Today I Learned …

~ sylviashults ~ Leave a comment

So that he could spend Christmas 2018 with his daughter Pierce, who was working as a flight attendant for Delta Air Lines, Hal Vaughan, from Ocean Springs, Mississippi, bought tickets to fly with her as a passenger on all six of her flights on Christmas Eve and Christmas Day. (From Ripley’s Believe It or Not: Out of the Box)

Here’s hoping you don’t have to go that far to spend time with the ones you love this year. Merry Christmas!

Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day 12 — The Ghost and Mary Pepper

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Merry Saturkwanzukah! It’s time for our Christmas Eve story. Here is one of my favorites.

Every so often, we hear of ghosts helping the living. It’s rarer still when a living person has the chance to help a ghost.

Mary Pepper was an orphan living in Liverpool in the 1880s. At seven years old, she was on her own, living in the cellar of an abandoned building. Like many other street waifs of the Victorian era, Mary scavenged the streets for anything of value – lumps of coal that had fallen from carts, coins dropped from the pockets or purses of those more fortunate. She would beg for day-old bread from the Dow Street bakery. Sometimes she would hang around the door of the candy shop, hoping for a few hard candies or bits of toffee from Mr. Mallard, the owner. That was a real treat.

Even in her poverty, Mary found beauty on the rough streets. On Christmas Eve, 1887, she was following a robin as it hopped down Crosshall Street. The bird’s red breast was a cheerful spot of color against the snow. Mary’s reverie was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a ghost.

Mary knew the man was a spirit. For one thing, she’d seen ghosts all her life. For another, this man was completely devoid of color – he was stark white, from the top hat perched on his white hair to the tips of his polished boots. And for a third, she recognized him. It was Henry Silver, who had died in the 1860s.

The ghost stared at her with shocking-pink eyes, the only part of him with any color at all. It reached out for her with bony pale hands, groaning as if in distress. It staggered through the snow, leaving no footprints. Mary just sighed. He’d scared the robin away.

“Aren’t you afraid of me?” the ghost demanded.

“No. You’re nothing – just a sad ghost,” Mary replied calmly.

“I’m not nothing!” Silver retorted. “I’m an evil spirit!”

Mary just wandered away, unimpressed. Perhaps she could spot the robin once more.

Silver followed Mary down Crosshall Street. Trying to scare her, he swooped through her several times. He followed her home to the dank cellar where she lived, and squeezed through a hole in the wall. Finally, seeing that Mary could not be spooked, he told his story.

During his life, Henry Silver had a curious, unpleasant hobby. He would plant fake love letters that led to quarrels between couples, often making them break up as a result. One of these pranks backfired terribly when a young woman, thinking she’d been deceived by her lover, threw herself into the Mersey River and drowned. She happened to be a Gypsy, and here’s when Silver’s penchant for mischief caught up with him. A relative of the girl came to see him and placed a Gypsy curse on him. Because of his cold-hearted tricks, the old woman cursed him to be cold forever. Despite his doctor’s best efforts, Silver soon died of hypothermia … in summer.

Silver cried out to Mary that he longed to feel warmth once more – the cozy fireside, the glow of love – as he wept for his loss. Mary snapped, “Then go into St. John’s Church and ask for forgiveness.”

“I can’t – I’m too proud!” Silver argued. Mary finally talked him into it, and led him to the church herself. Silver squared his shoulders, and walked into the church.

He was in there for quite some time. Mary waited for him patiently outside. She felt a bit responsible for the poor sad ghost. When he came out, Silver was a changed man … literally. His color had returned; now he sported a black top hat and a brown suit, and his cheeks were a healthy, rosy pink. He gave Mary a hug, and said, “Thank you, little one.” Then he disappeared.

The ghost’s gratitude wasn’t just lip service. Several years later, when she was fifteen, Mary was adopted, and later emigrated to America. There, she married a rich oil tycoon and, presumably, lived happily ever after.

And we’ve come to Christmas Eve — how about that! If you’ve enjoyed these ghost stories, and want more, tune in to Ron’s Amazing Stories (www.ronsamazingstories.com) for the monthly segment “Ghost Stories With Sylvia”, or seek out the new book Gone On Vacation: Haunted Zoos, Museums, and Amusement Parks, at amazon.com or bookshop.org. While you’re browsing the Web, take a peek at www.weirddarkness.com. If Darren Marlar left any cookies and milk out for Santa, you have my permission to take a couple. (And if he left schnapps out for Krampus, you just bring that right back here to me.) Merry Christmas to all, and to all a good fright!

Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day 11 — The Ghost of Anne Boleyn

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The Tower of London comes by its ghostly reputation honestly. Built by William the Conqueror in 1078, it has stood as a symbol of the might of England for nearly a thousand years. It was originally a royal palace as well as a defensive fortress. In fact, Her Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress, The Tower of London (to use its proper name) is still officially a residence of the monarch. The King even has a house on site called, appropriately enough, “The King’s House”.

The kings and queens of England realized quite soon after its construction that the Tower was just as good at keeping people in, as it was at keeping people out. So it has been used as a prison since 1100, when Ranulf Flambard was imprisoned within the Tower by Henry I. Flambard was also, by the way, the first person to escape from the Tower.

There have been many prisoners, royal, noble, and otherwise, who have met their ends either on the Tower grounds or on nearby Tower Hill. Only seven people were executed within the Tower before the twentieth century. One of these unfortunates was Anne Boleyn, the second wife of Henry VIII, who was beheaded for treason in 1536. Her ghost is said to haunt the chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula, where she is buried, but she is also known to roam the grounds of the White Tower while carrying her own severed head.

Anne Boleyn is arguably the most famous ghost who wanders the Tower, due to her ill-fated relationship with Henry VIII. Queen Anne even almost got one poor sentry court-martialed.

The guard was found unconscious at his post outside the King’s House one winter morning in 1864. He was accused of falling asleep while on duty, and put on trial.

At the hearing, though, the sentry had a really good explanation for his unconscious state. He had been standing guard when a white figure came towards him out of the early morning mist. The sentry challenged the figure three times, but the silent figure never answered … it just kept walking slowly towards him.

Alarmed, the sentry lunged at the figure with his bayonet fixed, intending to run it through, whatever it was. But a flash of fire raced up the rifle barrel and knocked the sentry out cold.

Luckily, other guards (including officers) came forward to testify at the hearing. They said they had seen the apparition too, from a window in the Bloody Tower. After some discussion, members of the court realized that the phantasm had been seen by multiple witnesses just below the room where Anne had spent her last night alive, the night before her execution on May 19, 1536.

The sentry was cleared. As for the doomed queen, she still wanders the Tower “with her head tucked underneath her arm”, as far as anyone knows.

Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day 10 — The Brown Lady of Raynham Hall

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There is a startling ghost photograph that was taken in a stately English home, Raynham Hall in Norfolk. This might just be the most famous ghost photograph of all time.

Raynham Hall was once the home of Lady Dorothy Townshend, who married Viscount Charles Townshend in 1713. As in many ghost stories, all was not peaceful country life at the Hall. Lady Townshend died on March 29, 1726 at the age of forty, under mysterious circumstances. The official cause of death was smallpox. However, there were rumors that her ladyship had been pushed down the grand staircase, and the fall had broken her neck.

During the Christmas season of 1835, a Colonel Loftus stayed at Raynham Hall as a guest. His stay was interrupted by a nighttime visitation from a beautiful woman. The colonel described her as a noble-looking lady, who was wearing a fashionable dress of brown satin. Her regal looks were spoiled, though, by the terrifying fact that she had no eyes. Only empty sockets gaped where her eyes should have been.

Colonel Loftus made a sketch of his midnight visitor, and a portrait was painted from the sketch and hung in the guest bedroom where the Brown Lady made most of her appearances. (Decades earlier, in 1786, the future King George IV was a guest at the hall and stayed in that particular room. The Brown Lady’s appearance sent the Prince Regent shrieking into the hallway in his nightshirt—a rather embarrassing situation for royalty. After that, he swore he would never set foot in Raynham Hall again—a promise he kept for the rest of his days.)

The Brown Lady continued her haunting of the hall well into the twentieth century. On September 19, 1936, two photographers from the magazine Country Life were on assignment taking pictures of the stately hall. Indre Shira was snapping the photos, accompanied by art director Captain Hubert Provand.

Shira and Provand were setting up a shot of the grand main staircase of the house at around 4 pm, when Shira saw “an ethereal, veiled form coming slowly down the stairs”. Provand didn’t see a thing. He even bet Shira five quid that nothing weird would show up when the picture was developed.

He lost the bet. The Brown Lady had exchanged her customary brown satin dress for a filmy white veil, but her form showed up distinctly in the picture. One of the most famous ghost photographs in the world ran for the first time in Country Life magazine. Appropriately enough, it ran in that year’s December issue.

Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day 9 — The Woman in the Blitz

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  I was privileged, this spring, to spend three weeks ghost hunting in England and Scotland with Dale Kaczmarek. Our host for those three weeks was Paul Adams, a renowned writer of ghost stories himself. One evening as we were sitting around talking after supper, Paul brought out file after file of newspaper clippings he had collected over the years, of ghostly tales from all over England. He graciously allowed me to have a copy of this next story, the winner of the Evening Standard ghost story competition.

  Just before Christmas, during the blitz, I was waiting for my husband to come home early to look after our two children so I could go out to do the Christmas shopping.

  He had not arrived by half-past four. If there was to be any food in the house for Christmas I had to make a dash to the grocer’s before the shops closed.

  I put the children in the air-raid shelter with strict instructions that they were not to come out until I returned.

  As I was leaving the shop with my bag loaded, what seemed like a stick of bombs came down in the direction of my home. I ran for all I was worth.

  The windows were blown in, a large part of the ceiling had come down, the kitchen fire had been blown into the middle of the floor, heavy plates had crashed off the dresser, and our apology for a Christmas tree was covered with soot.

  The children were playing happily in the shelter untroubled by it all.

  ”We were naughty,” the older child confessed. “We came out to play in the kitchen after you had gone, but the lady you sent to look after us brought us back into the shelter just before the bang. She stood by the shelter watching us and we weren’t a bit frightened when everything shook.”

  I had not sent anybody. The lady from the children’s description was certainly not any of the neighbours. She had taken them by the hand and led them back to the shelter. She had not spoken, but kept smiling at them and went away when my footsteps sounded in the kitchen.

  But I met no one coming out of the shelter.

  Some weeks afterwards the children were looking through a bundle of old photographs and books.

  ”Oh, Mum,” my little girl exclaimed, “this is the lady who looked after us that day in the raid!”

  She handed me a photograph. It was a picture of my mother who had been dead for 22 years. — [Mrs.] A.V. Hartley, Cambridge Street, S.W.1.I

  Thanks very much to Paul Adams for sharing this story with me — and incidentally, making possible the next half-dozen or so Lights Out episodes. Lights Out will return in the next few weeks, with loads of really great adventures.

  Do be sure to pop ’round to www.weirddarkness.com for some tea and crumpets. Or bagels and cream cheese. Or hotdogs and beer, I don’t judge. G’wan, go!

  Still here? Okay, here’s another fun Christmas story for you. It’s from the same article in the Evening Standard, and it’s called “A German Airman.”

  Late in the afternoon on Christmas Eve, 1943, I was returning to our WAAF hostel, an old rambling house. Halfway up the tree-lined drive I saw before me a German airman with dishevelled clothes and his hands roughly bandaged.

  He came slowly towards me, bandaged hands outstretched. Then he seemed to melt away.

  I learned from the duty sergeant that a Luftwaffe pilot had been shot down, but had escaped and was heading in our direction. He was burned on the hands and was desperate.

  Later, another signal said that the man had been found dead in a wrecked car 20 miles from the hostel — and several hours before I “saw” him. — [Mrs.] A.R. Loveland, Artillery Road, Guildford.

Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day 8 — Ghost Rider of the Revolution

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  Ready for another ghost story as we creep up on Christmas? Me too! Let’s dive in! Here’s another story from Spirits of Christmas.

  The winter winds whistled around the cabin in the South Carolina woods, but inside the snug home, all was well. The cabin’s owner, David Miles, was a Quaker, and held himself and his family aloof from the fighting that raged around them. The Revolutionary War was a necessary evil, but Miles prayed it would not touch his two teenaged children.

Nineteen-year-old Charity, David’s daughter, heard the light hoofbeats of a horse just outside the rear of the cabin. Her heart leapt, and she jumped up from her chair, leaving her knitting forgotten on the table. A sharp knock on the door brought her father and brother to their feet as well. Charity eased the door open just a crack.

Young Henry Galbreath, a scout with the Continental Army, stood outside. Charity grabbed his hand and pulled him into the safety of the cabin.

Tears, both of joy and of worry, stood in Charity’s eyes. “Henry, I almost wish you hadn’t come. It’s too dangerous. You can’t keep coming here, not with General Tarleton’s Redcoats patrolling the area. You know I love you, but you must stay away!”

Henry bent and kissed Charity. “I can’t, love. I have to see you, or I’ll go mad. Besides, no one knows these woods better than I do. I’ll be safe, I promise.”

David Miles pulled a chair closer to the fire, and the young patriot plumped into it with a grateful smile. Henry enjoyed the company of Charity’s family, and he loved Charity. After this war was over, after the Americans won their freedom, he’d make Charity his wife.

Charity poured four mugs of chicory coffee, and Henry wrapped his cold fingers around his mug, happy for the warmth. He gazed up at Charity.

“My love, I’ll come back for you. One year from now, whether or not the war is over, I will come back.”

Charity nodded. “I will wait for you, Henry.”

David took a sip of his coffee, then stiffened. Over the sounds of the wind he’d heard the pounding of horses’ hooves—several of them. The Tories were out searching for the young scout.

Henry tossed his coffee into the fire, and Charity hastily dried the mug on her apron and threw it into the cabinet. Her brother rushed to the back of the cabin and, with the skill of long practice, removed a plank from the wall near the floor. Henry squirmed through the opening into the back yard, where his horse waited.

Scarcely had Charity’s brother replaced the board when a barrage of knocks came on the cabin door. Rough voices called out, “Open up, in the name of King George!” Gun butts smashed against the door, which sagged inwards under the blows.

Three Tories burst into the cabin, their muskets held at the ready. “Where is he?” one of the soldiers demanded.

David Miles, still seated by the fire, closed his Bible and calmly took a sip of coffee. “I have no idea who you might be looking for. My children and I are the only ones here.”

A flurry of fading hoofbeats, and the soldiers knew their prey was lost. They mounted up and thundered after the scout, but the thickly falling snow hid his tracks well.

The fighting dragged on. Weeks turned into months with no word from Henry. Even the Continental soldiers who sometimes passed through had no news of him.

One night, Charity was sitting up late after her father and brother had gone to bed. Henry’s words still echoed in her heart: One year from now, I will come back. It hadn’t yet been a year, but she longed to see Henry again, no matter the danger. She reached for her shawl and stepped out of the cabin. She felt oddly drawn to the edge of the clearing.

At the edge of the woods, a strange bluish light began to glow. Raising her hand to her eyes to shield them, Charity saw movement in the light. A rider came galloping out of the woods. He was dressed all in black, the better to blend into the shadows. He was riding hard, intent on some urgent business. He didn’t stop at the cabin, but urged his foam-flecked horse onward.

The rider hadn’t even glanced at Charity, but she knew him anyway. At that moment, she knew Henry Galbreath was dead.

Five long years passed. The Revolution, begun in hope, ended in victory. David Miles and his family gave thanks that the terrible war was over. One December night, five years after they’d last seen Henry, the family was once again enjoying a cozy winter evening together.

Charity still carried a flame of hope in her heart. Maybe she’d been wrong about the identity of the ghostly rider. Maybe the ragged rider and his sweating horse had been a trick of the moonlight. She put on a new dress and joined her father and brother, hoping that that evening, Henry would keep his promise and return to her at last.

The cabin door slammed open and a shining light filled the room. Henry Galbreath stood in the brilliance. His army uniform hung in tatters from his broad shoulders, and his eyes were raw sockets in his haggard face. His ghostly gaze fell on Charity, and she cowered in terror in spite of herself. Then, just as suddenly as he had appeared, the specter was gone.

Charity Miles never did marry. She never found out for certain what happened to her Henry, either. Being a scout, his whereabouts were often unknown. It was assumed that he had been killed in battle.

The cabin in which Henry Galbreath pledged his love to Charity Miles is long gone. But legends say that when winter winds blow cold on a December night, and the snow falls thick, a ghostly horse and rider still gallop through the woods, forever carrying news for Washington’s army.

Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day 7 — Let’s have some creepy Christmas fun!

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I had a fabulous time chatting with Jon Mallard, host of the Odd to Newfoundland podcast. Listen in as I spin some spooky tales of Christmas hauntings. https://podfollow.com/oddtonewfoundland/view?fbclid=IwAR0_FlxyNn0BRuyKLYV16pIAr713xclaqyPJPaWkYl6bFDklXajyTgp2xT8#_=_

Drop in on www.weirddarkness.com, too. You’re sure to find even more exciting ghost stories over there. Tell Darren I sent you!

Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day 6 — Today I Learned …

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Aileen Sterling’s family, from Renfrew, Scotland, has decorated the same ornamental Christmas tree for over 100 years. (From Ripley’s Believe It or Not: Out of the Box)

Short and sweet, right? Need more spooky Christmas goodness? Check out www.weirddarkness.com. I know there’s some great stuff going on over there.

Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day 5 — Blood Brothers

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(This story, and many others, can be found within the pages of Spirits of Christmas, available from Bookshop.org and Amazon.)

  This tale comes from the brooding mountains and dark hollows of Appalachia. A young man from West Virginia was engaged to be married to a beautiful girl. But the dark clouds of World War I loomed on the horizon, far across the ocean from his mountain home. The young man was called up sooner than he had expected, and he was shipped off to the front before he could marry his sweetheart.

  After he had gone, the man’s older brother came a’courting. He convinced the girl that the soldier had never really loved her. Why, if he had, he wouldn’t have left her all alone, now would he? Soon, he talked the girl into marrying him instead.

  On Christmas Eve, the soldier returned home unexpectedly. He went straight to the house where his brother lived with his wife — the wife that should have been his. The soldier knocked on the door, and the brother let him in.

  The brother was on edge during the whole conversation, as his wife was just upstairs. In an irritated whisper, he told the soldier that yes, he had married the girl simply for her money and for her family’s position in society. He warned his younger brother, in a low but urgent tone, that if he interfered with the marriage in any way, he would kill him dead.

  The soldier nodded in grudging understanding. The conversation had gone just about the way he’d expected it to. He left the house, hearing the door close firmly behind him.

  The younger brother returned to the house a little while later — with a revolver. He shot his older brother, then stormed out of the house.

  The young wife heard the shot and hurried downstairs. She found her husband dying in a spreading pool of his own blood on the floor. With his final agonized breaths, he told her what had happened.

  She called the police, who searched the property thoroughly. They could find no trace of the murderous young soldier.

  On Christmas Day, a telegram arrived. It was addressed to the older brother. His widow opened it and read it.

  The telegram said that the younger brother had been killed in action on December 21.

Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day 4 — Footprints In The Snow

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(This story, and many others, can be found within the pages of Spirits Of Christmas: The Dark Side of the Holidays. https://bookshop.org/p/books/spirits-of-christmas-the-dark-side-of-the-holidays-sylvia-shults/10267269?ean=9780999604007

It was a cold winter afternoon early in the last century. A mother huddled in her cabin on the west fork of the Little Pigeon River in Tennessee. She held two of her children in a tight embrace … but one was missing. Her two-year-old son had wandered away from the cabin earlier that day. Since then, the temperature had been falling steadily, along with a heavy snow.

A neighbor came in, stamping the snow from his boots, to grab a few moment’s warmth by the fire. The mother looked up, hope dawning briefly in her eyes — then looked back down, defeated, at the shake of the neighbors’s head. She was grateful, of course, that all the menfolk were out looking for her precious lost little one. Word had been passed from cabin to homestead, from house to church, and soon the entire community was looking. Her own husband was off in Europe in the trenches, fighting the Germans. All she could do was pray that one of her neighbors would find her little boy — and soon.

Dr. Thomas appeared at the door of the cabin. He’d dressed warmly for the trudge through the woods. He’d come thinking to help the young mother. One look at her stricken face, though, and he realized that he could best help not by doctoring her, but by finding her missing son. Pulling his heavy overcoat closed, he headed out into the snowstorm with the other searchers.

Dr. Thomas struck off in a random direction, hoping he was looking at ground that hadn’t already been covered. With the snow falling so thickly, the footprints of the searching men were soon being covered over. Dr. Thomas held his lantern high in the gathering dusk as he scanned the area.

The shadows of the evening crowded close under the pines as the last light of the day slipped away. The doctor stopped for a moment, listening to the silence of the woods. Somewhere, he knew, men were searching for the little boy with dogs. But he hadn’t yet heard the deep bay of a hound on the scent.

All around him, the snow fell in a silent hush. The branches of the pines swayed with the wind, even as laden with snow as they were. As night fell, the snowstorm grew worse. Dr. Thomas trudged along the dwindling path in the woods, stopping every so often to look closely at any fallen log that might shelter a shivering little boy. His toes were beginning to go numb, even with the three pairs of thick woolen socks he wore. But he kept wandering the woods, his lantern held high in search of any sign of the boy. If he was cold, the toddler would be even worse off.

Dr. Thomas stopped and turned in a slow circle. He couldn’t give up hope, not while the boy was still out there lost in the storm. He held his lantern high … and there on the ground was one footprint. Dr. Thomas bent closer to study it. It wasn’t the track of a deer, or a dog.

It was the footprint of a child. A child who was barefoot.

The doctor’s heart leapt, and adrenaline spun in his cold fingers and toes, warming them briefly. Finally, here was some sign of the boy! The doctor looked around carefully for more footprints.

There was another one, and a third! The bare footprints were just visible in the hard-packed old snow, and as the doctor watched, more appeared, the feathery new snow blowing off of the old prints. Carefully, the old doctor followed the prints. The doctor no longer cursed the biting wind, because oddly enough, the wind seemed to be blowing the fresh snow off of the prints, revealing the path the barefoot toddler had taken through the woods.

Dr. Thomas followed the footprints as they led him to a patch of evergreens. The doctor lifted a low-hanging branch, and gasped. There, curled up on a soft bed of fallen leaves, was the young boy. But the doctor had come too late. The boy’s skin was waxy-white, and his little chest didn’t rise and fall with peaceful sleeping breath.

The boy had frozen to death in the storm.

Dr. Thomas stifled a low moan, and gathered the child up in his arms. He unbuttoned his coat and his woolen shirt, and cradled the boy to his chest. The boy had died in the freezing cold. Although he was too late, the doctor could at least keep him warm for the sad walk home. He rebuttoned his coat and headed back to the cabin.

As the doctor approached the cabin, the young mother came out to meet him. Seeing her there, silhouetted against the yellow glow of the lit cabin behind her, Dr. Thomas felt his spirits sink. How could he break this woman’s heart?

The mother caught sight of the doctor, with his sad burden, and ran to him. Dr. Thomas reached the open cabin door just as the woman came out, crying joyful tears at the return of her baby. The doctor unbuttoned his coat and opened his shirt.

“I’m so sorry. At least I found him…”

And to his shock, the little boy blinked sleepy brown eyes at him. The child turned his head, hearing his mother’s cry of joy. “Momma?”

Stunned, Dr. Thomas handed the toddler to his mother, who cuddled him fiercely. She looked up, tears of gratitude standing in her eyes.

“Thank you, doctor, thank you so much. You saved my little boy. Please, come inside and get warm.”

The doctor followed her into the cabin. His analytical mind fumbled for an explanation. The boy must have been chilled to the point where his vitals had slowed, putting him into a state of suspended animation. The walk back, cuddled against the doctor’s warm chest and wrapped in the heavy overcoat, must have warmed the child slowly, enough for him to recover with no harm done. The gentle warming had brought the child back to life as surely as a violet blooms in the spring. Vaguely, he became aware that the boy’s mother was still talking.

“I’m so grateful to you for finding him!” She kissed the toddler, who sighed sleepily in her arms.

Dr. Thomas roused himself from his thoughts. “Yes, I followed his footprints in the snow. I’m amazed he was able to wander so far with bare feet.”

“Bare feet?” the mother said, puzzled. “But he’s wearing shoes.”

Frowning, Dr. Thomas lifted one of the boy’s feet. Sure enough, the boy was wearing sturdy brogans.

“I have to tie his shoes on tightly, with double knots, so he won’t kick them off,” the mother explained.

“Here, have some coffee, it’ll warm you right up. Good job!” a neighbor said, putting a tin cup into the doctor’s hand. Dr. Thomas accepted the congratulations and heartfelt thanks of his neighbors. The little boy was safe. That was all that mattered.

But the doctor’s scientific mind wouldn’t rest until he’d figured out the answer to the mystery. Several nights later, he woke from a sound sleep, sitting bolt upright in bed, reeling from a thunderclap of realization.

The wind hadn’t blown the fresh snow off of the child’s old prints. The bare footprints had been appearing in the snow, step by step, as he’d been following them. He hadn’t been tracking a living child. He’d been following an invisible child — a ghost, or an angel.

Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day 3 — Lights Out Extra: Christmas 2023

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Here’s another Lights Out for your listening enjoyment: the Christmas edition, brand-new for 2023. The tragic disappearance of the Sodder children, on Christmas Eve 1945, began in flames and ended in enduring mystery. How could five children simply vanish from their bedrooms without a trace? The unsolved mystery continues to haunt West Virginia today. https://five.libsyn.com/show/episodes/view/29097618 (Please note: YouTube is being obstreporous, and for some reason, won’t let me post an MP4 file. I keep getting a message that “it has to be an MP4 file.” Uhhhh…okay? So you’re getting the straight-up podcast version this time, that DID post to all my podcast platforms.)

You know who else has really cool podcasts? Darren Marlar, over at www.weirddarkness.com , that’s who. You should hop on over there and see what’s going on.

Throwback Thursday!

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Welcome to the annual roundup of Christmas episodes of Lights Out with Sylvia Shults. You’ll get a brand-new episode tomorrow — this year’s Christmas present to you guys — but today, we’ll have a chance to revisit some episodes from past years. Kick back with a mug of hot chocolate (extra marshmallows encouraged), and immerse yourself in stories brought to you by yours truly.

(And when you’re done listening here, go over to http://www.weirddarkness.com . Will they have cookies? I’ll bet they have cookies.)

Lights Out Christmas 2016: The Roving Skeleton of Boston Bay https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Alg6AOjuQvE&t=46s

Lights Out Christmas 2017: Up In Flames https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I1o74O6A-aw&t=57s

Lights Out Christmas 2018: Clet Hall, poltergeist, and the Veiled Ghost of Highgate https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BvAANf27Eb4&t=49s

Lights Out Christmas 2020: A Visit From Saint Nicholas https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tcFUsqrKSUI&t=8s

Lights Out Christmas 2022: “Smee” https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9o1k1wUauE

The Twelve Nightmares of Christmas Returns!

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That’s right! This year makes lucky number seven for the collaboration between myself and Darren Marlar, of Weird Darkness. Start off here, then hop over to his site, http://www.weirddarkness.com for more spooky treats. (Right now he’s gearing up for the holidays too, with The Twelve Slays of Christmas. FUN!)

Let’s start off by getting in the spirit of the season. Here’s a recipe for a truly delightful holiday drink called coquito. It’s sort of like eggnog, but not all recipes use eggs (and there are loads of recipes besides the one given here). The creamy drink, tasting faintly of coconut and liberally laced with rum, comes from Puerto Rico. I whipped up a batch this morning, and GOSH it is good.

Coquito

1 can evaporated milk

1 inch fresh ginger, thinly sliced

3 cinnamon sticks

1 t whole cloves

1-2 star anise pods

1 can coconut milk

1 can condensed milk

1 can cream of coconut

1 1/2 c rum

Pour evaporated milk into a small saucepan. Add spices. Bring to a quick boil, then simmer for three minutes. Let cool to room temperature.

Pour the spiced milk through a sieve. Pick out cinnamon sticks and set the aside. Put the other spices in the compost (or leave the ginger slices in for this next step).

Put spiced milk and all other ingredients in a blender. (It will be FULL.) Blend thoroughly at medium speed. Pour into a glass bottle and add cinnamon sticks back in. Chill overnight; store in fridge. Serve cold with a dusting of cinnamon.

Pour yourself a big glass of this lovely creamy dreamy concoction, and settle back into your favorite chair for twelve days of Christmas ghost fun. And do visit Darren over at http://www.weirddarkness.com . He’d love to see you!

Does this look amazing or what?

December’s Here!

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Welcome to December, everyone! We’re going to start the month off with a bang; here’s a link to the Odd to Newfoundland podcast. Jon and I got into a surprisingly deep discussion, and of course we chatted about Spirits of Christmas. https://podfollow.com/oddtonewfoundland/view… Enjoy! And stay tuned throughout the rest of the month, because if it’s December, you know the Twelve Nightmares of Christmas are on the way!

The Paranormal Podcast: A conversation around the campfire with Jim Harold

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I had a great time chatting with the incomparable Jim Harold on his show, The Paranormal Podcast. If you’d like to join us around the campfire for some wonderfully spooky stories, just follow the link! https://content.blubrry.com/paranormalplus/Haunted_Amusement_Parks_and_More-Ghost_Insight_212.mp3

Today I Learned …

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The Boerne 0.5 K run — a charity race for “underachievers” — was staged at Boerne, Texas, on May 5, 2018. The course was only 0.3 mile long, and for an entry fee of $25, participants received free beer at the start and finish. Those not wishing to expend any energy at all could pay an extra $25 to have an old bus transport them the length of the course. (From Ripley’s Believe It or Not: Beyond the Bizarre)

Today I Learned …

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In 1903, butcher Jacob W. opened a meat market at 2359 Wentworth Avenue in Chicago. Shortly afterward his whole family died and Jacob committed suicide. Jacob’s clerk Fred K. took over the business. In short order his daughter fell into a pickling vat and was scalded to death. A week later Fred died “under mysterious circumstances.”

Then a man bought the house and was murdered there. A few weeks later an Italian committed suicide under the porch.

The house was destroyed on March 19, 1913, in a fire that killed a woman and her two children. Happy Halloween! (From Horror in the Heartland: Strange and Gothis Tales From the Midwest, by Keven McQueen)