Ghost Stories

E-mail Subscription

Receive an e-mail notification of new posts on this site:

Ghost Stories - A Vintage Halloween

Harry Spook and the Finger

September 8th 2009 16:42

Here is a scary Halloween fun activity to do for all ages--- Guaranteed to make your guests skin crawl. Get dressed in a witches hat and gown, find a large over-sized book (for your spell book) copy Harry the Spook story. Put the story in the large book and get ready to ready with the lights dim - hold a flashlight -so all you can see is the paper you are reading. Have spooky haunting music playing in the background. Pass around pails of guts, hair and eyeballs for everyone to feel (as you are reading the story ) and get the -real scoop on Harry the Spook story. End the story with a real nifty little box - where you let the curious person open the lid to see - what's inside for a surprise. Have a helper -if you can pass around the goodies-as you slowly read the chilling tale of the remains of Harry Spook. It is loads of screams for all ages.

HARRY SPOOK and the Finger
A long time ago on a spooky Halloween night, a very bad and crazy man named Harry Spook decided to go out, and scare little children while they were trick or treating. He threw eggs at people’s houses, decorated the trees with toilet paper, and jumped out of the bushes screaming and making all the children cry. He even stole their candy! The bigger girls and boys decided they weren’t going to take it anymore! They made a plan to get Harry Spook, and get him good! They snuck up on him when he was hiding in the bushes and jumped on him! He was so scared…he fainted!!! They put him into a trash can and put the lid on tight. Then they rolled it down the street to an old shed in the woods. They put the trash can with old Harry spook inside, into the shed and locked the door, no one ever went back there again.. Well. I was one of those kids! Today…all these years later. I took a ride back to that old shed in the woods. I unlocked the door with this old key. I opened the lid. And here’s what I found…I put it into these pails so you could enjoy what’s left of Old Harry Spook…

In this fist pail I put his hair. It was gray and very dirty it smelled terrible-
(PASS IT AROUND ).

In this pail I put one of Harry’s hands- if you’ll notice, it’s still warm! (PASS IT AROUND)
In this pail I put a few of Harry’s bones they’re all bloody and slimy.
In this pail I put Harry Spooks’ eyeballs… there was a lot of goopy stuff so I put that in too.
In this pail, I put a few of Harry’s toes. They are also still WARM! The toe nails were black and fell off in the pail.
In this pail I just grabbed up a hand full of guts. They are very mushy, rotten and bloody, filled with maggots and worms!
And last, but not least, I put Harry spooks brains in this pail, they too, are sill WARM and Slimy!
I have one more thing to share with you. While you feel the brains, I’ll go get it.
When we put that lid on Harry’s trash can, His finger got caught and fell off onto the floor. I picked it up and put it in my pocket. When I got home I put it into this box and I have always kept it under my bed…
If you would just lift the cover, I’ll let you all take a look… (show the boxed finger)
The End
Read on to see what you will need:

7 pails (or cardboard boxes – with holes cut out to stick hand inside and feel)
Hair- Old wig
Hands- Rubber glove with warm water
Bones-Plastic bones or stick with ketchup
Eyeballs-Grapes
Toes-Warm hot dogs fake nails or pumpkin seeds
Guts- Spaghetti
Brains- Noodles

-Put on gloves and key-get finger box ready

Vote

Add Comments

[ Link ]

Posted By: sylvia pimental - Category: Ghost Stories

Email this Post to a Friend

A Story To Die For.......

July 1st 2009 18:53

A story to die for
by Rob Hopcott

Those who like car boot sales, whodunnits with a thriller murder mystery with a good plot will be well pleased by this short story.

A whodunnit set somewhere in the deep countryside, it is a thriller murder mystery story that shows how both good and evil can come from standing up to the rich and powerful.
***
He would always set up his wooden box in the busiest part of the monthly car boot sale.
“Give me some space will you.”

Impervious to the pushing and jostling, he’d climb aboard and balance precariously. The crowd would part around him - almost recoil.
But then as he talked in his special way, people would become curious. Like snakes fascinated by the charmer, they would move closer. Each time he would have a new theme. Then whatever he said and whatever he sold to the crowds around him would act as a pall over the ensuing weeks or bring a cheery grin to passers by - until the next time.
Waving above his head a slim bundle of pages, he would peer down at a middle aged Mrs., comfortably replete in slacks and rolling contentedness, with his single eye.
“Madam,” his voice was deep and resonant. “Madam, what do you know about adultery?”
The implication was that she knew more than she would be willing to admit.

“Madam, would you walk away and miss finding out what happened?”
This was his favorite phrase. It raised a question in the minds of those around him. It tweaked their curiosity.
“This week,” he would say, “I have an account that is depraved and disgusting. Those of a weak disposition MUST NOT ..” His voice rose into a tremulous falsetto, “MUST NOT purchase this slim tome - for I will not allow it.”
“Only those who, out of a sense of outrage, are brave enough to experience first hand the fruits of true sexual peccadillo should dare to delve within.”
“Go on, you don’t know what you are talking about, One Eye!” scorned a pretty young twenty-something. Her slim hips had been poured into cut off shorts and her push chair was loaded with bargains and snoozing offspring.
“And you’re in the story too, so you can’t talk,” said One Eye. The girl giggled.
“If I’m in the story it’ll be a pretty boring story judging by my sex life,” she said.
The crowd around tittered.
“You can talk and laugh as much as you like,” said One Eye, “but I have conducted extensive research for this little piece of investigative journalism and I know that the people exposed in these pages are at this very moment quaking with fear.”

He surveyed the growing group around him, his one eye shining brightly.
“Quaking in their shoes and underwear, and more about that I will not say for fear of offending you gentle country folk gathered here to celebrate this piece of literary genius.”
And so the haranguing would go on backwards and forwards between the local writer and the crowd. Then one by one they would pay their pound sterling and carry away the slim volumes to read either in their cars or later when they got home - just in case a neighbor would see their blushes.
Then the rumors would start.
“I reckon its that John that did it, you know him that lives down by the marshes.”
“Never, he wouldn’t have the courage - it’s Fred over on the other side of the hill. He always had an eye for the ladies. I knew one who stayed overnight and she was never the same again and wouldn’t talk about it.”

“What a thing for a woman to do - can you credit it - disgusting I call it and, all the time, her husband next door.
“The conversations went on and on. Always puzzling, always wanting to know. Sometimes the response was angry.
“That vile man. All that power and he uses it like that. He is supposed to be working for the community but he’s got fat on it and is kept in office by elderly voters living in the past. If I could get my hands on him in his posh London Board room, I’d give him a talking to.”
“Go on, he doesn’t care. It’d be water off a ducks back. He’s laughing all the way to the Bank with his cronies - and they own the Bank. He’d laugh in your face.”
“Then I’d dot him one right in the middle of his stupid face, the slimy rat.”
“Anyway, it’s supposed to be a story. You don’t know if it’s really about him.”
“I know enough! One of my business mates tried to get some help from him - as is his right - and said more or less the same thing. He was more interested in whether a non-executive Board room job was likely to become available than the merits of the case.”
Backwards and forwards the conversations went. It was supposed to be fiction but every body believed it was fact and in a small community everybody believed that they could spot the characters. And then the next time would come and grudgingly they would crowd around him and buy his latest offering.
If the books had been sold in the local book shop nobody would have bought them. Next to the bright covers of historical romances and hi-tech thrillers, the photocopied pages, hand folded and wrapped in a blank cover would not have appealed.

It was the immediacy of his presence and the knowledge that others would inevitably buy or, on a bad day, be given the secrets to which he was privy that brought the desire to know.
Whether all that he wrote was as a result of extensive research or whether he was just a good and shrewd judge of character, nobody knew. Perhaps he just had a very fertile imagination and the courage to stand up literarily and be counted.
But his descriptions never disappointed. His imagery was sharp, his character descriptions poignant. You could taste the food on which his characters dined and the cider that they drank. His bushes were a deeper green and his roses blossomed more brightly.
At the end of an account, he always left you feeling better. You had lived through an event that was important for somebody. You were uplifted by the experience. Drawn in by curiosity, the form of his art was to supply nothing less than satisfaction.
“You should get yourself published properly, Jack,” one onlooker shouted.
“And one day I’ll write a story to tell you exactly why I’d never do that,” yelled back Jack. His thick set lips curled with distaste in the mass of his ragged beard at the thought of fame, fortune and corporate money.
One day he was recounting the outline of a story to the gathered crowd when a stranger pushed through and tugged on his arm.
Hesitating for a few minutes and then obviously in distress, Jack gathered up his box and followed him away from the crowds and out to his old Ford motor that was always parked outside the car boot area.
Then he disappeared ……
People instantly missed him.
“Where’s old One Eye”, they would say at the car boot sale. “He’s not been around for a while. Silly old duffer - hope he hasn’t come to harm. Couldn’t write of course - but I’d buy the odd one just out of charity really. Do you know where he lived - did he have any family?”
And so it went on. For years, although an oddball, he had been part of the community. Now he was remembered with affection. As the weeks then months passed, slowly his name passed into folk memory.

“Used to be a writer at this car boot you know. Suddenly disappeared. Never did hear what happened to him. They say he was offered a job on a London Magazine as a features writer - around here probably wasn’t not good enough for him, I’ll warrant. Of course we felt let down after we’d supported him all those years by buying his silly stories. I doubt we’ll ever know where he went to now.
But they did get to know and in the strangest way you could imagine.
Photocopied sheets of typed paper suddenly began to appear around the town, in a telephone box Â… on the counter of the local paper shop.
“I don’t know how they got there,” said Barney, the owner.
More copies appeared and each without warning and from unexpected places.
Some people, once they had got a copy and got over the shock of the contents, did more. They copied the pages again - and gave them to their friends.
“It reads like One Eye, the style is the same and the pages look the same, but when you read inside, you can’t see how it can be!”
The same phrases passed backwards and forwards from mouth to mouth and each time another pair of eyes would avidly read the lurid tale. Some were moved to tears.
“I could just see the woods and feel how he loved them as he walked on that final journey. Rhododendrons have always been a favorite of mine but to be buried under one - I couldn’t bear that.
“For me it was the way he fought of his attacker until his one eye got so damaged he couldn’t see at all. How he broke away at one point and then hid from them wounded and bleeding for hours - how they eventually found him again and even then he still fought on.”
“But he was outnumbered and they got him in the end. And the people responsible did it all for a contract - they had nothing against him themselves. It was all just for money.”
“I reckon it was money that was behind it anyway. He’d offended too many local people in high places.”

“In my opinion the police ought to investigate that politician, he’s the one that the stories were about. He’s the one that had the motive and the money and opportunity.”
“Don’t be daft, it’s only a story!”
“I’m not so sure - it rings true to me - more than you might think.
“Anyway how would the police know which rhododendron to look under. There’s hundreds up there in the woods.”
“They could get our help - I’d be willing to put in a few hours with a shovel and a fork for good old One Eye.”
“And what about if you found him, you’d jump a mile high in the air you would. You nearly fainted when they killed that goose at the last ‘Goose Fair’.
“I don’t care. It would be worth it if it got the heap of slime that did it his just desserts.
“Well you can bet I’ll never vote for him again!”
The elections came round and the local dignitary was appalled at the result of the votes. In office for years, he now came a dismal third. His speech was full of half references to unsubstantiated gossip and rumor mongers but he was out of office and many people felt a little better.
Then television latched onto the story and pretty soon the now ex-politician was facing their investigations into his activities. Yet more printed details of One Eyes’ final hours were found in public places.

They told of how his home had been broken into and his family threatened. Steamy details of the dignitary’s love nest were also revealed and still nobody knew where they came from.
“Bank accounts in Switzerland, he had and an illegitimate son from that dolly bird he kept in his London flat - and him a married man that we’re supposed respect!”
“That bit about him, dressing up at that party was too smutty for me. I don’t like reading about that sort of thing - it’s filth.”
“But you can’t deny that it goes on. Better out in the open where everybody can know about it.”
Then, one morning, posters appeared everywhere around town inviting residents to go to the police station at one o’clock in the afternoon to carry out a search of the woodsto assist police enquiry’s.
When they all arrived, the Chief of the local constabulary didn’t like to admit that neither he nor any of his officers had issued the posters. Fearing a public riot, if he didn’t appear committed, he quickly organized the search.
The area they concentrated on was a bleak tree covered hollow between the two parts of the village. Nobody had ever built any properties there because of the marshes. But the rhododendrons loved it and thrived in the hundreds.
Some brought their children to help, running and cavorting besides them. Others pushed their young ones along in buggies that snagged on the uneven paths. Amongst all was a steely determination that at long last, justice would be done.
When eventually, after hours of determined searching, the body was found, the cry that went up was fit to have wakened the dead and echoed eerily around the surrounding hills. Then, silently, with heads bowed in respect and tired sadness they trudged back through the woods to await the autopsy in their homes.

The arrests followed soon afterwards. The politician first and then his helpers. As he tried to wriggle out of it by saying he had only meant for the hired muscle to frighten One Eye not to kill him.
And how had the autopsy confirmed their guilt? The horrifying facts soon became clear.
Inside One Eyes rotting stomach along with the residue of his last days meal was a plastic coin bag. Inside the coin bag was a hurriedly hand written sheet that described his attackers and their paymaster, gave their names and full details that eventually let directly to their imprisonment.
In those last moments of freedom before his attackers had found him again, grievously wounded and knowing that he had only minutes more to live, One Eye had written down everything that he knew, placed the A4 sheet in the coin bag and swallowed it. It was enough to seal his attackers fate.
And who was it that somehow knew where to find him? Nobody knows. But to this day, when the local car boot sale comes round, there is a new figure on the wooden box declaiming to the assembled crowd about stories they won’t dare to read and then selling them for only one pound sterling each.
Some say he’s also been published by a London company and that the book carries a dedication:
“To the bravest man I’ve ever known - my dad!”

The End

© Rob Hopcott 1999 - 2005 all rights reserved. All characters are fictitious in this story and no reference is intended to any person living

Vote

Add Comments

[ Link ]

Posted By: sylvia pimental - Category: Found At: Follow the Moon Art: Ebay Store, Ghost Stories, Ghosts, Painted By Me, Water Color Art, Witches

Email this Post to a Friend

[ A Vintage Halloween Home ] [ Create A New Post ]