Ask the Bones Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  The Haunted Forest

  The Murky Secret

  Next-of-Kin

  The Bloody Fangs

  Ask the Bones

  The Four-Footed Horror

  Beginning with the Ears

  Fiddling with Fire

  The Laplander’s Drum

  A Night of Terror

  Nowhere to Hide

  The Handkerchief

  The Mousetrap

  The Speaking Head

  The Dripping Cutlass

  The Black Snake

  The Hand of Death

  The Invisible Guest

  A Trace of Blood

  The Bridal Gown

  The Greedy Man and the Goat

  The Evil Eye

  Sources

  A deal with the devil....

  There stood a horrifying figure, dressed in a long black cloak lined with red and smoldering at the hem. His black boots were licked by tongues of flame. And his pointed tail thrashed smoke from side to side. Lucas cringed, for now he knew who ’d been teaching him to fiddle that night.

  “Give it here, ” demanded the devil. And he began to play. His fingers danced over the strings and firmly guided the bow. Songs burst forth, so bewitching that Lucas could think of nothing else. “I didn’t know you could play, ” gasped Lucas.

  “Play?” snapped the devil. “I invented the fiddle. ”

  “I’d give anything to play like that, ” Lucas cried.

  An evil grin spread across the devil’s face. “Even your soul?”

  “Excellent for reading aloud, this collection will satisfy even jaded genre fans.”

  —Booklist

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  Richard Peck

  The House With a Clock in Its Walls

  John Bellairs

  Interstellar Pig

  William Sleator

  The Letter, the Witch, and the Ring

  John Bellairs

  The Man in the Woods

  Rosemary Wells

  The Phantom of the Opera

  Gaston Leroux

  Tales of Mystery and Terror

  Edgar Allan Poe

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers.

  345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Books Ltd. 80 Strand, London WC2R ORL, England

  Penguin Books Australia Ltd. Ringwood, Victoria. Australia

  Penguin Books Canada Ltd, 10 Alcorn Avenue, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4V 3B2

  Penguin Books (N.Z.) Ltd, 182-190 Wairau Road, Auckland 10, New Zealand

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: Harmondsworth, Middlesex, England

  First published in the United States of America by Viking,

  a member of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 1999

  Published by Puffin Books,

  a division of Penguin Putnam Books for Young Readers, 2002

  Text copyright © Arielle North Olson and Howard Schwartz, 1999

  Illustrations copyright © David Linn, 1999

  All rights reserved

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE VIKING EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Ask the bones: scary stories from around the world / selected and retold by

  Arielle North Olson and Howard Schwartz; illustrated by David Linn.

  p. cm.

  Includes bibliographical references.

  Summary: A collection of scary folktales from countries around the world including

  China, Russia, Spain, and the United States.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-12795-7

  1. Horror tales. 2. Tales. [1. Horror stories. 2. Folklore.]

  I. Olson, Arielle North. II. Schwartz, Howard, date. III. Linn, David, ill.

  PZ8.1.A.27—dc21 98-19108 CIP AC

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  In memory of Sterling North,

  my beloved father and mentor.

  -A. N. O.

  For Shira, Nathan, and Miriam

  —H.S.

  lntroduction

  Since ancient times, the night has seemed mysterious and threatening. Shadows beyond the firelight gave rise to tales as frightening as our worst nightmares. These stories account for more shivers than the most chilling wind.

  The scary folktales gathered in this book come from around the world—from the United States, China, Russia, Spain, and other far-off lands.

  Here ghostly pirates take unspeakable revenge on those who dare to dig for their treasure, and witches turn unfortunate men into oxen whenever they please. Here the devil bargains for souls, a kindly cousin turns out to have a grisly appetite, and evil eyes endanger the unsuspecting.

  It is only human to tremble at the unknown, especially after dark, when you don’t know if you are hearing branches rubbing against the window or evil creatures prowling around outside your door.

  The ones who lurk within these pages are lying in wait for you ... so take care.

  The Haunted Forest

  • A Tale from Uzbekistan •

  Long ago there was a haunted forest in Uzbekistan. No one who stepped into its shadows was ever seen again.

  Rusty axes lay on the ground, dropped there by wood-cutters who disappeared forever. Baskets lay smashed in the bushes, left by terrified berry pickers who never returned home.

  The roaring was terrible. It echoed through the forest day and night. But what roared? No one knew.

  Some said that evil spirits waited in the gloom, ready to pounce upon their victims and lock them deep inside the trunks of trees. Why else did the branches moan in the wind?

  Others said that monsters with dozens of long hairy arms rose up through the forest floor and pulled their victims deep beneath the earth, leaving only the axes and baskets behind.

  The Khan told everyone that neither evil spirits nor hairy monsters lurked in the forest, only a mighty beast. A hungry beast. A beast who could eat an entire man for dinner, yet roar its displeasure if it didn’t find a tender maiden for dessert.

  The Khan wanted someone to slip into the forest and kill this beast. He was sure he could find a man brave enough to do it. And if that man disappeared forever, the Khan wouldn’t worry. He could always find others, particularly if he offered a prize.

  So the Khan issued a proclamation. “Let it be known,” the proclamation stated, “that a great prize will be given to whoever kills the beast in the forest and brings back its head.”

  Hunters came, who could spear a sapling at fifty paces, cleanly splitting it in two.

  Soldiers came, who could slice their swords through the air faster than the eye could see.

  But one by one they disappeared into the forest. Peasants living nearby heard hideous screams amidst the roaring. And they never saw the brave men again.

  The peasants piled chairs and tables against their doors at night so nothing from the forest could burst into their huts. They spoke softly to one another, not knowing who or what might be listening. “Only a fool would attempt to win the prize,” some whispered.

  But the shoemaker’s son decided to try.

  His name was Hasan, and he had heard about evil spirits and monsters ever since he was a child. At bedtime, when dark shadows filled the hut, his mother had told him stories that set his imagination on fire. A cloak hanging on a peg seemed alive when the wind blew through a crack in th
e wall. Pots and pans looked like heads that had dropped down the chimney and were sitting on the hearth, waiting to devour him as soon as he closed his eyes.

  As he grew older, cloaks and pots and pans looked familiar, except when he awoke in the dark, still immersed in his dreams.

  But the frightful roaring in the forest? He never got used to that. It made his skin creep and his scalp tingle. Still, he tended to believe the Khan. It was just a beast. And what beast, he thought, could not be outwitted by a man?

  When Hasan turned sixteen, he announced he was going to win the Khan’s prize. His mother and father feared for his life, but he promised to be careful. Finally they let him go to the Khan’s palace.

  Now the Khan had seen many men try and fail, so he was amused that a mere boy would attempt to kill such a ferocious beast. But he gave Hasan a helmet, a shield, and a sword.

  Hasan thanked the Khan and hurried away. By the time he reached the haunted forest, night had fallen. He carried a flaming torch that lit up the path, but the circle of light made the surrounding woods seem much darker and far more dangerous.

  Never before had Hasan ventured into the depths of the forest, and never at night. His torch made eerie shadows, and branches rubbed in the wind, rasping and groaning overhead. Hasan remembered hearing about evil spirits who trapped their victims within the trunks of trees. But he told himself he heard only the wind, nothing more. Still, he trembled.

  Suddenly he heard a faint rustling in the dry leaves beside the path, and he remembered his mother’s stories about hairy arms shooting up through the leaves to pull unwary travelers into the depths of the earth. Just stories? Then why was his heart pounding so?

  He stopped, his eyes darting left and right. There was something very dark and very large looming ahead. He held his torch high, breathing fast, but he saw that it was merely the tumbledown wall of an old castle. He decided he would rather meet the beast in daylight, so he prepared to spend the night there, sheltered by the castle’s remaining walls.

  He gathered some wood and soon had a fire blazing. Its warmth made him drowsy, but just as he was closing his eyes he heard the rustling again. Was something rising up through the leaves on the forest floor? Then he heard a soft voice.

  “I’m cold,” it said. “May I sit by your fire?”

  Hasan jumped up and held his sword ready. Could something monstrous be lurking there, making its voice sweet as honey?

  Hairy arms slid around the end of the castle wall. Or were they hairy legs?

  Hasan raised his sword high above his head, his hands trembling, ready to strike.

  Whatever it was, it spoke again, even more gently than before. “Fear not,” it said, “and do not believe what you are about to see. Although I look like a giant spider, I am really a girl.”

  A shiny black body, with the longest, hairiest legs Hasan had ever seen, scuttled into the circle of firelight. Was this one of the monsters his mother had warned him about?

  Hasan gripped his sword even more tightly. But the spider stayed on the opposite side of the fire.

  “One day my veil slipped,” it said, “when an evil magician was passing by. He saw my face and wanted to marry me. So I ran. And that’s when he called upon Suliman, son of David, the one who honors all requests, and turned me into a spider.”

  Hasan wanted to believe the spider, but he needed proof. “Recite the evening prayer,” he said, “if you truly are a person.” And the spider spoke the words in its soft and gentle voice.

  Hasan lowered his sword. “Maybe we can find something to release you from the spell,” he said.

  “And maybe I can help you,” said the spider, “for I know why you are here.” It moved close to Hasan, folded its long hairy legs and watched over him while he slept.

  The next morning, Hasan was awakened by a hideous roar that made the very earth shudder. He and the spider leaped to their feet just as a monstrous lion jumped over the castle wall. It was ten times bigger than any lion on earth, with its ears laid back, tail lashing, and claws ready to cut them to bits.

  And it could talk.

  “Who dares trespass in my forest?” it roared. And before the amazed Hasan could draw his sword, the lion slammed him to the ground with one huge paw and pinned the spider’s legs with another. “I eat all who enter here! I ate the woodsmen. I ate the berry pickers. I ate the soldiers. I ate the hunters and now ...”

  It opened its mouth wide and exposed its razor-sharp fangs.

  “Wait, wait,” cried Hasan. “Don’t you want to hear the spider’s story first?”

  The mighty lion closed its mouth. “Perhaps,” it said and lifted its paws.

  The spider spoke so sadly about the life it had led since meeting the evil magician that the lion took pity on it. “Come to my cave,” said the lion to the spider, “where I have some magic ointment. A sorcerer gave it to me in exchange for safe passage through my forest. Let’s see what it will do.”

  So the monstrous lion led Hasan and the spider down into the depths of its cave. It pawed aside a pile of rocks and brought forth a small clay pot. Then the lion dipped a stick into the ointment and rubbed it on the spider’s head. A cloud of smoke enveloped the spider. And when it swirled away, a veiled maiden stood before them, clothed in shimmering silk. She was as lovely a girl as Hasan had ever seen. He was beside himself with joy.

  So was the girl. “Thank you, dear lion,” she cried. “I will be grateful to you forever.”

  But the lion was not listening. It lashed its tail and snarled ferociously. “I have always said people taste better than spiders—and two make a delicious meal.”

  It sprang toward them.

  The girl threw the magic ointment at the lion.

  Hasan swung his sword.

  But who was the quickest?

  Did Hasan cut off the lion’s head and carry it to the palace? Were he and the girl rewarded with a magic carpet that flew them around the world?

  Or did the girl fling the magic ointment in time to turn the lion into a kitten?

  Or, horror of horrors, did the lion gobble up Hasan and the girl with a bloodcurdling crunch?

  It all depends on whether the spots on this page are tears of joy or drops of blood ... You decide!

  The Murky Secret

  • A Tale from the United States •

  Its face was grotesque, with wrinkled cheeks, staring eyes, and lips twisted into a hideous grin.

  But its body was worse. It was shriveled, with hairy arms. And a fishlike tail hung where its legs should be.

  “It’s a pickled mermaid,” said the druggist, his eyes glowing. “I bought it from a sailor.”

  The druggist’s assistant shuddered. The boy had seen more than enough of his employer’s ghastly specimens lined up in the back room, all floating in bottles of brine. A shrunken sea serpent with two heads. Something dredged up from the depths of the ocean that was all spines and teeth. A gelatinous blob studded with bulging eyes.

  And just this morning a new bottle had appeared on the highest shelf, a bottle identical to the one that enclosed the pickled mermaid. But the liquid was too murky for the boy to see what was inside.

  Whatever it was, it fascinated the druggist. He often slipped into the back room to visit his newest specimen. And when he emerged, his sharp face was lit up by an evil grin. He looked like a thief who had just stolen a fortune in gold.

  The druggist enjoyed having a pickled mermaid on his front counter. He watched his customers’ faces and snorted with laughter when he saw their looks of horror and disgust.

  One old woman tugged at the druggist’s arm, pulling his head low so she could whisper in his ear. “You’ll be sorry,” she said. “Merfolk don’t take kindly to anyone who harms them.”

  But the druggist just shrugged. He combed his fingers through his pointed goatee, separating the gray hairs in the center from the black ones on each side. “I fear nothing,” he said. Then he smirked like someone relishing a secret.

  But at th
at very moment, something happened that surprised even the druggist.

  Suddenly the sun was eclipsed by a jet-black sky. Lightning flashed, thunder roared, and rain poured forth as if all the water on earth had risen to the heavens in order to fall upon this coastal city.

  Never before had the residents of Charleston experienced such a furious storm. At night they pulled their pillows over their heads, shutting out the flashes of blinding light. But they could not escape the ear-splitting thunder. It rattled their beds and sent tremors of fear all the way down to their toes.

  They desperately hoped the weather would change. But it did not. Night after night and day after day, the violent storm assaulted the city.

  Evil-smelling water oozed into cellars. Yowling cats climbed onto roofs and into treetops. And inch by inch the water rose in the streets until it lapped at the steps of the druggist’s store.

  As the days dragged on, residents began to mutter. Surely there was a reason for such a storm.

  The old woman who had warned the druggist began to roam the streets, crying out hysterically—“The merfolk are angry,” she shrieked. “We’ll all drown unless the mermaid is returned to the sea.”

  Down by the docks, the superstitious sailors agreed. They believed that merfolk controlled the weather, accompanying ships they liked through gentle seas and sending those they disliked into the teeth of violent storms.

  “This flood is the druggist’s fault,” they said. “He’s the one who has a pickled mermaid!”

  The word spread from alley to alley, lane to lane. Soon residents were pouring out of their houses and marching toward the druggist’s store. Wind raged, tearing at their clothes and whipping the neverending rain into their eyes. They slogged along the streets, knee-deep in mud, and at each crossing they were joined by others, fists raised and faces contorted by anger and fear.