More Bones Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Introduction

  A Story to Tell

  Courting Astriah

  The Shaggy Gray Arm

  The Prince’s Fate

  The Headless Horseman

  The Knife

  The Werewolf in the Forest

  The Secret

  The Severed Head

  The Dangerous Dead

  The Haunted Bell

  The Gruesome Test

  The Enchanted Cave

  The Witch of the Woods

  Wishes Gone Awry

  The Ghost of the Rainbow Maiden

  The Wife’s Tale

  Youth without Age

  The Haunted Violin

  The Evil Sea Ghost

  The Peasants’ Revenge

  The Wizard’s Apprentice

  SOURCES

  VIKING

  Published by Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd)

  Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia

  (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd)

  Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India

  Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand

  (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd)

  Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty) Ltd, 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in 2008 by Viking, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group

  Text copyright © Arielle North Olson and Howard Schwartz, 2008

  Illustrations copyright © E. M. Gist, 2008

  All rights reserved

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA IS AVAILABLE

  eISBN : 978-0-670-06339-0

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Randy and Melissa, Jens and Janet,

  Laura, Eric, Miranda, and Rose

  —with much love.

  —A.N.O.

  For Shira, Nati, Miriam, Ari, and Ava.

  —H.S.

  I would like to dedicate this book to Mom, Dad, Jeff,

  and Krista, for all their support and guidance in life;

  to Doug Stambaugh for all his help; to Meadow for more

  love than one man deserves; but most importantly,

  to the loving memory of Basil.

  —E.M.G.

  We would like to acknowledge the editors who contributed so much to this book: Tracy Gates, Kendra Levin, Harriet Sigerman, and Janet Pascal.

  Introduction

  The many readers of Ask the Bones have made their wishes clear—they want to hear bones rattle as soon as they open our books.

  Take care if you read More Bones before you go to sleep. You don’t want to wake up to find a draug staring at you, his head covered with seaweed and his teeth coated with green slime. If he invites you to take a boat ride with him—don’t do it.

  Beware of those lovely maidens who are not what they appear to be. Be especially careful of women who sharpen their teeth on wood or have beautiful red hair that turns into writhing serpents.

  If you’re reading these stories alone at night, watch out. When evil men need help carrying a corpse, they just might pick you for the job. And whatever you do, don’t double-cross the witch who sleeps with a knife under her pillow.

  We have dug deeply in every corner of the world—from Egypt to Iceland, from Japan to Germany, from Spain to Hawaii—for the scary stories in More Bones. Listen! Can you hear the bones beginning to rattle?

  A Story to Tell

  IRELAND

  Pat Diver was not easily frightened. He had spent many lonely nights on the road traveling from one town to the next. But now a cold wind was whipping through the trees.

  Pat trudged on, longing for a warm fire and a snug roof. He was a tinker who could repair a kettle or a saucepan in the wink of an eye. But no one wanted anything fixed in exchange for a night’s lodging. “Go away,” they said, even when Pat offered them a few coins.

  He pulled his coat tightly across his chest and kept walking up the dark mountain road. Finally he came upon a cabin. When he looked through the window, he could see an old couple sitting beside a flickering fire. Surely they would welcome him.

  The moment they opened the door, Pat asked if he could spend the night. He said he would pay them or mend their pots and pans. He would do anything for them, if only they would invite him inside.

  The old man looked at the old woman and she nodded. “You can stay,” he said, “if you tell us a story.”

  The tinker rubbed his cold hands together. “I wish I could,” he said. “But I have no stories to tell.”

  “Not even one?” asked the old woman.

  The tinker shook his head.

  “Then be off!” the old man cried. “No one gets in here if he can’t tell us a story.” He slammed the door shut so quickly that the poor tinker stumbled backward and almost fell.

  Pat didn’t want to take another step. He was too tired, too cold, and angry besides. Never before had he encountered such unfriendly people.

  He sneaked into the rickety old barn behind the cabin. There was a pile of straw in one corner. “Any bed will do,” he muttered. He burrowed deeply into the straw, pulling it over himself until he was completely hidden from view. Within moments, he was sound asleep.

  Later that night, harsh voices awakened him. He didn’t dare make a sound, but he peeked through a little hole between some blades of straw. And there in the middle of the barn he saw two huge men starting a fire on the dirt floor. Their faces were almost hidden by their long, greasy hair. When the flames rose, Pat could see them pull something out from the shadows.

  It was a corpse!

  Pat could barely keep his teeth from chattering. He watched in horror as they tied a rope around its feet and hung it from a beam over the fire. Then one man turned it around and around, roasting it.

  “I’m tired,” the man said, “you take a turn.”

  “Not me,” said the other. “Let Pat Diver turn it.”

  Pat gasped. How did they know he was there?

  “Come on out,” they shouted, kicking some straw aside.

  What else could Pat do? He crawled out on his hands and knees. One man grabbed him by the scruff of his neck and set him on his feet.

  “Start turning the corpse,” said the other, “and mind you don’t let it burn!”

  Pat shuddered. His mouth went dry and sour. He thought he might faint, but the huge men bent down and glared at him just inches from his face. He had no choice. He gritted his teeth and turned that corpse as skillfully as a seasoned chef.

  The huge men laughed at his terror. “Keep turning,” one said.

  “We’ll be back,” said the other, and they disappeared into the night.

  Pat didn’t dare to stop turning that corpse, even when the flames rose high around it. Before long, the flames reached the rope—quickly burning it. Pat watched in horror as the rope broke and the corpse fell into the fire. Sparks and ashes flew into the air.

  And Pat? He flew out the door.

  He ran faster than he had ever run in his entire life. He ran and ran and ran. Sweat poured down his
face even though he was racing into a cold wind. His legs ached, but he wanted to put as much distance as he could between himself and those horrible men with the burning corpse.

  When he couldn’t run another step, he slid down into a soggy ditch and dove behind a clump of overgrown weeds. He hid there, panting. But he had barely caught his breath when he heard heavy footsteps coming down the road. Worse yet, he heard harsh voices. He peeked out and saw the same awful men he had seen in the barn.

  “I’m tired of carrying this corpse,” one man said. “You take a turn.”

  “Not me,” said the other. “Let Pat Diver carry it,” and he jumped into the ditch and dragged Pat out of the weeds.

  Pat was already clammy and shivering, and when that smoky corpse was draped around his shoulders, his hair stood on end. He almost retched.

  “It’s your fault,” one man said. “You’re the one who burned it. Now we have to bury it.”

  “Move,” said the other, and down that road they went—mile after mile. Pat thought his back was going to break. He desperately wanted to stop. He almost didn’t care what those huge men did to him, but somehow he kept staggering along.

  A sickle moon barely lit the way. Finally they reached an abandoned graveyard beside a tumbledown church. Weeds and vines and brambles covered the graves and broken walls. Owls hooted to one another, and bats circled low on silent wings.

  The huge men shoved brambles aside. One grabbed a shovel and began digging a grave.

  Pat let his awful burden slip quietly to the ground. He thought he might creep away while the men weren’t looking. When he spotted a hawthorn tree close by, he climbed high into its branches and hid.

  “I’m tired of digging,” one man said. “You take a turn.”

  “Not me,” said the other. “Let Pat Diver do it,” and he shook that big old tree so hard that Pat came tumbling down at his feet.

  Poor Pat. He took up that shovel and tossed dirt out of the grave as if his life depended on it, for it probably did. What would those huge men do if he refused? Pat dug and dug until his hands were blistered. He was exhausted and had lost all sense of time.

  But the two huge men kept watching for the sunrise. Just before the first rooster crowed, they said they must go. Pat would have to finish the job himself.

  “It’s your lucky night, Pat Diver,” one man said.

  “If we could stay a little longer,” said the other, “we would bury you with the corpse.” And the two huge men rushed out of the graveyard.

  My lucky night? Pat couldn’t imagine one more ghastly. A few tears began to run down his cheeks, but he pushed the corpse into the grave and shoveled all the loose dirt back in the hole. It was all he could do to keep from sobbing. His entire body ached. He wiped off the tears with gritty fingers, staggered out of the graveyard, and trudged down the road.

  For weeks afterward he shivered and shook. He couldn’t mend a pot or a pan if he tried. When his hands finally stopped shaking, he resumed the tinker’s trade—but wherever he roamed, he was careful to find lodging well before nightfall.

  Late one afternoon, Pat found himself on a lonely mountain road. Storm clouds raced in, darkening the sky, and rain came pelting down. Pat hurried to the nearest cabin and knocked. An old man came to the door. Pat thought he looked vaguely familiar but couldn’t remember where he had seen him.

  “May I spend the night?” Pat asked.

  “Come right in,” said the old man. “Sit by the fire.”

  His wife called out to the barn. “Come here, boys.”

  Pat was horrified to see two huge men lumber across the yard and into the cabin. Their faces were almost hidden by their long, greasy hair.

  “Listen,” the woman told her sons. “Pat Diver has a story to tell.”

  Courting Astriah

  GERMANY

  Georg knew his future was assured now that he was apprenticed to the greatest chef in all of Germany. He was ready to look for a bride.

  One day Georg was walking along the street when he noticed a long-haired maiden about fifty paces ahead. He was intrigued by the way her blood-red hair swayed from side to side as she hurried along. She must be the most beautiful maiden in the entire city of Worms, he thought to himself. He must meet her.

  He followed the red-haired maiden through the twisting streets of the city until he saw her stop to unlock a door. She stepped inside so quickly that he didn’t catch a glimpse of her face, but at least he had discovered where she lived. He approached her house and knocked three times, holding his breath. Would she open the door?

  She didn’t. But a lovely voice responded, “Who’s there?”

  “My name is Georg,” he replied. “Soon I will be the finest chef in all of Worms, and I am looking for a lovely bride to share my good fortune.”

  “I would like to meet you,” she answered softly, “but my parents are not well. Could you return tomorrow?”

  Georg was thrilled. “Tell me your name,” he said, “and I will return.”

  “It’s Astriah,” she said, and then bid him good-bye.

  “What a beautiful name,” replied Georg. He said good-bye and hurried home. That night he lay awake thinking about the red-haired maiden. It was close to midnight when he finally fell asleep. He dreamed that he followed Astriah through the streets of the city, just as he had done that day. But in his dream, she continued into the forest. He followed her until she reached a very old tree. He hoped she would turn around so he could see her face. But before she did, he woke up.

  Georg opened his eyes, disappointed that he had not seen her beautiful face. He wanted to see how she looked. Perhaps he would that afternoon, but now he must get dressed and hurry off to work. This was his first day as an apprentice to the great chef.

  When he arrived at the inn, the chef said, “Today I will teach you how to make blood sausage.” When Georg mixed the pig’s blood with the other ingredients, he couldn’t help but think of Astriah’s beautiful red hair and how it swayed when she walked.

  The chef tasted the blood sausage and told Georg he had never had an apprentice who learned so quickly. Georg was a happy man when he left the inn and set out for Astriah’s house. He knocked on her door three times.

  “Dear Georg,” said Astriah from the other side of the wooden door. “I’m so sorry, but my parents still are not well. I can’t meet you today.”

  Georg was both disappointed and surprised. He was disappointed that he would not meet her, but he was surprised that she knew who was knocking before he said a word. “Astriah,” he said, “God willing, we will meet tomorrow.”

  That night Georg twisted and turned in his bed. He could not get the beautiful maiden out of his mind. At midnight, sleep finally overcame him, and he again dreamed that he followed Astriah deep into the forest. She walked past the old tree to a little hut and went inside. He crept close and peered through a crack in the door. There he saw Astriah facing a fireplace and stirring a blood-red broth. Just when he thought she might turn around, he awoke. He was even more frustrated than before, because he still had not seen her face. But it was time to go to work.

  That day the chef taught Georg how to make beet soup—soup exactly the color of blood. As he stirred it, Georg couldn’t help but think of the red broth that Astriah had stirred in his dream. He took this as a sign that they were meant for each other and that she would soon be his bride. After work Georg hurried to Astriah’s house.

  Once again Georg knocked three times, but Astriah still did not open the door. Yet her voice seemed even lovelier than before. “My parents are too sick for me to meet you now,” she said, “but at midnight I will be in front of your house, standing by the fountain in the square.”

  Georg was astounded. “How did you know where I live?”

  “Haven’t I visited you in your dreams the past two mid-nights?” asked Astriah.

  Georg felt a chill race along his spine. She knew about his dreams even though he had not revealed them to anyone. Georg was amazed
by her remarkable powers. “I will meet you there,” he replied.

  As midnight approached, Georg stood by the fountain, waiting anxiously. But just as the town clock struck twelve, he slumped down on the cobblestone street. His sudden need to sleep was irresistible.

  Georg dreamed he was outside the cottage in the forest. He watched through the crack in the door as Astriah stirred her red broth. Her hair swayed as if it were alive each time she moved. He knocked, and Astriah invited him in. “I have been waiting for you, Georg.”

  He was still asleep when Astriah flew through the air and landed beside him at the fountain. For a moment she watched him dreaming about her. Then she leaned over him, tossing her hair so that it covered his face. All at once her hair began to writhe like so many bright red serpents, each one sucking blood from his neck.

  In his dream Astriah turned to look at Georg, her red hair swinging to reveal her face at last. But it was not the face of a beautiful maiden. It was the face of a wrinkled old hag, swooping down on him like a vulture and devouring him.

  Georg screamed and screamed, but not a sound came forth. His heart had stopped beating. All the blood had been drained from his body.

  The Shaggy Gray Arm

  ICELAND

  Jon’s parents didn’t want him to go to magic school. They had heard that some students changed in strange and mysterious ways—and some disappeared without a trace.

  But Jon was determined. “How else can I chase away ghosts and demons?” he asked. “How can I overcome bullies? I must learn to write magic signs and symbols so I can protect us.”

  The truth was that his parents didn’t want him to go to any school at all. In those days most people in Iceland believed that reading and writing were dangerous. Someone might use the knowledge for evil purposes. Even clergy-men were suspect.

  But, bit by bit, Jon convinced his parents that magic could be useful. Didn’t they want to see the invisible little people who lived in the rocks and hillocks around their farm? The ones who slipped into the house each night to eat the food left for them on the table?