Tall Tales

He had just graduated from Harvard University and was living in Manhattan. He loved the city and was beginning to feel at home on its streets. World War II was raging in Europe, and like all other good citizens, he followed the headlines daily and did his part for the boys overseas.
Hugging his jacket close, he stood shivering at the corner, waiting for the light to change and wondering where his enlisted friends might be staying on that cold winter night. He hoped they were safe. He shivered, only partially from the cold, and looked around him at the bright lights of Times Square. He never tired of this glittering scene.
His eye was caught by two men who were dressed in the uniforms of the Royal Air Force of England. They must be on leave, he thought. The men stopped beside him, glanced quickly at their watches, and then nodded and grinned at him. The taller of the two asked him, in the clipped accent of the British, if this was Times Square. He suppressed a smile at such a touristy question and said that it was.
The light changed, and the two RAF pilots fell into step with the Harvard graduate as he crossed the street. The three men fell into conversation together as they meandered along the shining streets. The Brits were thrilled to be in Times Square after all they had suffered in the war. They didn't go into detail about their wartime experiences, and he didn't press them. He just enjoyed their pleasure in the scene, which was marred only by the frequent checking of their watches. Finally, he asked if they had someplace to be, but they said they were free for the evening. He promptly invited them to have dinner with him at the Harvard Club, and the RAF pilots accepted with alacrity.
The three men repaired immediately to the Harvard Club, where they dined leisurely and chatted late into the evening. The RAF pilots were good company and told many stories, although they glossed over their experiences in the war. They continued to check their watches frequently throughout the night, but he decided it was just a nervous habit they had picked up somewhere - possibly in the air force.
As midnight approached, the two RAF pilots excused themselves are rose from the table. They thanked the Harvard man for a memorable evening and started for the door. Then the tall pilot turned back and told their host that they had always wanted to visit Times Square, but never had the opportunity. It was strange, the pilot added, that they had to wait until after they were dead - killed in action when their planes were shot down the night before over Berlin - to fulfill this dream.
The Harvard man stiffened, his eyes widening incredulously and his mouth falling open in shock. He gasped but could not speak. The phantom RAF pilot smiled sardonically at him, nodded, and joined his friend in the doorway. Then the pilots vanished before the astonished man's eyes, just at the stroke of twelve midnight.

Read More......

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.

Read More......

Ringwood Manor you say? A lovely old house. But no place, my child, to go on a dark night with no moon. Built in the 1700's, the original house was a collection of smaller buildings patched together to create a Manor. The current Manor House was built by Martin Ryerson in 1807.
Ringwood Manor was the home of General Erskine, who ran the Iron Works. General Erskine was a Geographer and Surveyor-General for General George Washington during the Revolutionary War. What does that mean? It means, dear, that he made maps. General Erskine died of pneumonia during the war and was buried at the Manor.
Ringwood Manor overlooks a small pond. It is surrounded by truly lovely grounds, which are perfect for a ramble - in the daytime.
But at night…
Well, love, it is at night that the ghost's walk.
Where? My, you are a curious child! Well, there are three different places that are said to be haunted. If you wander the halls of the Manor House at night, you might meet the ghost of a housemaid who haunts a small bedroom on the second floor. They say she was beaten to death in this room. Whether there is any truth to it, I don't know. But my friends tell me they have heard noises coming from the empty room - footsteps, sounds of heavy objects dropping, soft crying. And they keep finding the bedroom door ajar and the bed rumpled.
The other ghosts? Well, back behind the Manor pond is the grave where General Erskine is buried. The local people are afraid to come to this place because at dusk General Erskine can be seen sitting on his grave gazing across the pond.
And it is said there is an unmarked grave filled with the remains of French soldiers who fought with Rochambeau during the Revolutionary War. During the day, all you can see is a depression in the grass near the General's grave. But after dark, the dead come to the Manor pond to walk along the shore. Sometimes, you can hear soft, sad voices speaking in French.
So go ahead and visit Ringwood Manor. Ramble its lovely grounds and explore all you want. Just be sure to be home before dark.

Read More......

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.

Read More......

A young woman lay suffering on her deathbed, her stillborn baby lying against her chest. Her young husband crouched close, stricken with grief. His beautiful wife crooned a lullaby to her dead baby, her voice growing fainter as death drew near. Finally, she looked at her husband and asked him to bury her back East, beside her dead mother. Choked with grief, the young husband agreed.

But after his wife lay still in death, her husband could not bear to be parted from her and their dead child. He had them buried together beneath a lonely pine tree on a gently sloping knoll near their home, where he could visit the grave. As spring drew near, fragrant wildflowers bloomed across the knoll and the small grave.

One night, the husband threw himself across the flower-strewn grave, head buried in his arms as he tried to control his grief. As he lay there, the stillness of the night seemed to deepen. A light breeze tousled his hair and swayed the branches of the pine tree. At that moment, he heard a soft voice crooning a lullaby. He started upright, searching about for his wife. He heard a gurgle from an infant, a happy sound of contentment. Then the breeze died away, and the branches of the pine tree stilled. Then a shining light seemed to descend from the dark sky and hover over the young husband and the small grave under the tree. The husband heard the singing again, and the happy laugh of a small child. And then there was darkness. The husband went home that night with peace in his heart for the first time since the death of his wife.

People say that on dark, summery nights you can still hear the young mother singing a lullaby, and hear the happy chuckles of her tiny child.

Read More......

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.
Read More......

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.
Read More......

We knew right from the start that Johnny was going to be a soldier. Even as a child, all his concentration was on the military. So we weren't surprised when he joined the Marines right out of high school.
Johnny excelled in his chosen career. He was so happy to be serving his country. I could see it in his face every time he came home on leave. He was itching to get into some "real action", something that - as a mother - frightened me. He was my only son, and I didn't want to lose him. But he was also a grown man with a wife and a baby on the way. I was very proud of the way he was living his life.
Then came the terrible day in September when everything in our world changed. I knew as soon as I saw events unfolding on the television that Johnny was going to get the action he craved. And I started praying: "Please God, keep him safe."
Johnny went to the Middle East and I started sending weekly care packages and checking my email several times a day. The tone of his communications was always cheerful, if a little strained. He was in danger many times, but somehow he always made it through unscathed, although he lost a few friends along the way. This deepened him and I saw a new maturity in my son that made an already proud mother even prouder.
My relief was intense when Johnny came home. I ran to him and almost knocked him over in my excitement when he stepped out of the car. He hugged me tightly, and then reached into the backseat to remove his little daughter from her car seat and show her off to us.
I tried to conceal my fear when he told us a few months later that he would be going back to the Middle East. But Johnny knew me pretty well. On his last leave before deployment, he took my hand, kissed me on the cheek, and said: "I love you, Mom. We'll be together again real soon." I held back the tears until he was gone. Then I wept like a child.
Johnny's emails on this trip were sporadic and his tone was grim. Things were tough over there, although he did not say much about it. He just spoke of little things like the rapid growth of his beautiful girl and the many activities of the wonderful woman who was her mother and his wife. After he'd been gone nearly a year, Johnny started making plans for his return home. He thought he might make it home in time to celebrate Hannukah with the family, and I clung to that hope with all my strength. My husband and I always made a big fuss over Hanukkah, ever since Johnny was a little boy. The eight-day Festival of Lights commemorates the re-dedication of the Temple in Jerusalem after its desecration by the forces of Antiochus IV and celebrates the "miracle of the container of oil." According to the Talmud, at the re-dedication following the victory of the Maccabees over the Seleucid Empire, there was only enough consecrated olive oil to fuel the eternal flame in the Temple for one day. Miraculously, the oil burned for eight days, which was exactly the length of time it took to press, prepare and consecrate fresh olive oil. Since that time, the Jewish people have celebrated both victory and miracle each year by kindling the lights of a special candelabrum, the Menorah or Hanukiah, one light on each night of the holiday, progressing to eight on the final night. We read the sacred story, pray special prayers, eat latkes and fruit-filled donuts, play games with our children, give gifts. It is a time of great joy for our family.
When Johnny emailed us the news that it looked like his tour would be extended, I was upset. I had my heart set on us being together for Hanukkah this year, and the news hit me hard. But I kept on smiling, proud of my soldier boy, and only cried once when no one was around. We had my daughter-in-law and granddaughter over on the first night of Hanukkah, and showered them both with food and gifts. If, perhaps, we acted a little too happy, a little too cheerful, well, who could blame us? We were all keenly aware of the beloved one who was missing from the occasion.
Late that night, I awoke from a deep sleep, certain that I had heard Johnny's voice. "Mom," Johnny said again. I turned over and blinked in the dim light coming from the streetlamp outside our window. Johnny was standing beside the bed, gazing down on me tenderly. I sat up immediately, my heart beating faster in excitement. Johnny was back. He had come home for Hannukah after all! They must have decided against the tour extension.
"Johnny," I gasped.
He smiled and sat down beside me, as he had often done when he was little. He took my hand and said: "I want you to know how much I appreciate you and Dad. It couldn't have been easy, raising a head-strong boy like me, but you did a wonderful job."
Johnny's words filled me with a great joy and a terrible fear. The military had sent him home, hadn't they? (Hadn't they?!?) Something in his beloved face told me that this was not an ordinary visit. That he hadn't come home the normal way. My heart thundered in my chest and I began to tremble, dread making my limbs feel heavy. Tears sprang to my eyes, and Johnny gently wiped one away with his finger. "I came to tell you that I am all right," he said quietly. "Take care of my girls for me."
"We will," I managed to say, realizing at last what this visit meant.
"I love you, Mom. We'll be together again real soon," Johnny said. He leaned forward, kissed me on the cheek, and then he was gone.
I fell back against the pillows, too stunned even to weep. My husband, who was a heavy sleeper, woke when he felt the bed jerk. He rolled over and mumbled: "Are you all right?"
"Something has happened to Johnny," I said, too grief-stricken to be tactful. "I think he's dead."
My husband jerked awake. "What?!" he exclaimed fearfully. I started sobbing then, and told him about Johnny's visit. We held each other close for the rest of that long night, waiting for dawn and the news which would surely come with it.
The days following the official notification of Johnny's death -- killed in action in the Middle East -- were mind-numbing. I clung to the words my boy had spoken to me in the moments right after he died. Johnny had said he was all right, and I believed him. My son's body was gone, but his essence, his soul, everything that made him my Johnny was safe and well. And we would be together again real soon.
Read More......

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.
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.
Read More......

We didn't believe in ghosts, so when the fellow checking us in warned us that our room on the sixth floor was haunted, we just laughed. There were a lot of crazy people out there who believed in ghosts and wanted to stay in a haunted hotel, but Marie and I weren't two of them. I'd chosen the Mizpah for our weekend getaway because I'd like the description of the hotel and it amenities, not because it had a phantom.

Just for kicks, Marie asked the fellow who was supposed to haunt our room. He told us that it was a ghost called "The Lady in Red". She was a prostitute who was strangled by a jealous boyfriend and her tormented spirit still lingered in the hotel. She was said to follow guests around, and to play with the gaming equipment in the casino.
"A gambling ghost?" I asked laughingly. The boy glared at me, and I was sorry for making a joke about something he obviously believed in. We said a hasty good-night and went up to the sixth floor.
As we neared our room, Marie gasped and grabbed my arm. I stopped and looked at her. She pointed, wide-eyed, toward the far end of the hallway. Before our eyes, the glowing figure of a woman came hurrying toward us. I shivered superstitiously, my skin prickling in the sudden cold as she rushed passed us and walked right through the wall next to our room.
"Good lord, there really is a ghost in our room!" I gasped.
"I am not going in there," Marie said firmly. Her face was pale and her black eyes were wide with fear. "No way."
I didn't much feel like going in there either, but we had gotten a special deal for two nights, paid in advance and non-refundable. I didn't want to waste our money. In the end, I wrenched open the door, turned on the light, and investigated every corner, looking for the Lady in Red. She was gone.
Marie absolutely refused to set foot in the haunted room. In the end, I had to go down to the desk and request a room on another floor. The boy didn't say much when I told him we had seen the Lady in Red, but he gave me a know-it-all smirk that made me want to smack him, and assigned us to a room on another floor. Marie barely got a wink of sleep that night. She kept waking up, afraid that the Lady in Red would come walking through the wall and do terrible things to us. We were up at dawn and had checked out of the Mizpah by breakfast time the next day.
From that day on, Marie always booked our hotels, and she always made sure that there were no ghosts anywhere on the premises before she made a reservation.


Read More......

There is a ghost that walks along the Seventeen Mile Drive on foggy nights. She is called the Lady in Lace. People say she is the ghost of Dona Maria del Carmen Barreto, the woman who used to own much of the land on that stretch of the California

coast, returned to keep watch over her land. Others disagree. The claim that the white, flowing gown of lace in which the ghost appears resembles a wedding gown. They think that she might be the ghost of a jilted bride who was left standing at the altar.
Travelers encountering the ghost of the Lady in Lace as they drive down the Seventeen Mile Drive on foggy nights say that she looks very sad and lonely, as if she were about to cry. They see her walking slowly along the road, her shoulders drooping a bit as if she were carrying a heavy burden of grief or pain. When they draw close to her, she disappears.
One night, a courting couple went out to sit on the rocks at Pescadero Point overlooking the sea. It was a bright night, and they were whispering together and watching the moonlight sparkle on the water when the Lady in Lace appeared right before there eyes. As they watched in astonishment and fear, she walked passed them, her form glowing in the moonlight. Slowly, her face set and sad, she wandered down to the beach. Then she vanished into thin air. Needless to say, that was the last time that couple went courting at Pescadero Point!

Read More......

'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.
Read More......

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.

Read More......

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 with 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 in disbelief. 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.

Read More......

Elizabeth and James Wilson were Irish immigrants from Londonderry, Ireland. In 1720 they set sail for America. They had been granted some land in Londonderry, New Hampshire, and were hoping to start a new life there.

As they neared Boston, Elizabeth went into labor and gave birth to a daughter. While she was giving birth, a strange vessel accosted the ship. They were fired upon and were forced to heave to. Their ship was boarded by a band of swarthy pirates. Their leader, a surprisingly young man not yet twenty years of age, was dark, handsome, and ruthless. He was called Don Pedro, and his English was flawless as he ordered all the captives killed.
At this fatal juncture, the cries of a newborn baby could be heard from down in the hold. Startled, Don Pedro ordered the captain to take him to the child. After gazing for a long time at the tiny girl, Don Pedro said to Elizabeth: "If you name this child after my mother - Mary - I will spare the lives of everyone on this ship." Frightened by the fierce pirate, Elizabeth hastily agreed.
Don Pedro sent one of his men back to the pirate ship. When the man returned, he was carrying an armload of gifts. Don Pedro presented these to Elizabeth. Fingering a green brocaded silk with an odd look of tenderness on his ruthless face, he said: "This is for my Mary's wedding dress." Then he and his men returned to their ship and departed.
Soon after their ship landed safely in Boston, James Wilson died. His widow and daughter went to Londonderry to claim the land in his name. Ocean-born Mary grew into a tall, beautiful red-haired woman. In 1742, wearing a green brocade gown made from the silk given to her by Don Pedro, Mary was married to James Wallace. They had five children, four sons and a daughter. Sadly, after the birth of his fourth son, James Wallace died.
Around that time, Don Pedro, having retired from the sea, decided to build a home in New Hampshire. Having never forgotten his little Ocean-born Mary, Don Pedro began seeking to discover what became of her. Finding her a widow in Londonderry, he married her and brought her and her children to live in his grand mansion in Henniker. He gifted Mary with a stately coach and four, in which Mary would often be seen riding around the countryside. One by one, her sons grew up, married, and settled down near Mary.
One day, coming in from an errand to town, Mary saw Don Pedro and one of his retired pirates carrying a large black trunk to the orchard in back. She heard the sounds of digging, and then silence. Don Pedro came back to the house alone, and they never spoke of the matter. But later, he told Mary that when he died, she should bury him and the treasure under the hearthstone. A year later, Mary came home one evening to an empty house. She started searching for her husband and found Don Pedro in the orchard, stabbed to death with a cutlass. Mary buried Don Pedro with his treasure under the hearthstone and there they lay to this day.
After her death in 1814, Mary's ghost began to haunt the house where she had once lived with her pirate-husband. People would see a tall, beautiful red-haired woman come walking down the long staircase. Sometimes, she could be seen standing beside an upper window, or throwing something down the well. Others had witnessed Mary driving in her coach and four up to the front door of the house. The house was finally abandoned and later torn-down, although the house where her son Robert lived still stands and is sometimes called the Ocean-born Mary house.

Read More......

The Palatine gleamed in the sunlight as she set out with a full crew, a long list of passengers, and a hull full of merchandise for the American Colonies the winter of 1750-1751. Certainly, there was no indication that morning of the destiny fate had in store for her.

It was not until the first of the storms blew the ship off course that the passengers began to sense the trouble brewing under the surface between the captain and his crew. By the time the storms had ended, the captain was dead, murdered by his crew, and the passengers were prisoners. During the days which followed, the sailors forced the passengers to pay exorbitant prices for a bit of bread and some water to drink.
One morning, the passengers awoke to find that the crew had stolen all of their money and stores and had abandoned the ship. Terrified, they could do nothing but ride out the next series of storms sent by the devils which rule the Atlantic in winter.
The Palatine came to ruin just off of Block Island. The shore folk bravely faced the storm to rescue the starving passengers from the wreck. Then they set fire to the ship so that it would not endanger any passing ships. But as the ship burned, the shore folk heard a wild scream. A mad woman, confined on the ship during the voyage, had been left on board!
Every year since then, on the day of the tragedy, the Palatine reappears off the shore and is wrecked and burned before the eyes of any who watch for her.

Read More......

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.
Read More......

He couldn't believe it when she fell ill just a few short weeks before their marriage. His betrothed was beautiful, strong, and healthy, but she just faded away before his eyes. He held her in his arms as she gasped out her last breathe, and was inconsolable long after her body lay buried beside the Dismal Swamp.

Day after day, night after night, he grieved for his lost love. He scorned food and sleep, depriving himself until his mind gave way under the strain and he became obsessed with the idea that his beloved was still alive somewhere just out of reach. Her family had sent her away into the swamp, he reasoned, and she was waiting for him to come and rescue her.
"I will find her," he told his worried family, passionate in his conviction. "I will find her and hide her away from Death, so that he will never find her when he comes."
In vain, his family tried to convince him that his beloved laid dead beside the swamp. He would listen to none of their pleas, breaking away from them violently and plunging into the swamp. He wandered for days, living on roots and berries and sleeping at night among the dank marshland.
One evening at dusk, he stumbled upon Drummond's Pond, which was a five-mile expanse of water in the middle of the Dismal Swamp. Upon the surface of the water, he saw the soft blinking of a firefly dancing hither and thither across the black surface.
"It is her!" he exclaimed in join. "I see her light!"
He rushed around, frantically constructing a raft of cypress branches so that he could reach his love before she disappeared. Lashing the branches together with vines, he leapt on top and floated out to join the girl he had lost.
As he drew near the center of the pond, a wind sprang up and the raft was tossed and tumbled in the sudden waves it cause. With a cry of alarm, he fell from the raft, sank down into the murky waters, and was drowned.
If you visit Drummond's Pond after the last light fades and the fireflies come out, you may sometimes see the phantoms of the man and his love, reunited at last. Side by side, they float across the pond on a raft made of cypress branches, carrying a firefly lantern to light their way.
Read More......

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.


Read More......

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.
Read More......