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“The Legend of the Green Ghost” – A Christmas Horror Tale

“The Legend of the Green Ghost” by Waide Riddle.

The rose was dead red.

Green it bled. 

It warned what was to come, the Green Ghost,

Run children run!

-From “The Book of Childhood Ghosts and Nightmares”

*

Star light star bright whoever finds the Green Ghost tonight

Yells Green Ghost!

-From “The Book of Childhood Ghosts and Nightmares”

*

Christmas is red and green.

Beware the stare of the ghost that’s green.

It haunts the cold midnight, each Christmas Eve night.

-From “The Book of Childhood Ghosts and Nightmares”

*

Listen as the Devil sings to the chimes of the Christmas bells.

Heaven holds its breath, as Hell opens the door to Christmas Eve.

You may not, but the children believe!

-From “The Book of Childhood Ghosts and Nightmares”

*

Christmas Eve, black and brown leaves

Coated and covered under cold blue and snow.

Under the blue moon, the Angel of Doom hovered, 

Singing a Christmas tune.

So begins this tale… say the Spirits of Christmas.

They pray you believe…

In the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred and three,

In the cold freeze, that was December,

The ghosts remember…

Quiet… listen as they tell…

As the blankets of white blue fell,

As the night lit with blue light,

Along the coast of the northern Atlantic,

A little boy lost and frantic struggled on foot, with all his might.

Within night-light, the north wind sang, surrounding him,

Like the echoes of a choir long dead.

His head bent against biting snow and wind.

He cringed. Shivering and scared,

He wondered into the lair of the night’s unknown.

At east, the ocean was angry. Crashing in motion,

Slamming its waves.

At west, a wicked forest, capped with the glow of snow 

And hidden dark caves.

The Angel of Doom cleared way a pathway

Up a rocky wooded ridge-way.

Even the Angels of Christmas stayed at bay.

The little boy struggled on his way up this pathway. 

The Angel of Doom smiled…a drool of green mist dribbled from its lips.

A glittered green mist that glowed over blue snow.

A slow cascade of misty green, a macabre fog

That twisted and twirled and rolled with folds in the dead cold.

Coiling and snaking its way up the pathway.

The little boy hurried to follow, the whispers from the wicked forest,

Hollow.

“The legend, beware little children, beware, the Green Ghost is real.

Ready to steal your soul…listen little children, listen and be warned.”

The ghost of the dead Rose.

She watched in her death, dressed in black lace and black pearls.

The girl watched from the house on Blackraven Hill. 

She watched from the top most window of the castle that is Blackraven Manor.

Black ribbons and a black bow in her black hair, against her skin, deathly pale white and fair. 

Listen…

As she is part of this tale. Listen to her scream and wail. Within the Wicked Willows capped with ice, ice-sickles sharp as a knife, a dark angel, one of Hell’s black doves, flew and dove and circled its prey. 

“Pray little boy, pray.” Say the Wicked Willows.

The ghoulish devil angel caught and clutched a dead branch with the sharpness of its claw. The little boy saw and stood terrified a moment in a horrified pause, because he saw the angels of God hung by their necks from the trees without leaves.

Limbs used as ropes and nooses.   

“Now, do you believe little children that the Angels of God are dead?” Say the Wicked Willows.

Hell’s Cemetery for the heavenly dead. A gallows for God’s best to rest as peaceful Hell Light fell into the darkness. Their heavenly bodies frozen through, the devil angel up and flew, protecting its territory.

Here is where the story is told…the true story of the glory that is of Christmas.

The little boy shuddered in a freeze. He muttered and stuttered as he shivered and shook. He ran through the essence of green. Green crept and caressed his skin. 

He left the hanging death behind him. 

And suddenly the scent of chocolate filled his senses. For a moment it made him feel good as good as the smile of an old friend. He ran from the Wicked Willows. He ran through the pillows and billows of green mist. The whoosh and hiss of Christmas breeze as he passed. And as he made it into the clear… he could hear the faint sounds of the joys of Christmas…boys and girls laughing and singing coming from the top of the hill, the hill of Blackraven. A haven of warmth and safety, surely, the little boy thought. He ought to hurry. Ought to scurry up the hill. 

From the snow glow of blue, the creepy wooden sign came into view…

“Welcome to Blackraven Manor”

He stammered back as he saw the manor. The laughing and singing ceased…

Sudden melancholy released. The house was dark and dilapidated. 

Dark as the velvet in a coffin. 

Dark…

As the nightmares in his dreams.

There was a flicker of light from within. 

A sign of warmth and a friend, right?

The sight was welcome to him, and then the echoes of laughter and the songs of long ever after were there again…

He stood at the manor door, unaware of the horror and lore that was in store for him inside. 

“Hide little one, hide.” Whispered the winds of Christmas.

And he pounded on the door with his fist as the cold Christmas wind hissed by his face, saying, “Waste no time while there is a chance to escape.” He swore he could taste the essence of sweet chocolate on his tongue. The Christmas wind lunged against him again. It kissed his face with bitter frostbite, then suddenly candlelight flickered on and off in the window. The Christmas wind froze itself in fear. The little boy stopped pounding on the door, he was cold to the core. His little hands purple and sore. He stared at the door, for behind it, he could hear something that made him shiver and quiver. His skin crawled as he listened to what sounded like an old man’s giggle. 

A giggle of dark and untold secrets. 

“I dare you to come in…” It seemed to say. 

Then, the door began to open… 

open so slowly… 

coldly… 

cryptically… 

creaking…. 

grinding on ancient hinges… 

Midnight without starlight. The stench of something dead and rotted seized him. Whatever ‘it’ was behind the door, took pleasure to tease him. Freeze him in primal fear. He could hear an elderly cackle… the odor of something putrid became stronger. A moment of nauseas claimed him and that’s when he saw the shadows move… 

Claws!?

Talons!?

The Green Ghost? No? Maybe? Yes?

In the black glow… shadows shifted to and fro. A wrinkled chalk white hand… drifted… in and out of the darkness. Each fingertip adorned with a silver claw clasp. 

The door opened a wee bit more… one finger… two finger… three finger… four…

The creaking became an eerie echoing roar. Just a little bit more and the door would…

The darkly cloaked figure stood there. Shy, just out of sight, away from any light. Tight against the door’s edge. And then ‘it’ appeared in a queer glow of green light. 

The Green Ghost! Run for your life!

“Merry Christmas little one! Please… come inside for a little fun. No need to run.” It said.

It had long gray hair that touched the floor. The creep in its stare, dared! 

Moles and rolls of wrinkles covered its face, which made the little boy’s heart jump and race. The thing’s skin was greenish white… all the more to make you squeamish at first sight. 

Cold and hunger pushed the boy into the House of Hell, and before he could yell, he was already in and the door closed behind him. 

Fear seared the little one.

It was sudden pitch black, as dark as cemetery earth. Death’s darkness caressed his skin. He stood frozen.

Not a sound.

Then, he heard the thing… it was inches away… breathing low… raw… like the grind of a tombstone. Pure evil drifted by him, leaving him numb, limb to limb to limb. 

Then, there was sudden light.

Green fire light.

Bright green flame from the things forefinger claw ring. 

Let no angel rejoice or sing.

“Merry Christmas little boy. Come to my children’s playroom for a little Christmas joy. I even have toys that are just right for a boy like you. Do you have a name child, just who are you?” 

It grinned.

“My name is Roy.” Said the boy.

“My name is Gaggot Blackraven. Pleased to make your… acquaintance.”

There was pause and silence. Gaggot stared. Roy dared not move. 

“Come… come…” Gaggot beckoned.

Through the maze of hallways, Gaggot led him deep into Blackraven, guiding him by the single green finger flame.

“I just love a good Christmas game, don’t you?” Gaggot said.

Roy remained quiet. He didn’t buy it. He knew something was wrong. He knew something lurked behind the green shadows. Up ahead, a green glow…

The room was part library and part playroom. Musty and dusty like an old cold tomb. Doom hung like a family portrait on the walls. Hundreds of books and hidden nooks surrounded Roy who stood in the middle of a multitude of old used toys… 

rusty wheels rolling… 

grinding…

by him… 

a small black baby’s carriage with a ‘dead frozen thing’ in it…

Gaggot giggled. He was tickled. 

“Oh, children are so special. Don’t you think, Roy? Whether alive or dead! Ha! This baby was sooo tasty!” 

Roy ran!

“Run, but that’s just part of my fun! Don’t get lost, it’ll cost you! I eat little boys like you from finger to toe. Little girls, too! Now, it’s you!” 

This horrified Roy, you see. He wasted no time. Faster than a riddle or rhyme screamed from a corpse’s lips, Roy ran on the tips of his toes. 

Gaggot gurgled in delight. And, with a wobbled limp, took after the little boy, Roy! 

The ghouls and grotesque hid in the shadows of this dark and haunted place. Every corner had its trap door. Every room bore torture. Every closet was stuffed with dead things. The attic was filled with the screams of dead children.

The basement-

“Dear God, please don’t let him find the basement!” 

 

And, then, there was the dead baby room where Gaggot dismembered and cooked them. 

Pouring molten dark chocolate over them, set them to chill and kill the hunger. What a great midnight snack! 

Dogs and cats, kittens and puppies are yummy, too. Dipped in nuts and milk chocolate, too! 

In darkness-

Roy vanished up a massive stair well. Up a creaking old spiral staircase. Up a rotted, what seemed forgotten, steep incline. As if he’d entered an intimate laboratory of sorts. 

The scent of all-things chocolate!     

He followed a long…

long…

long…

long…

cold

moist

cryptically dark hall way.

The only sound was the wind whistling through the cracks of wood, stone and-

A spectre howled and a banshee wailed a warning! 

Roy continued deeper into the blackness of the hallway. 

The smell went from chocolate 

to rot

to death

to vile

in a matter of each step. 

He wept and put his hand over his mouth to stop the scream that was waiting… 

HE SAW IT!

A green ghostly thing. A green apparition. A phantasmagoria shifting in front of him. 

Shifting…

Fluid-like…

A blur…

Green pulsating, kaleidoscope-like… 

Then, the thing appeared. It was a child. A girl. Much of the age of Roy.

Roy understood…

The Legend of the Green Ghost wasn’t Gaggot, but, the girl. 

She pointed a green finger at a door.

THE ROOM!

THE DEAD BABY ROOM!

YES!

Roy slowly gripped the latch on the door. It didn’t match the others. It was cold to the bone. 

The stone in the old home moaned as Roy pushed at the door- 

pushed…

pushed…

and slowly…

slowly…

It cracked and creaked and freaked on its hinges.

The stench of dead flesh wafted out. He wrenched as it crawled and clawed inside his nose and burrowed there. 

He could swear he heard the faint crying and screaming of children in there. 

THE DOOR!

OPENED!

The ghosts of hundreds of dead children greeted him in a symphony of shear madness of cries, muffled death breaths & guttural murderous agony. 

THE DOOR!

OPENED FURTHER!

The ghost of the green ghost urged Roy forward and inside. 

Somewhere downstairs, in the mazes of the house, in the web of rooms, Gaggot bellowed a war lords cry… 

“I’M COMING TO GET YOU!”

Roy stepped inside and the door shut tight behind him making a thunderous thunder-like rumble. He tumbled and stumbled a bit. 

The bite of a vultures beak! 

He gagged and dry heaved. The smell was beyond Hell!

As his eyes embraced the darkness, the green of the ghosts melted like wax over the room. Luminescent and ominous, but not beautiful. 

DEAD BABIES. 

HUNG HIGH AND LOW FROM ROPE BY NECK AND TOE. 

THE ROPE TIED TO RAFTERS AND NAILS AND RAILS. BABIES STAPLED TO THE WALLS, THEIR GHOSTLY CALLS OUT OF TUNE, LIKE THE HYMN OF AN ANCIENT RUIN. THE SLAUGHTER OF CHILDREN WAS GAGGOT’S DRUG. 

Gaggot was getting closer. 

drag… 

limp…

drag…

limp…

DRAG…

LIMP…

The voice of the little girl, the green ghost wept. 

“Please, help us. Free us. Save us.”

“But, how?”

SUDDENLY THE DOOR WAS POUNDED FROM THE OTHER SIDE.

GAGGOT POUNDED.

AND POUNDED.

AND THE ROOM SHOOK VIOLENTLY. 

“I have a meat hook waiting for you, boy!” Gaggot roared and tore at the door.  

Roy screamed. 

“Remember me, my name is Rose.” The green ghost said, then she pushed him, sending him falling through a crawl-space in the floor.

A shaft of total darkness. 

Splinters and nails tore at his skin and flesh.

sliding…

tumbling…

wet…

slimy…

Something creepy… and big… breathed a rank sewage odor in his face as he slid down the dark chute. 

Tree roots came alive and slashed his face as he continued the tumble down into HELL!

Nightmarish pictures of children’s decomposing faces flashed before him. 

The missing.

The vanished.

The abandoned.  

But, it wasn’t Hell.

The landing was hard and rough and gravel-like… then 

The light-white-blue-green of snow.

A pillow of softness.

Cold hit him. 

He shivered and quivered as he slowly stood.

He was outside the castle of Blackraven Manor. 

Rose had saved him from the ovens of Gaggot Blackraven. 

Roy was bleeding. 

He was numb. 

He had to get help. 

Roy had no idea of direction or location. No compass or circumference. 

He was lost in a grayish-blue-green snowscape, with an evil castle.

How did he get here? 

He had to get help.

The Angel of Death appeared before him. 

It beckoned him to go with it. 

IT SMILED.

Roy decided to take his chance, and as the Angel of Death did its graven dance, he ran into the blue-green night snow. The torrent of falling ice and snow didn’t show any signs of slowing. 

He had to get help.

“Help us…” Rose had told him. 

He had to find help.

“Save us…” The green ghost had whispered to him. 

Roy wondered and became imbalanced. He was discombobulated. Frozen to the bone. 

The Angel of Death was right behind him. 

SO WERE THE OTHERS!

DEVILS. 

DARK ANGELS.

DEAD MONSTERS OF THE NIGHT AND WILDERNESS.

The horizon was a cold

dark

green

blue

black

sore. 

He collapsed into the ice, face first.

Soon, snow drifted over him.

Far and away, in the top most window of Blackraven Manor, the girl, Rose, the green ghost, turned away from view, shutting the curtain to.

The glow of green flickered out. 

Deep in the bowels of Blackraven Manor, hidden in the castle catacombs, Gaggot laughed. A deep laugh in his gut, like a painful, gross, open wound… whispering…

“I’m not finished with you, yet.”  

THE END

The Legend of The Green Ghost: A Christmas Horror Tale audiobook  is narrated by David C. Gueriera – winner of the 2019 L.A. LIVE Film Fest, Bradbury Award, in the category of Best Short Fiction.

All titles listed are available at: http://www.amazon.com/author/waideriddle

Waide Aaron Riddle

Author: Waide Aaron Riddle

Waide Riddle is an award-winning author, poet & screenwriter.He is the author of the paperbacks "The Power of Summer!," "Dear Tom Hardy: I Love You!," "The Night Elvis Kissed James Dean," "They Crawl on Walls," "Midnight On 6th Street" and "The Chocolate Man: A Children’s Horror Tale." All available via Amazon.Many of Waide’s poems and literary works are archived at the UCLA Library of Special Collections, USC ONE Institute/LGBT Library, Poets House/NYC, Simon Wiesenthal Center/The Museum of Tolerance & the Bodleian Library at Oxford University.Mr. Riddle is also an award-winning filmmaker. His short films "LOST HILLS, CA.," "Two Men Kissing" and "The Lines in Their Faces" are Official Selections and available via Amazon Prime.He is a proud member of: SAG/AFTRA and Sundance Association for Country-Western Dancing/San Francisco.Waide was born in Kingsville, Texas and raised in Houston. He now resides in Los Angeles.

Waide Aaron Riddle
Waide Riddle is an award-winning author, poet & screenwriter.He is the author of the paperbacks "The Power of Summer!," "Dear Tom Hardy: I Love You!," "The Night Elvis Kissed James Dean," "They Crawl on Walls," "Midnight On 6th Street" and "The Chocolate Man: A Children’s Horror Tale." All available via Amazon.Many of Waide’s poems and literary works are archived at the UCLA Library of Special Collections, USC ONE Institute/LGBT Library, Poets House/NYC, Simon Wiesenthal Center/The Museum of Tolerance & the Bodleian Library at Oxford University.Mr. Riddle is also an award-winning filmmaker. His short films "LOST HILLS, CA.," "Two Men Kissing" and "The Lines in Their Faces" are Official Selections and available via Amazon Prime.He is a proud member of: SAG/AFTRA and Sundance Association for Country-Western Dancing/San Francisco.Waide was born in Kingsville, Texas and raised in Houston. He now resides in Los Angeles.
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