Folklore of the Night

       “Effective,” nodded a tall, gaunt woman.   " Mine was rather trickier still.   And my solution was quite sublime.”   The little bent man faded back into the Mob, knowing his moment was over.      “I was living in Romania at the time.   I was just a girl really.”   The traveler sized her up, unable to determine an age.   Her black hair curtained down to her knees.   The hollows of her face suggested age but hinted at something else.      “There were just the three of us, myself and two other women, working for the Count.   I myself served as a maid, but I spent most of my time trying to keep that wretched castle warm, in fact, warm would be a generous word.   The castle was high in the Transylvanian Alps.   It was always cold and damp, even in what was supposed to be the Summer.        “The other two girls cooked and helped me with the...

       “Fritz, tell them yours,” encouraged the old man.  He leaned towards the traveler, “This is a good one.  Go on, Fritzy, tell them!”       A little bent man stood up.   He made a feeble effort to straighten his spine, which added little to his overall stature.     “You had it easy,” he wheezed to the toothless woman.  “My Master, he was absolutely pathetic, let me tell you.”  His little bulgy eyes turned towards the cobwebs that adorned the dim corners of the ceiling as if in search of his memories.  “Yes, my Master, he was a good doctor, ‘cept he preferred to use his healing talents on the dead.”  The little bent man hissed out something of a laugh.       “He hired me to assist him at his laboratory, which he had installed in a ruined tower at the top of the mountain.  Insane!  The little man’s narrative picked up enthusiasm and speed.  “It was such a distance f...

            Water poured off the saturated, shrunken figures as they staggering into the old tavern.  The pride and arrogance of the aristocratic gentleman had leached away with the storm.  The formerly proper lady was little more than a shadow; the two children, wraiths.  As the thunder periodically rattled the old windows, the frequent bursts of lightning squeezed through the gaps in the shutters, strobing grotesque shadows on the walls.      The young serving girl dashed forward to guide the family to a dimly lit corner booth, miserably far from the great fireplace.      The tavern regulars, who had fallen silent to observe the scene, only partly returned to their former chatter.  The lone traveler leaned forward to catch what he could of their newest dialogue.      “Very rich and proud,” said a toothless old woman.  “Living up at that great house on the hill....

  By the time the boys and Uncle Knud got back for lunch, Aunt Maren had swept and dusted the whole house three times over. She even took care of the deposits of zombie dust that she had been trailing. Ma was doing her traditional singing in the kitchen as she prepared lunch. Grandma tried to join in the music but was only capable of adding a contralto drone that complemented Ma’s singing remarkably well. Before lunch was over, all present could hear the familiar puttering sound of the returning Model T. When Oliver came in the back door, Reuben announced, “You have been replaced! Your reputation of being the hardest worker on the farm is a fading memory.” Uncle Knud waved in acknowledgement of his achievement with a flutter of his crackling fingers. Oliver gave a deferential nod towards his Uncle. “I am pleased to yield my exalted position to you, good sir.” “These people are just marvellous,” exclaimed Morgan. “I bet we can get them to work right through the night, and they don’t...

  That heavenly smell of bacon; such a gift.  Always an obedient young man, Oliver allowed the aroma to draw him down the hall along to the breakfast table.  “How odd,” he pondered.  “Why are they here?”   While bacon had great power, its spell broke in lieu  of the three dead people seated at the table.  While it had been quite a few years ago, Oliver noted that Grandmother sat in her traditional spot.  Uncle Knud and Aunt Maren rooted themselves in the two guest chairs at the end of the table.  Each of them gazed forward with milky-blue eyes, then turned in his direction.  There was no emotion, not even with the prospect of bacon at hand.  Yes, a very strange morning.             Ma seemed uncertain just what a proper hostess should do with such unexpected guests.  She nodded towards one of the chairs on the opposite side for Oliver to take.  Reuben sprinted in from the back porch, skidded a...

            Tiny  Jackson  was badly misnamed.    OK it wasn’t his actual name, but everyone had called him Tiny since he actually was.   Now, considering his ability to make mischief, his name might have been “Jumbo” Jackson .   His latest stunt had been directed as eleven-year-old Ray Haroldsen.               It was a rare thing that Mrs. Haroldsen had put anything special in her son, Ray’s lunch pail beyond her delicious oatmeal raisin cookies every Friday.   But this day being Halloween, she had done the unheard of thing, she had put in a glorious cinnamon roll, larger than father’s fist, richly covered in cream icing.   And now as he sat down on the steps of the Jarnigan School for lunch, it was gone.   But to make the disappointment even greater, there was in its place a slimy blight-infested potato, which had dripped black ooze and spoile...