The Enchanted Cottage

Story telling is an enchanted, and enchanting, art. Here in the enchanted cottage, you can relax and enjoy some alternate realities… (guaranteed drug free)

Note: At the I stopped posting regularly to The Cottage, it was nearing Halloween. I have left these ghost stories, favorites of mine from my performing days, up...

"THE GHOST WHO COULDN'T HAUNT"

by Dick Wightman

(C) 1988

(This is a story I used to delight in performing at Halloween parties for little kids...)

Once upon a time, a year or two ago, there was a house, up on a hill. It was an old, old house, and no-one lived there. In fact, no-one had lived there for a long, long time. The grass had grown up high, and the windows were broken. At night the moon shown from behind the house, through the broken windows and, in the fall, around Haolloween time, through the branches of the big old tree in the yard.

It was said that the house was haunted. Indeed, anyone who tried to go into the house, or even near it, could hear the awful sound of the ghost, "Hoo-ooooh-oooh-oooh!" Children wouldn't go near the house. They went to the other side of the street when they had to pass it. Things had been like that for a long, long time.

However, little boys, especially when they're around 8 or 9 years old, just love to get into mischief and trouble. In fact, they'll dare each other to do dangerous or scary things. One year, it might even have been last year, a little boy name Bobby was dared to go into the yard of the haunted house. His friends said, "Bet you wouldn't ever go in there. No, you'd be too scared!"

Well, little boys don't like to admit theat they're scared, so of course, he had to try it. He was supposed to do it on a Saturday night, so all the kids could watch. The kids all gathered across the street and waited for Bobby to go into the yard of the haunted house.

The truth was, Bobby WAS scared, but he couldn't let the other kids know it, so he had to try. He gathered up his courage and ran as fast as he could acros the street, into the yard and up to the big old tree. As he stood catching his breathe, he heard a strange, howling sound, "Hoooo-ooooh-oooh-oooh!" Bobby ran back across the street to the other kids as quick as he could. He hated to do it, but he was going to admit he'd heard the ghost and been scared, but before he could, the other kids were all congratulating him! "Wow, did you see that? He went into the yard. He stood right under the tree. Boy, he wasn't scared!"

Bobby was hero!

Well, for the next several days, Bobby enjoyed being a celebrity, The Boy Who Went Into the Yard of the Haunted House. He told everyone about hearing the ghost, but pretended he hadn't been scared. "Oh, sure, I heard the ghost," he said, "but it didn't scare me." Bobby thought this business of being a hero was great fun.

However, after a few days, the other kids got tired of Bobby acting as if he was so special. Pretty soon, somebody said, "Oh, well. He really only went into the yard. What's the big deal. I bet he wouldn't go up on the porch!" Bobby was discovering that yesterday's heros didn't count for much unless they did something today.

Of course, since Bobby enjoyed being the center of attention, he had to take the dare. The next Saturday night, the kids all gathered across the street again, to see Bobby actually go up on the porch of the haunted house. Once again, Bobby gathered up his courage, because he sure didn't want to go over there again, and then raced across the street.

He no sooner got into the yard than he heard that strange howling sound again, "Hoooo-oooooh-ooooh-ooooh!" He was really scared, but all the kids who thought he was a hero were across the street watching, and he couldn't stop. He dashed up on the porch and touched the doorknob, then ran back across the street for all he was worth.

Once again, he was a hero! "Gosh, did you see that? He went right up on the porch of the haunted house! He even touched the doorknob! Wow!" Once again, the kids at school treated him as if he was really special. He had a reputation as the bravest boy in school!

But again, fame doesn't last long. Pretty soon another boy, who was tired of Bobby getting all the attention, had run into the yard. Then someone else ran up on the porch. After awhile, you just weren't anybody at school if you hadn't been at least in the yard of the haunted house, and Bobby wasn't so special any more.

Bobby could see that he was going to have to do something really spectacular if he wanted to keep his reputation, and he knew just what it would be. Bobby called the kids together and announced that he was going to go into the haunted house, and wouldn't leave until he had seen the ghost!

That Saturday night, pretty near every kid in school came to stand across the street from the haunted house and watch. Bobby wasn't real happy about what he was going to do, but he figured he had to do it. He ran across the street, into the yard and up on the porch. He could hear the ghost howling! "Hoooo-ooooh-ooooh-ooooh!" He took hold of the door knob... "Hoooo-oooooh-ooooh-ooooh!" He pushed open the door... "Screeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeech!", and then he stepped inside.

The ghost was howling all the time now, "Hoooo-ooooh-ooooh!", and Bobby was really scared. He wanted to leave, but all the kids were waiting across the street. He decided to look in at least a few rooms, "After all," he thought, "the ghost has never really hurt anybody." He looked through the downstairs living room and dining room, then the kitchen and pantry. As he moved around, it seemed the sound of the ghost did, too. Now it seemed to come from upstairs.

Bobby was getting frustrated. Here he was, the bravest kid at school, actually in the haunted house, and he couldn't find the ghost! He decided to go upstairs. He looked in all the bedrooms, and it seemed that the ghost was always just ahead of him. After he'd looked all over the second floor, he decided he'd even go up in the attic. He opened the attic door, "Screeeeeeeeeeeeech!" As he went up in the attic, the ghost seemed to be just ahead, but the sound it was making was much softer, and shorter, "Hoo-oooh-ooh, hoo-ooh-ooh..." Finally, there was only a small room, in the very corner of the attic left, and Bobby went to it and looked inside.

Yes, he'd finally found the ghost! But what a ghost! It was very small, and was trying to hide in a corner! It's "hoo-ooh-ooh's" now were very small and timid, almost like it was cying. The ghost was scared!! Bobby was so relieved and suprised he broke out laughing, "What kind of ghost is this?" he gasped between bursts of laughter. "All this time we've all been so scared, and it's just a little baby ghost that's more scared of us. This ghost doesn't know how to haunt!'

With that Bobby went back out and told the kids that he'd chased the ghost up in the attic, and they could all come in. All the kids came over to the haunted house and when Bobby showed them the ghost, they all laughed. Everyone agreed that it was the most ridiculous ghost imaginable. Pretty soon, Bobby suggested that they use the haunted house for a clubhouse. "If we don't tell anyone, we can come here and nobody will bother us," he said.

The kids had a wonderful time with their new clubhouse. They all ignored the poor little ghost, who spent most of his time in the attic. The ghost really felt bad. He couldn't help it that he was small. He'd been assigned to haunt this particular house, and it was a very big one. He'd done the best he could, but who could imagine that kids would decide to use a haunted house for a clubhouse! The longer the kids used the house, the sadder and more unhappy the little ghost became. He had lost all of his confidence and pride. He was a ghost who couldn't haunt! Pretty soon, he just stayed in the attic and never came out.

One day, about a month after the kids had started coming in, two men came up up to the house. They were tough looking men, criminals in fact, and they were looking for a place to hide out after a bank robbery. The leader, Mike, hought the haunted house would be a perfect place. "Nobody's gonna look for us in a haunted house," he said. His friend Lefty wasn't so sure, but Mike was in charge.

When Mike and Lefty came into the house, they were really surprised to find some of the kids there! "I thought you said this plae was haunted and nobody came in here," said Lefty. "Hey, no problem," said Mike, "We'll tie the kids up and hold them for ransome! We'll get even more money!"

The kids knew they were in real trouble. This wasn't television. These were real criminals, and they meant business! How could they get away? Just then, the whole house was filled with a horrible sound! "Hoooooo-oooooh-ooooooh! Hooooo-oooooh-ooooh! Hoooo-oooh-ooooh!

"Lefty, what's that?", said Mike.

"I don't know," said Lefty. "Why don't you turn around and look?"

"Why don't you turn around and look?," said Mike.

The sound came again, closer and even louder... "Hoooo-ooooh- oooooh! Hoooo-ooooh-ooooh! Whooooo's in my house? Whoooooo will die tonight? Hooo-ooooh-ooooh!"

Mike and Lefty completely forgot the kids, and the money from their bank robbery, and ran out of the house. The kids left to, all except Bobby. Bobby stood in the middle of the living room and thought about what could have happened. Mike and Lefty had looked like really mean guys. Finally, he looked up toward the top of the stairs, and saw the little ghost. "Thanks," he said. "Look, I'm really sorry we laughed at you. We weren't very nice. You can be a really scary ghost when you want to be." With that, Bobby picked up the money that Mike and Lefty had been too frightened to remember and went out.

Bobby was a super hero all over town that week. He'd turned the money in to the police, and Mike and Lefty had left clues in the money case that led to their arrest. And Bobby, and all the other kids, never went near the haunted house again. They just told everyone, "You don't want to go in there. There's a really big, scary ghost there! He really knows how to haunt!"

The End

... and this story I delighted in performing for grown-ups... with the lights down low. They were not always as delighted...

"The Great Harvey"

by

Richard P. Wightman

"Captain Dick"

Copyright 1996 All rights Reserved

Fame is a fleeting thing. One can possess if for awhile, but always, it ends. I have spent my life as a ventriloquist, and achieved my own fair share of fame. But, as I said, it passes. Each age seems to produce it's own pre-eminent practitioner of this odd skill, and those few who reach that level seem to somehow to acquire the title "Great". There was the Great Chesterfield, The Great Lester, The Great Sinclair, and, of course, The Great Harvey. As I reflect on the years, and my chosen career, I recall most The Great Harvey. There is no question that he was my inspiration, the person who led me to choose to be a ventriloquist, who inspired me, whose example led me to strive for the top... and who caused me to retire. It's a long story, and one that I have never told anyone all of. Perhaps it is time.

As a youngster, a mere 13 years old, I saw The Great Harvey perform at the Philadelphia Opera House. He was at the peak of his career, not just a headliner, but a sufficient draw to be a whole show in himself, famous throughout the world. I was so amazed at the illusion of life that he accomplished on that stage that I was overcome. Reviews were raves, claiming that this was perhaps the greatest ventriloquial show ever performed. The audience was completely baffled by the incredible voice effects that Harvey achieved. He was appearing for three nights, and I returned each night. I vowed that this, ventriloquism, was a skill that I would learn, and at which I would spend my life and earn my living. I swore that nothing could stop me.

I attempted to visit Harvey backstage, but he was already gone. I waited for him to appear in any nearby town again, but he never did. In fact, he disappeared from sight, becoming something of a show business legend. Even many years later, his name would occasionally appear in theatrical columns, under headings like, "What Ever Became Of..."

There were no local ventriloquists in my small Pennsylvania town, but I found my way to a few books, talked with any traveling ventriloquist who appeared at our small vaudeville theater, and mostly, I practiced. For hours every day I would do voice exercises, striving for clarity and lip control. I made a cardboard figure to practice with and would think up clever and witty things for him to say. I did endless chores for my parents, friends, anyone who would pay me a dime or quarter or more, until I could afford to hire a local wood carver to make a real figure as my partner. When I felt I was ready, I began performing, first locally, then on the road, and began a career that eventually led to my own success and, if I may say so, a small amount of fame.

One night, when I was at the height of my career, I came out of the theater and noticed an old, raggedy man, perhaps somewhat the worse for drink, carefully studying the playbills posted outside. His attention was not casual, but seemed so intense that I paused and looked at him more carefully. I couldn't believe it, but I was almost certain that it was The Great Harvey. I had made a hobby of collecting his old pictures and reviews, and I was sure that, allowing for age, it could be him. I approached him and inquired. He gave me a startled look and shuffled off as fast as he was able.

The next night as I went in, I noticed he was there again. I didn't say anything to him, but just handed him a free ticket. I wondered as I did my show whether he was watching, whether he was indeed who I thought he might be. When I left the building, he was again outside studying the 'bills, and, saying nothing, I held out a ticket to the next night's show. He didn't say a word, but took the ticket eagerly.

After the next night's show, he was again outside, and I ventured over and asked if he had used the ticket. He looked at me a moment, then said he had, and gave me a timid smile. I asked if he knew something of ventriloquism and he nodded. Then I quietly commented that he reminded me of a famous ventriloquist, The Great Harvey. He nearly broke down, grabbing my arm, his whole body shaking, as he said, "Never great, never that!"

Well, at that point he had overcome his reluctance to talk to me, and I offered to buy him dinner so we could sit and talk further of ventriloquism and our experiences. At dinner, I told him of my seeing his famous Philadelphia Opera House show. He made no comment. After dinner, I took him up to my room and showed him my figures. He admired them, but absolutely refused to handle them. As we shared a brandy, I filled him in on my career, which by this time had been compared favorably to his. He congratulated me and said something I thought a bit strange. With great intensity, he exclaimed, "Never, never compare yourself to anyone else, not me, not anyone! Never stop practicing! Remember that your skill is yours and never forsake it! Promise me!" He seemed virtually on the edge of a breakdown, he was so intense, and I made him the promise he asked. We sat and discussed ventriloquism and vents we had known long into the night. It was obvious that he was starving for contact and for word of the trade.

As our evening ended, I gave Harvey some money, since it was clear he was down on his luck. I offered to do more, but he refused. Thereafter, whenever I visited that town, I would look Harvey up at the seedy old hotel where he lived, give him complimentary tickets to the show, and share a dinner and evening with him. From time to time I would write him, filling him in on my overseas tours and sending a bit of money, which I knew he always needed.

One day, a telegram was brought to me backstage. The Great Harvey, a show business legend, had died quietly in his hotel. There were no relatives and my letters were the only indication of contact with anyone else. Would I come and see to his burial and possessions? Of course, I did so.

When I got to Harvey's hotel, the manager let me into his tiny, weary little room. It hardly seemed a fitting home for a man whose skill and fame had dazzled the world. He had little in the way of possessions. His clothes were hardly fit for charity. Under his bed I found his scrapbooks, chronicalling the history of his meteoric career. Then I realized that nowhere in the room was there a figure! Harvey's figure, Sinclair, named after his own mentor, had been as famous as he. He'd kept his scrapbooks, surely he would never have parted with Sinclair.

I asked the manager if he was certain there was nothing else. He thought for a minute and then remembered that there was an old trunk in the basement. I got it and took it up to Harvey's room, wondering if this would be more clothes, more scrapbooks, or, perhaps, the famous figure.

It is at this point that I wonder how to continue my story. I don't understand it myself, so how can I expect others to. Still, I have decided to tell you this much, so I must go on. There must be at least one other who knows, whether they believe or not.

When I opened the trunk, there were only three things inside, a dummy's body, a manuscript, and a withered, shrunken human head! My God! That head! I shall never forget it. The eyes stared at me from their sunken sockets, clear, compelling, not shrunken or withered like the skin around them. They seemed aware, to be making a demand. I quickly took out the manuscript and closed the trunk.

The manuscript... what to make of it. How to explain it. I can't. I can only repeat to you what was inside. Any judgements are your own to make. Whether it was the mad maundering of a deranged mind, or a foul and sick joke, you must decide for yourself.

The story was that of a young man, obsessed with ventriloquism and determined to make a success of himself, determined in fact to become the greatest ventriloquist the world had ever seen. His name was Harvey. He looked up the leading ventriloquist of his time, The Great Sinclair, told him of his determination, and begged to be taken on as a student. He offered to travel and work with Sinclair, helping in any way he could, if Sinclair would only teach him.

Sinclair was impressed with the young man, and agreed. They travelled together for a number of years, Harvey helping Sinclair and learning from him. Harvey practiced endlessly, even more than Sinclair recommended. Sinclair had never seen such absolute determination to succeed. Harvey practiced, he prayed, he tried programs for fitness and health, and then drugs to increase his stamina so that he could practice more.

Harvey did learn ventriloquism, but unfortunately, for all of his intensity, he seemed to lack that final spark of talent, of originality, of stage presence that made the difference between an average performer, and a great one. He practiced into the night, losing sleep. The drugs began to affect his health. He became absolutely driven by his need to succeed, to even surpass his teacher. In his desperation, he sought help in more drugs and in the hidden byways of the occult, of spiritualism, demonism and voodoo.

Finally, fearing for his student's physical and mental health, Sinclair sat him down and told him that he must face facts. He would be a good performer, could easily have a profitable life long career, but he was not going to improve beyond what he had already achieved. Harvey flew into a rage, screaming, "If I have failed, it is because you have not taught me enough!. No one has ever worked harder than I have!. You owe me my success!" His rage became uncontrollable. Still screaming, he picked up a carving chisel that Sinclair had been using to make a new figure, and stabbed Sinclair to death!

What? You say this is no more than a story of obsession, of mental illness leading to crime. Ha! Explain the rest of it, if you can, for the manuscript did not end there. Whether it was only the fevered raving of a mind sick with guilt or mere fiction, I leave to you. I can only tell you what it said. It alleged that Harvey then cut off Sinclair's head, and using who knows what vile and arcane skills learned in his occult studies, from it created a living ventriloquist figure! A figure that was completely under his control.

Using his new figure, Harvey went on the road. His success was phenomenal. Everyone said he was the best ventriloquist since The Great Sinclair. He achieved wondrous effects that baffled even the experts. His technical skill was unsurpassed. Soon he was getting top billing, and, finally, was being openly called, "The Great Harvey". He had achieved his success.

However, as the years went by, he found that the head seemed to get stronger. With each performance the head became more independent and exerted more control over the act. Soon, the head was making it's own demands! It wanted to be returned to its body and buried. Basking in his fame, Harvey refused. The conflict increased. Finally, he found the head almost uncontrollable, and was forced to strike a deal. He pleaded for one more year of performing... one year, and then he would return the head to the grave where he had hidden the body. The head agreed.

Well, such a year of performance by a ventriloquist the world had never seen. The Great Harvey was a smash success everywhere he went. He started on the West Coast, went across the country and over to Europe, and then returned to the United States for a gala finale to his tour, three performances in the Philadelphia Opera House. Yes, the three performances that I, as a child, had seen.

The manuscript told how, before the first show, the head reminded Harvey of their deal... one year of performing, then a return to it's body. But Harvey was totally caught up in the fame and adulation of success. He couldn't leave it. "One more year!, he cried. "One more year!" The head knew then that Harvey could never quit, would never return it to it's body.

That night, when the curtain rose, Harvey began his act, but it wasn't the same. He opened his mouth, but it was not his voice that came out! It was Sinclair's! Harvey could not speak. The next night, it was the same... and the next. Throughout the three performances, credited as the greatest ever given by a ventriloquist, only Sinclair's voice and skill were evident. Harvey realized that, at least while using the Sinclair figure, he would never speak on stage again, and, without it, he would be only the mediocre ventriloquist that he really was. He never performed again, and dropped from sight until the night I recognized him outside the theater after my show.

The manuscript ended there. I gave the story no credence. It was obvious to me that for whatever reasons, Harvey had lost his mind. I wasn't sure what to do. The scrapbooks obviously belonged in a theatrical museum or collection. But what to do with the manuscript and trunk. I didn't want to reveal them to the world, and damage the reputation of this once great performer. I had no idea where Harvey could have gotten the head, and didn't want to know. I wrapped the scrapbooks for shipment, and decided to quietly get rid of the trunk and it's contents. As I left town, I crossed over a bridge where the tide was sweeping out from the bay. I tipped the heavy trunk over and watched it float out towards the sea. It was already starting to sink as I lost sight of it.

I went on with my career for awhile, but I began having nightmares about that manuscript, and the trunk. In my dreams, the head would come to me and demand to be returned to it's body, but I didn't know how to get the head back, or where the body was, and I would wake up screaming. After awhile, the nightmares and the tension began to ruin my health, and I couldn't perform any more. It's been many years now since I was on a stage, or practiced any ventriloquism at all, but still the head comes to me in the night, and demands to be returned to it's body... and still I wake up screaming...and still, the voice that comes from my throat is not mine!

The End

and this is one of my very, very favorites, because it is true...

"GHOST HORSE"
by R. P. Wightman
(C) Copyright 1991

This is a story that I have written to provide a background for a true set of circumstances. The story involves a young girl, a dashing young cavalry officer, a wooden horse, and, unfortunately, a war. Oh, yes, there is a ghost in the story, as well. The young girl and the dashing young cavalry officer are speculation on my part. The wooden horse, the ghost, and, of course, the war, are fact.

Not so very long ago, as the world turns, in 1916, actually, there was a shy young girl. She wasn't truly beautiful, but she was pretty, as most young girls are, and, as so often occurs, she met a young man. He wasn't truly handsome, but he was attractive, as most young men are. He was an officer in the cavalry, and she thought he looked very dashing in his uniform. As was the custom then, they got to know each other very slowly, with supervised encounters at church socials, family gatherings, etc. Their favorite place to be together was at the amusement park at the end of the trolley line. They loved everything about the park, but most of all, the carousel. There was one horse, carved years earlier by a man named Gustav Mueller, that featured the trappings of a U. S. Cavalry horse, and the young man would ride it, with the girl on the horse beside it. She thought he looked so very handsome and brave on his cavalry horse, and he would tell her of the excitement of riding with his company.

In the way of young people since the world began, they fell in love, and swore undying devotion. He asked her to marry him, and she agreed. Unfortunately, in the way of the world since time began, war intervened. The young man was sent to France before the wedding took place. He did indeed look dashing in his uniform, on his horse, with all the other brave and dashing young men in his company. Of course, the generals didn't realize at first how war had changed, how technology had gone far beyond the abilities of brave, dashing young men on horses, and they ordered cavalry charges on machine guns. Along with many others, the young man did not return from the war.

The young girl did not recover from her loss. She went into what we call depression today, but was called at that time "a decline". She would return to the park, and ride the Mueller cavalry horse. After awhile, she died..."of love", they said. Young girls did that back then.

The story would end there, if it were just a story. However, after awhile, reports were received that, occasionally, at night, the caretaker at the park would hear faint carousel music, and could see the shadowy, faint image of a young girl in a white dress riding the Mueller cavalry horse. This never happened when anyone was deliberately looking for it, and the reports were not believed. Eventually, the park caretakers stopped making reports. However, everyone who worked nights at the park swore that at some time, they had seen the girl riding what they came to call "The
Ghost Horse".

In the 1930's, the park closed, and its rides were sold off. The carousel was sold and moved to a new location in another state. Again, reports were received that, occasionally, at night, the caretakers would hear faint carousel music, and could see the shadowy, faint image of a young girl in a white dress riding the Mueller cavalry horse. It never happened when anyone was deliberately looking for it, and the reports were not believed.

In spite of the lack of proof, stories about The Ghost Horse circulated, and it became rather well known. Over the years, the carousel changed hands and was moved several times. Always, the stories of the young girl riding The Ghost Horse would begin again.

In the 1950's, there were over 5000 original hand carved carousels in operation in the United States. Today, there are only 143. Some wore out and were broken up, others became the victims of the high value that was being placed on the carved wooden
figures as art. When the carousels were broken up, the horses were usually sold to replace worn out ones on other carousels, or went into collections and museums.

In the mid 1970,s, the carousel in our story became a victim of age and the general lack of interest in small amusement parks. Its figures were sold off.

Any carving by Gustav Mueller is considered very valuable. His cavalry horses are the most valuable of all. The Mueller cavalry horse was purchased by one of the larger old time amusement parks in the country, Cedar Point Amusement Park, in Sandusky,
Ohio. The horse was placed on their carousel. It still operates there today. And, yes, the caretakers at Cedar Point report that sometimes, at night, they hear faint carousel music, and even see the faint, shadowy outlines of a young girl in a white dress,
riding the Mueller cavalry horse.

As I said, the young girl and the dashing cavalry officer are speculation on my part. The Mueller cavalry horse, known today as The Ghost Horse, is fact. The stories of the ghostly music and the vision of the young girl riding it are fact. You can make of the facts, and my speculation, whatever you will.

Gustav Mueller Cavalry Horse

"The Ghost Horse"

The End