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  The three burst into the house. Frantically they searched every room, every cupboard, every chest, but not a trace of the thing could they find. All the while, the housekeeper tried to hush their son, who was upset by the commotion.

  Ian and William decided to keep watch through the night. Edna took the child into her bed and kept her own uneasy watch.

  Despite their efforts, the boy was stricken with a fever in the morning. The doctor came at once, but nothing he did helped. The child grew worse. When the doctor spoke vaguely of food poisoning, the others pointed out that they had eaten the same food, and they were fine. The priest was then summoned, in the hope that prayer might achieve what medicine could not.

  But there was no remedy. The child died at noon.

  For Ian and Edna and William, grief was mixed with a desire for revenge. That night, they marched back to the churchyard, carrying a hooded lantern and shovels. There they dug into the grave that housed the maggot.

  The grave belonged to Malcolm Sharpe, a wretched man who had made life miserable for his neighbors—often threatening one or another with harm for some imagined offense. He had taken a particular dislike to the vicar and the blacksmith.

  When they unearthed the coffin, Ian and William pried up the lid while Edna held the lantern. Inside, they found the body cold but uncorrupted. Sharpe’s open eyes burned with a look of intense evil. From between the corpse’s grinning lips a liquid brightness began to seep. In terror, Ian slammed the lid down.

  The men scrambled out of the hole and doused the coffin with kerosene. When it had burned to cinders, Edna sprinkled it with holy water she had taken from the church. Then they filled in the grave and kept uneventful watch until dawn.

  The hideous specter was never seen after this. Ian and Edna mourned their son, and always regretted that their efforts to stop the evil had brought such sorrow. But they took comfort in knowing that they had kept the maggot from harming any other villager.

  Witch Woman

  (United States—African American traditional)

  Late one night, a traveler down South lost his way in a dreary swamp. He was exhausted and desperate for shelter, and faint with hunger, when he spotted a lonely cabin. Encouraged by the light in the cabin’s single window, he rapped at the door.

  An old woman answered. Though her skin was wrinkled, it had the sheen of hand-rubbed leather. Her eyes were soft, and shone in the light of the candle she held. For all her years, she moved with the easy grace of a cat.

  Hat in hand, the man politely said, “If I can just get me a hunk of corn pone and a slice of bacon, and maybe a place to bed down, I’d be willing to pay anything.”

  “Anything?” asked the woman with a curious smile.

  “Truth, ma’am, I ain’t got but a few pennies,” said the traveler. “But you’re welcome to ’em if you can spare me even a crust of bread.”

  Her smile grew bigger. “I don’t want your coins,” she said. “But I can give you better than a crust of bread. And you’ll have a place to sleep. Come in. In the morning, you can do some chores for me.”

  The hungry man’s mouth began to water when he saw a well-filled skillet cooking over the hot coals in the fireplace. The smell of frying ham made his stomach growl.

  The woman sat him at a table. Then she gave him a plate heaped with meat and greens and corn bread. It tasted so good that he ate until he felt fit to burst.

  After all the food, he was ready to sleep. He reminded her that she had promised him a bed for the night.

  “You can sleep in the woodshed,” she answered. “But mind that you don’t bother me until morning. I’m an old woman. I need my rest.” At this, she smiled the biggest smile ever.

  The man gratefully took the bit of blanket she gave him and made himself a bed in the woodshed. But once he had bedded down, he found he couldn’t sleep. A night wind circled the shed restlessly. The cries of an owl, and chirrings and scratchings under the floorboards, disturbed him.

  Across the yard, he saw the old woman’s window blazing brightly. If she was still awake, he decided, he would go and talk with her. The night was spooking him that much.

  To be sure that she wasn’t asleep, he peeked in the window.

  To his surprise he saw the woman doing a juba dance in the middle of the floor. She stopped and took a big gridiron down from the wall and raked it full of hot coals from the fireplace. Then she hauled her spinning wheel over and sat down on the gridiron. Soon her skin seemed to glow as red-hot as the coals.

  Suddenly she pinched a bit of her chin’s skin between her fingers, drew it threadlike to the spinning wheel, and began to spin the skin right off her body. Over and over she sang,

  Spin and turn

  Burn, coal, burn

  Turn and spin

  Come off, skin.

  In horror, the man watched her spin all the skin off her body. As the skin-threads pulled away, they revealed an enormous, tawny-yellow cat underneath. The creature pushed the heap of unraveled skin under the bed, saying, “Lie there, skin. I’ve got business to tend to. Tomorrow, when that fellow has done his chores, I’ll have him for supper.”

  Cackling, she leapt through the window, while the man hid. Then the cat bounded into the forest as fast as a panther.

  With the creature out in the swamp, the man didn’t dare run off. Yet it would be worse when she returned. At first, he thought his situation was hopeless. Then he had an idea.

  Slipping into the cabin, he dragged the skin from under the bed. Then he poured pepper and salt into the witch woman’s skin. Finally he put the skin back under the bed. Shaking with nervousness, he went back to the woodshed.

  Hours passed as he waited, trembling. At last he heard heavy paws pad toward the cabin. There was silence. He held his breath, peeking through a knothole. Suddenly terrible screams and moans erupted from inside the cabin. The witch stumbled into the yard, trying to pull off her old-woman skin.

  “You did this!” she bellowed, pointing her finger at the woodshed. Still tugging at her skin, she lunged across the yard. As she did, she began to change into something that was half cat, half woman.

  Thunk! She flung herself at the cabin door. Thump! Thump! For a minute he held the door shut. Then the creature’s weight splintered the old wood. Cat’s paws at the ends of human arms snatched at him, but he skedaddled backward, up the pile of sawn logs behind him. The stacked wood collapsed and rolled toward the snarling cat-woman. She stumbled and fell, just long enough for him to get out the door.

  She didn’t follow. He crept back—close enough to see that the salt and pepper had vexed her so that all she could think about was pulling off her old skin. She didn’t notice the sun beginning to rise.

  The man turned to run when the cat-shape, free of the salted skin, leapt into the yard. But the witchy thing was meant only for night. When the sunlight touched the creature’s fur, it gave a terrifying yowl and fell down dead. Without another look, the traveler fled into the lightening forest.

  The Berbalangs

  (Philippines)

  Over a century ago, Andrew Simmons, a British traveler, visited the little island of Cagayan Sulu, a lonely spot of land in the Sulu Sea between the Philippine islands and Malaysia. Simmons was intrigued by strange tales of a village at the center of the island inhabited by “Berbalangs,” who only looked like humans. It was said that they were cannibals who had cats’ eyes. When the hunger for human flesh drove them, they would lie down in the tall grass. Then they would fall into a trance and send their winged spirits hunting for victims, while their bodies stayed hidden in the grass.

  The people of Cagayan Sulu lived in fear of their unearthly neighbors. They warned Simmons that Berbalang hunters made a moaning noise, which was loud at a distance but died away to near silence as they approached their prey. When they were very close, the sound of their wings would be heard, and their flashing eyes would dance like fireflies in the dark.

  Simmons was told that a coconut pearl (a stone like an
opal, sometimes found in a coconut) would keep him safe. Without one, the only defense was a kris (knife) that had its blade rubbed with lime juice. Simmons offered to buy a coconut pearl, but he learned that the pearl only protects the one who finds it, losing its power if given away or sold.

  Determined to find the truth behind the frightening stories, Simmons vowed to visit the ghoulish tribe. At first, he could get no one to guide him. Finally one brave young man, Matali, agreed to accompany him.

  They set out the next morning from the seaside village. After a difficult trek, they sighted their destination late in the afternoon. Simmons wanted to push on, but Matali refused to go closer than half a mile. “You have seen the place,” he said to the Englishman. “Let us go.”

  “I haven’t come this far to stop now,” Simmons replied.

  Matali shrugged, making clear he would go no farther. But the young Filipino smeared his kris with lime juice and handed it to his companion. Thus armed, Simmons entered the village alone. The two dozen or so huts seemed unremarkable; but, except for a few chickens and a goat, no living thing could be seen. The Englishman entered several huts but found them deserted. In one, some rice was standing in a pot, still quite hot, as if the occupants had left just before their meal.

  When Simmons told Matali about the deserted village, the young man begged the older one to hurry away with him, saying that the empty huts meant the Berbalangs were hunting in their winged form. It was dangerous to be anywhere near.

  The sun was setting as the two began their hasty journey home. Before they had covered half the distance, it grew dark. Not a breath of air stirred. The woods were unnaturally silent.

  They had just started across a treeless valley when they heard loud moaning. Matali immediately crouched down in the long grass and signaled Simmons to hide. “The Berbalangs!” he whispered. “Pray they pass without seeing us.” Though the Englishman was doubtful, Matali’s fear was real enough. Simmons knelt also.

  The moaning grew fainter. Matali whispered that the hunters were coming closer.

  Suddenly the sound died away to a faint hum, and the sound of wings could be clearly heard. A swarm of dancing lights—like fireflies, only reddish—swept over the tall grasses. Simmons gasped as Matali gripped his arm painfully. When the lights halted and began to circle as if attracted to something in the tall grass, Simmons felt the hair on his head begin to rise.

  Then the lights passed on, the noise of the wings ceased, and the moaning grew louder. “They have gone,” Matali said. “We are safe for a while.”

  Staying in the shadows, alert for the flickering red lights, they raced for Matali’s village. Once, they saw the lights of an isolated house, far from the path. To their horror they heard moaning, loud at first, but growing fainter. Above the roof swirled countless red specks, like chimney sparks.

  “We must help those people,” said Simmons.

  “Hassan, who owns the house, has a coconut pearl to protect him,” said Matali. “Hurry! This is our chance to escape.”

  Simmons hurried.

  In the morning, Simmons chided himself for having been fool enough to let Matali’s fear and the swarming fireflies scare him.

  When Simmons asked about the man, Hassan, Matali confessed that he had lied about Hassan’s having a coconut pearl. Hassan had arrived only recently. He was a scholar who was studying the history and culture of the island, and he laughed off stories about the Berbalangs.

  “Sounds like a man after my own heart,” said Simmons. “I’ll pay him a visit. He’s sure to have some interesting views.”

  When the Englishman reached Hassan’s house, no one answered his knock, but the latch gave way and the door swung open. Calling Hassan’s name, Simmons entered the house. The shades of split bamboo were rolled down, so the place was in deep shadow. He could make out a desk littered with books and papers.

  Suddenly he backed away with a gasp.

  Huddled on the corner bed was Hassan’s body; only a few scraps of flesh still clung to the bony fingers clutching the shredded sheet.

  Simmons stumbled to the door, then froze. Over the rippling grass, through veils of shimmering heat, came the sound of moans growing steadily fainter.

  The Dancing Dead of Shark Island

  (British Isles—Ireland)

  Just off the coast of Ireland lies the island that the locals call Shark Island, though its proper name is Inishark. One November night, Kathleen O’Connor, a young woman, trudged wearily along the road. She had been visiting a sickly relative and was now heading home. But the road was steep and rocky; she grew so tired that she sat down to rest. She shivered with more than the chill night air, for it was now the dread time that the islanders called “the hour of the dead.”

  She drew her shawl around her and closed her eyes for just a moment.

  Then the sound of crunching gravel woke her. Instantly she opened her eyes and pressed her hand to her mouth to stop a startled cry. A pale young man was approaching her, though she could have sworn that the moonlit road had stretched empty before her when she had paused to rest only moments earlier.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said. His voice was gentle and his face was kind, though he seemed very sad.

  “Indeed,” said Kathleen, “there is something familiar about you.”

  “Look well at me,” he answered, coming a step closer. “Now do you know me?”

  “Yes, I know you now,” she said, her voice dying away to a frightened whisper. “You are young Brian, who was drowned last year when out fishing. Why are you here?”

  “Look,” he said, pointing to the side of a nearby hill. “That is why I have come.”

  Kathleen looked and saw a great company dancing to the sweet music of unseen pipes and drums. So graceful were their movements that they seemed to step and bow and spin as daintily as butterflies darting over blossoms.

  The sight chilled her to the bone: for among those who danced so beautifully, she recognized all the people who had died on the island for as long as she could remember. Men, women, and children were clothed in white, and their faces were as pale as bone in the moonlight. So intent were they on the fairy music that they did not seem to notice the young woman who watched their revels in fascination and fright.

  But when the music stopped, all the ghastly faces turned toward her. They raised bone-white hands, beckoning her to join them. They drifted toward her, stretching out their fingers as though they would take hold of her and drag her onto the hillside.

  “Run for your life!” warned Brian’s ghost. “If they bring you into the dance, you will never leave this company again.”

  Terrified for her soul, Kathleen turned to flee. But at that moment the hidden musicians again began to play. The unearthly music froze the unfortunate young woman where she stood trembling, as the smiling dancers gathered around her in a circle.

  Brian, himself a thrall to the music, joined his hands with those of the other dancers. Around and around Kathleen they danced. The fairy musicians played madly. The ghosts spun faster and faster, until they became a blur of whirling white in which she could no longer make out faces and forms.

  Faster and still faster they swept around her. It made Kathleen dizzy to watch; the drums and pipes filled her ears and head with a frenzied throbbing. Her senses began to swirl; she grew faint. All at once she fell to the ground, unconscious.

  She knew no more till she woke up the next morning in her own bed. Her brother, Kevin, anxious when she did not return, had gone out searching for her, found her in a faint, and brought her home.

  But there was a weakness and a forgetfulness in her, so that she could not tell what had happened.

  The herb doctor was sent for, and he tried every measure he could to save her. But in the end, he shook his head and whispered to Kevin, “She has got the fairy stroke, and nothing can heal her.”

  Indeed, though Kevin kept watch and prayed by Kathleen’s bed, she grew steadily weaker.

  Just as the moon rose tha
t night, she turned her head a bit, as though listening. “Do you not hear it?” she asked.

  Anxiously her brother listened. Sure enough, now he could hear soft music, infinitely sweet, unbearably sad, all around the house. When he stepped to the window to see who the musicians were, he saw nothing but the moonlit meadow behind the house.

  The music stopped. There was a sigh from the bed, then silence. When he returned to Kathleen’s bedside, Kevin found that she was dead.

  Outside, the ghostly musicians struck up a mocking, lively tune. Mad with grief, Kevin flung himself out the door.

  In the distance, for an instant, he saw Kathleen dancing away from their cottage, toward the moon-bright hills. She paused briefly to wave her pale hand at him; then she faded from his view as the music died away into silence.

  “That I See, but This I Sew”

  (British Isles—Scotland)

  In the Scottish town of Beauly there was once a tailor, Sandy, who worked very hard; but he could not manage to put enough coins aside to get married.

  It happened that the girl he loved, Flora, was also desired by Angus, who was a well-to-do farmer. But Flora wanted no part of Angus or his promises of riches and a grand house. She loved Sandy, and that was that. She would wait until he had put enough by for them to wed; and she put aside what she earned as a lady’s maid so that she could marry her dearie all the sooner.

  Now, there was the shell of a church nearby. During a feud between two powerful clans, it had been set on fire by the MacDonalds when it had been full of MacKenzies. Not a single MacKenzie had escaped. Since that time, the church was said to be haunted, and no one would go near it after sunset.

  One day, Angus went to Sandy’s tailor shop on the pretense of having a shirt mended. As Sandy plied his needle the two men chatted, and Angus brought the talk around to Sandy’s lack of money to wed Flora.