Wednesday Weirdness: Black Dogs of Folklore

Posted on March 4, 2020 by Mae Clair

pathway between large, gnarled trees with words "on the path of Wednesday Weirdness" superimposed over image

For today’s Wednesday Weirdness, I’m referencing a creature that appears in End of Day, book two of my Hode’s Hill series. Long before writing that tale, I was intrigued by legends of the nocturnal black dogs of folklore. Larger than an average canine, such creatures are a portent of doom or death and will usually appear to a lone traveler. In times past, those who walked the roads at night would buddy-up with a companion, hoping to stave off the dog’s appearance. Even then, the animal might only be visible to one of the two, assuring the person meant to see the hound could not escape their destiny.

Many cultures believe in a creature or object that is said to be an omen of death. I remember finding a black feather as a child then running home terrified, sobbing to my mother, when someone told me it was a sign of death. She did what mothers do—calmed my fears, hugged me, and told me I would be fine. Moms don’t lie, but I remember lying awake that night, listening to every creak and groan of the house waiting for something to happen. When dawn arrived, I decided I was safe.

Superstitions are always more frightening when examined in the dark, especially through the eyes of a child.

But the legend of the Black Dog was passed from country to country and continent to continent by adults. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle even had his master detective, Sherlock Holmes tangle with “The Hound of the Baskervilles” (my favorite Holmes story).

And then there is Black Dog Tor, a large standing stone said to conceal the spirit of a spectral hound. In all cases, these dogs are utterly silent which makes their eerie appearance all the more spine-tingling. Imagine crossing a grassy knoll silvered by moonlight and watching a bulky apparition with glowing eyes crest the rise.

Black Dogs were also seen at crossroads, footpaths, gallows, gravesites and bridges. Sometimes associated with storms, they were given differing names depending on location and who was telling the tale—grims, hellhounds, Padfoot, Hairy Jack, the yeth hound, Gurt, and Black Shuck to name a few.

It makes you realize black cats weren’t the only critters to get a bad rap!

Wednesday Weirdness: A Love of Creatures

Posted on February 26, 2020 by Mae Clair

pathway between large, gnarled trees with wacords "on the path of Wednesday Weirdness" superimposed over image Hi, friends. I was thinking about creatures the other day. No big surprise there. My mind often wonders that way. I’m a wuss when it comes to haunted houses, ghosts, and most things supernatural (despite writing about them), but creatures are another story. Leave the demonic slant out and I’m a fan girl.

Looking back, it started with the old soap opera Dark Shadows. Yeah, I’m dating myself. Everyone knows Barnabas Collins, but I was thoroughly smitten with Quentin Collins. I was six years old and captivated by the idea of someone turning into a werewolf. The thought of the moon altering someone’s behavior held me enthralled. Small wonder, the first book I had published was a werewolf tale.

Early photo of author, Mae Clair standing beside a large wood carving of a bat with folded wings

A creature I discovered in Rhode Island, late 1990s

A few years later, I saw Night of the Gargoyles, a movie that introduced me to flying creatures haunting the southwest. Around the same time, I watched a sci-fi movie with my parents. I have no idea what the name was, or what it was about. I just remember a huge insect like creature being emblazoned against the sky (still vivid in my head). Let it be known I detest 95% of insects, but this was a creature. An alien, most likely.

In my tweens and teens I discovered dragons, unicorns, and all manner of beasties from myth. That led to a love of reading and writing epic fantasy. In my thirties, I drifted away from fantasy into magical realism. The creatures became more subtle, sometimes wrapped in human guise. After that I fell in love with the bizarre. Stories of curiosities, creatures from cryptozoology, tales of visitors from other worlds.

Author, Mae Clair, beside the Mothman statue in Point Pleasant, West Virginia, June 2013

With the Mothman statue in Point Pleasant, West Virginia, 2013

Do I believe this stuff? Well, that’s as much a mystery as the cryptids, isn’t it? Let’s just say I’m mostly a skeptic who loves the possibility of “what if.” Despite all the logic and rationality of the world, the detailed facts unearthed by science and technology, I never want to lose the wonder and magic of childhood when everything carried the gloss of “what if.”

Creatures aren’t everyone’s cup of tea. But for all the hairy-winged-scaled-hunched over-misunderstood creatures out there, I’m a fan girl. What about you? Have you got a favorite.

Wednesday Weirdness: A Missing Photo and the Mandela Effect

Posted on February 19, 2020 by Mae Clair

pathway between large, gnarled trees with words "on the a path of Wednesday Weirdness" superimposed over image

Today’s Wednesday Weirdness piggybacks off last week’s post about Thunderbirds, and the disappearance of a Pennsylvania farmhand named Tom Eggleton. If you missed it, you can find it HERE. Many of the townspeople where Tom lived were convinced he’d been carried off by a Thunderbird. Why?

Perhaps they’d seen a photo supposedly circulated in 1890. I say supposedly, because no one—up to the present time—has been able to find the photograph despite thousands of people who remember seeing it, and numerous publications which insist they published it.

If you’re scratching your head, let me backtrack.

In April 1890, two Arizona cowboys (or prospectors, depending on who is doing the telling) shot and killed a pterodactyl-like creature. The enormous bird was featherless with smooth skin, a head like an alligator, and a wingspan of one-hundred, sixty feet. The two men loaded the creature into a wagon and hauled it into Tombstone, where it was nailed, wings outspread, across the entire length of a barn.

The Tombstone Gazette ran an article about the incident on April 26, 1890. No photo.

In 1963, a writer by the name of Jack Pearl—while recounting other large bird sightings in Saga magazine—stated the Gazette published a photo of the “Tombstone Thunderbird” in 1886. Notice the discrepancy in the dates.

Also in 1963, a correspondent for Fate magazine would claim the photo had been published by the Gazette—and countless newspapers across the country. Still others claimed to have seen the photo in Saga or Fate. Others in magazines devoted to the Old West.

Grit was one of the newspapers thought to have published the Thunderbird photo. This is the Grit office as it looked in the 1890s: Image courtesy of Wikimedia Commons unknown; uploaded to the English language Wikipedia by Pepso in February 2006 (file log). [Public domain]

Biologist and writer, Ivan T. Sanderson said he loaned a photostat of the image to an associate who lost it. Mothman Prophecies author, John Keel, was certain he’d seen the photograph in a magazine; there was even talk of it having been shown on a Canadian television show devoted to the supernatural. With more and more individuals claiming to have seen the photo, staffers at the Gazette searched their archives. Other newspapers and magazines did as well, but the photo has never been found.

So how could so many people have such distinct memories of something that doesn’t exist?

The “lost” Thunderbird photo is an example of a shared false memory most commonly called the Mandela Effect. Named for former South African President and philanthropist, Nelson Mandela, the phenomenon occurs when a large group of people recall something that never happened. Nelson Mandela passed away in 2013, but many people distinctly remember him dying in prison in the 1980s.

Author and paranormal researcher, Fiona Broome, coined the phrase in 2019, and runs a website devoted to it. Here’s a list of some cool “Mandela Effect” items that may make you realize you’ve shared a false memory.

And, finally about that thunderbird photo…I can’t find one in free use, but you can check out an example of it HERE.

When you’re all done browsing around, come back and share your thoughts in the comments. I’d love to know you think about the lost photograph and the Mandela Effect.

Wednesday Weirdness: The Disappearance of Tom Eggleton

Posted on February 12, 2020 by Mae Clair

pathway between large, gnarled trees with words "on the path of Wednesday Weirdness" superimposed over image Hi, Friends. Welcome to another Wednesday Weirdness. Thanks for visiting today as I roll out a post about a mysterious disappearance—and thunderbirds.

These enormous winged creatures have long been an integral part of Native American folklore, but original Thunderbird legends date back thousands of years and can be traced to Egypt and Africa. With wingspans of twelve to fifteen feet or more, the Thunderbird has been known to carry off small animals, children, and even adults. It is a formidable avian spirit, able to shoot lightning from its beak and summon the roar of thunder with a clap of its powerful wings. A storm spirit, it is a harbinger of change.

Surprisingly, there have been numerous sightings of Thunderbirds in the 20^th and 21^st centuries. My home state of Pennsylvania is abundant with them. The story I’d like to share, however, dates back to the late 1800s, a bizarre tale that beings on a hot summer evening in August 1897.

On that date, nineteen-year-old Thomas Eggleton decided to hike to nearby Hammersley Fork in order to mail his mother a letter. He told his employer, a farmer, where he was headed, then set out on his evening trek. It was a walk he’d undertaken numerous times in the past without incident.

But Tom never arrived in town, nor did he return to the farm the next day. Worried by his absence and fearing he could be injured, the farmer traced Tom’s footsteps in the dirt, following the path he’d taken toward Hammersley Fork. When he lost Tom’s tracks outside of town, he enlisted the help of others. Bloodhounds were added to the effort, and the dogs tracked Tom’s scent to the middle of a bridge where it vanished.

Fearing the worst, the people of Hammersley Fork dragged the river, but Tom’s body was never found. Spooked by the odd circumstances, murmurs of thunderbirds erupted. Several locals insisted they’d seen a massive bird in the vicinity shortly before Tom’s disappearance and grew convinced it must have carried him away. With the flames of fear stoked, schools closed for two full weeks until the panic eventually passed.

Four years later, the farmer who’d been so worried about Tom received a letter from him. Tom stated he had recently awakened in a South African hospital with no memory of his past or how he’d come to be there. All he could recall was that he had worked for a famer outside of Hamersley Fork.

Had Tom been abducted by a Thunderbird? Could he have been snatched off the bridge as many locals speculated, or had he somehow slipped through a hole in time? The mystery of Tom Eggleton has no definitive answers, but whispers and rumors of Thunderbirds remain.

This story was relayed in the book, Monsters of Pennsylvania by Patty A. Wilson. Want more weirdness? There are “Monster” books available with the strange denizens of various states on Amazon. Check them out! After all…

Who knows what creatures and beasties lurk in your neck of the woods!

Wednesday Weirdness: The Ghosts of Time, Part 2

Posted on February 5, 2020 by Mae Clair

pathway between large, gnarled trees with words "on the path of Wednesday Weirdness" superimposed over image Last week, I wrote a Wednesday Weirdness post called the Ghosts of Time, in which I included a long-standing legend in my family. If you didn’t read that post it involved a grandfather’s clock which belonged to my father.

While my dad was living, he always said that when he died as a way to communicate, he would stop the clock if it was running and start it if it was stopped. And yes, it did stop the first time the family was gathered together several months after his death. See my Ghosts of Time post for the whole story.

Old fashioned clock face surrounded by field of snow, bare tree superimposed over clock face Because of my father’s promise, clocks have a profound place in my family.

There is another occurrence that took place sometime after his death. My mother and I went to the theater to see The Omen. Why, I have no clue. I certainly couldn’t/wouldn’t sit through it today *shudder*

Anyway, after my father died, my mother gave me the watch he was wearing when he passed away. As a way to keep him close, I wore it a lot in those days. My mom and I were headed into the theater when she asked me what time it was. I think we were running late and were worried we would miss the opening of the movie. I honestly don’t remember the exact time, but we usually went to a “twilight” feature, so I’ll say it was 5:30 PM.

When we came out of the theater and were headed for the car, chatting about the movie, my mom again asked for the time. I remember glancing down, dismayed to realize the watch had stopped. At precisely the moment we originally entered the theater—5:30 PM.

That’s not really a huge deal. Parts fail, batteries expire, watches stop. I remember saying, “Oh. Dad’s watch stopped.”

Now for the odd part…the part that is a huge deal. As I was watching, the second hand started moving again and the watch began working. To this day, I’m not certain what that signifies other than my father had moved on to a heavenly existence and perhaps didn’t like the taint of the movie. It’s one of those vivid memories that stand out when I look back over my life.

Several years ago, something similar occurred.

I’ve told you how I love grandfathers’ clocks because of my dad. I also have a love of cuckoo clocks because of my mom. She grew up with one and pretty much instilled that love in me.

Many years ago, my husband and I purchased a cuckoo clock. It’s now over twenty years old and hasn’t worked in several years. I had it repaired once during that span, but when it stopped working for the second time, I didn’t bother. The repairs were too extensive. Despite that, I kept the clock on the wall in the kitchen, because I like the look of it.

When my mom was living, I used to host a party for her every May. She passed away in 2012. In 2013, I held a summer party for the whole family. As the last guests were leaving for the night, I glanced toward the kitchen and realized the cuckoo clock was ticking. The same cuckoo clock that hasn’t worked in years. I can’t begin to describe the feeling I had when I saw the pendulum swinging back and forth and heard the steady tick-tock, tick-tock.

The next day I checked with everyone who had been at the party and no one started the clock. I had been in and out of the kitchen multiple times during the party and the clock wasn’t working. And yet, when everything wound to a close, it was ticking along as though it had always worked.

We stopped it and it hasn’t started again. I don’t believe it ever will. Once was enough, a message from my mother to say she had been there with everyone in spirit.

At least I like to think so.

Wednesday Weirdness: The Ghosts of Time, Part 1

Posted on January 29, 2020 by Mae Clair

We’ve often heard the expression “time stopped.” But can it really? As much as I love time travel speculating about traversing centuries, time flows in a single direction–forward. Despite cold facts and scientific data, generations of writers, philosophers, artists and musicians remain bewitched by the abstract elements of time.

Consider me one. In the past, I’ve done several blog posts about what I call “betwixt moments,” but I’ve never shared where my fascination with time originated. I can easily trace it back to my father who had a passion for antiques, especially old clocks. I grew up in a house filled with them. I have memories of a large white captain’s clock, several squat mantle clocks, and a pointed steeple clock that would have been at home in a Sherlock Holmes novel. But the star of my dad’s collection was a grandfather’s clock he found at a garage sale. Built in 1902, the clock was his baby.

He pampered it…winding it, oiling it, adjusting the chimes, polishing the pendulum. It had a prime spot in our living room, its chimes resounding throughout the house on the hour. As a kid, I created multiple stories with clocks and would often lay awake at night listening for the deep bass bong of the grandfather’s clock.

When my husband and I bought our second home, the first piece of furniture I purchased for the formal living room was a grandfather’s clock. Never mind there wasn’t a couch or chair, the clock came first. That’s the romantic, impractical side of me. Every time I look at that clock, I think of my dad.

As kids he’d often tell us that when he died, if there was a way to come back, he’d find it. If the grandfather’s clock was running he’d stop it, and if it was stopped, he’d start it. I don’t think my dad intended on dying early—maybe he’d knew he’d have a short life—but the afterlife fascinated him. When I was thirteen, he passed away from colon cancer.

Sometime after that, the whole family was gathered in the living room. My father passed away in early September, so I believe this must have been Thanksgiving, because my married sisters were there with their spouses. My mom was the only one not in the room. I think she might have been in the kitchen. Someone went to note the time and realized the clock had stopped. There was a moment of goosebump-silence as we absorbed the impact. My sister immediately told her husband: “start it, before Mom sees it.” We never told my mom about that incident until much later in life, fearing it might upset her.

Was my dad there? Had he stopped the clock as promised? I still wonder. Many people would chalk it up to happenstance, but it’s far too coincidental to me.

Today, the clock belongs to my brother. One hundred seventeen years after it was built, it has become an intricate part of our family history. We’ve passed the tale of my dad and his promise to the younger generation, a story often reflected on at family gatherings. The clock—like my father—is still touching lives, a testament of time and memory.

Is there a spooky story in your family history—one that has been passed down to you or that you’ve passed to your kids? Sometimes we don’t have to look beyond our own bloodline to find inspiration for a legend. I’ll be sharing along this line next week. Now it’s your turn. Let me hear your thoughts.

Wednesday Weirdness: A Personal UFO Encounter

Posted on January 22, 2020 by Mae Clair

pathway between large, gnarled trees with words "on the path of Wednesday Weirdness" superimposed over image Today’s Wednesday Weirdness is a little different than usual. I’m visiting with Hugh Roberts of Hugh’s Views and News to share a personal UFO encounter. If you’ve followed my blog for a while, you may have seen a post on this before—although I have expanded on the detail.

In October, I participated in Teri Polen’s Bad Moon Rising. One of the questions she asked was something along the lines of “would you rather be a ghostbuster or a member of the X-files team.” My answer included a brief reference to seeing a UFO as a child. Hugh commented he was interested in hearing more, which lead to an invitation to do a guest post on his blog. Between NaNoWriMo, and the holidays, we put everything on hold until after the first of the new year.

Today, I hope you’ll join me at HUGH’S BLOG while I share a memory of a long-ago summer night when something very strange happened.. I’m closing comments here but hope to see you at Hugh’s place 🙂

A UFO hovering above a field

Wednesday Weirdness: The Brown Mountain Lights

Posted on January 15, 2020 by Mae Clair

pathway between large, gnarled trees with words "on the path of Wednesday Weirdness" superimposed over image

Just last week, I had the pleasure of hosting my good friend, Marcia Meara, with her latest release The Light—book four in her Wake Robin Ridge Series. If you missed, that post, you can find it HERE. You may also want to check out my five star review of this fabulous story on my January 7th Book Review Tuesday post, HERE.

The Light employs the legend of the Brown Mountain Lights, a phenomena I’ve written about in the past (If you’ve followed my blog for a while, you know I’m smitten with folklore). With that in mind, I thought it was a good time to trot out the history behind this fascinating legend once more. I hope you enjoy!

Brown Mountain is a low lying ridge tucked into the Pisgah National Forest in North Carolina. For hundreds of years (some say longer) a phenomenon known as the Brown Mountain Lights has been observed by countless witnesses. The illumination, which appears as multi-colored balls floating above the mountain, has even resulted in two surveys conducted by the U.S. Geological Society–one in 1913, the other in 1922. Many believe the Cherokee Indians observed the lights as far back as the 13^th Century.

According to eye witnesses, the lights usually begin as a red ball which transitions to white before vanishing altogether. Sometimes a single orb will divide into several before reforming. Witnesses have also reported seeing blue, green, yellow and orange orbs, most lasting only a handful of seconds before fading or winking from sight.

A stony overlook extending into a treed gorge in

Overlook at Wiseman’s View in Linville Gorge, NC, one of the best vantage points for viewing the Brown Mountain Lights.
Photo of Wisemen’s View by Ken Thomas (KenThomas.us (personal website of photographer)) [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons

The phenomenon is so consistent there are specific mile markers within the Blue Ridge Parkway overlook designating from where they are best viewed.

Usually “spooklights” of this sort occur in swampy areas where decaying plant matter produces methane gas. This in turn spontaneously ignites, causing mysterious light manifestations. There are, however, no swampy areas where the Brown Mountain lights materialize, and unlike gaseous orbs, those of Brown Mountain appear concentrated with the ability to maneuver about the mountain.

Naturally, theories have developed. Many involve ghosts, energy beings, UFOs and even aliens. Older folklore relies on stories passed through generations. One tale dates back to the year 1200, when a bloody clash took place on the ridge. According to that legend, a fierce battle between the Cherokee and Catawba Indians claimed the lives of many braves. That night, grieving for their fallen warriors, Indian maidens scoured the mountain by torchlight, searching for bodies. To this day, that eerie torchlight can still be seen flickering on the ridge as they continue their endless hunt for the fallen.

Another tale speaks of a cruel man who butchered his wife and child then buried the bodies on Brown Mountain where he thought no one would find them. Not long after he completed the grisly deed, lights began to appear and hover over the graves. The mysterious illumination drew others to the site, enabling them to discover the murder victims. The killer fled before he could be punished for his crime, and was never seen again. Perhaps the forest enacted its own fatal justice.

Whatever the source of the Brown Mountain Lights, they have been captured on film and video and witnessed from miles away. As for the surveys conducted by the US Geological Society, investigators concluded witnesses mistakenly reported the oncoming headlights from trains and autos as something more mystifying.

In direct counterpoint, locals reported seeing the lights before autos and trains descended on the area. Additionally, in 1916, a flood wiped out area transportation routes for a full week. During that time the lights were still active and observed.

Fast forward to 1982, when a man named Tommy Hunter claimed to have touched one of the lights. Supposedly it bobbed up to the ridge where he was standing and hovered several feet off the ground. A few times larger than a basketball, it appeared yellowish in color, and gave him an electrical shock when he extended his hand. The light dimmed slightly at the contact, then floated off into the woods.

If you would like to know more about this puzzling phenomenon, check out Joshua P. Warren’s free booklet, The Brown Mountain Lights:Viewing Guide available for download in PDF. As someone who has always been fascinated by spooklights, I found it mesmerizing reading!

What are your thoughts? Let’s chat in the comments below.

And if you’d like an interesting take on this phenomenon in an engaging book, be sure to check out The Light for inspired reading!

Wednesday Weirdness: The Ghost Ship of Loch Awe

Posted on January 8, 2020 by Mae Clair

pathway between large, gnarled trees with words "on the path of Wednesday Weirdness" superimposed over image Welcome to the first Wednesday Weirdness of 2020!

It’s great to return with this regular weekly feature after all the fun of the holidays. I’ve also got an “extra” at the end, but to get things rolling, I’d like to share a legend rooted in sea lore.

In the northern waters from Scotland to Iceland, a ghost ship is often glimpsed, riding the sea a day’s journey from the rugged coastline. Known as the Ghost Ship of Loch Awe, she resembles a passenger liner of the early 1900s. It’s uncertain why she is attributed to Loch Awe, Scotland’s third largest freshwater loch which has never received a vessel larger than a coastal cargo ship.

The phantom boat appears only when the water is calm but swaddled in layers of fog. She materializes from the mist, smoke curling from her chimney stacks, her decks ablaze with lights. It’s been reported she passes so close to other vessels those onboard can see passengers strolling on her decks.

Most spine-tingling of all, she passes in utter silence, swallowed quickly by the fog. Not a sound is heard in the unnatural hush. From the waves breaking against her hull to the ratchet of noise that should rise from her engines, there is nothing but eerie stillness and calm.

Despite the relative serenity of her passing, calamity follows in her wake. According to legend, within twenty-four hours of the vessel’s appearance, catastrophe will strike. She is the harbinger of a collision at sea, the tragic death of a crew member, or some other dire misfortune.

Oddly, the Ghost Ship of Loch Awe has never been identified as the phantom of an actual vessel. There is no account of any ship to fit her description, no maritime record of a lost vessel that resembles her. She is a whisper of myth, an omen born from the water itself, serving as warning to those who spy her, that tragedy awaits.

Do you love legends of the sea? What do you think of this one? Drop me a thought or two in the comments. But before you set your fingers to typing, I have an “extra” to share.

My good friend, Craig Boyack, is hosting me today with an excerpt from my novel, Eventide. More and more readers are telling me this is their favorite of the three books in the series, which has me jazzed. How would you feel about buying a house with an old cistern in the basement—especially if that cistern had been securely bolted shut, almost as if to keep something in? Join me at Craig’s place for an excerpt about what happens when the bolts are removed. I hope to see you THERE.

P.S…if you’e not already following Craig’s blog, you’re missing out on a lot of fun. There’s a reason it’s called “Entertaining Stories.” I highly recommend clicking the FOLLOW button while you’re there!

Wednesday Weirdness: Legends of Christmas Eve

Posted on December 18, 2019 by Mae Clair

pathway between large, gnarled trees with words "on the path of Wednesday Weirdness" superimposed over image Hi, friends. Given next Wednesday is Christmas, this will be my last Wednesday Weirdness post until we enter the New Year. I love the holidays, and am pretty much a sap the entire month of December. With that in mind, I thought I’d share legends related to Christmas Eve. But be warned—not all are warm and fuzzy.

The celebration of Christmas touches each of us in different ways. For me, it is a religious holiday. Also a time for gathering with family. There is a special magic that occurs at Christmas, an enchantment of being that is spiritual and mystical. The power of believe!

The Eve of Christmas is noted for many old world superstitions and beliefs, among them the idea the veil between worlds grows thin allowing the departed to return to the homes of loved ones.

Old table in front of a hearth laden with bowls of food, lighted chandelier of candles hanging above table In Scandinavia, people prepared feasts for the spirits, setting a table laden with holiday fare. They had their own festive celebration first, then before retiring for the night, made certain all the bowls and platters were refilled and heaped with food. Jugs brimmed with Yule ale, and a fire was set in the hearth. Chairs were wiped clean of debris with a white cloth. The following morning the cleaning process was repeated. If a bit of earth was discovered, it was considered proof-positive a visitor from the grave had stayed to enjoy the repast.

Another myth related to Christmas Eve involved animals. At the stroke of midnight many believed animals could speak in human voices. The downside? Whoever overheard an animal talk usually met with an untimely end or some other dreadful circumstance.

In Europe it is said cattle kneeled to worship the new-born King, and that bees came together in great numbers to hum a Christmas hymn.

The creepiest legend I found involved a blacksmith. On Christmas Eve a bell tolled, beckoning all the people of the man’s village to midnight mass, but he ignored the summons and continued to work. Not long after, a stranger arrived. Tall, but stooped over, he asked the blacksmith to add a nail to his scythe. When the blacksmith finished the task, the stranger told him to summon a priest for the work would be his last. The next morning the smitty perished, never realizing he had repaired the scythe of the Grim Reaper.

Are you familiar with any of these legends? Do you have others to share? Let me know in the comments. Whether you discover talking animals, friendly phantoms come to call, or just the good cheer of family and friends, I wish you a blessed and merry Christmas Eve!