Goblins and Ghosties Read online

  ‘I can’t come out,’ said Olle. ‘Mama told me not to open the door.’

  ‘You could climb out of the window,’ said the troll. ‘Think how pleased your mum will be when she comes home and finds the goat, safe and sound.’

  Olle thought about it.

  He opened the window.

  ‘Come on, then,’ said the troll. ‘Out you come!’

  ‘Wait a minute,’ said Olle. ‘Is it far?’

  ‘Far-ish,’ said the troll.

  ‘Then I’d better bring something to eat on the way.’ Quickly Olle wrapped up a piece of honey cake and stuffed it in his pocket. Then, with the troll’s help, he climbed out of the window and off they went, down the path and deep into the forest.

  If you’re wondering why the troll didn’t grab little Olle and gobble him up on the spot, well, maybe he was getting to an age where he didn’t like to rush his meals and risk getting indigestion. Maybe he liked the idea of having his dinner walk to his lair on its own two legs instead of being carried kicking and screaming. Maybe he was actually enjoying having little Olle trotting along beside him, chatting away about nothing in particular, since trolls, on the whole, don’t have many friends.

  Whatever. They walked along till Olle got tired. Then they sat down for a rest. Olle got out the honey cake and offered the troll a piece.

  The troll shook his head. ‘My mum says it’ll spoil my dinner.’

  ‘That’s what my mama says too!’ said Olle. Then, at the thought of this big ugly man having a mum who still told him what to do, he started to laugh.

  Olle had one of those laughs that are catching. Soon the troll was laughing too. His mouth opened wide and Olle couldn’t resist it. He tossed in a piece of honey cake.

  The troll coughed and spluttered. He did everything he could not to swallow that piece of cake, but down it went.

  Say what you will about trolls, but they do have certain standards. If somebody gives them a present, they don’t feel it’s right to eat that person until they’ve given something back.

  Will he, nil he, the troll had eaten a piece of Olle’s honey cake. What did the troll have to give little Olle?

  Only the goat he’d stolen the night before.

  Tripping down the hillside she came, as soon as the troll whistled.

  ‘I told you she’d just wandered off,’ said the troll.

  ‘Thank you! Thank you!’ cried Olle. He threw his arms round the troll’s neck and gave him a big kiss on his ugly face. ‘Mama will be so pleased.’

  Off he trotted, home again, leading the goat behind him. The troll stood rubbing his hairy cheek where Little Olle had kissed him, wondering why he hadn’t grabbed that plump, juicy boy and eaten him, the minute he’d given the goat back.

  Ah, well, maybe next time…

  Wungala

  Australia

  Wungala went out gathering food one day, taking her little boy, Bulla, with her. He was a good kid, bright as a button and chirpy as a cricket. It always made the day go faster, having him with her. Before she knew it, the sun was sliding down the sky.

  Might as well eat before we go home, she thought.

  So she sat down in the shade of a coolabah tree beside a water hole. She lit a cooking fire. Then, she found herself a big flat stone and started grinding away at some of the seeds she’d gathered, grinding them into flour to make damper bread.

  Bulla sat drowsing beside her.

  Suddenly he sat bolt upright, ‘Who’s that, Ma?’

  Wungala had to screw up her eyes against the dying sun to see where he was pointing. All she could see was a figure standing outlined against the sky.

  ‘Him?’ she said. ‘He’s just a man.’

  She went on grinding the flour to make damper bread. All the same she was starting to have a bad feeling about that man she’d seen.

  ‘He’s watching us, Ma.’

  ‘He can watch if he wants. He might even learn something.’

  While she was stoking up the fire to get the ashes nice and hot so she could cook the damper bread, she snatched another look.

  That was no mortal man.

  Once or twice, when Bulla was really bad, she’d said to him, ‘If you don’t behave yourself that old wulgaru will come and get you!’ Same as her mother used to say to her, just something you say to bring the kid into line, always believing it was all moonshine. Now, there he was, large as life and twice as ugly. The wulgaru.

  The story was, as far as she could remember, that there was once a man, Djarapa. A lazy beggar, he was, but smart. Maybe that was his trouble, so busy thinking of all the smart stuff he was going to do that he never got round to actually doing anything. Then, one day, he hit on the idea of building himself a slave to do all the work for him, so he could spend all the time doing his smart thinking.

  So the wulgaru was born, out of odd bits of wood and stone and clay with magic songs to give him life. But it wasn’t long before the two of them fell out, maybe because the wulgaru didn’t take kindly to doing all the work while Djarapa sat on his backside. The wulgaru took off into the bush and Djarapa couldn’t be bothered to go after him.

  Now the wulgaru haunts the faraway, silent places. They do say he eats people, when he can get them. Kids, mainly, who are too small to fight back, because deep down inside he’s a coward. So mostly he sticks to frightening people. If you show him you’re not frightened, that kind of unsettles him. Enough to give you a chance of making a run for it, anyway.

  So Wungala went on calmly grinding the seeds into flour and when she’d done that she sent Bulla down to the water hole – ‘But stay this side of it, you hear me?’ – to fetch some water to mix with the flour to make the damper bread.

  When she’d made the dough with the water and flour, she pushed the bread into the hot ashes to cook.

  ‘He’s coming closer, Ma,’ whispered Bulla. ‘He was just the other side of the water hole when I went there. Now he’s creeping round it, coming this way.’

  ‘Let him come,’ said Wungala. ‘Maybe he’s hungry. Maybe we should share with him. What do you think?’

  ‘I think I should stick real close to you, Ma.’

  ‘Good boy. You do that.’

  By the time the damper bread was cooked, the wulgaru was crouching opposite them, just the other side of the fire, but still puzzled, wondering why they didn’t seem frightened. Why didn’t they scream and run?

  Instead, Wungala smiled at him as she hooked the hot damper bread out of the fire. ‘You want some, wulgaru?’ she said. ‘You want some? Come and get it, then.’

  The wulgaru leaned closer, and Wungala, smiling all the time, tossed that hot slab of damper bread from hand to hand.

  Boy, it smelt good!

  ‘Closer,’ she crooned. ‘Come closer.’

  The wulgaru leaned closer and closer, till he was within arm’s reach. ‘You want some? You can have it all!’ cried Wungala.

  She pushed the damper right into the wulgaru’s face.

  That damper was piping hot – and sticky too! The wulgaru couldn’t breathe or see or even think straight. He howled and spun and danced and clawed at that stuff till he could breathe again.

  Then he let out a great roar.

  Still the damper bread clung and burned, while the wulgaru spun and hopped and danced, trying to claw it away from his eyes. Where was she, the woman who’d done this to him? Soon as he caught her, he’d tear her limb from limb – but first he’d gobble up that kid of hers, snip-snap, bones and all, right in front of her eyes!

  Round and round he danced, looking all over for them, but Wungala and Bulla were long gone, racing all the way back to camp, leaving the wulgaru still spinning, dancing himself dizzy till he tumbled head first into the cool, cool water.

  All this happened a long time ago, but the wulgaru hasn’t forgotten. Nor has Wungala.

  She never threatened Bulla with the wulgaru again. Even now, she’s scared of speaking his name even in a whisper, just in case the wulgaru hears
her.

  Speak of the devil, they say, and he will appear.

  The Dauntless Girl

  Ireland

  Good evening, sir, and what can I get you? A drink to keep out the cold? Coming right up. Yes, sir, it is quiet in here. Always is at this time, as soon as the evenings start drawing in. That’s when the regulars start taking the long way round instead of the short cut through the graveyard. ‘Why’s that?’ you ask. Well, you being an educated man and a townie, too, you probably don’t believe in ghosts.

  Our Molly was the same, though she was local, born and bred.

  She was a grand girl, was Molly. A hard worker and cheerful with it. The one thing she wouldn’t put up with was being idle.

  Evenings like this she’d stand, hand on hip, fingers drumming on the bar. ‘What’s keeping them?’ she’d say.

  ‘You know what’s keeping them,’ I’d tell her. ‘They’re afraid to take the shortcut through the graveyard after dark.’

  ‘Afraid of ghosts!’ she would scoff. ‘Afraid of their own shadows!’

  Then, one night, she told the customers to their faces, ‘You’re scared, all of you. Aren’t you? Look at you! Great big men, afraid to walk across the graveyard in the dark! Poor babies!’

  I heard someone mutter something about it all being very well for her to talk, as she didn’t have to do it.

  ‘Alright, then,’ said Molly. ‘I will. This very minute!’ She flung down the cloth she’d been using to wipe the glasses. ‘I’ll be there and back again before you’ve finished that pint. And if I do meet a dead man, risen from the grave, I’ll have the shroud off him and bring it back as a souvenir.’

  Out of the door she went, across the road and into the graveyard.

  As to what happened next, all I can say for sure is that we waited for her to come back. There were so many men crowded round the windows, that I never got so much as a look. One or two of them swore they could see she’d stopped part way across and was talking to someone.

  Next thing most of us knew, she was haring back towards us with some long, white thing trailing behind her, so they said. I just heard her yelling.

  ‘Open the door!’ she cried. ‘Let me in!’

  As soon as she was back inside and the door locked fast behind her, we saw that she’d been as good as her word. That long, white thing was a shroud, right enough. You could tell by the smell of it. Fair stank the place out with its graveyard smell.

  Then, from outside, came a sound like bones rattling and a voice: dry, rasping and angry. ‘Give it back, Molly. Give me back my shroud!’ Then it was pleading: ‘Give it back, Molly, I’m begging you. I’m naked without it and cold – so cold.’

  I felt sorry for the poor creature. ‘Give it back, Molly,’ I said. ‘Just hand it to him out of the window.’

  Molly shook her head.

  The ghost, ghoul, zombie – whatever it was – went on rattling and pleading.

  ‘Go on, Molly,’ I said. ‘Go on.’

  But she wouldn’t.

  So I took the shroud out of Molly’s hand, opened the window and thrust it outside.

  ‘Here, take it,’ I said.

  The creature wouldn’t take it. ‘I must have it back from her own hands,’ it said.

  ‘Here, Molly,’ I said, offering her the shroud.

  She didn’t want to take it, but she saw the faces of the men standing round, the ones she’d called cowards and babies, all watching to see what she’d do. So she took the shroud from me and held it out of the window.

  And, would you believe it, the creature still wouldn’t take it. ‘You have to hand it back in the same place where you took it from me,’ it said.

  Then it turned away and walked back across the churchyard, its naked bones rattling with cold every step of the way.

  ‘Go on, Molly,’ I said. ‘You’ll be doing him a kindness.’

  ‘Go on,’ they all said. ‘Go on, or we’ll be stuck here all night.’

  ‘Go on, Molly. We’re right behind you.’

  So off went Molly with the shroud in her hand, while the rest of us stood and waited.

  When she came back she was as pale as death. She walked straight past us without a word, went upstairs and took to her bed.

  I never had time to call the doctor, for she was dead by morning.

  We buried her there in the graveyard.

  Now they do say there are two ghosts haunting the graveyard and I’d say that’s very likely, for Molly never could stand being idle.

  That’s a good yarn, you say. But it’s true, every word of it, sure as I’m standing here. If you wait a little longer, sir, the lads will be in soon. They’ll back me up. Ah, well, if your friends are expecting you for dinner down in the village... if you take the shortcut through the graveyard opposite, you can be there in half the time. I wouldn’t chance it myself, not at this time of night, but you being an educated man... I’ll just stand here and keep an eye out till I see you’re safely across.

  The Ghost’s Peso

  Colombia

  Juanita knew when she married Manuel that they were never going to be rich. He was smart enough to find work and he’d work hard till he’d earned enough to keep a roof over their heads and food on the table. Then, he’d take things easy for a bit. So there was never anything put by for a rainy day.

  When that rainy day did come – as rainy days have a nasty habit of doing – and she lost her job cleaning up at the hacienda when the family shut up the house and moved to the city, they soon fell behind with the rent.

  The manager left in charge of the estate was still hiring men, but at such poor wages! ‘You pay peanuts,’ said Manuel, ‘you get monkeys. I’m nobody’s monkey.’

  But there was no other work around. Not men’s work anyway.

  Juanita did what she could: a bit of sewing, a bit of ironing, an evening dishwashing at the cantina. It was never enough. First Manuel borrowed money here, then a little more there so he could pay the first lot back and have enough left over to keep them going till pay-day. Soon he owed money here, there and everywhere.

  Bit by bit they sold off everything they owned, till they were sleeping on the floor and eating nothing but watery soup straight out of the single cooking pot they’d got left. Still the creditors kept coming.

  ‘If only we could pay them off,’ said Juanita, ‘we could move away from here. Start a new life.’

  ‘There’s only one way to stop them,’ said Manuel. ‘If I die, my debts die with me.’

  ‘But I don’t want you to die,’ said Juanita.

  ‘Nor do I,’ said Manuel. ‘But if they think I’m dead…’

  ‘Ah!’

  They sold the cooking pot to buy a coffin.

  There lay Manuel in his coffin in the church, a single candle burning by his head. ‘It was all we could afford!’ sighed Juanita, the grieving widow, making all the creditors feel guilty. ‘I know he died owing you money,’ she told them. ‘It was worrying about it that killed him. His heart, you know.’

  ‘Oh, poor Manuel!’ They shook their heads. ‘If only we’d known!’

  ‘Consider it paid.’

  ‘The slate wiped clean.’

  All except one. The sum Manuel owed him was tiny. Just one peso.

  Juanita shook her head. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I haven’t got it. I’ve nothing left in the world but that candle burning at the head of the coffin.’

  ‘I’ll have that then,’ he said.

  ‘You can have what’s left of it in the morning,’ she said. ‘Tonight I need it. You wouldn’t want me to watch over my poor husband’s coffin in the dark?’

  ‘I can wait,’ he said. And settled himself down in a shadowy corner of the church.

  Now if you think Manuel and Juanita were the only people having a hard time of it when the big estate was mothballed, you’d be wrong. Some people had turned to outright robbery. And, as luck would have it, a band of robbers were passing the church that dark night, looking for somewhere where th
ey could see to divide up their loot.

  Seeing a light burning in the church, in they went.

  ‘Who’s that?’ cried Manuel, sitting bolt upright in his coffin.

  The thieves nearly died of fright on the spot. They dropped the stolen money and fled.

  The noise they made woke the creditor, who’d been dozing in his shadowy corner of the church. Seeing Manuel sitting up in his coffin, he yelled, ‘I knew it! I knew you were faking, you cheat! You shyster! Playing dead just to save yourself from paying the one measly peso you owe me! Give it to me now, or I’ll wake the whole village – all the people you borrowed from – and show them how you tricked them. Give me my peso!’

  It was just that last bit that the robbers heard when they’d plucked up courage enough to come creeping back for their loot – after all, money is money and they’d gone to a lot of trouble to get it.

  ‘Give me my peso!’

  They looked at one another in horror. The ghosts inside the church must be dividing up the money. Who else, apart from the dead man they’d seen, would be in the church at this hour? And if each of those ghosts was only getting one peso, how many ghosts would that be?

  ‘How many pesos did we steal?’

  ‘Dozens, at least.’

  ‘More like hundreds.’

  One dead man walking they could probably deal with between them, but a church full of ghosts? No way!

  They took to their heels again and this time they didn’t come back.

  Meanwhile, Manuel tossed a peso from the pile on the floor to his creditor, and then added another for luck.

  One hundred per cent interest! The creditor went on his way contented, never suspecting that he’d just helped Manuel and Juanita to a small fortune.

  By morning they were long gone, well on their way to the big city. Juanita had the moneybag stashed away under her layers of shawl until she could safely invest it in a little business. A shop or a market stall, maybe even a small hotel. One thing she was sure of. From now on, she’d be the only one to handle the cash.

  Jean-Loup

  Canada