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The Bleeding Sink
An excerpt from
Spooky Montana
retold by S.E. Schlosser
I found it extremely annoying that one of the
bathrooms on my dorm was permanently closed. Especially since the
cause was an urban legend. An urban legend, I tell you! According to
the story, years and years ago some bloke got himself massively drunk
at a bar in downtown Helena and had passed out in the bathroom on the
fourth floor. Apparently, he hit his head on the sink as he fell, and
his blood had spattered the sink as he slid senseless to the floor and
silently hemorrhaged to death. His death was considered a “sad
accident” by faculty, staff and townspeople. But that was no reason
to shut up the bathroom for decades! I completely discounted the
story of the bleeding sink. That was just an urban legend the
students circulated to explain the locked door.
“I’m sick of sharing a bathroom with you
disgusting lot,” I grumbled to my roommate. “I’m going to break into
the fourth-floor bathroom.”
My roommate’s eyes widened. “Don’t you know
that bathroom is haunted?” he exclaimed. “The bloodstains on the sink
are as fresh today as they were when the accident happened back in the
1960s, and sometimes you can hear the boy moaning as his life ebbs
away on the bathroom floor!”
“Romantic twaddle,” I snapped. “My granny
lives in a haunted castle in Scotland with ghost stories that would
make your hair stand on end. She’d laugh at me if she found out I
ignored a perfectly good bathroom because of a few bloodstains.
Besides, the maintenance staff told me the bathroom was shut up
pending renovations. No big deal!”
“You’ll be sorry,” my roommate said darkly. I
ignored him. He was just sore because I’d lumped him in with the
disgusting lot of fellows who mucked up the bathroom on my floor.
You’d think someone would teach them to pick up their dirty clothes
and clean the sink once in awhile.
When the dorm quieted down for the night –
which wasn’t until late – I hurried up to the fourth floor with a bit
of wire I’d purchased at a local hardware store. My little brother
and I had become expert lock-pickers over the years, since our mother
had a bad habit of locking her keys into the house or the car at least
once a week. With all that experience, the lock on the bathroom door
gave me no problems.
The bathroom was rather old-fashioned in
appearance and had a disused air. There was dust in the corners, and
a spider web drooped from the ceiling. But I heard no unearthly
groaning, no mysterious footsteps. I carefully inspected the sink,
the walls and the floor. Other than a smallish orange discoloration
on the sink, there was no blood anywhere. Ha! So much for urban
legends. There was probably something in the water that caused
discoloration over time. I turned a tap experimentally, sure that the
maintenance staff had shut off the water long ago. To my surprise,
water gushed forth instantly. I smiled. Well, well. It looked like
I had a bathroom to myself after all! I carefully locked the door
behind me when I left.
I got up late the next morning, and had the
downstairs bathroom all to myself. So it wasn’t until evening, when
everyone was back in the dorm, crowding in and out of the bathrooms,
that I slipped away to use the locked up facilities. It was still
early in the evening, and I made sure no one was around before I
headed to the abandoned bathroom. With a few twists of the wire, I
opened the lock. As I stepped inside, the air temperature plummeted
twenty degrees or more and my nose was hit by the pungent, strong
smell of fresh blood. A second later, I saw the blood-spattered
sink.
Bright-red gore was everywhere – on the
porcelain, on the walls, oozing down the sides of the sink. And
hovering before it, his feet a good six-inches off the ground, was the
luminous form of a college-aged boy wearing old-fashioned clothes in
the style of the 1960s. His forehead had a disfiguring dent smashed
into it, and blood was dripping down his face. As I gaped at him,
horrified and frozen in terror, he turned and looked at me. Then he
held out a blood-stained hand. His eyes were desperate, pleading for
help, and I heard a low moaning sound coming from between his
blood-stained lips. The sound raised every hair on my body and made
the skin prickle in sheer, cold horror. I backpedaled fiercely, my
legs scrambling to get away while my eyes and head remained fixed on
the ghost, on the bloody sink. A drop of red blood fell from his
outstretched hand as I stared at him. Then the momentum of my legs
carried me through the door, which slammed shut behind me, and the
hot, pungent smell of fresh blood followed me through the halls and
down the staircases until I was outside into the chilly air of autumn,
breathing deeply. My knees shook so bad that I fell onto the nearest
patch of grass, stomach heaving. Oh lord! The ghost was real! No
wonder they kept the place locked up.
I lay on the grass for a long time, ignoring the chill in the air.
This was a natural chill which comforted, not that unnatural chill
that had frightened me upstairs. I breathed in and out, in and out,
watching the stars above me, bright even through the campus lights. I
took comfort from the huge, clear expanse of sky. But I still felt
reluctant to go back inside that haunted building. I shuddered once,
from head to toe. Oh how my granny would laugh if she knew her big
brave grandson was too scared to go back inside a haunted dormitory.
It was the thought of granny that got me back onto my feet and
upstairs to my room. But I didn’t care what granny or anyone else
thought of me. I was never going back to the fourth floor bathroom.
Once was enough.
You can read more ghost stories in
Spooky Montana by S.E.
Schlosser.
Spooky Montana: Tales of Hauntings, Strange Happenings, and Other Local Lore
The Handshake
Spooky North Carolina by S.E. Schlosser
An excerpt from
Spooky North Carolina
retold by S.E. Schlosser
Polly was the sweetest, prettiest girl in Goldsboro, yes sir. All
the local boys were chasing her, and quite a number of the fellows
from the surrounding countryside were too. All the girls were
jealous of Polly ‘cause they didn’t have no sweethearts to take them
to the local dances. They all wanted Polly to choose her man so
things could go back to normal. But Polly was picky. None of the
local boys suited her, and neither did the fellows from the back
country.
Then one day, George Dean came home from university, and Polly was
smitten. Polly completely dropped all her other beaus when George
came courting, and it wasn't long before George proposed and Polly
accepted.
Polly started making preparations for the wedding and shopping for
items to fill her new home. George wasn’t too interested in all the
fripperies and wedding details. He left the womenfolk to get on with
it and started spending time down at the pool hall with some of his
buddies. And that’s where he met Helene, the owner’s saucy daughter.
She had bold black eyes and ruby red lips, and a bad-girl air that
fascinated George. He spent more and more time at the pool hall, and
less and less time with Polly, who finally noticed in spite of all
the hustle and bustle.
Of course, Polly was furious. She immediately confronted George with
the story, and he couldn’t deny it. Suddenly, George had to toe the
mark. His pool-hall visits were over, and he spent every free hour
he wasn’t at work by her side. That didn’t sit well with George, but
his family backed Polly up, so he went along with it.
The day of the wedding dawned clear and bright. The guests filled
the sanctuary, and the pastor and the best man waited patiently in
the ante-chamber for the arrival of the groom. But George didn’t
come. Eventually, they went searching for the missing bridegroom,
and found out he'd left town with Helene an hour before the wedding.
With dread, Polly’s mother went to tell her daughter what had
happened. Polly, all bright and shining and lovely in her long white
dress and soft wedding veil, turned pale when her mother broke the
news. Then she stiffened, grabbing her left arm as a sudden pain
ripped through it. She was dead from a massive heart attack long
before she hit the floor.
A few days later, Polly was buried in the churchyard, still wearing
her white wedding dress and veil. The whole town came to the funeral
and wept at the passing of such a beautiful young girl. George and
Helene, who had spent the week happily honeymooning in the Outer
Banks, arrived home at the very moment that the black-clad crowd
exited the churchyard. Their arrival caused a commotion. The
minister had to pull Polly’s father off George before he killed him.
And both George and Helene’s family disowned the couple right there
in the street in front of everyone. The couple fled town in
disgrace.
Time passed, and eventually the scandal was forgotten. Until the day
George’s father passed away. It was rumored that he was to be buried
in the local churchyard just a few plots away from the girl who had
almost become his daughter. Suddenly, the story of Polly's jilting
was revived and folks wondered aloud if George would dare attend his
father's funeral. But George was too clever for them. He waited at
an inn outside of town until it was dark, and then he went to the
churchyard to pay his last respects to his father.
As he unburdened himself at his father’s graveside, George heard a
sweet female voice calling his name. “George. Sweetheart.” George
looked up in sudden hope. Was that his mother, come to forgive him?
Then he saw, rising up from a grassy mound under a spreading oak
tree, a figure in a long white gown and a soft veil. Her eyes and
her lips were yellow flames beneath the veil, and the rotted wedding
dress glowed with a white-yellow light. It was Polly.
George’s body stiffened, shudders of fear coursing up and down his
arms and legs. He put a shaking hand to his mouth and staggered
backward, the other hand outstretched out ward off the specter
floating toward him. The spectral bride cackled with angry laughter
and swooped forward until its hand closed over George’s outstretched
one in a terrible parody of a handshake. The grip of the spectral
bride was so cold it burned the skin, and so hard that the bones
crunched as it squeezed. “Come along into the church, George,” the
glowing bride whispered. Through the veil, George could see maggots
crawling in and out of Polly’s flaming eye sockets.
“Nooo! Polly, no!” George screamed in terror, but he could not
wrench his hand free. The ghost dragged him step by halting step
toward the front door of the church. His hand was a red-hot agony of
pain, though the rest of his body was shaking with cold.
“No!” George gave a final cry of despair and wrenched again at his
hand. And suddenly, he was free. The spectral bride gave a roar of
rage as George ran pell-mell down the church lane and out into the
street.
“You’re mine, George Dean! If not in this world, than in the next,”
the spectral bride howled after him.
By the time George reached his room, the fiery pain in his hand and
arm was seeping through his entire body. He rang desperately for the
house maid and begged her to send for a doctor. Then he fell into
bed and stared at his hand, which was black and withered, as if it
had been scorched long ago by a fire. Black and red streaks were
climbing up his arm so fast he could almost see them move.
George was unconscious when the doctor arrived, and the swelling was
already extending into his chest and neck. There was nothing the
physician could do. The injury was too severe and had spread too
far. Within two days, George was dead. Polly had gotten her man at
last.
You can read more ghost stories in
Spooky North Carolina, by S.E.
Schlosser.
Spooky North Carolina: Tales of Hauntings, Strange Happenings, and Other Local Lore
The Ghost in the Alley
Spooky Canada Excerpted from
Spooky Canada
Retold by S.E. Schlosser
Rumors were rife about the alleyway behind the tavern. It was haunted, folks
said. Haunted by the ghost of a young girl who had been found murdered in that
self-same passage. People avoided the small street after dark, for the spirit
was said to be a vengeful one. Of course, no one could name anyone whom the
ghost had actually killed, but the tales were enough to keep people away from
the alley at night.
Fortunately for the owners of the tavern that backed onto the alley, their front
door faced a well-lit road and so business was not slack.
Then one night, while the tavern was full of drinkers, a nasty character named
O’Hare wandered into the bar. Women and children were not safe in his presence,
but especially not women.
After O’Hare had consumed far too much alcohol, he suddenly announced to the bar
that he’d seen a pretty young thing in the alley out back of the tavern. The
bartender froze in the middle of polishing a glass, and the men around the bar
exchanged covert glances. No one said a word, but everyone was thinking about
the ghost of the vengeful young girl. Everyone in the bar looked down at their
glasses as he stumbled to his feet. No one made a move to stop him, and there
was a quiet air of “he deserves what’s coming to him” about the bar as O’Hare
left the building. It’s just too bad that there isn’t really a ghost, thought
the bartender, setting down the shining glass and picking up another one to
polish. O’Hare sorely needed a lesson in human kindness and respect for others.
At that moment, a horrible scream came from the alley. Everyone in the tavern
looked up in shock and fear. Had there really been a ghost out there? Or was
O’Hare up to his old tricks and even now accosting one of their womenfolk?
The men leapt to their feet and raced to the back door of the tavern. Pouring
out into the street, they were met by an unnatural cold, and their eyes were
dazzled by a blaze of light.
The bartender thrust his way to the front of the crowd and saw the body of
O’Hare lying in a pool of bright white light. His throat had been torn to
pieces, and blood was spilling out in gushes. Above him hovered the
semitransparent figure of a young girl, her eyes gleaming with red fire, her
mouth covered with blood. She glared down at O’Hare and then turned to look at
the crowd. The specter licked the blood from her lips thoughtfully, her eyes on
the bartender’s neck. Then she vanished, taking the light with her. At their
feet, O’Hare gasped out his last breath and died.
The local authorities were summoned to deal with the body of O’Hare. Though
skeptical at first, they were finally convinced, since there had been so many
eyewitnesses who had seen the ghost hovering over the dying man.
The bartender resigned his position the next morning and took a job across town,
the memory of the ghost’s hungry stare at his neck prompting him to look
elsewhere for employment.
Read more Canadian folklore and ghost stories in
Spooky Canada.
Spooky Canada: Tales of Hauntings, Strange Happenings, and Other Local Lore
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