31 October 2017
Story #885
Halloween, R. Linda!
"A time of ghouls and ghosts, of spooks and spectres, of whispers in empty rooms, of menace and mayhem. Listen as if your life depended upon it. Because tonight... it might."
I have a story for you from the 1890s. One of a ghost dog with no eyes, a coffin made out of snow - yes, strange stuff it be.
It all began here in New England, Vermont, to be exact, when there was a particularly bad winter of nor'easters that brought almost continuous snow. It all started one October around Halloween time. The white fluff slowly accumulated and accumulated and accumulated. At times, it was so high that it was difficult for the residents of one small village to leave for essentials. This particular year, one Michael McBride left his wife and three young children to go to work. The snow was falling heavily and thickly; large flakes usually meant the snow would end soon, and with this in mind, Michael ventured out. However, as he trudged through the cold white snow, the flakes became smaller and more intense, and he knew too late the snow would accumulate even higher.
He made it to his work at a leather harness shop and toiled all day, keeping an eye on the window as the snow continued to pile up. A few times, he went out and shovelled it so customers could come in, but no one came. He told himself the walk home would be a trying one, but it was payday, and he needed his pay to feed his young ones for the coming week.
Michael stayed a little longer than he usually would, hoping the snow might stop. When it did not, he left with a bad feeling in his bones. Michael's way home was through the woods along a ridge by the Middlebury River. In places, the river ran fast and somewhat deep, but the sound of it rushing over the rocks was one he listened for to keep himself on the path since it was hard to see in the dark.
Along the way, he came upon two men who seemed to appear out of nowhere. They stepped in his path.
As he came up to them, they gave them a strange feeling, a chill rippling along his spine.
"Halloo," he said as he met them.
They did not move, nor could he see their faces because they had wrapped scarves that left just enough of their eyes visible. Their eyes did not look friendly in the dim light.
"May I pass?" He asked, sidestepping, but one caught him by the arm, and the other came up behind him, throwing his arm around Michael's throat and pulling tightly.
Michael swallowed, his Adam's apple hurting from the man's pressure. He could not speak as they rifled through his pockets and found his pay. The man stuffed it in his own pockets, and the other took a knife and thrust it into Michael's side several times. Then he threw him over the ridge, where Michael, still alive, rolled down into a culvert near the edge of the freezing water.
Without even a backwards glance, the two murderers took off, ignoring Michael's groaning pleas for help. So bad were Michael's wounds that he could not crawl to get himself out of the bloody culvert. He lay there bleeding for a long time, not a soul in sight to help. Soon, the ebbing of his strength gave way to the cold, and numbness took hold of him.
Meanwhile, at home, his wife, Mary, looked out the window at the ever-piling snow, worried that he was late. Was he delayed, or had he lost his way? She was concerned but put on a brave face for the three children who asked too frequently for their father. Even their dog, a white boxer, was whining, which made Mary even more fretful. Unable to bear the dog's whimpering, she opened the door and let him out. She watched as he ran like a flash in the direction her husband would come, faster and with more need than she'd ever seen him. He leapt over the snow like a deer until his coat blended in with his surroundings, and she lost sight of him.
The dog somehow sensed its master was in trouble that night, as dogs do sense things we do not. It ran the long way to the river like its life depended upon it. As it neared the edge of the woods, the two murderers were just coming out when they saw the dog. They knew whose dog it was and called it to them. The boxer stopped six feet from the men, growling. The dog could smell his master's blood upon them, and it lunged at the one with the knife. He had got the knife out but dropped it as the dog leapt and knocked him down, ripping at the man's hands as the miscreant fought to fend the boxer off. The other went for the knife and with a terrible force brought the blade down without looking and put out one of the dog's eyes, this caused the dog to yelp in pain and pull off but the other man held him, and once again his partner brought the blade down and took out the other eye. They let the dog go as it staggered about dying, its left paw pawing at its face, blind and bleeding.
"I'll finish it off," the one with the knife said, and it was easy because the dog was blind and distressed. Straddling the animal, he brought the blade down and under into the heart, killing the boxer. They threw the carcass behind a huge boulder and left the scene.
It wasn't long before the snow covered the blood, and there was no sign of any footprints or a struggle.
Story #885
Halloween, R. Linda!
"A time of ghouls and ghosts, of spooks and spectres, of whispers in empty rooms, of menace and mayhem. Listen as if your life depended upon it. Because tonight... it might."
I have a story for you from the 1890s. One of a ghost dog with no eyes, a coffin made out of snow - yes, strange stuff it be.
It all began here in New England, Vermont, to be exact, when there was a particularly bad winter of nor'easters that brought almost continuous snow. It all started one October around Halloween time. The white fluff slowly accumulated and accumulated and accumulated. At times, it was so high that it was difficult for the residents of one small village to leave for essentials. This particular year, one Michael McBride left his wife and three young children to go to work. The snow was falling heavily and thickly; large flakes usually meant the snow would end soon, and with this in mind, Michael ventured out. However, as he trudged through the cold white snow, the flakes became smaller and more intense, and he knew too late the snow would accumulate even higher.
He made it to his work at a leather harness shop and toiled all day, keeping an eye on the window as the snow continued to pile up. A few times, he went out and shovelled it so customers could come in, but no one came. He told himself the walk home would be a trying one, but it was payday, and he needed his pay to feed his young ones for the coming week.
Michael stayed a little longer than he usually would, hoping the snow might stop. When it did not, he left with a bad feeling in his bones. Michael's way home was through the woods along a ridge by the Middlebury River. In places, the river ran fast and somewhat deep, but the sound of it rushing over the rocks was one he listened for to keep himself on the path since it was hard to see in the dark.
Along the way, he came upon two men who seemed to appear out of nowhere. They stepped in his path.
As he came up to them, they gave them a strange feeling, a chill rippling along his spine.
"Halloo," he said as he met them.
They did not move, nor could he see their faces because they had wrapped scarves that left just enough of their eyes visible. Their eyes did not look friendly in the dim light.
"May I pass?" He asked, sidestepping, but one caught him by the arm, and the other came up behind him, throwing his arm around Michael's throat and pulling tightly.
Michael swallowed, his Adam's apple hurting from the man's pressure. He could not speak as they rifled through his pockets and found his pay. The man stuffed it in his own pockets, and the other took a knife and thrust it into Michael's side several times. Then he threw him over the ridge, where Michael, still alive, rolled down into a culvert near the edge of the freezing water.
Without even a backwards glance, the two murderers took off, ignoring Michael's groaning pleas for help. So bad were Michael's wounds that he could not crawl to get himself out of the bloody culvert. He lay there bleeding for a long time, not a soul in sight to help. Soon, the ebbing of his strength gave way to the cold, and numbness took hold of him.
Meanwhile, at home, his wife, Mary, looked out the window at the ever-piling snow, worried that he was late. Was he delayed, or had he lost his way? She was concerned but put on a brave face for the three children who asked too frequently for their father. Even their dog, a white boxer, was whining, which made Mary even more fretful. Unable to bear the dog's whimpering, she opened the door and let him out. She watched as he ran like a flash in the direction her husband would come, faster and with more need than she'd ever seen him. He leapt over the snow like a deer until his coat blended in with his surroundings, and she lost sight of him.
The dog somehow sensed its master was in trouble that night, as dogs do sense things we do not. It ran the long way to the river like its life depended upon it. As it neared the edge of the woods, the two murderers were just coming out when they saw the dog. They knew whose dog it was and called it to them. The boxer stopped six feet from the men, growling. The dog could smell his master's blood upon them, and it lunged at the one with the knife. He had got the knife out but dropped it as the dog leapt and knocked him down, ripping at the man's hands as the miscreant fought to fend the boxer off. The other went for the knife and with a terrible force brought the blade down without looking and put out one of the dog's eyes, this caused the dog to yelp in pain and pull off but the other man held him, and once again his partner brought the blade down and took out the other eye. They let the dog go as it staggered about dying, its left paw pawing at its face, blind and bleeding.
"I'll finish it off," the one with the knife said, and it was easy because the dog was blind and distressed. Straddling the animal, he brought the blade down and under into the heart, killing the boxer. They threw the carcass behind a huge boulder and left the scene.
It wasn't long before the snow covered the blood, and there was no sign of any footprints or a struggle.
Mary, meanwhile, at home, was left to get the children abed and fret with worry as she sat alone by the window, waiting until dawn's light. The snow had reached blizzard proportions, and for the next few days, no one went about. Mary was able to get the word out about her missing husband and his dog a week later. She had the hope that both had found the snow deep and impassable and had the common sense to hunker down at a neighbour's.
That turned out to be wishful thinking, and as the winter progressed and the snow continued to pile up, neither dog nor master returned. A variety of scenarios ran through Mary's mind. Had her husband left her? Taken his dog and gone forever? Had he been waylaid by robbers? Yet, no one reported any crime or body found, but what about the dog? Where did it go in such a hurry? What did it sense? Was Michael not far away and calling to him so they could leave together? Was that why the dog took off so quickly? She didn't know, and these thoughts bedevilled her for months.
The spring finally came, and still no word. Mary's worry turned to anger.
As the year passed, Mary lost her home and had to give over her children to a magistrate. She had no money, and she couldn't properly care for either herself or them. With the loss came bitterness toward her missing husband. She moved south to Massachusetts to live with a sister, as she could no longer abide Middlebury.
It was three years past before Michael's body was found, nothing more than blackened bones caught in old sticks at the river's edge by two young boys out to fish. It was determined he had been murdered for his pay. By who? They thought they knew. Two vagrants who haunted the river at the time and were aware of Michael's movements, and even worse, knew when he received his pay. They disappeared after the storm, the year Michael disappeared, and many wondered, but no one voiced their suspicions until the body was found and the inquest finished.
They were never caught, and Mary was told and relieved in a small way. She spent the rest of her life guilt-ridden about giving up her children and the ugly thoughts she had of her husband. She died of fever not long after, so it is hoped she found some peace.
But our story doesn't end there. No, R. Linda, there is a footnote.
The little cottage that Michael and Mary lived in is still standing. It was used as a summer retreat through the years, but not until recently was it renovated with modern plumbing, new electric lighting, and some contemporary amenities. A young couple, newly married, bought it and fixed it up. They enjoyed their spring and summer there, but when late October came, they noticed a change in the feel of the place. A coldness seemed to fill the house, and the newly refurbished fireplace could not take the chill away for some reason. Odd that. But odder still was the sound at the screen door at night. It sounded like a dog scratching to come in, but there was no dog. Yet the screen was torn at the bottom of the door, and there was no explanation.
When the snow fell, something strange appeared slowly, by increments, on their deck. The snow would build, and build, and build, and with it, a white coffin would appear on the top of the picnic table.
At first, the young couple wasn't sure what the snow was building until it became apparent what the shape looked like. Each time Tom, the young homeowner, would go out and shovel it off, it would reform. Once they left the 'coffin' alone, something more bizarre would happen: the scratching at the door at night stopped, and a dog's howl could be heard in the woods. Tom's wife, Annie, thought she had seen a white dog prowling at the edge of the woods a few times, but she wasn't sure until one day she went outside with her two little ones to make a snowman in the falling snow. She was snapping pictures of them and their snowman when she spied a dog creeping along the edge of the woods. She put her camera on zoom and took these.
She also took a picture of the coffin at night and then during the day.
A postscript for you, the cottage is for sale. No explanation was given.
Gabe
Copyright © 2017 All rights reserved
That turned out to be wishful thinking, and as the winter progressed and the snow continued to pile up, neither dog nor master returned. A variety of scenarios ran through Mary's mind. Had her husband left her? Taken his dog and gone forever? Had he been waylaid by robbers? Yet, no one reported any crime or body found, but what about the dog? Where did it go in such a hurry? What did it sense? Was Michael not far away and calling to him so they could leave together? Was that why the dog took off so quickly? She didn't know, and these thoughts bedevilled her for months.
The spring finally came, and still no word. Mary's worry turned to anger.
As the year passed, Mary lost her home and had to give over her children to a magistrate. She had no money, and she couldn't properly care for either herself or them. With the loss came bitterness toward her missing husband. She moved south to Massachusetts to live with a sister, as she could no longer abide Middlebury.
It was three years past before Michael's body was found, nothing more than blackened bones caught in old sticks at the river's edge by two young boys out to fish. It was determined he had been murdered for his pay. By who? They thought they knew. Two vagrants who haunted the river at the time and were aware of Michael's movements, and even worse, knew when he received his pay. They disappeared after the storm, the year Michael disappeared, and many wondered, but no one voiced their suspicions until the body was found and the inquest finished.
They were never caught, and Mary was told and relieved in a small way. She spent the rest of her life guilt-ridden about giving up her children and the ugly thoughts she had of her husband. She died of fever not long after, so it is hoped she found some peace.
But our story doesn't end there. No, R. Linda, there is a footnote.
The little cottage that Michael and Mary lived in is still standing. It was used as a summer retreat through the years, but not until recently was it renovated with modern plumbing, new electric lighting, and some contemporary amenities. A young couple, newly married, bought it and fixed it up. They enjoyed their spring and summer there, but when late October came, they noticed a change in the feel of the place. A coldness seemed to fill the house, and the newly refurbished fireplace could not take the chill away for some reason. Odd that. But odder still was the sound at the screen door at night. It sounded like a dog scratching to come in, but there was no dog. Yet the screen was torn at the bottom of the door, and there was no explanation.
 |
| Something wants in |
At first, the young couple wasn't sure what the snow was building until it became apparent what the shape looked like. Each time Tom, the young homeowner, would go out and shovel it off, it would reform. Once they left the 'coffin' alone, something more bizarre would happen: the scratching at the door at night stopped, and a dog's howl could be heard in the woods. Tom's wife, Annie, thought she had seen a white dog prowling at the edge of the woods a few times, but she wasn't sure until one day she went outside with her two little ones to make a snowman in the falling snow. She was snapping pictures of them and their snowman when she spied a dog creeping along the edge of the woods. She put her camera on zoom and took these.
 |
| Definitely a boxer |
 |
| Creepy!!! |
 |
| Can you imagine seeing THIS at night? |
 |
| The day shot was just as unnerving |
Gabe
Copyright © 2017 All rights reserved
CREEPY! BUT so very sad. I would never live in a house like that, too scary
ReplyDeleteyikes! that is not something i'd want to see on my table.
ReplyDeleteThat coffin Matey is dire. Gives me the chilly willies!
ReplyDeleteI think the Captain is right that coffin is chilling, excuse the pun. And here I was of a mind that a summer home in Vermont might be in my future. I think I will look across the Connecticut now LOL.
ReplyDelete