Brer Rabbit and the Tar Baby

A Georgia Folktale 

retold by

S.E. Schlosser 

Well now, that rascal Brer Fox hated Brer Rabbit on account of he was always cutting capers and bossing everyone around. So Brer Fox decided to capture and kill Brer Rabbit if it was the last thing he ever did! He thought and he thought until he came up with a plan. He would make a tar baby! Brer Fox went and got some tar and he mixed it with some turpentine and he sculpted it into the figure of a cute little baby. Then he stuck a hat on the Tar Baby and sat her in the middle of the road.

Brer Fox hid himself in the bushes near the road and he waited and waited for Brer Rabbit to come along. At long last, he heard someone whistling and chuckling to himself, and he knew that Brer Rabbit was coming up over the hill. As he reached the top, Brer Rabbit spotted the cute little Tar Baby. Brer Rabbit was surprised. He stopped and stared at this strange creature. He had never seen anything like it before!

"Good Morning," said Brer Rabbit, doffing his hat. "Nice weather we're having."

The Tar Baby said nothing. Brer Fox laid low and grinned an evil grin.

Brer Rabbit tried again. "And how are you feeling this fine day?"

The Tar Baby, she said nothing. Brer Fox grinned an evil grin and lay low in the bushes.

Brer Rabbit frowned. This strange creature was not very polite. It was beginning to make him mad.

"Ahem!" said Brer Rabbit loudly, wondering if the Tar Baby were deaf. "I said 'HOW ARE YOU THIS MORNING?"

The Tar Baby said nothing. Brer Fox curled up into a ball to hide his laugher. His plan was working perfectly!

"Are you deaf or just rude?" demanded Brer Rabbit, losing his temper. "I can't stand folks that are stuck up! You take off that hat and say 'Howdy-do' or I'm going to give you such a lickin'!"

The Tar Baby just sat in the middle of the road looking as cute as a button and saying nothing at all. Brer Fox rolled over and over under the bushes, fit to bust because he didn't dare laugh out loud.

"I'll learn ya!" Brer Rabbit yelled. He took a swing at the cute little Tar Baby and his paw got stuck in the tar.

"Lemme go or I'll hit you again," shouted Brer Rabbit. The Tar Baby, she said nothing.

"Fine! Be that way," said Brer Rabbit, swinging at the Tar Baby with his free paw. Now both his paws were stuck in the tar, and Brer Fox danced with glee behind the bushes.

"I'm gonna kick the stuffin' out of you," Brer Rabbit said and pounced on the Tar Baby with both feet. They sank deep into the Tar Baby. Brer Rabbit was so furious he head-butted the cute little creature until he was completely covered with tar and unable to move.

Brer Fox leapt out of the bushes and strolled over to Brer Rabbit. "Well, well, what have we here?" he asked, grinning an evil grin.

Brer Rabbit gulped. He was stuck fast. He did some fast thinking while Brer Fox rolled about on the road, laughing himself sick over Brer Rabbit's dilemma.

"I've got you this time, Brer Rabbit," said Brer Fox, jumping up and shaking off the dust. "You've sassed me for the very last time. Now I wonder what I should do with you?"

Brer Rabbit's eyes got very large. "Oh please Brer Fox, whatever you do, please don't throw me into the briar patch."

"Maybe I should roast you over a fire and eat you," mused Brer Fox. "No, that's too much trouble. Maybe I'll hang you instead."

"Roast me! Hang me! Do whatever you please," said Brer Rabbit. "Only please, Brer Fox, please don't throw me into the briar patch."

"If I'm going to hang you, I'll need some string," said Brer Fox. "And I don't have any string handy. But the stream's not far away, so maybe I'll drown you instead."

"Drown me! Roast me! Hang me! Do whatever you please," said Brer Rabbit. "Only please, Brer Fox, please don't throw me into the briar patch."

"The briar patch, eh?" said Brer Fox. "What a wonderful idea! You'll be torn into little pieces!"

Grabbing up the tar-covered rabbit, Brer Fox swung him around and around and then flung him head over heels into the briar patch. Brer Rabbit let out such a scream as he fell that all of Brer Fox's fur stood straight up. Brer Rabbit fell into the briar bushes with a crash and a mighty thump. Then there was silence.

Brer Fox cocked one ear toward the briar patch, listening for whimpers of pain. But he heard nothing. Brer Fox cocked the other ear toward the briar patch, listening for Brer Rabbit's death rattle. He heard nothing.

Then Brer Fox heard someone calling his name. He turned around and looked up the hill. Brer Rabbit was sitting on a log combing the tar out of his fur with a wood chip and looking smug.

"I was bred and born in the briar patch, Brer Fox," he called. "Born and bred in the briar patch."

And Brer Rabbit skipped away as merry as a cricket while Brer Fox ground his teeth in rage and went home.

You can read more Georgia folktales in Spooky South by S.E. Schlosser.

source: http://americanfolklore.net/

Bleeding Sink

I found it extremely annoying that one of the bathrooms on my dorm was permanently closed.  Especially since the cause was an urban legend.  An urban legend, I tell you!  According to the story, years and years ago some bloke got himself massively drunk at a bar in downtown Helena and had passed out in the bathroom on the fourth floor.  Apparently, he hit his head on the sink as he fell, and his blood had spattered the sink as he slid senseless to the floor and silently hemorrhaged to death.  His death was considered a “sad accident” by faculty, staff and townspeople.   But that was no reason to shut up the bathroom for decades!  I completely discounted the story of the bleeding sink.  That was just an urban legend the students circulated to explain the locked door.

     “I’m sick of sharing a bathroom with you disgusting lot,” I grumbled to my roommate.  “I’m going to break into the fourth-floor bathroom.”

       My roommate’s eyes widened.  “Don’t you know that bathroom is haunted?” he exclaimed.  “The bloodstains on the sink are as fresh today as they were when the accident happened back in the 1960s, and sometimes you can hear the boy moaning as his life ebbs away on the bathroom floor!” 

      “Romantic twaddle,” I snapped.  “My granny lives in a haunted castle in Scotland with ghost stories that would make your hair stand on end. She’d laugh at me if she found out I ignored a perfectly good bathroom because of a few bloodstains.  Besides, the maintenance staff told me the bathroom was shut up pending renovations.  No big deal!”

     “You’ll be sorry,” my roommate said darkly.  I ignored him.  He was just sore because I’d lumped him in with the disgusting lot of fellows who mucked up the bathroom on my floor.  You’d think someone would teach them to pick up their dirty clothes and clean the sink once in awhile. 

       When the dorm quieted down for the night – which wasn’t until late – I hurried up to the fourth floor with a bit of wire I’d purchased at a local hardware store.  My little brother and I had become expert lock-pickers over the years, since our mother had a bad habit of locking her keys into the house or the car at least once a week.  With all that experience, the lock on the bathroom door gave me no problems.  

      The bathroom was rather old-fashioned in appearance and had a disused air.  There was dust in the corners, and a spider web drooped from the ceiling.  But I heard no unearthly groaning, no mysterious footsteps.  I carefully inspected the sink, the walls and the floor.  Other than a smallish orange discoloration on the sink, there was no blood anywhere.   Ha!  So much for urban legends.  There was probably something in the water that caused discoloration over time.  I turned a tap experimentally, sure that the maintenance staff had shut off the water long ago.  To my surprise, water gushed forth instantly.  I smiled.  Well, well.  It looked like I had a bathroom to myself after all!  I carefully locked the door behind me when I left.  

      I got up late the next morning, and had the downstairs bathroom all to myself.  So it wasn’t until evening, when everyone was back in the dorm, crowding in and out of the bathrooms, that I slipped away to use the locked up facilities.  It was still early in the evening, and I made sure no one was around before I headed to the abandoned bathroom.  With a few twists of the wire, I opened the lock.  As I stepped inside, the air temperature plummeted twenty degrees or more and my nose was hit by the pungent, strong smell of fresh blood.  A second later, I saw the blood-spattered sink. 

Bright-red gore was everywhere – on the porcelain, on the walls, oozing down the sides of the sink.  And hovering before it, his feet a good six-inches off the ground, was the luminous form of a college-aged boy wearing old-fashioned clothes in the style of the 1960s.  His forehead had a disfiguring dent smashed into it, and blood was dripping down his face.  As I gaped at him, horrified and frozen in terror, he turned and looked at me.  Then he held out a blood-stained hand.  His eyes were desperate, pleading for help, and I heard a low moaning sound coming from between his blood-stained lips.  The sound raised every hair on my body and made the skin prickle in sheer, cold horror.  I backpedaled fiercely, my legs scrambling to get away while my eyes and head remained fixed on the ghost, on the bloody sink.  A drop of red blood fell from his outstretched hand as I stared at him.  Then the momentum of my legs carried me through the door, which slammed shut behind me, and the hot, pungent smell of fresh blood followed me through the halls and down the staircases until I was outside into the chilly air of autumn, breathing deeply.  My knees shook so bad that I fell onto the nearest patch of grass, stomach heaving.  Oh lord!  The ghost was real!  No wonder they kept the place locked up.  

      I lay on the grass for a long time, ignoring the chill in the air.  This was a natural chill which comforted, not that unnatural chill that had frightened me upstairs.  I breathed in and out, in and out, watching the stars above me, bright even through the campus lights.  I took comfort from the huge, clear expanse of sky.  But I still felt reluctant to go back inside that haunted building.  I shuddered once, from head to toe.  Oh how my granny would laugh if she knew her big brave grandson was too scared to go back inside a haunted dormitory.  It was the thought of granny that got me back onto my feet and upstairs to my room.  But I didn’t care what granny or anyone else thought of me.  I was never going back to the fourth floor bathroom.  Once was enough.  

An excerpt from Spooky Montana

retold by S.E. Schlosser

You can read more ghost stories in Spooky Montana by S.E. Schlosser.

source: americanfolklore.net

Brer Bear’s House

Well now, out of all the animals that live in the woods, Brer Bear had the biggest house.  The house was warm and cozy on the inside, but it was also very crowded on account of Brer Bear having him a plump wife and two plump young ‘uns named Simon and Susannah.  

The Bear family did most everything together.  They’d eat together and they’d wash together and they’d catch fish together and they’d play games together.  They were real close.  And at night they’d all crowd together into their house and crawl into their giant bed to get some sleep.  But they were all so plump that they could barely fit on the big bed, and there was hardly room around the bed to walk without hitting the walls.  So the family slept nose to nose to nose all night long and they had to eat all their meals outside on the porch ‘cause there was no room to eat inside the big warm house.  

Well now, one evening in late autumn, Brer Bear and his family crowded into their warm house to get some shut eye.  They’d just settled down to sleep when someone came a-knocking on their front door.   A-bang, a-bang, a-bang went the door knocker.  All four bears jumped in surprise when they heard the sound.   Simon Bear bumped heads with Susannah Bear, who howled in pain and rolled over clutching her head in her paws.  Susannah Bear bumped into Mama Bear, who fell out of the far side of the bed with a shout of surprise. And Mama Bear, she landed on top of Brer Bear, who’d just got out of the bed  so’s he could see who was a-knocking on the door.   It was all a big kerfluffle  with the whole family a-yelling and a-fussing, and the stranger a-bang, a-bang, a-banging on the door knocker.  

“Who is it?” Brer Bear finally howled through the keyhole.  “Why are you a-knocking on my door so late at night?”

“It’s Brer Skunk,” the stranger called through the door.  “The nights are getting right cold out here with winter coming, so I’m looking for a job as a housekeeper.  I thought you folks might need someone to help do chores around the place in exchange for a warm spot to sleep at night.”

“A housekeeper?” roared Brer Bear.  “We ain’t got no room for a housekeeper in this here house.  We can barely turn around without bumping into one another as it is!”

“That’s why you need a housekeeper,” Brer Skunk cried through the door.  “I am very good at clearing out a place.  Why, after I get through with your house, there will be so much space I could sleep each night in a cozy bed and eat all my meals inside!”  

Well, this was a tempting proposition.  Mama Bear looked at Brer Bear and Susannah Bear looked at Simon Bear.  Imagine living into a house that was so empty they could bring their dinner inside and eat it without poking somebody in the eye!  

“We should hire him, Pa,” Simon said.  

“We could really use some more room in this house,” add Susannah wistfully, rubbing her sore head with one paw.

So Brer Bear invited Brer Skunk to come into his big warm house to be the new housekeeper for the Bear family.  Brer Skunk ambled inside and eyed all the plump bears watching him eagerly as cold moonlight streamed through the open door.  Then he turned around, lifted his black and white tail, and blasted the air of that cozy warm house with his very special scent.   Brer Bear and his family took one whiff of this terrible perfume and they went a-running for the woods so fast that they didn’t even stop to shut the door behind them.   

Once the big house was cleared of all those plump bears, Brer Skunk had plenty of room to sleep each night in a cozy bed and eat all of his meals inside, just like he said.  And what happened to the Bear family?  I dunno but I think they might still be running, trying to get away from Brer Skunk's smell! 

 A Georgia Folk Tale
retold by S.E. Schlosser

You can read more folktales in the Spooky Series by S.E. Schlosser.

source: http://americanfolklore.net/

Prison Break

Callahan was huddled in a cavern near the Pacific Ocean when the Feds closed in. There were still shreds of human flesh under his fingernails when the serial killer surrendered to the inevitable capture. They could put him behind bars, he vowed as they dragged him down the narrow path toward the waiting cars, but he would escape. And then they'd be sorry. He lashed out at the nearest officer, landing a crippling blow on his kneecap. The remaining men knocked him to the ground and bound him foot and hand to ensure his cooperation.

He was sentenced to a lonely prison for the criminally insane; his only companions the wardens and fellow madmen. Over the next seventeen years, Callahan spent every spare second planning his escape. He studied every weakness in the prison system. He knew every guards movements. He spent several years contriving to get a ground-floor cell so he could dig his way out. That plan nearly succeeded, until he reached bedrock a few feet below the cell floor. With every failed plan, his anger grew. He would escape this wretched cell if it killed him.

As the years passed, Callahan noticed that one elderly prisoner - Old Ben - had become the general handyman and undertaker around the remote prison. It was Old Ben's job to put deceased prisoners into a pine coffin where they lay in state overnight in the prison chapel. The next morning, Old Ben and the warden would ride out to the cemetery a mile or so outside the prison gates and bury the deceased prisoner. Then the warden left Old Ben behind to fill in the hole while he drove back to the prison for his morning coffee.

With this knowledge, it didn't take Callahan long to come up with a new escape plan. It was simple. The next time a prisoner passed away, he would creep into the chapel after dark and slip into the coffin with the dead body. In the morning, the warder and old Ben would take the coffin out of the prison to the cemetery to bury the deceased. As soon as the warden left, old Ben would open the coffin and let Callahan out, with no one the wiser. It didn't take the serial killer long to befriend Old Ben and get the undertaker to agree to help Callahan gain his freedom.

Unfortunately, the prisoners were all very healthy that summer and through the long, colorful autumn that followed. No one caught so much as a chill and when the New Year came with no prisoner fatalities in nearly eight months. Day after day, he listened for the bell that tolled whenever a prisoner died, but it did not ring. Callahan was tempted to expedite matters by killing someone with his bare hands, but such an action - if discovered - would mean solitary confinement for the serial killer, and he would be unable to enact his brilliant plan. So he waited. And waited.

It was late February when the expected bell tolled dolefully through the prison. Snow was falling in the yard where Callahan marched with his fellow prisoners during their daily exercise routine when the bell tolled. "Wonder who it is this time?" muttered a burly man just ahead of Callahan. The serial killer, hands shaking with joy, could care less who it was. The time had come! Tomorrow, he would be free.

That night, Callahan entered the dark chapel and felt his way to the front. Yes, there was a coffin standing on top of two pine benches. He lifted the lid and the smell of embalming chemicals filled his nostrils. He jerked back a little. Old Ben had done his job well. Callahan groped his way inside the coffin and lay down on top of the inert mass inside. Then he closed the lid.

As he lay in the coffin waiting for dawn, the serial killer felt his skin begin to crawl. He'd killed more than twenty-five people in his life without qualm or remorse, but this death-watch made itch all over. The chemical smell of the corpse below him made his stomach roil. Only the determination of seventeen years of planning kept him in the coffin. It would soon be over. In the morning, he would be free of this foul air and of his rotting companion. Old Ben would free him as soon as the warden was gone.

Callahan dozed off toward dawn and awakened to feel the coffin shaking as it was lifted of the wooden benches. He heard mumbled voices overhead. Old Ben and the warden must be moving the coffin into the waiting car. Callahan shivered as the cold February air encompassed the coffin. The constant shaking of the coffin increased his nausea, but Callahan forced down the bile in his throat. Almost free. Almost free. He chanted the words silently in his mind; ignoring the foul smell emanating from his dead companion.

Finally, the car stopped and the coffin was lifted down. Callahan felt a thump as it landed in the bottom of the grave. His heart thudded with joy. Now was his moment. Now the warden would leave Old Ben to fill in the grave while he went back to the prison to have his morning coffee. Instead, something thudded onto the lid of the coffin just above over Callahan's head. He strained his eyes against the pitch-darkness of the coffin. It must be the warden, throwing a bit of symbolic dirt onto the coffin at the end of the ceremony. But the thudding continued, and Callahan's heart pounded in sudden fear. They were burying the coffin with him in it! How could that be? After all these years, had the warden chosen this of all days to help frail Old Ben?

The thudding grew fainter as the grave was filled in above Callahan. After a few minutes, the foul air inside the coffin grew thin and hot and the chemical smell was almost overwhelming. Callahan vomited all over his clothes before he could stop himself. He pounded the lid of the coffin in the darkness and shouted: "Come on, Old Ben! Kill the warden if you must! Hurry up...."

Then a terrible thought struck him, making his heart pound in sudden horror. What if...what if... Callahan fumbled in his pocket and pulled out a match. He struck it and in the sudden flickering brightness he turned his head and looked below him. Into the pale dead face of Old Ben.

excerpted from More Spooky Campfire Tales 
retold by S.E. Schlosser 

source: americanfolklore.net

El Muerto

After getting the lay of the land, so to speak, frontier man Bigfoot Wallace moved from Austin to San Antonio, which was considered the extreme edge of the frontier, to sign up as a Texas Ranger under Jack Hayes. In them days, Texas was as wild as the west could get. There was danger from the south from the Mexicans, danger to the wet and north from the wild frontier filled with Indians and desperados, and to the east the settlements still had problems with the Cherokee Nation. General Sam Houston himself had appointed young Captain Hays, a hero from the battle of Plum Creek, to raise a company of Rangers to defend San Antonio. Hayes had high standards for his men. They were the best fighters in the west, and they had to be, considerin’ the fact that they were often outnumbered fifty to one. A man had to have courage, good character, good riding and shooting skills and a horse worth a hundred dollars to be considered for the job. Captain Hayes knew all about Bigfoot Wallace and signed him on the spot.

So armed with Colt pistol and a Bowie knife, Texas Ranger Bigfoot Wallace once more took on the Wild West, and quickly made his mark on Texas folklore. In them days, the Rangers tended to handle stock theft at the end of the rope, so to speak, stringing up the bandits, forcing a confession out of them, and then leaving the bodies swaying in the wind to deter other outlaws. Only it didn’t work, and the bandits kept right on stealing, sometimes passing right under the bodies of their fellow outlaws to do it.

Now Bigfoot’s fellow Ranger, Creed Taylor, had a big spread lay west of San Antonio, in the cedar hills clear on the edge of Comanche territory, and he was constantly losing stock to bandits and Indian raids. The last straw came for Taylor the day famous Mexican raider and cattle thief Vidal and his gang rounded up a bunch of horses from his ranch and took them south toward Mexico. Most of the Rangers were heading north to pursue some Comanche’s out on a raid, but Taylor and a friend went immediately in pursuit of the thief, and when they bumped into Wallace just below Uvalde, he joined them.

Bigfoot was always ready to hunt horse thieves and desperados, especially those of Mexican descent, never forgetting what happened to his brother at Goliad. Bigfoot decided it was time to put an end to Vidal’s gang once and for all. He would track the wiry Mexican bandit to earth. The three men located the camp where the horse thief and his gang lay sleeping, and snuck in from downwind, so as not to alert the horses. Vidal was wanted dead or alive, so all the thieves were shot and killed in the gunfight that followed.

That was when Wallace got an idea. Obviously, hanging horse thieves hadn’t gotten the message across to the outlaws raiding the ranches of the good folk of Texas. Perhaps a more drastic example of frontier justice would do the trick. Severing Vidal’s head from his body, Bigfoot and his fellow Ranger tied the body to the saddle of the wildest mustang in the stolen herd and secured the severed head to the saddle horn so that it would bounce and flop around with every step taken by the mustang. Then Wallace gave a shout and sent the horse running away with its headless, dead rider, hoping the gruesome sight would deter future cattle thieves.

What he managed to do was frighten everyone in South Texas. Folks would be peacefully walking down the road of an evening when a terrible headless rider would gallop pass on a midnight black stallion with serape blowing in the wind and severed head bounding on the saddle horn beneath its sombrero. Nothing could deter the terrible specter – not bullets, not arrows, not spears. It was years before a posse of cowboys finally grew brave enough to bushwhack the horse and release the withered corpse from its back. 

But on moonless nights, the ghost of El Muerto continues to ride across South Texas to this day with his long black serape blowing in the wind and his severed head bumping on the saddle beside him. 

You can read more Texas folklore and ghost stories in Spooky Texas by S.E. Schlosser.

A Texas Ghost Story

retold by

S.E. Schlosser

source: americanfolklore.net

Heron and the Hummingbird

Heron and Hummingbird were very good friends, even though one was tall and gangly and awkward and one was small and sleek and fast. They both loved to eat fish. The Hummingbird preferred small fish like minnows and Heron liked the large ones.

One day, Hummingbird said to his friend: "I am not sure there are enough fish in the world for both of our kind to eat. Why don't we have a race to see which of us should own the fish?"

Heron thought that was a very good idea. They decided that they would race for four days. The finish line was an old dead tree next to a far-away river. Whichever of them sat on top of the tree first on the fourth day of the race would own all the fish in the world.

They started out the next morning. The Hummingbird zipped along, flying around and around the Heron, who was moving steadily forward, flapping his giant wings. Then Hummingbird would be distracted by the pretty flowers along the way. He would flit from one to the other, tasting the nectar. When Hummingbird noticed that Heron was ahead of him, he hurried to catch up with him, zooming ahead as fast as he could, and leaving Heron far behind. Heron just kept flying steadily forward, flapping his giant wings.

Hummingbird was tired from all his flitting. When it got dark, he decided to rest. He found a nice spot to perch and slept all night long. But Heron just kept flying steadily forward all night long, flapping his giant wings.

When Hummingbird woke in the morning, Heron was far ahead. Hummingbird had to fly as fast as he could to catch up. He zoomed past the big, awkward Heron and kept going until Heron had disappeared behind him. Then Hummingbird noticed some pretty flowers nearby. He zip-zipped over to them and tasted their nectar. He was enjoying the pretty scenery and didn't notice Heron flap-flapping passed him with his great wings.

Hummingbird finally remembered that he was racing with Heron, and flew as fast as he could to catch up with the big, awkward bird. Then he zipped along, flying around and around the Heron, who kept moving steadily forward, flapping his giant wings.

For two more days, the Hummingbird and the Heron raced toward the far-distant riverbank with the dead tree that was the finish line. Hummingbird had a marvelous time sipping nectar and flitting among the flowers and resting himself at night. Heron stoically kept up a steady flap-flap-flapping of his giant wings, propelling himself forward through the air all day and all night.

Hummingbird woke from his sleep the morning of the fourth day, refreshed and invigorated. He flew zip-zip toward the riverbank with its dead tree. When it came into view, he saw Heron perched at the top of the tree! Heron had won the race by flying straight and steady through the night while Hummingbird slept.

So from that day forward, the Heron has owned all the fish in the rivers and lakes, and the Hummingbird has sipped from the nectar of the many flowers which he enjoyed so much during the race.

You can read more Georgia folktales in Spooky South by S.E. Schlosser.

A Native American Myth
(Hitchiti Tribe)
retold by
S. E. Schlosser

source: americanfolklore.net

Black Aggie

When Felix Agnus put up the life-sized shrouded bronze statue of a grieving angel, seated on a pedestal, in the Agnus family plot in the Druid Ridge Cemetery, he had no idea what he had started. The statue was a rather eerie figure by day, frozen in a moment of grief and terrible pain. At night, the figure was almost unbelievably creepy; the shroud over its head obscuring the face until you were up close to it. There was a living air about the grieving angel, as if its arms could really reach out and grab you if you weren't careful.

It didn't take long for rumors to sweep through the town and surrounding countryside. They said that the statue - nicknamed Black Aggie - was haunted by the spirit of a mistreated wife who lay beneath her feet. The statue's eyes would glow red at the stroke of midnight, and any living person who returned the statues gaze would instantly be struck blind. Any pregnant woman who passed through her shadow would miscarry. If you sat on her lap at night, the statue would come to life and crush you to death in her dark embrace. If you spoke Black Aggie's name three times at midnight in front of a dark mirror, the evil angel would appear and pull you down to hell. They also said that spirits of the dead would rise from their graves on dark nights to gather around the statue at night.

People began visiting the cemetery just to see the statue, and it was then that the local fraternity decided to make the statue of Grief part of their initiation rites. "Black Aggie" sitting, where candidates for membership had to spend the night crouched beneath the statue with their backs to the grave of General Agnus, became popular.

One dark night, two fraternity members accompanied new hopeful to the cemetery and watched while he took his place underneath the creepy statue. The clouds had obscured the moon that night, and the whole area surrounding the dark statue was filled with a sense of anger and malice. It felt as if a storm were brewing in that part of the cemetery, and to their chagrin, the two fraternity members noticed that gray shadows seemed to be clustering around the body of the frightened fraternity candidate crouching in front of the statue.

What had been a funny initiation rite suddenly took on an air of danger. One of the fraternity brothers stepped forward in alarm to call out to the initiate. As he did, the statue above the boy stirred ominously. The two fraternity brothers froze in shock as the shrouded head turned toward the new candidate. They saw the gleam of glowing red eyes beneath the concealing hood as the statue's arms reached out toward the cowering boy.

With shouts of alarm, the fraternity brothers leapt forward to rescue the new initiate. But it was too late. The initiate gave one horrified yell, and then his body disappeared into the embrace of the dark angel. The fraternity brothers skidded to a halt as the statue thoughtfully rested its glowing eyes upon them. With gasps of terror, the boys fled from the cemetery before the statue could grab them too.

Hearing the screams, a night watchman hurried to the Agnus plot. To his chagrin, he discovered the body of a young man lying at the foot of the statue. The young man had apparently died of fright.

The disruption caused by the statue grew so acute that the Agnus family finally donated it to the Smithsonian museum in Washington D.C.. The grieving angel sat for many years in storage there, never again to plague the citizens visiting the Druid Hill Park Cemetery.

You can read more Maryland folktales and ghost stories in Spooky Maryland by S.E. Schlosser.

source: http://americanfolklore.net/