I love telling stories...ghost stories, most of all. In honor of the upcoming Spookiest Month (October, in case you're wondering), here's one of my favorites:
Taily-Po
They say that when the wind is high and the moon rides like a heavy-laden galleon over seas of cloud, and the air is cool and sharp with cinammon and wet-rot, and the few leaves left in the trees clack and clatter like dry bones dancing...that's when the lights rise out of the swamp, and men don't walk abroad at night. Because it's out in the moist and fetid brackish backwaters, the drowned cemeteries where the muck clings and the slime grasps at your boots like a noisome lover, that the worst of the spirits dwell. And at midnight they roll in with the fog.
Old Man Jenkins sat puffing his pipe by the fire in his little cabin at the edge of Big Musky Swamp, quite alone except for the hound dogs who whimpered in the kennel out back. His room wasn't much to look at - rough boards, dirt floor, a few rugs laid down, an old bed. He wobbled in his rocking chair, laying down his pipe every now and then so he could pull on a jug of applejack. There wasn't much to the man but for his meanness of spirit, and few knew what he did for his board and keep, all they knew (and reminded him at every opportunity) was he was a damn fool for living so close to the haunted swamplands, with its close-clawing brambles and twisted cedars and forbidding giant cottonwoods whose leaves rattled so mournfully in the night breeze. But Jenkins knew what he was about, and having laughed, would tell them to take off and mind their own business.
The fire settled. Jenkin's eyes fluttered as the 'jack took effect. There was wood to be chopped and dogs to be fed and traps to be checked in the morning, but this time of year set him to drinking and sleeping. A tradition among the men of the family, if memory served him right. Late into the night, with cards and jars, while the thin silent women scrubbed and cleared and dared not make a peep. His old man, now there was a grizzly if ever there was one. Great huge beast of a man, didn't say a word most days, till he was three-deep in a jug. Then his eyes would get dangerous, and he'd laugh and joke, but still those eyes wickered back and forth, looking for any excuse to raise his fist against his kith and kin...
Jenkins woke with a start. The fire was low, the room full of shadow. He heard a scrabbling noise behind him, and when he turned to look, he froze in fear.
There was a creature in the corner, by the door. It had huge glowing eyes. It seemed to be covered in black fur. As Jenkins watched, it uncoiled itself and plodded across the floor toward the opposite wall. It was about the size of a dog, with long, skeletal limbs. Its hands and feet were like a man's. Its gaunt, ratlike head was framed by large ears that pricked forward.
But its most extraordinary feature was its tail. It was thick as a fence-post, and luxuriantly-furred. It lay in a spool by the door, and as the creature traversed the space, it uncoiled three feet, four feet, five feet, six feet...
Old Man Jenkins heaved up quick as a flash and grabbed the ax leaning by the fireplace. The creature chittered and began to squeeze itself through a tiny chink in the cabin's timbers. With a dreadful holler, Jenkins leapt towards it and swung the ax with all his might - SHWAK - but the apparition had already oozed through the wall and was gone.
But it left its tail behind.
Jenkins picked up the bloody end of the tail. It was surprisingly heavy. It smelled slightly musky, like an opossum. He laid it on the floor, and it stretched from one end of the cabin to the other, lengthwise. Jenkins scratched his head. No creature on earth had a tail like that.
"Well," Jenkins said aloud, "no reason to waste a tail like that."
He proceeded to skin it, chop it up into chunks, and set a pot of onions and water to boiling over the fire. In a couple of hours he had the most delicious critter-tail stew he'd ever tasted, and went to bed full and fat and satisfied.
The next day Jenkins went about checking his traps. They were all empty. He at least expected to find some tracks of the creature, but when he walked around the cabin, the only tracks in the dust were his own. His hounds were oddly quiet and watchful. Jenkins, not a man of great imagination, scratched his head, spat, and went back to his rocking chair, pipe, and applejack.
That night he was awakened around midnight by an unearthly howling in the swamp. He tottered to the door and cracked it open. The wind was high and cold, and he strained his ears to hear over its moaning.
Words floated to him between the gusts of wind:
Tailllllly-Po...Taiiiiillllllly-Po...Whooooo's got my Tailllly-Po...?
Jenkins listened, ice forming in his veins. He cupped a hand to his ears, straining forward, trying to catch the voice again. "Who's out there?" he hollered. But there was no reply.
The next morning, Jenkins checked his traps again. This time they were all sprung, but empty. Still no footprints. The dogs wouldn't come out of their kennel. Jenkins stroked his beard, looking at the swamp with uneasy eyes. Then he went back to his pipe and jug.
That night he was awakened by the sound again, only this time it was much closer, more distinct - coming from the treeline. He sprang out of his rocker and rushed to the door, shotgun in hand. Out in the roaring, fitful wind and spattering rain, he could see a pair of glowing eyes between the trees, moving back and forth, staring at him. The voice howled into the wind:
Tailllllly-Po...Taiiiiillllllly-Po...Whooooo's got my Tailllly-Po...?
Jenkins raised his gun and fired.
The lights went out. The echoes of the blast were swallowed by the fitful night. Jenkins stood watching for a while. When the lights didn't reappear, he nodded, satisfied, and went back to bed.
The next day was uneventful, except that the dogs still wouldn't come out of their kennel. Jenkins didn't puzzle over it too much - they were cowardly mutts anyway. Come night-time, he was cozy and complacent and snug in his bed, even as the weather worsened outside the window.
And then the voice howled right outside the cabin wall:
TAILLLLLY-PO...TAIIIIILLLLY-PO...WHOOO'S GOT MY TAILLLLY-PO...?!
Jenkins jumped up quick as a flash. He ran out to the kennel and roused his dogs with kicks and curses, saying, "Get him! Get him you curs!" They flew off into the night, baying and hollering, chasing the evil creature toward the swamp. Jenkins stood in the doorway with his shotgun, listening to the receding dog-sounds, until they were drowned out by the howling in the wind.
Suddenly he heard yelps and screams. The sounds became loud and piercing, punctuated with a howl of agony. Then silence.
Jenkins stood there, straining his ears and eyes. A horrible feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. He stumbled back into the cabin, curled up in his bed with the shotgun. A sudden gust of wind surged down the chimney, snuffing out the guttering fire. With a cry Jenkins threw himself down and pulled the covers over his head, until he could hear nothing but the ragged puff of his breathing and the hammering of his heart.
He stopped breathing, skin cold. He'd heard a scuttling in the corner.
Jenkins lay listening under the covers. The sound did not repeat. Was it out there? Would he see its dead, ghost-lamp eyes staring at him from the floor, its bony fingers flexing? Would it leap on him and go for his throat?
Get a grip, he told himself. It's still out in the swamp with the dogs. It couldn't possibly be back here. He'd probably just heard a beetle scrabbling across the logs. No way the creature could be back in the cabin. He needed to stop hiding like a bed-wetting child, light a lamp, and wait for the creature to return. Then he'd give it a face-full of buckshot. Got your "taily-po" right here for ya, you damn creepy thing.
But what if it is right next to the bed, waiting for me to show my face? He could see its evil, ratty grin in his mind's eye. Waiting for the right moment to pounce, when he could see it, when his panic and fear was most delicious. Was it there, or wasn't it? His gut did slow somersaults, his mind in a fuzz. The waiting was unbearable. He had to know. It was better to know than to sit here sweating, slowly going crazy. With a yell he threw back the cover, swung the shotgun round, and opened his eyes to see...
Nothing.
He sat there for a moment, aiming at empty darkness. Finally he collapsed. He let the shotgun fall out of his nerveless fingers onto the floor.
Nothing! You damned old fool, he thought. By God, maybe he'd imagined the whole thing. The "voice" was nothing but a trick of the wind; the dog's yelping? Maybe they found a nest of traps, or got stuck in the mud. He'd have to get them out in the morning. But what of the stew? Probably just regular venison, and he'd hallucinated all the rest. He needed to stop drinking. God, he prayed as he lay back down and rolled over, if I can get my hounds back, I promise to stop my drinking...
He turned over and came face-to-face with a pair of glowing eyes.
"Tailllllly-Po...Taiiiiillllllly-Po..." it whispered, its breath icy against his face. "Whooooo's got my Tailllly-Po...?"
He felt the clammy, skeletal hands clamp on his neck in a vice grip, cutting off all air, sinking into his flesh as the creature delivered its final verdict:
"YOU'VE GOT IT!"
Nothing was ever seen of Old Man Jenkins again. The empty cabin fell to ruin, and crumbled into the soil, where the swamp flooded and reclaimed it.
They say that when the wind is high and the moon rides like a heavy-laden galleon over seas of cloud, and the air is cool and sharp with cinammon and wet-rot, and the few leaves left in the trees clack and clatter like dry bones dancing...that's when the lights rise out of the swamp, and men don't walk abroad at night. Because it's out in the moist and fetid brackish backwaters, the drowned cemeteries where the muck clings and the slime grasps at your boots like a noisome lover, that the worst of the spirits dwell.
And at midnight they roll in with the fog.
The End.
Taily-Po
They say that when the wind is high and the moon rides like a heavy-laden galleon over seas of cloud, and the air is cool and sharp with cinammon and wet-rot, and the few leaves left in the trees clack and clatter like dry bones dancing...that's when the lights rise out of the swamp, and men don't walk abroad at night. Because it's out in the moist and fetid brackish backwaters, the drowned cemeteries where the muck clings and the slime grasps at your boots like a noisome lover, that the worst of the spirits dwell. And at midnight they roll in with the fog.
Old Man Jenkins sat puffing his pipe by the fire in his little cabin at the edge of Big Musky Swamp, quite alone except for the hound dogs who whimpered in the kennel out back. His room wasn't much to look at - rough boards, dirt floor, a few rugs laid down, an old bed. He wobbled in his rocking chair, laying down his pipe every now and then so he could pull on a jug of applejack. There wasn't much to the man but for his meanness of spirit, and few knew what he did for his board and keep, all they knew (and reminded him at every opportunity) was he was a damn fool for living so close to the haunted swamplands, with its close-clawing brambles and twisted cedars and forbidding giant cottonwoods whose leaves rattled so mournfully in the night breeze. But Jenkins knew what he was about, and having laughed, would tell them to take off and mind their own business.
The fire settled. Jenkin's eyes fluttered as the 'jack took effect. There was wood to be chopped and dogs to be fed and traps to be checked in the morning, but this time of year set him to drinking and sleeping. A tradition among the men of the family, if memory served him right. Late into the night, with cards and jars, while the thin silent women scrubbed and cleared and dared not make a peep. His old man, now there was a grizzly if ever there was one. Great huge beast of a man, didn't say a word most days, till he was three-deep in a jug. Then his eyes would get dangerous, and he'd laugh and joke, but still those eyes wickered back and forth, looking for any excuse to raise his fist against his kith and kin...
Jenkins woke with a start. The fire was low, the room full of shadow. He heard a scrabbling noise behind him, and when he turned to look, he froze in fear.
There was a creature in the corner, by the door. It had huge glowing eyes. It seemed to be covered in black fur. As Jenkins watched, it uncoiled itself and plodded across the floor toward the opposite wall. It was about the size of a dog, with long, skeletal limbs. Its hands and feet were like a man's. Its gaunt, ratlike head was framed by large ears that pricked forward.
But its most extraordinary feature was its tail. It was thick as a fence-post, and luxuriantly-furred. It lay in a spool by the door, and as the creature traversed the space, it uncoiled three feet, four feet, five feet, six feet...
Old Man Jenkins heaved up quick as a flash and grabbed the ax leaning by the fireplace. The creature chittered and began to squeeze itself through a tiny chink in the cabin's timbers. With a dreadful holler, Jenkins leapt towards it and swung the ax with all his might - SHWAK - but the apparition had already oozed through the wall and was gone.
But it left its tail behind.
Jenkins picked up the bloody end of the tail. It was surprisingly heavy. It smelled slightly musky, like an opossum. He laid it on the floor, and it stretched from one end of the cabin to the other, lengthwise. Jenkins scratched his head. No creature on earth had a tail like that.
"Well," Jenkins said aloud, "no reason to waste a tail like that."
He proceeded to skin it, chop it up into chunks, and set a pot of onions and water to boiling over the fire. In a couple of hours he had the most delicious critter-tail stew he'd ever tasted, and went to bed full and fat and satisfied.
The next day Jenkins went about checking his traps. They were all empty. He at least expected to find some tracks of the creature, but when he walked around the cabin, the only tracks in the dust were his own. His hounds were oddly quiet and watchful. Jenkins, not a man of great imagination, scratched his head, spat, and went back to his rocking chair, pipe, and applejack.
That night he was awakened around midnight by an unearthly howling in the swamp. He tottered to the door and cracked it open. The wind was high and cold, and he strained his ears to hear over its moaning.
Words floated to him between the gusts of wind:
Tailllllly-Po...Taiiiiillllllly-Po...Whooooo's got my Tailllly-Po...?
Jenkins listened, ice forming in his veins. He cupped a hand to his ears, straining forward, trying to catch the voice again. "Who's out there?" he hollered. But there was no reply.
The next morning, Jenkins checked his traps again. This time they were all sprung, but empty. Still no footprints. The dogs wouldn't come out of their kennel. Jenkins stroked his beard, looking at the swamp with uneasy eyes. Then he went back to his pipe and jug.
That night he was awakened by the sound again, only this time it was much closer, more distinct - coming from the treeline. He sprang out of his rocker and rushed to the door, shotgun in hand. Out in the roaring, fitful wind and spattering rain, he could see a pair of glowing eyes between the trees, moving back and forth, staring at him. The voice howled into the wind:
Tailllllly-Po...Taiiiiillllllly-Po...Whooooo's got my Tailllly-Po...?
Jenkins raised his gun and fired.
The lights went out. The echoes of the blast were swallowed by the fitful night. Jenkins stood watching for a while. When the lights didn't reappear, he nodded, satisfied, and went back to bed.
The next day was uneventful, except that the dogs still wouldn't come out of their kennel. Jenkins didn't puzzle over it too much - they were cowardly mutts anyway. Come night-time, he was cozy and complacent and snug in his bed, even as the weather worsened outside the window.
And then the voice howled right outside the cabin wall:
TAILLLLLY-PO...TAIIIIILLLLY-PO...WHOOO'S GOT MY TAILLLLY-PO...?!
Jenkins jumped up quick as a flash. He ran out to the kennel and roused his dogs with kicks and curses, saying, "Get him! Get him you curs!" They flew off into the night, baying and hollering, chasing the evil creature toward the swamp. Jenkins stood in the doorway with his shotgun, listening to the receding dog-sounds, until they were drowned out by the howling in the wind.
Suddenly he heard yelps and screams. The sounds became loud and piercing, punctuated with a howl of agony. Then silence.
Jenkins stood there, straining his ears and eyes. A horrible feeling settled in the pit of his stomach. He stumbled back into the cabin, curled up in his bed with the shotgun. A sudden gust of wind surged down the chimney, snuffing out the guttering fire. With a cry Jenkins threw himself down and pulled the covers over his head, until he could hear nothing but the ragged puff of his breathing and the hammering of his heart.
He stopped breathing, skin cold. He'd heard a scuttling in the corner.
Jenkins lay listening under the covers. The sound did not repeat. Was it out there? Would he see its dead, ghost-lamp eyes staring at him from the floor, its bony fingers flexing? Would it leap on him and go for his throat?
Get a grip, he told himself. It's still out in the swamp with the dogs. It couldn't possibly be back here. He'd probably just heard a beetle scrabbling across the logs. No way the creature could be back in the cabin. He needed to stop hiding like a bed-wetting child, light a lamp, and wait for the creature to return. Then he'd give it a face-full of buckshot. Got your "taily-po" right here for ya, you damn creepy thing.
But what if it is right next to the bed, waiting for me to show my face? He could see its evil, ratty grin in his mind's eye. Waiting for the right moment to pounce, when he could see it, when his panic and fear was most delicious. Was it there, or wasn't it? His gut did slow somersaults, his mind in a fuzz. The waiting was unbearable. He had to know. It was better to know than to sit here sweating, slowly going crazy. With a yell he threw back the cover, swung the shotgun round, and opened his eyes to see...
Nothing.
He sat there for a moment, aiming at empty darkness. Finally he collapsed. He let the shotgun fall out of his nerveless fingers onto the floor.
Nothing! You damned old fool, he thought. By God, maybe he'd imagined the whole thing. The "voice" was nothing but a trick of the wind; the dog's yelping? Maybe they found a nest of traps, or got stuck in the mud. He'd have to get them out in the morning. But what of the stew? Probably just regular venison, and he'd hallucinated all the rest. He needed to stop drinking. God, he prayed as he lay back down and rolled over, if I can get my hounds back, I promise to stop my drinking...
He turned over and came face-to-face with a pair of glowing eyes.
"Tailllllly-Po...Taiiiiillllllly-Po..." it whispered, its breath icy against his face. "Whooooo's got my Tailllly-Po...?"
He felt the clammy, skeletal hands clamp on his neck in a vice grip, cutting off all air, sinking into his flesh as the creature delivered its final verdict:
"YOU'VE GOT IT!"
Nothing was ever seen of Old Man Jenkins again. The empty cabin fell to ruin, and crumbled into the soil, where the swamp flooded and reclaimed it.
They say that when the wind is high and the moon rides like a heavy-laden galleon over seas of cloud, and the air is cool and sharp with cinammon and wet-rot, and the few leaves left in the trees clack and clatter like dry bones dancing...that's when the lights rise out of the swamp, and men don't walk abroad at night. Because it's out in the moist and fetid brackish backwaters, the drowned cemeteries where the muck clings and the slime grasps at your boots like a noisome lover, that the worst of the spirits dwell.
And at midnight they roll in with the fog.
The End.
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