Corpse Cold_New American Folklore Read online

  B R H E L & S U L L I V A N

  illustrations by C H A D W E H R L E

  Corpse Cold: New American Folklore

  Published by Cemetery Gates Media

  Binghamton, NY

  Copyright © 2017 Cemetery Gates Media

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission.

  ISBN 978-1978169005

  For more information about this book and other Cemetery Gates Media publications, visit us at:

  www.cemeterygatesmedia.com

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  Illustrations for this book were created by Chad Wehrle. To see more of his spooky creations, visit him at:

  www.cwehrle.com

  www.facebook.com/cwehrleart

  www.instagram.com/cwehrle

  CONTENTS

  Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7

  Switches . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13

  Black Dog . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25

  Czarny Lud . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35

  Corpse Cold . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49

  Amityville Beach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57

  A Morning Fog . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65

  Friendship: Dead and Buried . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71

  Autoplay ‘On’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79

  The Big ‘M’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87

  Dracula’s Bride . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95

  Moss Lake Island . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105

  It That Decays . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119

  Two Visions, 1984 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127

  Woman on the Campus Green . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137

  The Blue Hole . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145

  Jesup . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155

  Model Citizens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165

  Last Train Home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175

  A Casket for My Mother . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181

  Echo’s Reflection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187

  Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201

  Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 209

  INTRODUCTION

  At first blush, ‘folklore’ seems a dated term for describing the way in which we tell each other stories. How could

  it be that folktales are still told in the 21st Century—in the face of a nearly instantaneous, and global, transmission

  of information? But anyone who has spent time reading

  internet message boards, or trawling social media posts for the zeitgeist of the moment, will certainly see creepypasta,

  ‘fake news,’ or memetic warnings about the horrors of an

  everyday product, custom, or political ideology promoted

  as unenviable truth. The question might then be posed,

  keeping in mind our technological age: Is it still possible for us to suspend disbelief while reading a book of tales—

  the same way in which we do while scrolling through our

  Facebook feed?

  With the Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark series, Alvin Schwartz boiled down legends and urban myths that were still being

  told by word of mouth, old tales that were continuously

  adapting to the changes in culture and technology. There

  was no easy way for the average person to trace the origins of a story like “The Hook,” per se. To think that an internet creepypasta like Slender Man can have a well-known story

  of origin, with an archival record, while still simultaneously evolving a groupthink mythos—is astounding.

  With Corpse Cold: New American Folklore we hope to share some new twists on older legends, develop original

  creepypastas and campfire tales for adult sensibilities, and assist our readers into the anxiety-ridden caverns, and

  mindful spaces, which many of us find so entertaining in

  entering. We can’t properly answer whether folklore can

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  CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE

  still emerge from the traditional short story form. But we hope to appeal to the joy many readers our age had while

  reading illustrated books of spook stories as children.

  Chad Wehrle’s illustrations add tremendous

  storytelling value—that as much seems obvious. A campfire

  story shouldn’t describe the minute details of a setting, plot point, or character. There should be room for retelling,

  and reimagining by the reader. Chad’s artwork merely gives one incredible interpretation of a plot point, setting, or character trait. It would be of little surprise to its authors if copies of Corpse Cold went dogeared from repeated viewings of the illustrations alone—possibly by the son or daughter of an adult reader who’d picked up our book out of nostalgia, but never found the time to read.

  We stand on the shoulders of giants in birthing this

  book. If you’re closer to middle-age than your teenage

  years, you’re sure to have a memory of something you’ve

  found frightfully entertaining from Alvin Schwartz’s

  books—that is, if one of Stephen Gammell’s illustrations

  isn’t outright etched into your day-to-day psyche, or you

  don’t often think of what became of the man who witnessed

  the animated scarecrow, Harold, stretch his best friend’s

  skin upon that cottage roof.

  John & Joe

  October 2017

  • 8 •

  TERRIFYING

  TALES

  • I •

  SWITCHES

  It was late, and I was nodding at the wheel as I traveled

  a rural highway somewhere between Cortland and

  Binghampton, New York. I’d planned to get out of my

  work meeting before ten, but it wasn’t until a quarter to

  midnight that I finally settled into the leather seat of my Cadillac ATS. I knew the dangerous game I was playing,

  taking the chance of falling asleep at the wheel. So, it seemed like divine intervention when a dated, orange fluorescent

  sign appeared on the horizon.

  I slowed as I passed McGirk’s Roadside Motel. It was a

  small motel, to say the least, with maybe 6-8 guest rooms.

  When I saw there was still �
��vacancy,’ I pulled into the parking lot, sluggishly got out of my car, and headed toward the

  office. I had no bag or toiletries, as this was an unplanned overnight.

  When I entered the office, I was greeted by a greasy,

  uneasy looking motelier, who was sitting behind a tall desk.

  “Hey. Are you lost?”

  “Uh, no... I’m tired. Is there a room available?”

  The man behind the desk smiled broadly, which made

  me feel a little better about my choice to stop. I really

  didn’t want to sleep in my car in some farmer’s field or

  forested pull-off. “We have one more room available,” he

  • 13 •

  CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE

  said, distracted by something he’d spotted in his dimly lit parking lot. “Is that a Cadillac?”

  “Yep,” I replied. “Can I have the room? I can pay with

  my card, or cash if you prefer.”

  The motelier hesitated as he absentmindedly picked at

  his grimy, white t-shirt. “I don’t know if you’ll want this particular room.”

  I waited for the man to continue, to offer some sort of

  explanation, but he didn’t. The overhead light flickered as I approached the desk. “So… What? You have at least six

  rooms here. Are there any others available?”

  “No, sorry. All the other rooms are occupied. I have

  just the one tonight.”

  “My car is the only one out there…” I sighed.

  “Whatever.” I knew I probably wasn’t thinking all that

  clearly, due to my lack of sleep. “What? Does it have bedbugs, roaches, or something?”

  The motelier visibly grimaced at my mention of vermin.

  “Of course not! It’s a perfectly clean room.”

  “Then I’ll take it.” I dug for my wallet, then pulled out

  my ID. “Cash or credit? Here’s my license.”

  The light flickered again, as the motelier wrote down

  my information. “Mr. Sellers, I feel obligated to warn

  you—some people believe that Room 7 is, uh, haunted…”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Sure, buddy.”

  The man handed me back my ID and credit card, and

  set a room key on the desk. The bronze key hung from a

  red, plastic identifier, which was embossed with a large,

  golden ‘7.’

  “I’ve never seen a ghost. But it has been an issue for

  some of my guests, to say the least.”

  I picked up the key, and was about to head straight for

  my room when my curiosity got the better of me. “What’d

  • 14 •

  SWITCHES

  you mean, ‘an issue?’”

  The awkward way in which the man fidgeted, before

  responding, made me uneasy. “Some of our guests have

  insisted on changing rooms over it. And it has happened

  often enough that I don’t normally bother offering the

  room.”

  “But you’re completely booked tonight—all, what,

  eight rooms?”

  The motelier nodded. “Correct, Mr. Sellers. Now that

  you’ve joined us, we have no more vacancies.”

  “So, enough people have been changing rooms due

  to ghosts—immaterial beings—that you only offer seven of

  your eight rooms?” I couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’d

  be surprised what kind of business marketing you could do

  with that online...Uh, are you McGirk?”

  “Yes, I’m the owner. Chester McGirk,” he replied.

  “And it’s not what they see that troubles them.” McGirk lowered his voice, as if he were afraid of being overheard.

  “It seems to be the things they hear.”

  “Well, I don’t believe that ghosts can exist. So, I think I’ll be fine.”

  McGirk didn’t press the issue; he wished me a good

  night, then I hurried to Room 7 to try and get some sleep. I had an incredibly important sales meeting in Binghampton

  the following morning, and would have to get up in less than six hours to have enough time to make my appointment.

  When I opened the door to Room 7, I was taken

  aback by a wall of musty, stale air. It was as if the room had been sealed for years. There was a queen-sized bed with a

  nightstand, the typical TV setup opposite the bed, and a

  single chair. The bathroom was tiny; the toilet just barely fit between the sink and bathtub.

  After a closer inspection, I decided the room was

  • 15 •

  CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE

  clean enough, and I couldn’t have cared less about its dated furnishings. My only aesthetic critique was that the main

  overhead light was a bare bulb. Sure, there were other

  covered, even decorative, wall lights. But the focal point of the room was certainly the unseemly, dangling abomination.

  I knew I wouldn’t have to stare at it for too long, though, as it was pushing half-past midnight. So, I undressed,

  flipped the switch near the door to turn off the overhead, and went to bed.

  I gradually awoke to the specter of the illuminated, bare

  bulb above me. There was nothing sudden, or even startling, about my transition to consciousness. I turned to my side

  and saw that it was only 2:30. I grumbled, then calculated that I had only been asleep for two hours, and that I would have to get up in another three-and-a-half.

  I didn’t immediately get out of bed and go shut off the

  light either. The switch was near the door, and even the five paces it would take to extinguish the light seemed an effort.

  I considered trying to sleep with the light on, I was

  so fatigued, body and mind. I watched a few moths and a

  housefly dip around the bare bulb for a couple of minutes

  before I sat up. The fact that it attracted bugs was motivation enough for me to go and turn it off.

  I swear, as soon as I flipped the switch to the ‘off’

  position, the light in the bathroom turned on. “Some

  ghost,” I grumbled, laughing to myself as I lumbered

  into the bathroom, and then flipped that switch which, at

  first, didn’t respond. It took a few flips before the light bar above the bathroom mirror faded. When all was again

  dark, I hesitated, reminiscing about the Bloody Mary and

  Candyman games I used to play with my sister in front of

  dark mirrors. When no ghoul appeared in the glass—not

  • 16 •

  SWITCHES

  that I chanted any names—I laughed to myself and returned

  to bed.

  I was comfortable, back under the covers, when one

  of the light sconces above the bed came to life. “The hell? ”

  I had to sit up to turn it off, and as soon as that light was extinguished, the other sconce flickered on. To get at that one, I had to move to the far side of the bed and strain to spin the small switch to the ‘off’ position.

  “Ha! Jesus. I’m out of breath.” I collapsed to the bed, irritated, though slightly amused by it all. As soon as my head hit the pillow, the hanging bulb above once again

  illuminated. McGirk must be bored tonight, I thought. I was positive now that the motelier was the one manipulating the lights. That McGirk might be watching certainly bothered

  me, but the reason I began to fume was the thought that I, Richard Sellers, might seem like the sort of guy that could be messed with.

  I tossed the blankets aside, put on my shoes, and

  stormed out of Room 7 in only my boxers and T-shirt. But

  when I barged into the motel office and up to the counter, I found McGirk asleep in his chair. I noisily cleare
d my

  throat, and the motelier startled awake.

  “Oh! Christ! What’s wrong?!” McGirk quickly stood and looked me up and down.

  I felt like a complete idiot. McGirk had certainly been

  asleep, and here I was confronting him in my underwear.

  “Sorry...sorry to bother you. I... um... I’m having a

  problem with my lights. They won’t stay off.”

  McGirk’s eyes widened. “I see. Yes. It’s difficult to

  sleep with the lights on—this is certainly an issue.” McGirk looked around the room, as if he were searching for an

  easy answer. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sellers. We have had some

  problems. The building hasn’t been updated—as you’ve

  • 17 •

  CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE

  probably seen for yourself. Plumbers and electricians are

  difficult to get a hold of, especially all the way out here.”

  McGirk tapped his fingers wildly on the desk. “I can offer you a sleeping mask, or I can come take out the bulbs…”

  I waved the motelier off while I backed toward the

  door, as I was now embarrassed. “Forget it. I can manage.

  I’m sorry for bothering you over something so minor.”

  “Think nothing of it,” said the motelier, as I hurried

  out of the office and back to my room.

  Back in Room 7, the bare bulb shined brightly above my

  bed, with a few furry moths and a housefly orbiting it. I lay below, and buried my head beneath the comforter. It was

  quiet enough in the room; I knew I could still manage a few hours of sleep. Even the bugs periodically knocking against the glass of the hot bulb didn’t bother me. It was almost

  hypnotic.

  But as I began to drift into the twilight of a shallow

  slumber, I was startled awake by the sound of a mechanical clanging. I tossed the covers from off my head and discovered the source of the noise. The ancient air conditioner beneath the room’s sole window had kicked on, and was certainly

  not working as intended.

  It was a cool, October night. There was no reason for

  the AC to turn on. The clanging had grown even louder as I homed in on it. I was frightened by the sound, the intensity of it, the fact that it was escalating.

  My attention was soon drawn back to the bulb above

  the bed. It was now flickering and swinging gently on its