A Ghost Story

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Skene Manor -- Whitehall, NY

Happy Halloween!!!!

Sadly, today is the final day the 7 Days of Halloween unless you are sick of it.  I apologize if you are.  I also apologize for the over sharing I did this week.  Now you know I’m a strange, slightly neurotic writer.  What writer isn’t?

I’m not going to write about a creature of lore today.  I’m going to write about an experience I had back in May.  I know, I’m talking about myself again.  Deal with it.

I’m from the land of old farmhouses, country cemeteries, animals that make strange noises in the night, and Big Foot.  (Yes, Big Foot.  Google Big Foot & Whitehall, NY if you don’t believe me.  Abair road is in my childhood neighborhood and I’m not going to say I didn’t hear weird stuff when I was growing up.)  There’s even an Italian Gothic mansion that lords over my home town and you can bet there is a ghost story or two associated with it.   The Skene Manor is pictured above.

With all of that I had to go to Savannah for an actual haunting experience. 

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The Marshall House -- Savannah, GA

We stayed at the Marshall House which has been named Spookiest Haunted Hotel on Trip Advisor.  I love ghost stories so when we were looking for a place to stay, I wanted to stay in the Marshall House in the worst way.  I love ghost stories but I’m not sure if I believe in ghosts.  Weird, I know.  When we go to Baltimore, I like to stay in the Admiral Fell, another haunted hotel.

The Marshall house is Savannah’s oldest hotel and it served as a Union hospital during the Civil War.  The stories from the Marshall House involve phantom Union officers, ghostly children, and severed limbs.  You know, the usual creepies and ghosties.

My husband and I took a Ghost walking tour of Savannah.  We met a gentleman with a top hat and a nifty tapestry vest in one of the squares at 8:00 to begin the tour.  He carried a walking stick.  It was dark and creepy already and the moss covered trees added to the atmosphere.  Did I mention that Savannah doesn’t have an open container law? I’ve never been asked if I wanted a cocktail to go before.  I love Savannah. 

Our first stop was at the Marshall House where we heard all about our hotel.  I had read quite a bit about it before we left so it didn’t surprise me, but I found myself staring up at our room as the guide talked.  The maid had shut the curtains and a dim light shown through from the lamp on the bedside table. Our guide had a real talent for telling a story and I will admit that I was sufficiently creeped out.

We continued along our tour which was fabulous and we retired to the hotel bar.  I was going through a vodka tonic phase.  We sucked a few back and went up to bed.  We laughed on our way about the ghosts and probably because we were a little tipsy.  

I must have been asleep for a few hours when something woke me from my sleep.  Our room was pitch black with the exception of an illumination at the bottom of the bed.  Something was there.  I can’t see anything without my glasses so everything was blurry.  I tried to move but I was frozen.  We were in a king size bed so my husband might as well have been a mile away.  I tried to yell for him, but I couldn’t speak.  I panicked.  I wanted to cry.  I couldn’t speak or move for what seemed like hours. 

Finally, the light faded and I was able to yell out.  My husband jumped up and I launched myself at him.  I wouldn’t let go.  I told him I had a bad dream so that I didn’t have to go into it with him.  I had to go to the bathroom, but I was too scared to get of bed.  Buffy’s poor bladder. The too-scared-to-go-to-the-bathroom-in-the-middle-of-the-night thing followed me the rest of the trip.

It could have easily been a dream and it probably was, but I know three things: 1) I see perfectly well in all of my dreams.  The ghost could have been carrying a sign that read, “I’m a ghost.  Be afraid. Be very afraid,” and I wouldn’t have seen it.  2) I’ve never been so scared in all of my life and 3) Contrary to what you might think from my previous posts, I’m really quite sensible and not prone to hysteria.  I still think about that night.  Was it a dream or a ghost?  I have no idea and I’ll never know.

When I told my husband I was writing this post, he laughed and said, “You got haunted.”  He thinks it’s funny.  Maybe it is.

Have you ever been haunted?  Please share your stories.  I’d love to hear.

Link to the ghost tour we had in Savannah:

http://savannahghostwalks.com/

The Marshall House

http://www.marshallhouse.com/?WT.srch=1&WT.mc_id=ppc2P&DCSext.ppc_kw=the+marshall+house+savannah&ppc_ac=Brand&ppc_ag=BrandExact&ppc_mt=Exact

Ankou, or Death’s Baggage Carrier

I think, out of all things in the world, death is feared the most.  I don’t think about death very often unless it’s the fear of a loved one dying.  If I die, I figure, it’s not longer my problem.  I do, however, think about my death every single time I take off in a plane.  I know I am more likely to be wiped out by some twat in an SUV talking on her cell phone and yelling at her kids, but the taking off part of plane ride scares me. 

Last month I was on a flight from Washington DC to Albany with my husband.  We were coming back from a trip to San Francisco to celebrate our first wedding anniversary.  It was late. I was tired.  Two kids were giving their parents a hard time behind me.  A woman was bitching to husband about how unhappy she was making everyone else unhappy in the process.  Another kid was screaming at the top of his lungs in the front of the plane.  I was going through the list of things that I was thankful for as I often due before we taxi down the runway.  Instead of the calmness that I feel after realizing that I’ve lived a pretty nice life, I looked around at the passengers on the plane and, with the exception of my husband, I realized didn’t want to die with these assholes.

Ankou is the most prominent figure in Celtic Breton folklore.  (I know, awkward segue, but here we are.)  He’s either looked at as the King of Death (“ankou” means king of the dead) or servant of Death.   

He appears as a tall, gaunt figure dressed in black with long white hair and a hat.  Sometimes he is in skeleton form.  He has a neck that could crane around and see everything like a demented owl.  He drives a wagon piled high with bodies and a creaky axle.  He is sometimes accompanied by two ghostly footmen who walked silently behind the cart.  The wagon is sometimes lead by black horses or giant pigs or sci-fi novel sized beetles.  In some stories he knocks on the door of the person who is about to die and in others he howls like banshee.  Sort of like the boyfriend you had in college that couldn’t be bothered to get his ass out of the car and go  to the door but rather honked his horn until you came out. 

In some versions of the story Ankou isn’t a man at all.  He could very well be a she and often was.  Each parish had its own ankou.  It was the last person that died at the end of the year.  That person would be the servant of death, serving a one year sentence until the end of the next year when someone would take his or her place.  Worst temp job ever.

In another story, Ankou was a spoiled nobleman who didn’t go to church as was punished for his selfish and capricious nature.

No matter what form the Ankou took and for what reason he came to be, he was still the most feared portent of death. 

The next time I look out the window before taking off on  a plane and I see the baggage carrier dressed all in black, I’m getting the hell off that plane.

Swinophobia, Werepigs & Jimmy Squarefoot-and-I-don’t-care!

In celebration of the fourth (or maybe it was the third) anniversary of our first date, my husband booked us a room in a fabulous Bed & Breakfast, Inn by the Mill*, in St. Johnsville, NY.  He called me at the office that morning to ask if I was okay with the room he chose.  He had booked the Hog’n Haus cottage, a renovated 1888 hog house.  He was well aware by then of most of my freak-like tendencies and my irrational fear of pigs was right up there on the list.  He warned me the room was full of piggy bric-a-brac.  I was so excited to get away for a few days that I didn’t care.

That was until the middle of the night when I woke to see the four foot plus pig statue with tray staring at me from across the room.  It was my nightmare come to life.

Sometimes it’s hard to pinpoint exactly when and why a fear or phobia takes hold.  I can tell you exactly when, where and why my swinophobia began.  I was fourteen.  It happened on summer break.  The culprit was a battered and slightly musty copy of the Amityville Horror that I picked up at a flea market the week earlier.

Jodie, Missy’s “imaginary” piggy friend, was the only thing that scared me in that book.  I tossed the book away years ago but I can still remember the pencil drawing she did of Jodie distinctly in my mind.  I still get chills remembering the father, George Lutz, looking up at the house in the middle of the night and Jodie looking back at him from his daughter’s bedroom window and Jodie looking in the window at the family from outside the house with its red eyes.  I can almost feel the horror the father must have felt looking at the pig tracks in the snow after Jodie (or something) had ripped the front door off its hinges.  Jodie scared the hell out of me.

I’m pretty sure I wasn’t afraid of pigs until that book. I’m not the only one scared by demon pig-like creatures.

In areas of Brazil and Uruguay, residents are afraid of a local legend called the Lobison.  The Lobison is a werepig (but sometimes a werewolf, but that doesn’t scare me) that devours local residents.   In the Entre Rios Region, the Lobison is human by day and werepig by night.  Young women won’t date men that leave near the stockyards in fear that they are a Lobison.  Talk about a cock block. 

On the Isle of Man, Jimmy Squarefoot roams free.  He’s not dangerous, but rather his appearance is off-putting.  Man with a pig head.  Takes a new meaning to the term pig-faced.  Poor, Jimmy Squarefoot, all by his hideous self on the Isle of Man.  Don’t feel too bad for him.  When Jimmy was a human, he was a rock thrower and his wife was usually his target.  Maybe he deserves to be lonely and ugly.

Okay, I’ve shared my embarrassing phobia.  What about your phobia’s and fears?  But a pal and tell me about it.  Pretty please?

*Just as an aside, the Inn at the Mill is an awesome place to stay.  I would even recommend the Hog’n Haus.  We have stayed there twice and I hope to go back next year for the ninth anniversary of our first date!  Check it out: http://www.innbythemill.com/hoghouse.htm

Raw Head and Blood Bones

Along with worrying whether my feet were hanging over the edge if the bed or not, I had this deep ceded fear that something was going to grab my ankles when I descended the stairs to my grandmother’s basement.  She used to do a lot of canning and she would send me down for a jar of tomatoes or apple sauce or even venison.  Thank god her body-size freezer was in her kitchen or would have had to go down their much more often.

I would slowly open the basement door.  You know, just in case there was something there.  I’d turn the light on and crane my neck around to see if something was lurking in the shadows.  When I was satisfied that I had done all I could do, I would hold my breath and run as fast as I could down the steps.  I was lucky I didn’t fall and break my pathetic coward neck.  I think I did this into my teens.

Raw Head and Bloody Bones (one person, not a deadly duo) is an English Nursery Bogey.  He takes a humanoid figure with blood dripping down his face.  He sits on a pile of the bones of children who have told lies or said bad words.  In some stories he lurks in stagnant ponds or under the stairs.  Yes, folks, it’s not just Harry Potter living under the stairs.   Raw Head and Bloody Bones waits, biding his time to snatch up a misbehaving child.

I’m so thankful that I didn’t know this story as a child or I would have never gone down into the basement. 

I think this will be my Halloween costume this year.  I’ll wear a tag that says:

HELLO 

MY NAME IS

Raw Head and Bloody Bones

No one is going to get it.  I think I’ll wear a hat.  Raw Head and Blood Bones needs a hat. 

Where’s my Tailypo?

Mrs. White was our elementary school librarian.  She looked like the typical librarian with her pale skin, long plaid skirts, and crisp white shirts.  To complete the look, she wore sensible shoes.  But Mrs. White had a talent for picking out book to read aloud to us.

I must have been in kindergarten or first grade the first time she read us Tailypo by Joanna Galdone.  Our group was relegated to the little kid section of the library, filled on two sides with cubbies and well worn books.  We all sat indian-style in front of her as she read ot us.

For those who don’t know, the Tailypo is figure in Appalachian folklore.  It’s a creature with glowing eyes, large ears and a very long tail.  It’s about the size of a dog and it looks just like the picture above.  It looks harmless.  This book scared the crap out of me when I was six.  It kind of, sort of scares the crap out of me now and I’m thirty-three.  I’m not too proud to admit this.

Tailypo is a story of a man who lives in an old, dilapidated cabin in the woods with his three dogs.  Food is scarce. One night while the man was out hunting with his dogs, he manages to secure the tail of a creature.  The man brings the tail home and eats it.

The details of the story are a bit fuzzy.  It’s been more than twenty-five years since I have read the book. (I tried to order it on Amazon but it won’t be shipped in time for this post.)  The man, tucked in bed in the stillness of the night, hears scratching at the door and the words, “Where’s my tailypo.  I want my tailypo.”  Frightened, the man sends his dogs out into the night after the creature.  They don’t return.  The man finds himself alone in the cabin.  I imagine he was lying contemplating his fate, not to mention the fate of his three dogs

He hears the creature’s words again and the scratching at the door. To the best of my recollection, the thing gets his tailypo back.  I think you can fill in the blanks.

For years after hearing this story, I wouldn’t let me feet hang over the side of the bed.  If I were honest, I’m still not too keen on it.  Those words:  “I want my tailypo.  Where’s my tailypo?” have haunted me.

Some people may say that the story is too scary for small children.  Maybe it had been too scary for me, but it sparked my imagination.  And isn’t that what younger generations are lacking – imagination. I wouldn’t trade in those late nights worrying for anything.  This story helped to shape who I am as a writer.

Black Annis

Medusa Head -- Istanbul. 

Not relevant but a pretty nifty photo.

On another Halloween a few years later, I dressed up as Medusa. I know. I see the pattern here as well – my unnatural obsession with mythological characters.  Not to mention the two day hangover that followed both Halloweens.  It’s possible this is why I don’t like Halloween parties anymore.  I don’t look forward to the recovery time.  Heaven forbid I go to a party dressed like a normal Naughty Kitty and sip Diet Coke.  I digress. 

Oh, Medusa made me think Gorgon and that made me think Hag.  Mythology is full of Crones and Hags and generally unpleasant woman.  Take the story of Hansel and Gretel (witch that wanted to bake with them, literally), Snow White (the witch/Queen, not Snow White), Sleeping Beauty (again, witch not Sleeping Beauty.)   What do all of these stories have in common?  A horrible bitch that wants to ruin their lives. 

I can think of one that easily tops those three.

Black Annis is the demon hag from Danes Hills, outside Leicester in England.  It has been theorized that she derived for the goddess Danu.  Hmm, mother goddess to horrible old woman?  It wouldn’t be the first time a goddess is turned Hag.  Funny it usually coincides with conversion to Christianity.  Threatened much?

This hag has long iron claws, yellow fangs and a horrible blue face.  She’s not just ugly, she’s really ugly.  She lives in cave that she dug out with her own claws called the Black Annis Bower.  She likes to prey on children that stray too close to Danes Hills.  She skins them and eats them and drinks their blood.  She hangs their skin in trees to dry. 

Yes, a truly unpleasant woman.

Bullbeggars Shouldn’t be Choosers

Almost everyone I know gets excited about Halloween with the exception of the dourest of Christians.  Halloween is fun.  You get to dress up in ridiculous costumes like Slutty Witch and Strumpet from Hell and stuff yourself full of so much sugar that you rival a Domino sugar factory.    And don’t get me started on the Halloween parties.  One year I dressed up as Hel from Norse Mythology. (Yes, I am a dork.  I am aware of this.)  I woke up the next morning with a perfect blue and black Buffy face print on the floor.  Not one of my finest hours, but it was one hell of a good time!

Dressing up is fun and partying is great, but I don’t I think that is what really attracts people to Halloween.  People like, no love, to be scared.  I love to be scared.  I have since I was a kid.  I think there is something in our DNA that wants to be scared.  I think it’s why stories get passed down from generation to generation.  Not as a deterrent for bad behavior, but for the thrill of it.

Take the Bullbeggar for example.  The Bullbeggar is an English demon or bogie beast.  It takes the form of an injured person lying prone on the ground.  When a helpful sucker comes to its aid, the demon morphs into a huge black mass and chases after the poor bastard, its eerie laughter shrieking throughout the night air.  The old adage, “No good deed goes unpunished,” pops to mind.

In Suffolk and Somerset, the Bullbeggar is called a Galley-Beggar and takes the form of a skeleton with its head tucked under its arm like a clutch purse.  

In some stories the Bullbeggar takes no shape at all but is the sound of disembodied footsteps following behind on a lonely road long after dark.

These creatures, these tales, play into some of our most fundamental fears.  Who hasn’t been creeped out searching for your car in a shadowy parking lot, turning a corner down a deserted street after dark, or walking down the hall of an empty building?

And what about those footsteps you could swear you hear behind you?  Those are the scariest part of it all.

What scares you the most?