Strange People, Scary People

By Tally Harbour

Strange People, Scary People, is a collection of fourteen tales of terror and horror: the two aspects for which strange and scary people are famous. In its bowels, you will read of a strange, witch-like woman who likes to relate strange tales to young children--and who grinds her teeth together as she tells the story. Then there’s Eddie, a weird guy who has big problems around pregnant women. You will be introduced to a couple of undertakers--two rogues, really--who teach a town full of fools how to truly respect the dead. You will also meet little Rita Jean Shumate, a filthy young girl who suffers from those tiny, famous crawling things that no one has actually ever seen called "cooties." Indeed, this collection of short stories contains all kinds of strange and scary people within it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Untreed Reads
• Release date: Jun 27, 2012
• ISBN: 9781611873665

Book preview

KINGDOM

Strange People, Scary People

By Tally Harbour

Copyright 2012 by Tally Harbour

Cover Copyright 2012 by Ginny Glass and Untreed Reads Publishing

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

http://www.untreedreads.com

Strange People, Scary People

By Tally Harbour

For the lovely soprano from England, Sarah.

Acknowledgments

Life is just one grand, exciting carnival. I am, however, stuck in the spook house. 

Yes, that is my situation. And so I write horror short stories. You will read fourteen of them in this book. This book, by the way, was written about strange and scary people, for strange and scary people. And this, my friend, includes you. After all, you bought this thing, did you not? Anyway, this anthology would not have been possible without the encouragement and help of several wonderful people. First of all, I would like to thank my parents, Tal and Laneve, for supporting me during the years I composed this work. And then there are my sisters, Sherry Allen and Donna Thomas—as well as my brother-in-law, Terry Allen—who never stopped encouraging and assisting me in any way they could. I would also like to thank my good friend, Amos Jones, for all of his assistance. I would like to especially thank Mrs. Kelly McQuaig, whose help was absolutely indispensable. Finally, I would like to mention all of the other family members and friends in Meridian, Mississippi and elsewhere who encouraged me to keep writing. Well, I did, indeed, keep writing; and here is the result. So, read on, my friend—and don't let the spooks get you!

GLENDY WITH THE IRON TEETH

I remember many a night a long time ago when my two younger brothers and I would fight for the middle position in the huge feather bed the three of us shared. We each wanted somebody on both sides for many good and scary reasons: reasons such as ghosts, goblins and other spooky things that flitted and crept all about the old house we lived in.

Oh, Mother and Daddy would tell us that the noises we heard around us were merely from the old house creaking and settling, but we knew better. We knew that every crack we heard was really old Ned Nobble, who lived inside the walls, cracking his knuckles. He cracked his fingers when he was planning some sort of mischief. Then there was old Sam Scratch, who lived up in the chimney. You were safe from him as long as the fire burned strongly, but when it died down, you had better look out, for then he could come down the chimney and get you. Sometimes we could hear him howling up there. Our parents assured us that the noise was only the sound of the wind blowing down through the chimney, but we knew it was really old Sam Scratch up there howling away.

There just were goblins everywhere. You could sometimes hear their little feet scurrying around in the attic, inside the closets, and sometimes even under our bed. Is it any wonder, then, that each one of us wanted to sleep in the middle?

In time I outgrew these mentioned spooks, but there was one that came to me—it was long after I was over Sam Scratch and his friends—that was so terrifying to me that the mere memory of her can still to this day send a shudder through me. Especially do I tremble when, at night, I hear an owl. Her name was Glendy, Glendy Gray; but we came to call her Glendy with the Iron Teeth.

We heard the legend of Glendy from the spook herself; and she seemed to be just the kind of person that would find great delight in the telling of scary stories to young children. She did more than that, however. Much more, as you will see.

She was a middle-aged woman who, ever since her father had died, had lived all by herself deep in the woods in the small, well-built log cabin her father had constructed. Although we gathered from her Northern accent that she was not from our part of the country, that was just about the only thing that anyone in our little rural community of Suqualena, Mississippi knew about her. And Miss Glendy must have desired being secretive, for she kept to herself, associating with us only when necessary.

Because she still carried her father’s name, we could at least presume she had never married. Nor did we expect her to ever marry. And this was not only because she seemed to prefer living in solitude, but it was also because a still single woman in her thirties back in those long ago early century times was already an old maid. And it was commonly believed that when once a female had attained that terrible status, she was doomed to retain that status until she died. It was even more tragic if the woman happened to be attractive; for this suggested that there was something wrong about her—some flaw that caused her to shun the company of men, or vice versa. Thus we believed there was something wrong with Miss Glendy, for she was quite attractive.

Her tall, slender frame she expressed well in both carriage and clothing—the latter always being a dark gray, Puritan looking attire that covered her from neck to ankles. Her face was pleasantly oval and just a tiny bit full with carved, classic features. Her eyes were large—and so icy blue that we could not help but wonder if they actually felt frigid to her. In contrast to her pure ivory skin was coal black hair, which always flowed unheeded down her back. Never did we see it pinned or restricted in any manner; and this was yet another point against her. Understand that back in those long ago Southern days, unpinned hair worn in public by a grown woman was next thing to taboo.

We witnessed Miss Glendy only when it became necessary for her to buy provisions from Mr. Chatam’s general store. Once or twice a month she would emerge from the woods and enter the store to purchase food, kerosene, cloth or other commodities. Nobody knew where the money she used came from, although some claimed that the devil himself gave it to her. When she arrived at the store, which was the favorite place for our people to congregate and gossip, all talking died to whispers and then ceased entirely as she silently conducted her shopping. Resolutely, almost defiantly, she walked among us, picking out what articles she needed and placing them in her wicker basket. And if she happened to catch a stare from anyone, she returned such a total, crushing stare in return, that the initial one was obliterated. In complete silence she trod among us, not even her footsteps making sounds. And this was because, even in the winter, her feet were always bare.

With little, if any, words to the clerk, Miss Glendy would purchase what she had come for and leave immediately, all eyes following her as she crossed the dirt road, headed down the path opposite the store and faded from sight into the forest.

Naturally many rumors had grown among us about her. Some said she was crazy; others claimed that she was the devil’s child. Some offered that she was merely a poor, lonely person whom fate had treated unkindly. But whatever the people in Suqualena thought about her, all agreed that she was certainly a very strange person.

Now let me tell of how three of my childhood friends and I once came to actually visit with Miss Glendy—and why, for a long time thereafter, I refused to sleep near a window.

The adventure began one day in a long ago spring day when part of the local gang—Tommy, Nathan, Kenny, little Johnny and me—was in conversation behind Mr. Chatam’s general store. Sitting on old flour barrels, we were discussing, among other things, Miss Glendy.

I tell y’all she’s a witch! I’ll lay my life she is! swore Tommy, who, at eleven years, was senior among us and self-proclaimed leader of our gang. Anybody can see she is.

Aw, she’s just a ole crazy woman who don’t like people, claimed Nathan. Ain’t no such thing as witches anyways.

Says who! demanded Tommy.

Says my daddy, Nathan proudly replied. That’s who!

Aw, yore daddy just says that ’cause he’s the preacher—and thinks he knows it all, Tommy chided.

Nathan, for lack of a better reply, responded, Oh, yeah?

Yeah! Tommy affirmed.

Yeah! echoed little Johnny. Because Tommy was his hero, little Johnny would take his side against anything; even against what a preacher said.

Y’all just go up to her ole shack one night, Tommy continued, and you’ll see her boilin’ up sump’n wicked and nasty in that big ole black witch pot she’s got. I swear yuh will!

And just how do you know she’s got a witch pot? I asked him.

I just do, damn it! I just do, that’s how! Tommy was the first, and so far, the only one of us who had dared to adopt the habit of cussing. "She cuts up snakes and rats and bats and stuff like that and throws it all in her witch pot and pours in swamp water and stirs it all ’round and cooks it. She even caught ole Hezikia and cut him up and throwed him in there and cooked ’im!"

Hezikia was an old servant once employed by the rich family in Suqualena, the William Summers household. One night he had gone off to the swamp to do some fishing, but did not return. Nor was he ever seen or heard of again. Naturally we kids had romanticized the disappearance, connecting it to Miss Glendy.

Gollee! exclaimed Kenny. That poor ole fella!

Aw, that’s just hog slop! Nathan was still skeptical. Miss Glendy didn’t git Hezikia. It was a panther or cottonmouth that got ’im, that’s all. What do you think about it, Benji?"

"Gosh, Nate, I don’t know what to think, I replied. They searched the woods and the swamp real good for ’im, but couldn’t never find nothin’. Ole Man Summers even paid ’em to drag the creek for him, but nothin’ never showed up. And even if it was a panther or sump’n that got ’im, they’da probably found some bones or sump’n. I just don’t know what could’a happened to ’im.

"Well, I know what happened to ’im, stated Tommy. Miss Glendy got ’im—’cause she’s a witch—and throwed ’im in her big ole black witch pot!"

"And I still say she ain’t no witch! Nathan protested. And she ain’t got no witch pot, neither."

"She has too! cried little Johnny. She has too got a witch pot—’cause Tommy goes up there at night and hides and spies on her and watches her stirrin’ in her witch pot—’cause he tole me he does! Ain’t that so, Tommy! Ain’t you been to spy on her? Ain’t you seen her witch pot! Tell ’em!"

We looked with incredulity, and disdain, at Tommy, who, with hands now jammed in his pockets, was looking at the ground and shuffling about as if he were suddenly seized with no little discomfort.

Tell ’em so, Tommy! Little Johnny was still pleading. Tell ’em you been to spy on ’er!

That’s a lie! accused Nathan. You ain’t never spied on Miss Glendy.

I―I have, too, Tommy stammered. I have too been to spy on her.

Aw, you’re lying! I claimed. You ain’t never in your life been to spy on her. You ain’t got no more guts to go up there alone at night and spy on Miss Glendy than none of us.

He has too got the guts! Little Johnny seemed almost ready to jump on me for assailing his hero’s integrity and courage. Take ’em with you, Tommy. Just take ’em with you when you go up there to spy on her again, and show ’em you got some guts. Little Johnny was getting his hero into more and more difficulty.

Uhh…well, uhh… I tell yuh, Johnny…uhh… I kinda decided to quit goin’ in them woods no more ’cause…uhh…’cause, yuh see—it’s them skeeters. Yeah, them skeeters are gittin’ terrible bad now; and I'm skeered that if I get bit too many more times, I’ll take terrible bad sick. This was Tommy’s pitiful, hardly audible reply to his young worshiper.

We were overjoyed to witness the big bragger finally tangled up in one of his own yarns. He was completely helpless in front of us and his six year old devotee. For many moments following his pathetic response, he remained in mute misery, his eyes focused on the dust stirred up by his restless feet.

But then he suddenly looked up at us and blurted, Hell! I don’t want to go and git myself cut up and cooked in no witch pot!

Take ’em, Tommy! You just gotta go and show ’em! Little Johnny was almost in tears. For it is the youngest among us who become the most distressed when flaws and fissures appear in golden idols. "Please, Tommy, please! You just gotta go and take ’em and show ’em you ain’t skeered."

Yeah, Tommy, snickered Nathan, take us to spy on her and show us you ain’t skeered. All of us, Nathan included, most certainly considered the prospect of trekking off through the woods with the intention of spying on Miss Glendy just as dreadful as did Tommy; but Nathan, who was not worried about the possibility of any of us actually undertaking such a frightful venture, could not resist the opportunity of help sink big shot Tommy deeper into his quagmire.

Tommy, however, feared losing face just as much as he feared Miss Glendy. As Nathan, Kenny and I taunted him and dared him to take us to her cabin, he suddenly shouted, "Alright, damn it, alright! I’ll go! We’ll all go and spy on her, and I’ll prove to y’all she is a witch!"

Now it was suddenly the turn of his three deriders to feel trapped and dismayed. Not expecting Tommy to actually take us up on our dare, we found ourselves wishing that we had not made such an issue of this. And Tommy, who noticed how disconcerted we had become, took full advantage of it. Now it was his turn to put the pressure on.

"Yeah, we’ll go—that is if y’all ain’t yella."

The four of us were already dangerously entangled in this frightful enterprise even before the term yella had been introduced in the discussion, but now that it had been entered, all hope of escape was lost. If any of us decided to back out of this, he would, from that day forward, carry upon himself this terrible label. And to Southern lads , especially young Mississippians, there is no worse degradation.

So it was eventually agreed that the four of us would meet here the following day, Friday, after school. We decided, also, to tell our folks we desired to camp out. This would save them any worry in case we were late arriving home. Our mission: travel to Miss Glendy’s cabin and hide and spy on her.

Although he begged us to take him with us, little Johnny was too young to be included. And although he told us how proud he was to have such brave kids as us as his friends, his honest desire to go with us proved him to be the bravest of the lot.

Daddy, what do you think Miss Glendy is? I asked at the supper table that night. "Is she a witch?"

Benjamin! What a sinful thing to ask about someone! my mother chastised. Miss Glendy is just a poor lonely woman who just never learned how to socialize with people.

Well, Mother, how come so many people say she’s a witch, then? My two younger brothers, whom the subject also interested greatly, heartily voiced their interest and agreement with me. After they finished, I continued, And besides, don’t witches always like to live alone like she does?

Here my father chimed in, "That’s true, Katherine. Lots of the folks around here claim she’s a witch. And even those that say she ain’t one are still skeered of her—even ole Joe Hash, who says that ghosts and witches and stuff like that are sump’n only fools believe in.

"Why, I remember one night when me and him was rabbit huntin’. We were walkin’ ’long that trail that starts over by the general store and were real deep in the woods. Well, suddenly we hear this singin’ coming from way off yonder in the swamp somewhere. It warn’t bad singin,’ neither. Right pretty it was. But it was also kinda different from most singin’ that yuh hear. Kinda spooky like yuh might say. Well, when we rec’lected that it just might be her, Miss Glendy that is, singin’ that song—and I think it was ‘Barbara Allen’—ole Joe suddenly says that his leg—you know, the one with the Yankee musket ball still in it—is startin’ to pain him, and that if he don’t get home real soon and soak it in vinegar, it’ll pain ’im for months on end. Well, I went along back with him to keep him company. And I can’t say that I was that reluctant to go, neither, ’cause that singin’ sent a shiver down my spine, too. We headed on home, but at the pace ole Joe took out through them woods gittin’ out of there, his leg seemed alright enough to me!"

Now, Ben, why do you encourage the boy, asked my mother. You know just as well as I that Glendy Gray is not a witch. And those people who say such things—if they would spend as much time in church as they do gossiping in Mr. Chatam’s store, they would learn how sinful and shameful it is to go about spreading wicked rumors about someone.

You listen to your mother, son, advised my father. I’ll warrant that Miss Glendy’s harmless enough. But after a pause, he grinned and added, But just the same, I wouldn’t be all that surprised to learn that she just might use her broom for something other than sweepin’ floors!

He laughed long and heartily at his joke, and I noticed that even my mother tried

Reviews for Strange People, Scary People

[avoraciousreader · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

*Book source ~ A review copy was provided in exchange for an honest review.Fourteen tales of horror in this anthology will have something for everyone.In my long and varied reading experience, it’s only fairly recently I’ve stuck my delicate toe in the horror genre. Not a fan of horror movies, or really horror in general, I have since found that there are certain horror books that I have liked and some I’ve quite enjoyed. I can’t say I’ve wholeheartedly embraced the horror genre, but the stories I have carefully handpicked have so far been a delightful surprise.Glendy with the Iron Teeth ~ Was she? Wasn’t she?Cooties ~ I felt itchy and gross after reading this.Professor Patchwhite’s Garden ~ He got his, but it wasn’t what he expected. *shudders*Cousin Pete’s Armidillo Farm ~ No. Just…no.Rebecca’s Hand ~ Well, that escalated quickly.The Tree ~ Karma’s a bitch, baby.Pumpanddump Versus Pitchinditch ~ Creative! And amusing.Dorain Necromanced ~ This is why you don’t obsess about celebrities.Out of the Pleiades ~ Why did this have to involve a book? And remind me of Tom Riddle’s diary?Anavrin ~ Um, dafuq did I just read?Pine Trees ~ My favorite!Procedure Monomania ~ Weird!The Womb and the Window ~ The ending? Ewwww!She of the Other Kingdom ~ I didn’t understand this one at all.