Dare We Share Some Spooky Stories?

[Spookie Monster]

A runaway trolley is hurtling down a track toward five oblivious maintenance workers who wouldn't be able to escape even if they knew that it was coming.  On an adjacent side track is a single maintenance worker, likewise oblivious.  You yourself are standing beside a switch, which you can elect to pull or not to pull.  If you do not pull the switch, the trolley will continue and kill the five workers; if you pull the switch, the trolley will be diverted onto the side track, where the solitary worker will instead be killed.  You can't stop the trolley; you can't warn any of the workers.

Do you pull the switch or not?

Too easy?  How about this, then?  A week later the selfsame trolley, again a runaway,^† is hurtling down the track toward five different oblivious maintenance workers who wouldn't be able to escape even if they knew that it was coming.  You yourself are crossing a footbridge above the track.  Going the other way is a morbidly obese man who you've never met before.  If you push the man off of the footbridge and onto the track, he will die; however, his body will slow the trolley and give the five workers just enough time to realize their predicament and escape.  If you do not push the man off of the footbridge, the five will die.

Do you push him or not?

Fine, fine.  Then how about this?  A week after that the troublesome trolley, yet again a runaway, is hurtling down the track toward five different oblivious maintenance workers who wouldn't be able to escape even if they knew that it was coming.  Once more you find yourself crossing the footbridge above the track.  Walking beside you is another morbidly obese man -- but not just any man.  He's someone that you're very close to -- maybe your father, your son, a brother, a lover, a friend.  If you push him off of the footbridge and onto the track, he will die; however, his body will slow the trolley and give the five workers just enough time to realize their predicament and escape.  If you do not push him off of the footbridge, the five will die.

To push or not to push: That is the question.

By the deuce, we're on a roll, aren't we?  You and a few friends of yours are scrambling through the woods in your latest attempt to escape a seven-foot-tall, machete-wielding maniac in a mask.  Said maniac has, alas, already hacked up several of your other friends (non-virgins, total nerds, cannabis aficionados, et al.).  One of your friends suddenly catches her foot on the root of a sycamore and wrenches her ankle; she can now only hobble.  If you try to help her to safety, you will almost certainly both be killed; if you abandon her, well, then you will have most certainly abandoned a friend.

Do you try to help her, or do you abandon her?

Or how about this?  You've finally found the One™!  Congratulations.  Unfortunately, the news is not all good: It seems that with the arrival of every full moon your One™ must take someone's life.  Are we talking vampire, here?  Werewolf?  Does it matter?  Curse those curses!  You could, of course, give the One™ the Talk™ (ghosting would feel gauche in these circumstances, wouldn't it?) or, depending upon your moral inclinations, even dispatch of your would-have-been lifelong companion (perhaps afterlifelong companion) by means of stake or silver bullet.  Alternatively, you could throw up your hands and go, "Serial murder?  I mean, why not...?"

Do you go back to swiping right, or do you from now on make your music with the Children of the Night?

Might you permit me one more?  How delightful.  Coming into possession of a mysterious VHS tape (I know, I know), you pop it into your trusty VCR (listen, I know).  You are subjected to a barrage of disjointed, disconcerting imagery that includes a ringlike ring of light (for simplicity's sake, let's call it a "ring").  As soon as you've finished watching the unearthly offering, your landline rings (I KNOW); when you pick up, a voice whispers, "Seven days."  Through some contrivance or another you subsequently learn that if you don't copy the tape, and if said copy is not watched by someone else before that seven-day deadline occurs -- and the term deadline couldn't be more appropriate here -- you will in fact unceremoniously ring down the curtain and join the Choir Invisible. To add insult to injury, you can't properly refold the road map that you keep in your glove compartment and your gramophone needs a new needle.  Not your week.

Do you copy the tape in hopes that someone else will watch it, perhaps even arrange for such a thing, thus dodging the curse but passing it along to some other poor soul, or do you consign yourself to going the way of the VHS format?

We all have to make difficult decisions on occasion.  Many of these take the form of, you know, "Should I eat my cake, or should I save it for a little while longer?"  At least in a situation like that, though, either you've had a nice treat or you still have the cake available for future scrumdiddling.  More often than we'd like, however, we find ourselves forced to pick a poison and to swallow it down. (Fans of last season's special guest star might prefer this example of the no-win scenario.)

Listen, fair listeners, what I'm saying is, there are rocks and there are hard places.  There are frying pans and there are fires...

And then there are the Devil and the deep blue sea.

Old salts would suggest that between the Devil and the deep blue sea has a nautical origin: They claim that in this case "the Devil" refers to an outside seam between the planks of a ship's hull that's tricky to reach (in particular, to repair) and that "the deep blue sea" refers to, well, the deep blue sea.  Therefore, to be between the Devil and the deep blue sea would be to be in an especially precarious position.  Now, this can't be ruled out and, to be fair, English is positively overflowing with nautical phrases, like get underway, batten down the hatches, give a wide berth, by and large, three sheets to the wind, high and dry, cut and run, keel over, and the bitter end.  That said, scholars have concluded that its origins are probably more straightforward: To be between the Devil and the deep blue sea means simply to be caught between the Devil, who would be thrilled to whisk you off to his domain of fire and brimstone, and, O.K., the deep blue sea, which would toss you into Davy Jones's locker without hesitation or remorse.

"'Fascinating' as always, Spel," I hear you sigh, "but what does any of this have to do with us?"

Oh, but isn't she here again...?

Aren't we there again...?

Yes!  Yes.  The Season of the Witch, our annual dilemma, has once more slipped from the mist to work her customary mischief.  For months and months now we've been able to concentrate on mundane concerns: grocery shopping, job hunting, bills, other bills, still other bills, general haphazard, laundry day, traffic jams, traffic accidents, heat waves, leaky faucets, fine print, burnt toast, stubbed toes, cancer, doomscrolling, paper cuts.  But the wheel has spun, the bell has rung, and the Otherworld now spills forth, bringing a tide of ghosts, goblins, moblins, throblins, distressing clowns, jack-o'-lanterns, lack-o'-janterns, fate, witchery, wizardry, fairy glamour, geasa, sphingian riddles, vampirism, lycanthropy, curses, even-worses, things that go bump in the night.

Most shy away from the Otherworld, preferring the devil they know to the devil they don't.  But come now: Are its horrors really any more horrifying than those of the mundane world?  Could they ever be?  I propose that we here don't shy away; I propose that we instead welcome it, embrace it, sing its songs.  To say it out: I propose that we return to the seasonal storytelling that we've been engaging in for, by Neptune, almost twenty years now...

For, if you remember, we once upon a time indulged in a round of hyakumonogatari kaidankai, the ancient Japanese tradition where people tell stories amid one hundred candles, extinguishing them as they go.  The saying "be careful what you wish for" did come to mind once we snuffed out that final candle, O.K., but our experience didn't dissuade us from then beginning a round of de duizenderotischeprikkennacht, the ancient Dutch tradition where people gather together to tell one thousand spooky stories.  Shall we continue it, fair listeners?  Not only would we be acknowledging a world that is in fact no less our home than the mundane one is -- although we pretend otherwise, it is so -- but when we've concluded our one-thousandth story, it will also grant us an adventure wonderful and strange.

So they say.

If you have a spooky story to tell, please do so in this thread.  Maybe it was something that happened to you; maybe it was something that happened to someone else.  It can be short or long, concise or detailed.  I trust that it will be true! -- although of course in the world of spirit it is "true enough" to be true in spirit.  Please bring us your ghost stories, freaky folktales, monster madness, urban legends, weird items in the news, and those chilling, incomprehensible memories that you've tried and failed to forget.  "Spooky" is relative: Stories can be uncanny, gruesome, simply suggestive, even funny.  You are encouraged, not just permitted, to tell multiple stories; I do ask, however, that you include only one story per post for purposes of accounting.  Finally, while editing or tweaking a source is acceptable, please do give credit where credit is due.  Your own stories would be most appreciated!

One more thing before we begin resume: Because I have found that I'm best able to host these threads when I infuse them with themes, I plan to do so this season as well.  Now, please remember that you aren't restricted to any theme -- I mean, you can run with it if you'd like, but all spooky stories are welcome here.

This season's theme?  Well, as you might have guessed, it's "between the Devil and the deep blue sea."  I intend to offer a selection of stories involving on the one hand Old Scratch and on the other the ocean --

"But... Spel... what the hell?!  Isn't that two themes...?!"

Oh, my, no!  No.  Nonononono.  Please understand that the theme is "between the Devil and the deep blue sea" -- that is to say, lose-lose situations.  Remember, the devil is in the details!  It just so happens that in this case the theme will manifest thus.  (Perhaps we're fortunate that I know few spooky stories specifically about frying pans and hard places.)

But let us begin resume.

The Devil takes many forms: old, young, handsome, hideous, unassuming, arrogant, fearsome, charming.  So too does he take many names: Old Scratch, Old Nick, the Black Woodsman, the Adversary, the Prince of Darkness, the Deceiver, the Serpent, Legion, Lucifer, the dickens, the deuce, the Fiend, the Father of Lies, the Lord of the Flies, and, obviously, Old Gooseberry.  Whatever his true form, whatever his true name, we can at least be certain of one thing: Trickery is his jam.  He offers much, but he always seems to take more.  And yet, even though we know that it's foolish to imagine that we can pin him down, even though we know that it's foolish to imagine that we can pull one over on him... has that ever stopped us from trying...?

For this season's first tale, please welcome "The Devil and Tom Walker" by Washington Irving.

The Devil and Tom Walker

A few miles from Boston, in Massachusetts, there is a deep inlet winding several miles into the interior of the country from Charles Bay, and terminating in a thickly-wooded swamp, or morass.  On one side of this inlet is a beautiful dark grove; on the opposite side the land rises abruptly from the water's edge, into a high ridge on which grow a few scattered oaks of great age and immense size.  It was under one of these gigantic trees, according to old stories, that Kidd the pirate buried his treasure.  The inlet allowed a facility to bring the money in a boat secretly and at night to the very foot of the hill.  The elevation of the place permitted a good look-out to be kept that no one was at hand, while the remarkable trees formed good landmarks by which the place might easily be found again.  The old stories add, moreover, that the devil presided at the hiding of the money, and took it under his guardianship; but this, it is well-known, he always does with buried treasure, particularly when it has been ill gotten.  Be that as it may, Kidd never returned to recover his wealth; being shortly after seized at Boston, sent out to England, and there hanged for a pirate.

About the year 1727, just at the time when earthquakes were prevalent in New England, and shook many tall sinners down upon their knees, there lived near this place a meagre miserly fellow of the name of Tom Walker.  He had a wife as miserly as himself; they were so miserly that they even conspired to cheat each other.  Whatever the woman could lay hands on she hid away; a hen could not cackle but she was on the alert to secure the new-laid egg.  Her husband was continually prying about to detect her secret hoards, and many and fierce were the conflicts that took place about what ought to have been common property.  They lived in a forlorn-looking house, that stood alone and had an air of starvation.  A few straggling savin trees, emblems of sterility, grew near it; no smoke ever curled from its chimney; no traveller stopped at its door.  A miserable horse, whose ribs were as articulate as the bars of a gridiron, stalked about a field where a thin carpet of moss, scarcely covering the ragged beds of pudding-stone, tantalized and balked his hunger; and sometimes he would lean his head over the fence, looked piteously at the passer-by, and seem to petition deliverance from this land of famine.

The house and its inmates had altogether a bad name.  Tom's wife was a tall termagant, fierce of temper, loud of tongue, and strong of arm.  Her voice was often heard in wordy warfare with her husband; and his face sometimes showed signs that their conflicts were not confined to words.  No one ventured, however, to interfere between them; the lonely wayfarer shrunk within himself at the horrid clamor and clapper-clawing; eyed the den of discord askance, and hurried on his way, rejoicing, if a bachelor, in his celibacy.

One day that Tom Walker had been to a distant part of the neighborhood, he took what he considered a short cut homewards through the swamp.  Like most short cuts, it was an ill-chosen route.  The swamp was thickly grown with great gloomy pines and hemlocks, some of them ninety feet high; which made it dark at noon-day, and a retreat for all the owls of the neighborhood.  It was full of pits and quagmires, partly covered with weeds and mosses; where the green surface often betrayed the traveller into a gulf of black smothering mud; there were also dark and stagnant pools, the abodes of the tadpole, the bull-frog, and the water-snake, and where trunks of pines and hemlocks lay half drowned, half rotting, looking like alligators, sleeping in the mire.

Tom had long been picking his way cautiously through this treacherous forest; stepping from tuft to tuft of rushes and roots which afforded precarious footholds among deep sloughs; or pacing carefully, like a cat, among the prostrate trunks of trees; startled now and then by the sudden screaming of the bittern, or the quacking of a wild duck, rising on the wing from some solitary pool.  At length he arrived at a piece of firm ground, which ran out like a peninsula into the deep bosom of the swamp.  It had been one of the strongholds of the Indians during their wars with the first colonists.  Here they had thrown up a kind of fort which they had looked upon as almost impregnable, and had used as a place of refuge for their squaws and children.  Nothing remained of the Indian fort but a few embankments gradually sinking to the level of the surrounding earth, and already overgrown in part by oaks and other forest trees, the foliage of which formed a contrast to the dark pines and hemlocks of the swamp.

It was late in the dusk of evening that Tom Walker reached the old fort, and he paused there for a while to rest himself.  Any one but he would have felt unwilling to linger in this lonely, melancholy place, for the common people had a bad opinion of it from the stories handed down from the time of the Indian wars; when it was asserted that the savages held incantations here and made sacrifices to the evil spirit.  Tom Walker, however, was not a man to be troubled with any fears of the kind.

He reposed himself for some time on the trunk of a fallen hemlock, listening to the boding cry of the tree-toad, and delving with his walking-staff into a mound of black mould at his feet.  As he turned up the soil unconsciously, his staff struck against something hard.  He raked it out of the vegetable mould, and lo! a cloven skull with an Indian tomahawk buried deep in it, lay before him.  The rust on the weapon showed the time that had elapsed since this death blow had been given.  It was a dreary memento of the fierce struggle that had taken place in this last foothold of the Indian warriors.

"Humph!" said Tom Walker, as he gave the skull a kick to shake the dirt from it.

"Let that skull alone!" said a gruff voice.

Tom lifted up his eyes and beheld a great black man, seated directly opposite him on the stump of a tree.  He was exceedingly surprised, having neither seen nor heard any one approach, and he was still more perplexed on observing, as well as the gathering gloom would permit, that the stranger was neither negro nor Indian.  It is true, he was dressed in a rude, half Indian garb, and had a red belt or sash swathed round his body, but his face was neither black nor copper color, but swarthy and dingy and begrimed with soot, as if he had been accustomed to toil among fires and forges.  He had a shock of coarse black hair, that stood out from his head in all directions; and bore an axe on his shoulder.

He scowled for a moment at Tom with a pair of great red eyes.

"What are you doing in my grounds?" said the black man, with a hoarse growling voice.

"Your grounds?" said Tom, with a sneer; "no more your grounds than mine: they belong to Deacon Peabody."

"Deacon Peabody be d----d," said the stranger, "as I flatter myself he will be, if he does not look more to his own sins and less to his neighbor's.  Look yonder, and see how Deacon Peabody is faring."

Tom looked in the direction that the stranger pointed, and beheld one of the great trees, fair and flourishing without, but rotten at the core, and saw that it had been nearly hewn through, so that the first high wind was likely to blow it down.  On the bark of the tree was scored the name of Deacon Peabody.  He now looked round and found most of the tall trees marked with the names of some great men of the colony, and all more or less scored by the axe.  The one on which he had been seated, and which had evidently just been hewn down, bore the name of Crowninshield; and he recollected a mighty rich man of that name, who made a vulgar display of wealth, which it was whispered he had acquired by buccaneering.

"He's just ready for burning!" said the black man, with a growl of triumph.  "You see I am likely to have a good stock of firewood for winter."

"But what right have you," said Tom, "to cut down Deacon Peabody's timber?"

"The right of prior claim," said the other.  "This woodland belonged to me long before one of your white-faced race put foot upon the soil."

"And pray, who are you, if I may be so bold?" said Tom.

"Oh, I go by various names.  I am the Wild Huntsman in some countries; the Black Miner in others.  In this neighborhood I am known by the name of the Black Woodsman.  I am he to whom the red men devoted this spot, and now and then roasted a white man by way of sweet-smelling sacrifice.  Since the red men have been exterminated by you white savages, I amuse myself by presiding at the persecutions of quakers and anabaptists; I am the great patron and prompter of slave dealers, and the grand master of the Salem witches."

"The upshot of all which is, that, if I mistake not," said Tom, sturdily, "you are he commonly called Old Scratch."

"The same at your service!" replied the black man, with a half civil nod.

Such was the opening of this interview, according to the old story, though it has almost too familiar an air to be credited.  One would think that to meet with such a singular personage in this wild, lonely place, would have shaken any man's nerves; but Tom was a hard-minded fellow, not easily daunted, and he had lived so long with a termagant wife, that he did not even fear the devil.

It is said that after this commencement they had a long and earnest Conversation together, as Tom returned homewards.  The black man told him of great sums of money which had been buried by Kidd the pirate, under the oak trees on the high ridge not far from the morass.  All these were under his command and protected by his power, so that none could find them but such as propitiated his favor.  These he offered to place within Tom Walker's reach, having conceived an especial kindness for him: but they were to be had only on certain conditions.  What these conditions were, may easily be surmised, though Tom never disclosed them publicly.  They must have been very hard, for he required time to think of them, and he was not a man to stick at trifles where money was in view.  When they had reached the edge of the swamp the stranger paused.

"What proof have I that all you have been telling me is true?" said Tom.

"There is my signature," said the black man, pressing his finger on Tom's forehead.  So saying, he turned off among the thickets of the swamp, and seemed, as Tom said, to go down, down, down, into the earth, until nothing but his head and shoulders could be seen, and so on until he totally disappeared.

When Tom reached home he found the black print of a finger burnt, as it were, into his forehead, which nothing could obliterate.

The first news his wife had to tell him was the sudden death of Absalom Crowninshield, the rich buccaneer.  It was announced in the papers with the usual flourish, that "a great man had fallen in Israel."

Tom recollected the tree which his black friend had just hewn down, and which was ready for burning.  "Let the freebooter roast," said Tom, "who cares!"  He now felt convinced that all he had heard and seen was no illusion.

He was not prone to let his wife into his confidence; but as this was an uneasy secret, he willingly shared it with her.  All her avarice was awakened at the mention of hidden gold, and she urged her husband to comply with the black man's terms and secure what would make them wealthy for life.  However Tom might have felt disposed to sell himself to the devil, he was determined not to do so to oblige his wife; so he flatly refused out of the mere spirit of contradiction.  Many and bitter were the quarrels they had on the subject, but the more she talked the more resolute was Tom not to be damned to please her. At length she determined to drive the bargain on her own account, and if she succeeded, to keep all the gain to herself.

Being of the same fearless temper as her husband, she sat off for the old Indian fort towards the close of a summer's day.  She was many hours absent.  When she came back she was reserved and sullen in her replies.  She spoke something of a black man whom she had met about twilight, hewing at the root of a tall tree.  He was sulky, however, and would not come to terms; she was to go again with a propitiatory offering, but what it was she forebore to say.

The next evening she sat off again for the swamp, with her apron heavily laden.  Tom waited and waited for her, but in vain: midnight came, but she did not make her appearance; morning, noon, night returned, but still she did not come.  Tom now grew uneasy for her safety; especially as he found she had carried off in her apron the silver tea pot and spoons and every portable article of value.  Another night elapsed, another morning came; but no wife.  In a word, she was ever heard of more.

What was her real fate nobody knows, in consequence of so many pretending to know.  It is one of those facts that have become confounded by a variety of historians.  Some asserted that she lost her way among the tangled mazes of the swamp and sunk into some pit or slough; others, more uncharitable, hinted that she had eloped with the household booty, and made off to some other province; while others assert that the tempter had decoyed her into a dismal quagmire, on top of which her hat was found lying.  In confirmation of this, it was said a great black man with an axe on his shoulder was seen late that very evening coming out of the swamp, carrying a bundle tied in a check apron, with an air of surly triumph.

The most current and probable story, however, observes that Tom Walker grew so anxious about the fate of his wife and his property that he sat out at length to seek them both at the Indian fort.  During a long summer's afternoon he searched about the gloomy place, but no wife was to be seen.  He called her name repeatedly, but she was no where to be heard.  The bittern alone responded to his voice, as he flew screaming by; or the bull-frog croaked dolefully from a neighboring pool.  At length, it is said, just in the brown hour of twilight, when the owls began to hoot and the bats to flit about, his attention was attracted by the clamor of carrion crows that were hovering about a cypress tree.  He looked and beheld a bundle tied in a check apron and hanging in the branches of a tree; with a great vulture perched hard by, as if keeping watch upon it.  He leaped with joy, for he recognized his wife's apron, and supposed it to contain the household valuables.

"Let us get hold of the property," said he consolingly to himself, "and we will endeavor to do without the woman."

As he scrambled up the tree the vulture spread its wide wings, and sailed off screaming into the deep shadows of the forest.  Tom seized the check apron, but, woeful sight! found nothing but a heart and liver tied up in it.

Such, according to the most authentic old story, was all that was to be found of Tom's wife.  She had probably attempted to deal with the black man as she had been accustomed to deal with her husband; but though a female scold is generally considered a match for the devil, yet in this instance she appears to have had the worst of it.  She must have died game, however: from the part that remained unconquered.  Indeed, it is said Tom noticed many prints of cloven feet deeply stamped about the tree, and several handfuls of hair that looked as if they had been plucked from the coarse black shock of the woodsman.  Tom knew his wife's prowess by experience.  He shrugged his shoulders as he looked at the signs of a fierce clapper-clawing.  "Egad," said he to himself, "Old Scratch must have had a tough time of it!"

Tom consoled himself for the loss of his property by the loss of his wife; for he was a little of a philosopher.  He even felt something like gratitude towards the black woodsman, who he considered had done him a kindness.  He sought, therefore, to cultivate a farther acquaintance with him, but for some time without success; the old black legs played shy, for whatever people may think, he is not always to be had for calling for; he knows how to play his cards when pretty sure of his game.

At length, it is said, when delay had whetted Tom's eagerness to the quick, and prepared him to agree to any thing rather than not gain the promised treasure, he met the black man one evening in his usual woodman dress, with his axe on his shoulder, sauntering along the edge of the swamp, and humming a tune.  He affected to receive Tom's advance with great indifference, made brief replies, and went on humming his tune.

By degrees, however, Tom brought him to business, and they began to haggle about the terms on which the former was to have the pirate's treasure.  There was one condition which need not be mentioned, being generally understood in all cases where the devil grants favors; but there were others about which, though of less importance, he was inflexibly obstinate.  He insisted that the money found through his means should be employed in his service.  He proposed, therefore, that Tom should employ it in the black traffic; that is to say, that he should fit out a slave ship.  This, however, Tom resolutely refused; he was bad enough, in all conscience; but the devil himself could not tempt him to turn slave dealer.

Finding Tom so squeamish on this point, he did not insist upon it, but proposed instead that he should turn usurer; the devil being extremely anxious for the increase of usurers, looking upon them as his peculiar people.

To this no objections were made, for it was just to Tom's taste.

"You shall open a broker's shop in Boston next month," said the black man.

"I'll do it tomorrow, if you wish," said Tom Walker.

"You shall lend money at two per cent a month."

"Egad, I'll charge four!" replied Tom Walker.

"You shall extort bonds, foreclose mortgages, drive the merchant to bankruptcy -- "

"I'll drive him to the d---l," cried Tom Walker, eagerly.

"You are the usurer for my money!" said the black legs, with delight.  "When will you want the rhino?"

"This very night."

"Done!" said the devil.

"Done!" said Tom Walker.  So they shook hands and struck a bargain.

A few days' time saw Tom Walker seated behind his desk in a counting house in Boston.  His reputation for a ready-moneyed man, who would lend money out for a good consideration, soon spread abroad.  Every body remembers the days of Governor Belcher, when money was particularly scarce.  It was a time of paper credit.  The country had been deluged with government bills; the famous Land Bank had been established; there had been a rage for speculating; the people had run mad with schemes for new settlements; for building cities in the wilderness; land jobbers went about with maps of grants, and townships, and Eldorados, lying nobody knew where, but which every body was ready to purchase.  In a word, the great speculating fever which breaks out every now and then in the country, had raged to an alarming degree, and body was dreaming of making sudden fortunes from nothing.  As usual, the fever had subsided; the dream had gone off, and the imaginary fortunes with it; the patients were left in doleful plight, and the whole country resounded with the consequent cry of "hard times."

At this propitious time of public distress did Tom Walker set up as a usurer in Boston.  His door was soon thronged by customers.  The needy and the adventurous; the gambling speculator; the dreaming land jobber; the thriftless tradesman; the merchant with cracked credit; in short, every one driven to raise money by desperate means and desperate sacrifices, hurried to Tom Walker.

Thus Tom was the universal friend of the needy, and he acted like a "friend in need"; that is to say, he always exacted good pay and good security.  In proportion to the distress of the applicant was the hardness of his terms.  He accumulated bonds and mortgages; gradually squeezed his customers closer and closer; and sent them, at length, dry as a sponge from his door.

In this way he made money hand over hand; became a rich and mighty man, and exalted his cocked hat upon change.  He built himself, as usual, a vast house, out of ostentation; but left the greater part of it unfinished and unfurnished out of parsimony.  He even set up a carriage in the fullness of his vain-glory, though he nearly starved the horses which drew it; and as the ungreased wheels groaned and screeched on the axle trees, you would have thought you heard the souls of the poor debtors he was squeezing.

As Tom waxed old, however, he grew thoughtful.  Having secured the good things of this world, he began to feel anxious about those of the next.  He thought with regret on the bargain he had made with his black friend, and set his wits to work to cheat him out of the conditions.  He became, therefore, all of a sudden, a violent church-goer.  He prayed loudly and strenuously as if heaven were to be taken by force of lungs.  Indeed, one might always tell when he had sinned most during the week, by the clamor of his Sunday devotion.  The quiet Christians who had been modestly and steadfastly travelling Zion-ward, were struck with self-reproach at seeing themselves so suddenly outstripped in their career by this new-made convert.  Tom was as rigid in religious, as in money matters; he was a stern supervisor and censurer of his neighbors, and seemed to think every sin entered up to their account became a credit on his own side of the page.  He even talked of the expediency of reviving the persecution of quakers and anabaptists.  In a word, Tom's zeal became as notorious as his riches.

Still, in spite of all this strenuous attention to forms, Tom had a lurking dread that the devil, after all, would have his due.  That he might not be taken unawares, therefore, it is said he always carried a small Bible in his coat pocket.  He had also a great folio Bible on his counting-house desk, and would frequently be found reading it when people called on business; on such occasions he would lay his green spectacles on the book, to mark the place, while he turned round to drive some usurious bargain.

Some say that Tom grew a little crack-brained in his old days, and that fancying his end approaching, he had his horse new shod, saddled and bridled, and buried with his feet uppermost; because he supposed that at the last day the world would be turned upside down; in which case he should find his horse standing ready for mounting, and he was determined at the worst to give his old friend a run for it.  This, however, is probably a mere old wives' fable.  If he really did take such a precaution it was totally superfluous; at least so says the authentic old legend, which closes his story in the following manner:

On one hot afternoon in the dog days, just as a terrible black thunder-gust was coming up, Tom sat in his counting-house in his white linen cap and India silk morning-gown.  He was on the point of foreclosing a mortgage, by which he would complete the ruin of an unlucky land speculator for whom he had professed the greatest friendship.  The poor land jobber begged him to grant a few months' indulgence.  Tom had grown testy and irritated and refused another day.

"My family will be ruined and brought upon the parish," said the land jobber.

"Charity begins at home," replied Tom, "I must take care of myself in these hard times."

"You have made so much money out of me," said the speculator.

Tom lost his patience and his piety -- "The devil take me," said he, "if I have made a farthing!"

Just then there were three loud knocks at the street door.  He stepped out to see who was there.  A black man was holding a black horse which neighed and stamped with impatience.

"Tom, you're come for!" said the black fellow, gruffly.  Tom shrunk back, but too late.  He had left his little Bible at the bottom of his coat pocket, and his big Bible on the desk buried under the mortgage he was about to foreclose: never was sinner taken more unawares.  The black man whisked him like a child astride the horse and away he galloped in the midst of a thunderstorm.  The clerks stuck their pens behind their ears and stared after him from the windows.  Away went Tom Walker, dashing down the street; his white cap bobbing up and down; his morning-gown fluttering in the wind, and his steed striking fire out of the pavement at every bound.  When the clerks turned to look for the black man he had disappeared.

Tom Walker never returned to foreclose the mortgage.  A countryman who lived on the borders of the swamp, reported that in the height of the thunder-gust he had heard a great clattering of hoofs and a howling along the road, and that when he ran to the window he just caught sight of a figure, such as I have described, on a horse that galloped like mad across the fields, over the hills and down into the black hemlock swamp towards the old Indian fort; and that shortly after a thunder-bolt fell in that direction which seemed to set the whole forest in a blaze.

The good people of Boston shook their heads and shrugged their shoulders, but had been so much accustomed to witches and goblins and tricks of the devil in all kinds of shapes from the first settlement of the colony, that they were not so much horror-struck as might have been expected.  Trustees were appointed to take charge of Tom's effects.  There was nothing, however, to administer upon.  On searching his coffers all his bonds and mortgages were found reduced to cinders.  In place of gold and silver, his iron chest was filled with chips and shavings; two skeletons lay in his stable instead of his half-starved horses, and the very next day his great house took fire and was burnt to the ground.

Such was the end of Tom Walker and his ill-gotten wealth.  Let all griping money-brokers lay this story to heart.  The truth of it is not to be doubted.  The very hole under the oak trees, from whence he dug Kidd's money, is to be seen to this day; and the neighboring swamp and old Indian fort is often haunted in stormy nights by a figure on horseback, in a morning-gown and white cap, which is doubtless the troubled spirit of the usurer.  In fact, the story has resolved itself into a proverb, and is the origin of that popular saying prevalent throughout New-England, of "The Devil and Tom Walker."

You've got me in between
The Devil and --

Spel

^† Tragically, the trolley's mechanic perished during a different thought experiment.

[Spookie Monster]

The deep blue sea.  In contrast to the Devil, the ocean takes but one form: that of a temperamental, gentle, furious, generous, merciless, beautiful, tempting, terrifying body of water embracing over two-thirds of the planet.  She's estimated to contain over 1.3 sextillion liters of water -- which is a lot.  (If you'd prefer to speak in gallons, well, that's over 350 quintillion gallons; if you'd prefer to speak in Roman amphorae, as one will, it's over 50 quintillion of those.)  She contains big, scary sharks, too, which are very scary, and, sadly, she these days likewise contains quite a bit of plastic (also very scary).

Given how mysterious, how dangerous, how alluring the ocean can be, it's only (super)natural that she's crashed into our threads on more than one occasion.  For now, although she is great, I myself will start small.

Namesakes

The Navy is full of legend, as well as untimely deaths.  Many ships are named for a person, usually that person is dead but, not always.  When you have a ship that is named for a dead person, the haunted stuff is bound to pop up.  Lore puts it that when a ship is named for a dead sailor, that sailor haunts that ship.  It could be a passive thing or something that is actively doing 'unexplained' things.  It is also said that sailors that die at sea on that vessel will haunt that vessel.

I never gave to much credit to hauntings until something happened at sea on my first ship that I will never forget.  We had 2 RHIB boats, both had placards hung from their stern plates representing the namesake of the ship.  Unofficially we referred to each boat by a name.  The number 1 boat was the first name of the ship's namesake.  The number 2 boat was the first name of the namesakes wife.  These placards are wooden with polished brass letters and numerals.  They are hard to take care of.  There is not anyone in Deck Department that would want to see any harm come to them, because it means more work for us all.

Well at one point during this underway period the #1 RHIBs placard started to fall off every night.  We had to get it completely reworked from all the damage.  We reinforced the attachment in such a way that the thing just isn't going to come off unless we cut it off.  Well it kept coming off.  After about a week of this we put a watch on all night to find out who was doing it.

One night while I was Boatswain's Mate of the Watch, one of the seaman we had watching the boats comes running to the bridge saying some kind of specter knocked the sign off.  Since my Chief was intent on resolving this issue, I called him in the middle of night to wake him up.  He told me to wake my relief immediately and meet him by the boats.  Low and behold the sign was off completely.  The Chief suspected the Seaman who reported it and I wholeheartedly agreed.  We re-secured the sign to the boat and the Chief had me stand the watch by the boat and to let everyone know that it was me down there.  What we didn't tell anyone was that the Chief was also sticking around.

We both hid.  There are only 2 ways to get to the boat deck and we were in clear view of both of them.  The Chief was hiding in the boat and I was hiding above the davit.  5 minutes later the Chief comes running up to me asking where the perp was?  I was like WTF are you talking about Chief?  The sign came off, hit the deck and went over the side or so we though because the sign was gone.  The chief immediately leaped out of the boat but no one was there.

While we argued, well mostly he yelled at me, we noticed the light to the boat locker was on the door was ajar.  Underway at night this is a bad thing.  Light discipline is foremost even in peacetime, its just something we always do.  The door is even set up so that when its open a tamper switch will automatically kill the light.  We check the switch and its working right, wtf is the light on for?  Who could have turned it on in the first place.  There is no way into this space from the inside.  Whomever opened the door and turned the light on would have to have passed us.

That was when we noticed the sign sitting in the boat locker.  My Chief flipped, he immediately blamed me, that was the only explanation.  He was about to grab me and throw me into a cabinet when we heard another crash.

RHIB #2s sign had come off.

At that point we are pretty much freaked and give up.  We grab the other sign and put it with the one already in the locker.  My Chief tells me to keep a lid on this.  We both go to sleep.

The following morning at Quarters, we are all lined up, here comes our Chief and our DIVO.  The Chief is eyeballing me in a weird way.  The DIVO declares he will read the Plan of the Day, which is not normal but, there was a special announcement.  The announcement was that the ships sponsor, who was also the wife of the namesake of the ship had died last night.  She was the namesake of RHIB #2.

Never again did the signs come off.  After about a month of no activity, the DIVO, whom had graduated from MIT, summed it up.  Being a science guy you didnt expect spiritual stuff to come from him.  But his explanation was that 'Lou' was ornery from being alone and waiting to go to heaven.  During his wait, he decided to mess with us.  When his wife died and joined him, they mozied on up to heaven.

The Season of the Witch is now underway, and we all of us are passengers, willing or unwilling.  Do you have a spooky story to share...?

Spel

[Blythe]

Oh, the spooky stories thread is back again this year, I am so HAPPY <3

I hope some hair-raising poetry, original in creation, is welcome!!


An Untitled Spooky Season Poem

The moon above looms overhead
curling its rays over the gloomy dead
A hallowed eve fast approaches
Well above mortal reproaches

The cackle of a witch's laugh
near a tomb's epitaph
And lingering howls in the hills
masking the sound of bloody kills

The spirit of the season emerges
The darkness in the sky surges
Ghosts slip forward from forgotten places
With long-forgotten gloomy faces

These, the lingering loves of Halloween
Vestiges evoking magnificent screams

Because of one long-pondered thought
Are these things real?
Or horrors just long-forgot?

It is so easy to relegate tropes to stories
in boring librarian categories
Yet they appeared for very real reasons
Be reminded of that in these seasons.

[Spookie Monster]

Hail to thee, Blythe spirit, and welcome!  And thank you very much for that spooky poem of yours: Personal contributions are indeed most appreciated...!

The ocean is vast.  As we noted a few days ago, she covers over two-thirds of the planet -- more accurately, over 360 million square kilometers (139 million square miles, 143 billion Roman jugera).  Wherever you are on the surface, she's ultimately in every direction; if lingering alone on some seashore one day you gazed long into her primal, wine-dark eyes, and then, overcome with fear, you turned and fled, fled, fled in the opposite direction -- well, you would some other day find her before you once more, patiently waiting.  We've estimated her average depth (hehe) to be a little more than 3600 meters (12000 feet / Roman pedes).  That said, her deepest point -- I mean, as far as we know -- her deepest point is located in the Challenger Deep, a part of the Mariana Trench, which is in the western Pacific; there, her depth reaches a chilling 11000 meters (36000 feet / Roman pedes).  Under ideal conditions, light will penetrate her (hehe) only to about 1000 meters (a bit over 3000 feet / Roman pedes); below that one will be engulfed in a darkness that would leave a moonless midnight green with envy.

Let me put it to you this way: If you accidentally left your keys in the ocean, you know, somewheres, you'd be hard-pressed to ever get your hands on them again.  Heck, you could drop Mount Everest into the Challenger Deep and lose it, let alone your keys.  (Please don't, however.)

Who knows, then, what evils might lurk in the heart of the sea?  Perhaps the Shadow does, but we are still learning...

Although it can be difficult to see in her depths, the acoustic advantage that water has over air actually makes it easier to hear.  And we have heard some strange sounds over the decades -- "the Bloop," "the Sea Train," "Julia," "the Upsweep," "Slow Down."  Originally for my next I was going to present this old (gah) article, but instead, fellow kids, I'll get with the times and bring you this TikTube talkie on the same topic.

"Icebergs, probably."  "Minke whales, we think."  "Maybe underwater volcanic activity...?"

Hm.  Sure.  Please forgive me for suggesting that such explanations sound like only so much whistlin' past the graveyard...

Spel

[Spookie Monster]

We concluded last year's round of storytelling, whose theme was "ghosts," with a tale involving a Ouija board.  As we reminded ourselves back then, Ouija boards, also known as spirit boards, witch boards, or talking boards, are boards covered with letters and numbers and often include the words HELLO and GOOD BYE.  It's said that by setting one's fingertips on the associated planchette (a smaller board that's placed on the Ouija board proper) and allowing something to guide its movements, one can receive... messages.

But messages from who?  Or, if you prefer, from whom?  Spiritualists, long the proponents of Ouija boards, assert that they permit us to contact the spirits of the dead.  Others, however, argue that at least some of these communications come from less agreeable entities -- consider Zozo, for instance, who (whom) we talked about some years back -- and maybe even the Devil himself...

Certainly this last notion caught fire with the release of the landmark 1973 horror film The Exorcist^†, which, like the novel that it had been adapted from, featured a Ouija board.  But did you know that The Exorcist was in fact inspired by a tragic true story -- one which, it's claimed, all began with a Ouija board...?  (I'll be drawing from here.)

The Haunting Case of Roland Doe

Roland Doe, later found to be Robert Hunkeler, was the pseudonym assigned to a young teen boy from Cottage City, Maryland, whose alleged possession in 1949 became one of the most documented exorcism cases in American history.  The boy reportedly began experiencing strange phenomena after attempting to contact a deceased relative through an Ouija board.  Witnesses, including family members and clergy, described objects moving on their own, unexplained scratches appearing on his body, guttural voices, and violent reactions to sacred objects.  His case drew the attention of Catholic priests, who conducted a series of exorcisms over several weeks in both Maryland and Missouri.  Whether viewed as a genuine case of possession or a psychological crisis, Roland Doe's story remains a defining episode in discussions of the supernatural and religious ritual in the United States.

The disturbances in Roland Doe's life began in early 1949, shortly after the death of his Aunt Harriet.  He was then introduced to an Ouija board.  Hoping to contact her, Roland used the board regularly, and soon after, his family claimed strange phenomena erupted in their Cottage City, Maryland, home.  Scratching and tapping noises echoed from the walls, furniture shifted without explanation, and household items slid or flew through the air in Roland's presence.  Friends and neighbors confirmed that objects moved on their own, and his parents reported a drastic change in his behavior because he grew withdrawn, irritable, and entered fits of sudden rage.

Seeking help, the family first turned to their Lutheran pastor, Rev. Luther Miles Schulze, who observed the boy firsthand.  Schulze testified that Roland's bed shook violently, objects flew around the room, and he showed an unnatural aversion to sacred objects.  Convinced that the phenomenon was beyond his ability, Schulze recommended that the family consult the Catholic Church.

Catholic priests soon became involved in Maryland.  But, in February of 1949, deep-red welts spelling out the word "LOUIS" appeared near Roland's ribs.  His mother took this as a sign to take him to St. Louis -- her hometown.  Once there, a family member sought the aid of Father Raymond Bishop, a clerical professor at St. Louis University.

During the exorcism rituals, priests reported chilling phenomena: the boy's body convulsed, guttural voices spoke through him, and Latin phrases were uttered despite Roland's lack of training in the language.  Words and marks -- sometimes resembling the word "hell" or images like a pitchfork -- appeared scratched into his skin.  Witnesses recounted that his bed would shake violently during prayers, chairs toppled, and in one instance, Roland was said to have levitated.  His violent reactions to crucifixes, holy water, and prayers only deepened the priests' conviction that he was under demonic influence.

The exorcisms stretched over several weeks, with moments of reprieve followed by sudden relapses, until the final confrontation at the Alexian Brothers Hospital in St. Louis.  There, priests reported that after a particularly violent episode, Roland suddenly calmed, claiming he had seen a vision of St. Michael the Archangel, who cast out the demons tormenting him.

The aftermath of Roland Doe's case left a lasting mark on both religious practice and popular culture in the United States.  For the Catholic Church, the case served as a precedent for how thoroughly documented exorcisms should be conducted -- emphasizing priestly preparation, witness testimony, and strict adherence to the Rituale Romanum to guard against fraud or hysteria.  It reinforced the Church's role as a spiritual authority in cases deemed beyond medical or psychological explanation.  Beyond the Church, the case sparked public fascination with the paranormal, eventually inspiring William Peter Blatty's novel The Exorcist (1971), which reshaped modern perceptions of possession and exorcism worldwide.  In academic and medical circles, Roland's story fueled debates about the blurred line between spiritual affliction and mental illness, prompting psychologists and theologians to study the intersection of belief, trauma, and the unexplained.

O.K., listen, if a Lutheran pastor says, "Hey, sorry, but this is out of my jurisdiction -- you might wanna get Pius XII on the horn," you just know that it's got to be serious, right?  What really happened, though, back in 1949?  Was it mental illness?  Deception?  A malicious spirit?  Or was it the Devil himself...?

I leave it to you.  I hope to leave to you, too, our next spooky story.  Do you have one to share...?

Spel

† Would it be so shocking if The Exorcist were cursed...?

[Spookie Monster]

Scared speechless?  Understandable.  While you catch your breath, then, I myself will relate another tale -- a tale of terror, mayhem, death, and ghostly happenings that just might take your breath away...

The ocean sometimes conceals, sometimes reveals many curious phenomena: unexplained sounds, sea monsters, lost lands, USOs ("unidentified submerged objects," which seem to have escaped the rebranding that UFOs -- sorry, UAPs -- have been subjected to as of late), rogue waves, merfolk, selkies, bakekujira, and, and, and, and, and.  Some regions, like the Bermuda Triangle and the Devil's Sea (the whosenow sea?), are rumored to offer up even more than their fair (unfair?) share of such preternatural waggery.

Among the ocean's many wanderers are ghost ships.  Some ghost ships are worldly vessels of wood and metal that have been left crewless, and perhaps aimless, for reasons unknown.  Others are spectral ships, maybe with crew, maybe without, haunting the waves for years, decades, centuries.  Ghost ships are unfamiliar to few of us; heck, just last October Valerian brought us the tale of the SS Bannockburn (thank you again, Valerian).  I myself now bring you that of HMS Eurydice, whose sinking during a snowstorm in 1878 resulted in the loss of over three hundred lives.

As this is the season of spookiness, it's probably worth recalling that according to Ancient Greek myth, the musician Orpheus failed to rescue his deceased wife, Eurydice -- the eponym of the Eurydice, needless to say -- Orpheus failed to rescue Eurydice from the underworld when he disregarded the relatively charitable conditions that had been set down by Hades, its ruler.  Hades had told Orpheus that he'd let him lead the spirit of Eurydice back to the upperworld, back to the world of the living, but only if she walked behind him and only if he didn't look back to make sure that she was following until they'd left the underworld.^†  Duck soup, right?  Alas, fearing that Hades had fooled him, Orpheus did indeed look back and thus relegated Eurydice to permanent residence in the meadows of Asphodel.  Nice job, Orph.

(Nice job, too, to whoever christened the Eurydice: With a name like that, what did they think was going to happen...?!)

HMS Eurydice: The Ghostly Ship that Haunts the Isle of Wight

In 1878, three-year-old Winston Churchill watched alongside his nurse as HMS Eurydice sank off the coast of England's Isle of Wight.  The tragedy, which took the lives of over 300 men, would become one of the most devastating peacetime naval disasters in British history.  According to legend, the phantom ship continues to sail off the coast of Sandown and Shanklin over 100 years after her fatal voyage.

Built in Portsmouth during the 1840s, the 26-gun Royal Navy corvette was converted into a seagoing training ship in 1877.  Following a three-month journey through the West Indies captained by Marcus Hare, the Eurydice was on her way back to Portsmouth from Bermuda when she was caught in a freak snowstorm off the coast of the Isle of Wight.  The storm hit as the ship arrived in Sandown Bay and, according to eyewitnesses, disappeared into the squall with her gun ports open -- a curious detail since they should have been closed at the time.  Failing to navigate through the storm's zero visibility, the Eurydice was blown onto her starboard side and began to sink when water flooded through the open gun ports.

As the Eurydice sank, the majority of the crew were trapped inside and those who attempted to swim to shore were sucked down with the ship.  According to reports two other vessels were out on the water when the storm hit, a fishing boat and the schooner Emma.  Both the schooner and fishing boat reacted appropriately to the approaching storm, but the Eurydice had pressed on despite the impossible sailing conditions.  No one knows why Captain Hare chose to sail into the storm, but it's clear the faith he placed in his ship's ability to survive was tragically misplaced.

After the storm passed, the Emma sailed to the wreckage to rescue survivors, though she was only able to save five from the freezing waters.  Only two of these men survived, Sydney Fletcher of Plymouth and Benjamin Cuddiford of Bristol.  The Times reported that Cuddiford, who was a strong swimmer, heard cries of help from his fellow sailors as they drowned around him.  He attempted to save two of his shipmates but ended up with four clinging onto him, forcing him to push them all off or risk drowning himself.

Coincidentally, the ship that replaced HMS Eurydice, HMS Atalanta (renamed from HMS Juno), would meet a tragic end when she disappeared at sea along with her crew two years later in 1880.  It's believed that the Atalanta was also confronted by a deadly storm somewhere in the Atlantic between 12-16 February after departing from the Royal Naval Dockyard in Bermuda.  The loss of the Atalanta was criticised for its lack of experienced sailors (only 11 able seamen on board among 300 young trainees), while others have attributed the disappearance to the fabled Bermuda Triangle.

Ghost stories often emerge from the ashes of tragedy, and the loss of HMS Eurydice is no exception.  Since her sinking, eyewitnesses have allegedly spotted the Royal Navy corvette sailing in the waters along the coast of Shanklin and Sandown near Dunnose.  It's said that the ghostly ship vanishes before it can be approached, disappearing eerily into the mist of the English Channel.  While most sightings are attributed to superstition and tricks of the light, two sightings of the ghost ship in particular have raised the eyebrows of naysayers over the years.

In the 1930s, Commander F. Lipscomb of a Royal Navy submarine allegedly witnessed HMS Eurydice appear in front of his vessel off the coast of the island.  Panicked, Lipscomb managed to evade the ship only for it to disappear into thin air.  A second notable sighting took place on 17 October 1998 when Prince Edward, the youngest child of Queen Elizabeth II, claimed to see the ghost ship while filming Crown and Country on the Isle of Wight.  His film crew also claimed to see the Eurydice and allegedly captured footage of the phantom vessel on tape.  However, the location of this footage is unknown.

Unlike Orpheus, let us keep ourselves focused on what lies ahead; let us trust that our song and stride are not in vain.  With that in mind, do you have a spooky story to share...?

Spel

^† O.K., O.K., not quite a deal with the Devil, but taking into account this season's theme, wouldn't it be unwise of us to ignore its similarities...?

[Spookie Monster]

So you prefer to listen, eh?  Then perhaps our next will appeal to you.  For a while now I have sought to slip themes into our rounds of storytelling -- "the Devil and the deep blue sea," "ghosts," "poetry," "phobias," "thirteen," what have you.  I do feel that these themes help me steer the threads and of course they give each year a character of its own...

For mere amusement, though, I've also sought to slip in episodes of spooky old radio shows.  To date we've shivered to Quiet Please's "The Thing on the Fourble Board," "Baker's Dozen," "The Inquest," and "Good Ghost" (here, here, here, and here), to Suspense's "Ghost Hunt" and "The House in Cypress Canyon" (here and here), to Escape's "Three Skeleton Key" (here), and to X Minus One's "Nightmare" (here).  I hope that this time you'll tune in to "Gem of Purest Ray": Yes, it's muffled, yes, it's crackly, yes, everyone responsible for it has long since gone off the air, but if so disposed a weary castaway can nevertheless drown in its depths.

Uncomfortable indeed it is to traverse not one but two worlds and yet understand that in each our fit is, as Robert Frost might say, "neither wrong nor right"...

Spel

[Spookie Monster]

How about something from legendary cynic Ambrose Bierce?  No, no, not "An Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge" or "The Damned Thing" or "An Inhabitant of Carcosa" or "Haita the Shepherd"; rather, a brief entry from his The Devil's Dictionary...

OCEAN, n. A body of water occupying about two-thirds of a world made for man -- who has no gills.

"Neither wrong nor right"; yet here we are.  Do you have a spooky story to share...?

Spel