A Ghoul-den Oldie

Whether the night be raw or no, gather yourself up cozy~nested in one of the overstuffeds fronting the warming hearth, and right up close to it, now, because I have the urge in me to spout a Tale Worthy of a Tell, as my Great Aunt Driven always tags them, so, likely, you're going to need a little bit, if not more, of anything that will deflect The Shivers!

White as the Driven Snow

FIRSTLY: Curious? That is, about my great~auntie's nickname, "Driven"? Long ago and maybe even before that, my aunt acquired a new label when her hair suddenly, but for incredibly good reason, whitened at an age typically when it would be least expected!(?) That indeed is another Tale Worthy of a Tell, do tell!

But I shan't. Can't. And I apologize if I have just put you on the edge of your cushion on a count of the "Great~Aunt Driven's Hair as White as the Driven Snow" story untold, as it will have to keep, for I have another yarn I'm anxious to unravel! *caving out of necessity to inform, steals a bit from the Tick~Tock in order give a history that is brief* This much about her I will spew, though: Dear Auntie Driven is answerable when it comes to the whosit, whysit, and howsit of me greatly being interested in the first place in what I'm about to share with you. Read on, then, before you read on!

Whereas some people delight in their ongoing accumulation of salt and peppers (As in shakers, that is. My other great aunt, Tu, rather finds this a "jolly good sport!"); "books of major significance" *low~tones voice* ~~but then again, mostly NOT, a~hem. (That would be you, Gemmama!); or "decades and decades of spent saliva," as my philatelist Great Uncle Ned refers to his agglomeration of stamps and assorted posted envelopes from around the globe, I, on the other hand, collect ghost stories (and other assorted frightful narratives) ~~a knack, if you will, that I "inherited" from dear Driven, who is likewise a fancier of the same and has treasured me with a many taken from her personal anthology. (Please know that I am till~my~dying~day everso appreciative, Auntie Driven!)

Still comfy? Being sitty before fireplace crackles hasn't become too hot for you? (Please, smooth your upper furrows, because not to worry: stray cinders rarely escape Our Fires, that I promise you.) *sets fun~fussy chin~wags aside* Ready~steady~go, then, for a "bump in the night" taken from my Ghoul~den Oldies file (my collection of ghost and scary stories that always bear repeating) and one certain to give you that goblins~blowing~cold~breath~on~you feel?! This Tale Worthy of a Tell begins:

Way ago back, there was a man
who went out hunting in the woods.

Just as suddenly as night fell, he found himself lost in the forest. It was when more aimless walking and even more aimless walking proved to be circles that did not take him home, that he happened upon a small clearing

where an old, ramshackle cabin stood with its door ajar. Poking his tired and weary head inside and about, he could see a bed with nobody in it, and a fire burning in the fireplace with nobody tending it. As big big yawns did spill from that same head, he shrugged and flung himself on the bed for the night, having decided to explain himself, come morning, if the owner came back.

But before sleep fully took him, he looked around and was surprised to see the walls were largely hung with paintings. By all appearances, they were family portraits, all framed and painted in remarkable detail. They seemed very life~like and, without exception, each subject was uglier than the next. The hideous faces in the paintings made him strangely uneasy. The artist's technique made it seem as if the eyes were staring directly at him! It was quite unnerving. So much so that the exhausted man had to pull the blanket over his head in order to drift off to sleep.

In the morning, the hunter woke up to find the cabin bathed in sunlight. When he looked up, he discovered there were no family portraits on the walls of the cabin,

ONLY WINDOWS.

. . . . . . .

*cups ear and leans in for a listen*

Just as I thought!
No worries.
I never tell this tale without
baking ahead a remedy:

Rubies and Racēmi Nut~Maple Pie
A wonderfully~different delicious cranberry and raisin baked~plate with a woodland filling mixture, whose receipt I shall share with you just as soon as I locate the presently "hidden" card it's written on. (Oh, do I love the absentminded Magic that is me! Lol!) Do look for it listed in my Comment section, hopefully later this day.

Might I interest you in a lovely slice of pie to help settle those rattled bones of yours?

It Was a Dark and Stormy Night...

Gather ‘round the cauldron, everyone, and cozy your overstuffeds right up close to it, because I have a Tale Worthy of a Tell, as my Great Aunt Driven always calls them. (Curious? Long ago and maybe even before that, my aunt was nicknamed such, because her hair suddenly whitened at an unexpected age (?!) ~but that’s another story indeed.) She’s the one who got me interested in the first place in what I'm about to share with you. Whereas some people delight in their ongoing accumulation of

I couldn’t stop myself from posting these--my Tulah would simply die for them! I just might put them under the tree for her, come Christmas!)
salt and peppers
( My other great aunt, Tu, does.),

or "books of major significance" but then again, mostly not (That would be you, Gemmama!), or "decades and decades of spent saliva," as my philatelist Great Uncle Ned refers to it, I, on the other hand, collect ghost stories ~~many of which I inherited from dear Driven, who does the same.

Still comfy? Cauldron’s not too hot or bubbly for you? Then here’s a bump in the night from my "Recentlies" file. It’sure to give you that goblins-blowing-cold-breath-on-you feel:

It was a dark and stormy night... GOTCHA! That was just me tinkering with you! I’ve always wanted my telling of a tale to open that way, and I thought this might be that opportunity. A thousand pardons, then? Thank you! No more fun-fussy, I promise you. I will begin again:

This uncanny story comes from a young man named Shawn, who grew up in a very old house. But it’s best when he’s spinning the yarn:

"As a result of pecking order, I got the single attic room by myself. One summer night when I was about sixteen, it was so hot in my room that I couldn’t stand it. So, around one o’clock in the morning, I decided to go downstairs, where I collapsed in the livingroom loveseat. I didn’t bother to turn the lights on.

"I hadn’t been there long when I sensed that someone was sitting next to me. Next to me was a woman wearing an old-fashioned wedding dress. No sooner had I seen the young bride than, out of the corner of my eye, I saw the figure of a man dressed as a minister standing in front of the loveseat. He was muttering something like, ‘You could marry my daughter.’ I just sat there, frozen. Then he began reciting, ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today...’

"I thought I must be dreaming, so I jumped up and ran to the kitchen sink to splash water on my face. But, just before I could get to the sink, the man reappeared in front of me again, repeating, ‘Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today...’ I looked to my left and there she was standing again–-the woman in the wedding dress–-standing next to me. So I ran past the minisster—or rather through him—and back up to my attic bedroom. I got under the covers—because ghosts can’t get you when you’re under the covers—and tried to forget about the heat and about what just happened. Eventually, I fell asleep.

"The next morning, I decided not to tell anybody for fear they’d think I was crazy. Years later, My sister and I were talking about that house. At one point, she asked me if I knew the history of it. I told her no and asked her to fill me in. She told me that there was a young woman living there long ago who was jilted on her wedding day. For years afterwards, she never left the house.

"There was no electricity in the house back then, and folks would sometimes see her at night, walking with a candle. She died in the room that became my sister’s room after my family moved in.

"My sister went on to tell me about something strange that had happened to her in the house. It happened one night after she broke up with her boyfriend. She was laying on her bed, crying when she heard the distinct sound of a woman cackling right there in the room with her."
(Excerpted from a called The Ghost Next Door by Mark Alan Morris, whom I hope doesn’t mind me passing the story along to you, here. Thank you very kindly, sir!)

You can’t help but wonder what would have happen if Shawn had stuck around for the rest of the ceremony!

Now might I interest you in a piece of pie to settle those rattled bones?

It’s blueberry booberry!

bride, pie: I'm still trying to locate the source, as I seem to have misplaced it!