take her coat back. ..I remember the street and the house.’ He drove there, parked in front of the house and walked up to the door. An older woman answered.

‘Does a young woman live here?’ he asked’. l think this is her coat – she left it in my car three days ago.’

The woman looked at the coat and began to cry. ‘That was my daughter’s coat.. .’

‘Here, please give it back to her then,’ James said.

‘l can’t,’ the woman said. ‘She’s dead.’

‘Dead!’ said James.

‘Yes, she died five years ago.’

Five years ago?’ James asked quietly.

‘Yes, on the road between Oxford and London. .. in an accident,’ the woman said.

[Sergevna]

The Other Man

by Jan Carew


I was a writer. I wrote books. I write now, but nobody knows. Nobody can see me now. Something strange has happened to me. I will tell you about it.

In January I wanted to write a very long book. So I left my home and I found a little room.

‘This is a good room for a writer,’ I thought. ‘I’ll write my book here.’

It was a little room, but I liked it. It was very quiet. I began to work on my book and I was happy.

Then things began to happen — strange things.

One day I was at my desk with my pen in my hand. Suddenly I thought, ‘I want a coffee and I haven’t got any. I’ll have to go to the shop.’

I put my pen on the table and went out.

When I came back, I looked for the pen. It wasn’t on the table. I looked on the floor, on my chair and then on the table again. It wasn’t there!

‘I don’t understand it,’ I thought.

That night another strange thing happened. I was in bed and the room was very quiet. Suddenly, I opened my eyes,

‘What was that?’ I wondered.

Then I heard a voice – a man’s voice.

‘Who’s there?’ I cried.

There was no answer and there was nobody in the room! I couldn’t understand it, and I was afraid.

‘What can I do?’ I thought. ‘What was that?’

After that, strange things happened every day. But I had to finish my book, so I stayed there.

The room was very small. There were not many things in it; only a bed, a table and a chair. And there was a mirror on the wall. It was a very old mirror and I liked it. And then, one day, I looked in the mirror and – I saw him! The other man! It wasn’t me. This man had a beard, but I didn’t!

I shut my eyes and looked again. This time, I saw my face in the mirror.

‘That didn’t happen,’ I thought, ‘I was wrong. There wasn’t another man.’

I went for a walk that day, and I didn’t work on my book. I didn’t want to be in the room. I didn’t want to see or hear strange things.

At night, I went home again. The room was very quiet. I looked in the mirror and saw my face. But I wasn’t happy. I went to bed, but I couldn’t sleep.

‘I’ll leave here tomorrow,’ I thought. And after that, I slept.

But then another strange thing happened. The other man stood by my bed and spoke to me.

‘You will never leave here,’ he said. ‘You will stay with me.’

And then I opened my eyes. I was very cold and afraid. ‘I’ll leave now,’ I thought. ‘I can’t stay here for one more minute.’

Quickly, I put my things in a case. I wanted to go – now. I couldn’t forget the man, so I was afraid. But afraid of what? I didn’t know.

When my clothes were in the case, I thought, ‘I’ll leave the room now.’

I looked round the room, and I also looked in the mirror again. And then I suddenly felt colder and more afraid. I couldn’t see the other man in the mirror. Why? Because he wasn’t there. But I couldn’t see my face in the mirror! There was no face. Why not?

I tried to shout, but no sound came. I had no voice.

And then I saw him. I saw the other man — the man with the beard. But he wasn’t in the mirror. He was at the table, with my pen in his hand. He wrote my book with my pen! I was angry and I tried to speak. But I couldn’t, because I had no voice.

The other man didn’t speak. He smiled and wrote.

Suddenly, there was a sound at the door, and I heard a friend’s voice.

Are you there?’ my friend called. ‘I want to see you.’

I was very happy then. ‘My friend will help me,’ I thought. But I couldn’t move. The other man went to the door and opened it.

‘Come in,’ he said to my friend. ‘Come and see my room. I’m writing my book.’

My friend came into the room, but he didn’t see me. He smiled at the other man.

My friend said, ‘Oh, you have a beard now!’

Again and again, I tried to speak but I couldn’t. My friend couldn’t see me; he couldn’t hear me. He only saw the other man.

That is my story. The other man has my room. And he also has my face and my voice. He will finish my book, too.

But the other man doesn’t know one thing. I can write — I can tell my story. And I’m telling it to you!

[Sergevna]

The Doll

by Jan Carew

Mr Brown lived near the centre of town, but his small house had a garden. Mr Brown liked his garden very much. It had a lot of flowers and they were pretty in summer — red, blue and yellow. Mr Brown liked sitting there in the evenings and at weekends.

But he had to work, too. Mr Brown worked in an office. It wasn’t near his house, so he often went to work on the bus. He came home on the bus, too.

Mr Brown was a lonely man. He didn’t have many friends, and he didn’t talk to many people. And so he was sad and often bored.

One very hot day, Mr Brown walked home. He didn’t want to go on the bus that day. He wanted a walk in the warm sun. In one street there was a small shop. Mr Brown looked in the window.

There were very old things in the window, and Mr Brown liked old things. He went into the shop.

‘Good afternoon,’ said the man in the shop.

‘Good afternoon,’ said Mr Brown. ‘Can I look round the shop?’

‘Please do.’

Mr Brown looked at the things in the shop. He saw an old doll with a sad face. It wasn’t a pretty face, but Mr Brown liked it. The doll was a little old man with white hair and black clothes.

Mr Brown thought, ‘Perhaps the doll is lonely, too.’

He asked, ‘How much do you want for this old doll?’

The man thought. ‘Oh, that. Three pounds,’ he said.

Mr Brown wanted the doll. Why? He didn’t know. But he wanted it. Three pounds was a lot of money for an old doll, but Mr Brown paid it. He went out with the doll in his hand.

He looked at its face. ‘Is it smiling?’ he wondered. ‘No,’ he thought. ‘It’s only a doll.’ He said to it, ‘I’m going to take you home,’

The doll didn’t answer – it was only a doll. So why did Mr Brown speak to it? Because he was lonely. He put it in his case with his papers from the office.

Mr Brown was tired now, so he got on the bus. The man came for Mr Brown’s money and Mr Brown bought a ticket.

Suddenly, somebody on the bus spoke. ‘Go away!’ said the person. ‘You stupid man. Go away!’

Everybody on the bus looked at Mr Brown. ‘Did he say that?’ they wondered.

The ticket man was angry with Mr Brown. ‘Why did he say that?’ he wondered. He gave Mr Brown a ticket and went away. He didn’t like Mr Brown.

When Mr Brown got home, he was very tired. ‘Who spoke on the bus?’ he wondered. He didn’t know. He took the doll out of his case and looked at it.

It was only a doll. It wasn’t very pretty. It was quite ugly but it had a smile on its face. ‘That’s strange,’ thought Mr Brown. He put the doll on the table and had his dinner.

Mr Brown wasn’t very hungry, so he only ate some bread and butter. Then he went to bed and slept. He forgot the doll. It was on the table.

Morning came, and the sun shone into the room. Mr Brown opened his eyes. There was something on his bed. ‘What is it?’ he wondered.

He looked, and he saw the doll. ‘But I left it on the table. It can’t walk — it’s only a doll,’ Mr Brown didn’t understand it. It was very strange.

Mr Brown went to the front door. ‘Are there any letters for me?’ he wondered.

Yes, there were three with his name and address. But what was this? The letters were open! Who opened them? Mr Brown didn’t know.

Mr Brown ate his breakfast. Then he went to the bus stop and waited. His bus came and stopped for him. Mr Brown got on with his case and sat down.

There were a lot of people on the bus, and one old woman couldn’t sit down. Her face was tired, and Mr Brown was a kind man. He stood up for her, and she sat down.

Then suddenly, somebody spoke. ‘You stupid old thing!’

The woman turned and looked at Mr Brown. She was very angry. Mr Brown’s face went red. Then he remembered the doll.

He got off the bus. He couldn’t understand it. ‘That doll’s at home,’ he thought. ‘Or is it?’

Mr Brown opened his case and looked inside. The doll was there, with a big smile on its ugly face!

He put the doll down on the street and left it there. Then he went to work. ‘That’s the end of that doll,’ he thought. ‘Good!’

Mr Brown worked well all day. After work, he walked to the bus stop. But what was that? The doll was at the bus stop! Mr Brown saw the white hair and the black clothes, and he saw the smile, too. ‘What’s happening?’ he wondered. ‘It’s waiting for me! It isn’t only a doll. But what is it?’

He turned and ran away from the bus stop. Then he walked home. He had to walk three kilometres to his house. He was very tired.

Mr Brown sat down in a chair and went to sleep. He slept for an hour.

Suddenly, there was a big noise in another room – CRASH! SMASH! Mr Brown opened his eyes. ‘What’s wrong?’ he wondered. He went into the other room.

The doll was there again. It sat on the table and looked at him. Mr Brown’s cups and plates were all on the floor.

‘It isn’t only a doll,’ Mr Brown thought. ‘And it isn’t a friend. This is difficult. What can I do?’

He took the doll into the garden and buried it in the ground.

‘That really is the end of you,’ said Mr Brown. ‘You’re under the ground now. You won’t get out of there.’

Next day, Mr Brown went to work on the bus. He didn’t have the doll now and nobody spoke. He worked hard, and he was happy.

Mr Brown came home again that night. He watched television. ‘This is good,’ he thought.

At eleven o’clock he went to bed. The house was dark and quiet.

But an hour later, there was a sudden noise in the night. Mr Brown sat up in bed. He was cold and afraid. ‘What was that noise?’ he wondered.

The noise was at the back door. Mr Brown was afraid, but he opened the door. It was the doll again!

It was dirty from the ground, but it looked at Mr Brown and smiled. It was a cold smile, and Mr Brown was very afraid.

He looked at the doll and said, ‘Go away! Please! Go away!’

The doll didn’t speak – it only smiled again. Mr Brown was very angry now. He took the doll into the garden again. He found some wood, and he made a big fire. He lit the fire. Then he put the doll on the top.

‘Now die!’ said Mr Brown. ‘It’s different this time. This will be the end of you.’ And Mr Brown smiled. The fire was hot and red.

The fire got bigger – and bigger. Suddenly there was a loud cry, and people ran out of their houses. ‘What’s wrong?’ they shouted.

‘There’s a big fire in Mr Brown’s garden,’ somebody said. ‘Look!’

And there was a big fire.

The people looked round the house and garden. They couldn’t find Mr Brown. But on the ground near the fire, there was a doll with white hair and black clothes. It wasn’t a pretty doll. And there was a smile on its face.

[Sergevna]

Coat from the Dead
One evening a man called James was on the road from Oxford to London. There weren’t many cars on the road because it was late. Suddenly in the lights of his car he saw a woman by the road – she was quite young and very pretty. ‘It’s dangerous to walk along the road when it’s dark and late,’ he thought. He stopped, opened the window and asked the young woman, ‘Where are you going? It’s dangerous to stand here at night… perhaps I can take you to London with me.’ The young woman didn’t answer but she opened the door of the car and got in.

James asked her e a lot of questions: ‘What’s your name? Where do you live? Why are you on the road at night? Is your family in London? Where are your friends? Have you got any money? Are you hungry?’ The young woman sat next to James but she said nothing. Not one word. She only looked at the road.

Soon James stopped asking questions and they drove along without talking. Coming into London there were more cars and James had to drive more slowly. Suddenly the young woman started to open the door so James stopped the car quickly. They were in front of a house on a long street. The woman opened the door and got out of the car, then she slowly walked up to the front door of the house. James watched her and thought angrily, ‘She didn’t say «Thank you».’

Three days later he opened the back door of his car and found a coat. ‘This isn’t my coat,’ he thought. Then he remembered the young woman. Perhaps it was her coat. He had to drive to London again that evening so he thought, ‘l’ll take her coat back. ..I remember the street and the house.’ He drove there, parked in front of the house and walked up to the door. An older woman answered.

‘Does a young woman live here?’ he asked’. l think this is her coat – she left it in my car three days ago.’

The woman looked at the coat and began to cry. ‘That was my daughter’s coat.. .’

‘Here, please give it back to her then,’ James said.

‘l can’t,’ the woman said. ‘She’s dead.’

‘Dead!’ said James.

‘Yes, she died five years ago.’

Five years ago?’ James asked quietly.

‘Yes, on the road between Oxford and London. .. in an accident,’ the woman said.

[Sergevna]

Lost Love
by Jan Carew
These things happened to me nearly ten years ago. I lived in a city, but the city was hot in summer. I wanted to see the country. I wanted to walk in the woods and see green trees.

I had a little red car and I had a map, too. I drove all night out into the country. I was happy in my car. We had a very good summer that year. The country was very pretty in the early morning. The sun was hot, and the sky was blue. I heard the birds in the trees.

And then my car stopped suddenly.

‘What’s wrong?’ I thought. ‘Oh dear, I haven’t got any petrol. Now I’ll have to walk. I’ll have to find a town and buy some petrol. But where am I?’

I looked at the map. I wasn’t near a town. I was lost in the country.

And then I saw the girl. She walked down the road, with flowers in her hand. She wore a long dress, and her hair was long, too. It was long and black, and it shone in the sun. She was very pretty. I wanted to speak to her, so I got out of the car.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘I’m lost. Where am I?’

She looked afraid, so I spoke quietly.

‘I haven’t got any petrol,’ I said. ‘Where can I find some?’

Her blue eyes looked at me, and she smiled.

‘She’s a very pretty girl!’ I thought.

‘I do not know,’ she said. ‘Come with me to the village. Perhaps we can help you.’

I went with her happily, and we walked a long way.

‘There isn’t a village on the map,’ I thought. ‘Perhaps it’s a very small village.’

There was a village, and it was old and pretty. The houses were black and white and very small. There were a lot of animals. The girl stopped at a house and smiled at me. ‘Come in, please,’ she said.

I went in. The house was very clean, but it was strange, too. There was a fire and some food above it. I felt hungry then.

‘That’s strange,’ I thought. ‘They cook their food over a wood fire! Perhaps they have no money.’

I met her father and mother, and I liked them. They were nice people, but their clothes were strange.

‘Sit down,’ said the old man. ‘Are you thirsty after your walk?’

He gave me a drink, and I said, ‘Thank you.’ But the drink was strange, too. It was dark brown and very strong. I didn’t understand. But I was happy there.

I asked about petrol, but the old man didn’t understand.

‘Petrol?’ he asked. ‘What is that?’

‘This is strange,’ I thought. Then I asked, ‘Do you walk everywhere?’

The old man smiled. ‘Oh, no, we use horses,’ he said.

‘Horses!’ I thought. ‘Horses are very slow. Why don’t they have cars?’

But I didn’t say that to the old man.

I felt happy there. I stayed all day, and I ate dinner with them that evening. Then the girl and I went out into the garden. The girl’s name was Mary.

‘This is nice,’ she said. ‘We like having visitors. We do not see many people here.’

We spoke happily. She was very beautiful. But after a time, she began to talk quietly, and her face was sad.

‘I cannot tell you,’ she said. ‘You are only a visitor here. We have to say goodbye tonight. You have to go now.’

I didn’t understand. I loved her. I knew that. And I wanted to help her. Why did 1 have to go? But Mary said again in a sad voice, ‘You have to go. It is dangerous here.’

So I said, ‘I’ll go to the next town and find some petrol. Then I’ll come back.’

She didn’t speak.

‘I love you, Mary,’ I said. ‘And I’ll come back to you. You won’t stop me.’

She said goodbye to me at the door. Her face was very sad, and I was sad, too. I didn’t want to go.

It was midnight. The night was very dark, but I walked and walked. I was very tired when I saw the lights of a town. I found some petrol, and then I asked the name of the village. But the man at the garage gave me a strange look.

‘What village?’ he asked.

I told him about the village. I told him about the old houses and the people with strange clothes.

Again he gave me a strange look. He thought, and then he said, ‘There was a village there, but it isn’t there now. There are stories about it — strange stories.’

‘What do people say about it?’ I asked.

He didn’t want to tell me, but then he said, ‘There was a big fire in the village. Everybody died. There aren’t any people or houses there now.’

‘How did it happen?’ I asked. ‘And why?’

‘Oliver Cromwell killed them; he said. ‘He was angry with the villagers because they helped the king in the war.’

‘This isn’t right,’ I thought. ‘That war happened 350 years ago!’

Then I remembered the strange clothes, the long hair, the food over the fire, and the old houses. And I remembered, too, about the horses.

‘But I don’t understand,’ I cried. ‘I saw the people and the village. I spoke to some people there!’

The man looked quickly at me, and then he spoke.

‘There’s an interesting story about the village. For one day every ten years, it lives again – but only for one day. Then it goes away again for another ten years. On that one day, you can find the village. But you have to leave before morning, or you will never leave.

‘Can this be right?’ I thought. Perhaps it was. Mary said, ‘You have to go.’ She loved me, but she said, «We have to say goodbye.’ She was afraid for me. ‘Now I understand,’ I thought.

I went back to the village, but it wasn’t there. I looked again and again, but I couldn’t find it. I saw only flowers and trees. I heard only the sound of the birds and the wind. I was very sad. I sat down on the ground and cried.

I will never forget that day. I remember Mary, and I will always love her.

Now, I only have to wait two months. The village will come back again. On the right day, I will go back. I will find her again, my love with the long, black hair. And this time, I will not leave before morning. I will stay with her.

[Sergevna]

A Haunted House
Whatever hour you woke there was a door shutting. From room to room they went, hand in hand, lifting here, opening there, making sure--a ghostly couple.

"Here we left it," she said. And he added, "Oh, but here tool" "It's upstairs," she murmured. "And in the garden," he whispered. "Quietly," they said, "or we shall wake them."

But it wasn't that you woke us. Oh, no. "They're looking for it; they're drawing the curtain," one might say, and so read on a page or two. "Now they've found it,' one would be certain, stopping the pencil on the margin. And then, tired of reading, one might rise and see for oneself, the house all empty, the doors standing open, only the wood pigeons bubbling with content and the hum of the threshing machine sounding from the farm. "What did I come in here for? What did I want to find?" My hands were empty. "Perhaps its upstairs then?" The apples were in the loft. And so down again, the garden still as ever, only the book had slipped into the grass.

But they had found it in the drawing room. Not that one could ever see them. The windowpanes reflected apples, reflected roses; all the leaves were green in the glass. If they moved in the drawing room, the apple only turned its yellow side. Yet, the moment after, if the door was opened, spread about the floor, hung upon the walls, pendant from the ceiling--what? My hands were empty. The shadow of a thrush crossed the carpet; from the deepest wells of silence the wood pigeon drew its bubble of sound. "Safe, safe, safe" the pulse of the house beat softly. "The treasure buried; the room . . ." the pulse stopped short. Oh, was that the buried treasure?

A moment later the light had faded. Out in the garden then? But the trees spun darkness for a wandering beam of sun. So fine, so rare, coolly sunk beneath the surface the beam I sought always burned behind the glass. Death was the glass; death was between us, coming to the woman first, hundreds of years ago, leaving the house, sealing all the windows; the rooms were darkened. He left it, left her, went North, went East, saw the stars turned in the Southern sky; sought the house, found it dropped beneath the Downs. "Safe, safe, safe," the pulse of the house beat gladly. 'The Treasure yours."

The wind roars up the avenue. Trees stoop and bend this way and that. Moonbeams splash and spill wildly in the rain. But the beam of the lamp falls straight from the window. The candle burns stiff and still. Wandering through the house, opening the windows, whispering not to wake us, the ghostly couple seek their joy.

"Here we slept," she says. And he adds, "Kisses without number." "Waking in the morning--" "Silver between the trees--" "Upstairs--" 'In the garden--" "When summer came--" 'In winter snowtime--" "The doors go shutting far in the distance, gently knocking like the pulse of a heart.

Nearer they come, cease at the doorway. The wind falls, the rain slides silver down the glass. Our eyes darken, we hear no steps beside us; we see no lady spread her ghostly cloak. His hands shield the lantern. "Look," he breathes. "Sound asleep. Love upon their lips."

Stooping, holding their silver lamp above us, long they look and deeply. Long they pause. The wind drives straightly; the flame stoops slightly. Wild beams of moonlight cross both floor and wall, and, meeting, stain the faces bent; the faces pondering; the faces that search the sleepers and seek their hidden joy.

"Safe, safe, safe," the heart of the house beats proudly. "Long years--" he sighs. "Again you found me." "Here," she murmurs, "sleeping; in the garden reading; laughing, rolling apples in the loft. Here we left our treasure--" Stooping, their light lifts the lids upon my eyes. "Safe! safe! safe!" the pulse of the house beats wildly. Waking, I cry "Oh, is this your buried treasure? The light in the heart."

Virginia Woolf

[Sergevna]

White Horse - St Ives Cornwall

There's a beach in St Ives, thats said to be haunted by a White horse. The story goes that a man rode his horse every day on the beach, at the same spot he would dismount, and go for a swim, but one day tragedy struck and he was washed out to sea and drowned. The horse was found, still on the beach staring out to sea.

A few years later the horse also died and it is said in that area that the horse can still be seen waiting for his master and sometimes at certain times of the year a man and horse can be seen riding along the beach.
 ???

[Sergevna]

The Talland Ghost Hunter

Talland is a small village on Cornwall's East coast not far from the fishing villages of Looe and Polperro. Once an area notorious for smuggling, its worthy vicar, Parson Richard Dodge who served the church between 1713 and 1747 acquired a reputation as a Ghost hunter and Exorcist, almost certainly a convenient cover to disguise his smuggling activities! Dodge claimed the power to drive away the Devil and spread the story of having met The Devil himself driving a sable coach drawn by two headless horses. He spoke of demons on nearby Bridle Lane, a path that leads down to the beach, thereby ensuring that God-fearing folk would steer clear of the area at night and not disturb his illegal TRADE!

He also let it be known that on his approach evil spirits would cry out "Dodge is come! I must be gone!" and so his reputation as the scourge of evil spread far and wide in the county. Legend also has it that the original Church was to have been constructed at nearby Pulpit and work had actually commenced, but each following day the stones that had been laid had been mysteriously transported over to the present sight. Then, a chilling voice is said to have been heard, commanding "if you would my wish fulfil build the church on Talland Hill". The superstitious masons duly acquiesced, and there it stands to this day.