B R H E L & S U L L I V A N
illustrations by C H A D W E H R L E
Corpse Cold: New American Folklore
Published by Cemetery Gates Media
Binghamton, NY
Copyright © 2017 Cemetery Gates Media
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under the copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in, or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without prior written permission.
ISBN 978-1978169005
For more information about this book and other Cemetery Gates Media publications, visit us at:
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Illustrations for this book were created by Chad Wehrle. To see more of his spooky creations, visit him at:
www.cwehrle.com
www.facebook.com/cwehrleart
www.instagram.com/cwehrle
CONTENTS
Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 7
Switches . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 13
Black Dog . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25
Czarny Lud . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 35
Corpse Cold . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 49
Amityville Beach . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 57
A Morning Fog . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65
Friendship: Dead and Buried . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 71
Autoplay ‘On’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 79
The Big ‘M’ . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 87
Dracula’s Bride . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 95
Moss Lake Island . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105
It That Decays . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119
Two Visions, 1984 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127
Woman on the Campus Green . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137
The Blue Hole . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145
Jesup . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 155
Model Citizens . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 165
Last Train Home . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175
A Casket for My Mother . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181
Echo’s Reflection . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 187
Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 201
Acknowledgements . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 209
INTRODUCTION
At first blush, ‘folklore’ seems a dated term for describing the way in which we tell each other stories. How could
it be that folktales are still told in the 21st Century—in the face of a nearly instantaneous, and global, transmission
of information? But anyone who has spent time reading
internet message boards, or trawling social media posts for the zeitgeist of the moment, will certainly see creepypasta,
‘fake news,’ or memetic warnings about the horrors of an
everyday product, custom, or political ideology promoted
as unenviable truth. The question might then be posed,
keeping in mind our technological age: Is it still possible for us to suspend disbelief while reading a book of tales—
the same way in which we do while scrolling through our
Facebook feed?
With the Scary Stories to Tell in the Dark series, Alvin Schwartz boiled down legends and urban myths that were still being
told by word of mouth, old tales that were continuously
adapting to the changes in culture and technology. There
was no easy way for the average person to trace the origins of a story like “The Hook,” per se. To think that an internet creepypasta like Slender Man can have a well-known story
of origin, with an archival record, while still simultaneously evolving a groupthink mythos—is astounding.
With Corpse Cold: New American Folklore we hope to share some new twists on older legends, develop original
creepypastas and campfire tales for adult sensibilities, and assist our readers into the anxiety-ridden caverns, and
mindful spaces, which many of us find so entertaining in
entering. We can’t properly answer whether folklore can
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CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
still emerge from the traditional short story form. But we hope to appeal to the joy many readers our age had while
reading illustrated books of spook stories as children.
Chad Wehrle’s illustrations add tremendous
storytelling value—that as much seems obvious. A campfire
story shouldn’t describe the minute details of a setting, plot point, or character. There should be room for retelling,
and reimagining by the reader. Chad’s artwork merely gives one incredible interpretation of a plot point, setting, or character trait. It would be of little surprise to its authors if copies of Corpse Cold went dogeared from repeated viewings of the illustrations alone—possibly by the son or daughter of an adult reader who’d picked up our book out of nostalgia, but never found the time to read.
We stand on the shoulders of giants in birthing this
book. If you’re closer to middle-age than your teenage
years, you’re sure to have a memory of something you’ve
found frightfully entertaining from Alvin Schwartz’s
books—that is, if one of Stephen Gammell’s illustrations
isn’t outright etched into your day-to-day psyche, or you
don’t often think of what became of the man who witnessed
the animated scarecrow, Harold, stretch his best friend’s
skin upon that cottage roof.
John & Joe
October 2017
• 8 •
TERRIFYING
TALES
• I •
SWITCHES
It was late, and I was nodding at the wheel as I traveled
a rural highway somewhere between Cortland and
Binghampton, New York. I’d planned to get out of my
work meeting before ten, but it wasn’t until a quarter to
midnight that I finally settled into the leather seat of my Cadillac ATS. I knew the dangerous game I was playing,
taking the chance of falling asleep at the wheel. So, it seemed like divine intervention when a dated, orange fluorescent
sign appeared on the horizon.
I slowed as I passed McGirk’s Roadside Motel. It was a
small motel, to say the least, with maybe 6-8 guest rooms.
When I saw there was still �
��vacancy,’ I pulled into the parking lot, sluggishly got out of my car, and headed toward the
office. I had no bag or toiletries, as this was an unplanned overnight.
When I entered the office, I was greeted by a greasy,
uneasy looking motelier, who was sitting behind a tall desk.
“Hey. Are you lost?”
“Uh, no... I’m tired. Is there a room available?”
The man behind the desk smiled broadly, which made
me feel a little better about my choice to stop. I really
didn’t want to sleep in my car in some farmer’s field or
forested pull-off. “We have one more room available,” he
• 13 •
CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
said, distracted by something he’d spotted in his dimly lit parking lot. “Is that a Cadillac?”
“Yep,” I replied. “Can I have the room? I can pay with
my card, or cash if you prefer.”
The motelier hesitated as he absentmindedly picked at
his grimy, white t-shirt. “I don’t know if you’ll want this particular room.”
I waited for the man to continue, to offer some sort of
explanation, but he didn’t. The overhead light flickered as I approached the desk. “So… What? You have at least six
rooms here. Are there any others available?”
“No, sorry. All the other rooms are occupied. I have
just the one tonight.”
“My car is the only one out there…” I sighed.
clearly, due to my lack of sleep. “What? Does it have bedbugs, roaches, or something?”
The motelier visibly grimaced at my mention of vermin.
“Of course not! It’s a perfectly clean room.”
“Then I’ll take it.” I dug for my wallet, then pulled out
my ID. “Cash or credit? Here’s my license.”
The light flickered again, as the motelier wrote down
my information. “Mr. Sellers, I feel obligated to warn
you—some people believe that Room 7 is, uh, haunted…”
I couldn’t help but laugh. “Sure, buddy.”
The man handed me back my ID and credit card, and
set a room key on the desk. The bronze key hung from a
red, plastic identifier, which was embossed with a large,
golden ‘7.’
“I’ve never seen a ghost. But it has been an issue for
some of my guests, to say the least.”
I picked up the key, and was about to head straight for
my room when my curiosity got the better of me. “What’d
• 14 •
SWITCHES
you mean, ‘an issue?’”
The awkward way in which the man fidgeted, before
responding, made me uneasy. “Some of our guests have
insisted on changing rooms over it. And it has happened
often enough that I don’t normally bother offering the
room.”
“But you’re completely booked tonight—all, what,
eight rooms?”
The motelier nodded. “Correct, Mr. Sellers. Now that
you’ve joined us, we have no more vacancies.”
“So, enough people have been changing rooms due
to ghosts—immaterial beings—that you only offer seven of
your eight rooms?” I couldn’t help but chuckle. “You’d
be surprised what kind of business marketing you could do
with that online...Uh, are you McGirk?”
“Yes, I’m the owner. Chester McGirk,” he replied.
“And it’s not what they see that troubles them.” McGirk lowered his voice, as if he were afraid of being overheard.
“It seems to be the things they hear.”
“Well, I don’t believe that ghosts can exist. So, I think I’ll be fine.”
McGirk didn’t press the issue; he wished me a good
night, then I hurried to Room 7 to try and get some sleep. I had an incredibly important sales meeting in Binghampton
the following morning, and would have to get up in less than six hours to have enough time to make my appointment.
When I opened the door to Room 7, I was taken
aback by a wall of musty, stale air. It was as if the room had been sealed for years. There was a queen-sized bed with a
nightstand, the typical TV setup opposite the bed, and a
single chair. The bathroom was tiny; the toilet just barely fit between the sink and bathtub.
After a closer inspection, I decided the room was
• 15 •
CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
clean enough, and I couldn’t have cared less about its dated furnishings. My only aesthetic critique was that the main
overhead light was a bare bulb. Sure, there were other
covered, even decorative, wall lights. But the focal point of the room was certainly the unseemly, dangling abomination.
I knew I wouldn’t have to stare at it for too long, though, as it was pushing half-past midnight. So, I undressed,
flipped the switch near the door to turn off the overhead, and went to bed.
I gradually awoke to the specter of the illuminated, bare
bulb above me. There was nothing sudden, or even startling, about my transition to consciousness. I turned to my side
and saw that it was only 2:30. I grumbled, then calculated that I had only been asleep for two hours, and that I would have to get up in another three-and-a-half.
I didn’t immediately get out of bed and go shut off the
light either. The switch was near the door, and even the five paces it would take to extinguish the light seemed an effort.
so fatigued, body and mind. I watched a few moths and a
housefly dip around the bare bulb for a couple of minutes
before I sat up. The fact that it attracted bugs was motivation enough for me to go and turn it off.
I swear, as soon as I flipped the switch to the ‘off’
position, the light in the bathroom turned on. “Some
ghost,” I grumbled, laughing to myself as I lumbered
into the bathroom, and then flipped that switch which, at
first, didn’t respond. It took a few flips before the light bar above the bathroom mirror faded. When all was again
dark, I hesitated, reminiscing about the Bloody Mary and
Candyman games I used to play with my sister in front of
dark mirrors. When no ghoul appeared in the glass—not
• 16 •
SWITCHES
that I chanted any names—I laughed to myself and returned
to bed.
I was comfortable, back under the covers, when one
of the light sconces above the bed came to life. “The hell? ”
I had to sit up to turn it off, and as soon as that light was extinguished, the other sconce flickered on. To get at that one, I had to move to the far side of the bed and strain to spin the small switch to the ‘off’ position.
“Ha! Jesus. I’m out of breath.” I collapsed to the bed, irritated, though slightly amused by it all. As soon as my head hit the pillow, the hanging bulb above once again
illuminated. McGirk must be bored tonight, I thought. I was positive now that the motelier was the one manipulating the lights. That McGirk might be watching certainly bothered
me, but the reason I began to fume was the thought that I, Richard Sellers, might seem like the sort of guy that could be messed with.
I tossed the blankets aside, put on my shoes, and
stormed out of Room 7 in only my boxers and T-shirt. But
when I barged into the motel office and up to the counter, I found McGirk asleep in his chair. I noisily cleare
d my
throat, and the motelier startled awake.
“Oh! Christ! What’s wrong?!” McGirk quickly stood and looked me up and down.
I felt like a complete idiot. McGirk had certainly been
asleep, and here I was confronting him in my underwear.
“Sorry...sorry to bother you. I... um... I’m having a
problem with my lights. They won’t stay off.”
McGirk’s eyes widened. “I see. Yes. It’s difficult to
sleep with the lights on—this is certainly an issue.” McGirk looked around the room, as if he were searching for an
easy answer. “I’m sorry, Mr. Sellers. We have had some
problems. The building hasn’t been updated—as you’ve
• 17 •
CORPSE COLD: NEW AMERICAN FOLKLORE
probably seen for yourself. Plumbers and electricians are
difficult to get a hold of, especially all the way out here.”
McGirk tapped his fingers wildly on the desk. “I can offer you a sleeping mask, or I can come take out the bulbs…”
I waved the motelier off while I backed toward the
door, as I was now embarrassed. “Forget it. I can manage.
I’m sorry for bothering you over something so minor.”
“Think nothing of it,” said the motelier, as I hurried
out of the office and back to my room.
Back in Room 7, the bare bulb shined brightly above my
bed, with a few furry moths and a housefly orbiting it. I lay below, and buried my head beneath the comforter. It was
quiet enough in the room; I knew I could still manage a few hours of sleep. Even the bugs periodically knocking against the glass of the hot bulb didn’t bother me. It was almost
hypnotic.
But as I began to drift into the twilight of a shallow
slumber, I was startled awake by the sound of a mechanical clanging. I tossed the covers from off my head and discovered the source of the noise. The ancient air conditioner beneath the room’s sole window had kicked on, and was certainly
not working as intended.
It was a cool, October night. There was no reason for
the AC to turn on. The clanging had grown even louder as I homed in on it. I was frightened by the sound, the intensity of it, the fact that it was escalating.
My attention was soon drawn back to the bulb above
the bed. It was now flickering and swinging gently on its