Close to the village street stood the one-story house in which Luella Miller, who had an evil name in the village, had dwelt. She had been dead for years, yet there were those in the village who, in spite of the clearer light which comes on a vantage-point from a long-past danger, half believed in the tale which they had heard from their childhood. In their hearts, although they scarcely would have owned it, was a survival of the wild horror and frenzied fear of their ancestors who had dwelt in the same age with Luella Miller. Young people even would stare with a shudder at the old house as they passed, and children never played around it as was their wont around an untenanted building. Not a window in the old Miller house was broken: the panes reflected the morning sunlight in patches of emerald and blue, and the latch of the sagging front door was never lifted, although no bolt secured it. Since Luella Miller had been carried out of it, the house had had no tenant except one friendless old soul who had no choice between that and the far-off shelter of the open sky. This old woman, who had survived her kindred and friends, lived in the house one week, then one morning no smoke came out of the chimney, and a body of neighbours, a score strong, entered and found her dead in her bed. There were dark whispers as to the cause of her death, and there were those who testified to an expression of fear so exalted that it showed forth the state of the departing soul upon the dead face. The old woman had been hale and hearty when she entered the house, and in seven days she was dead; it seemed that she had fallen a victim to some uncanny power. The minister talked in the pulpit with covert severity against the sin of superstition; still the belief prevailed. Not a soul in the village but would have chosen the almshouse rather than that dwelling. No vagrant, if he heard the tale, would seek shelter beneath that old roof, unhallowed by nearly half a century of superstitious fear.
There was only one person in the village who had actually known Luella Miller. That person was a woman well over eighty, but a marvel of vitality and unextinct youth. Straight as an arrow, with the spring of one recently let loose from the bow of life, she moved about the streets, and she always went to church, rain or shine. She had never married, and had lived alone for years in a house across the road from Luella Miller’s.
This woman had none of the garrulousness of age, but never in all her life had she ever held her tongue for any will save her own, and she never spared the truth when she essayed to present it. She it was who bore testimony to the life, evil, though possibly wittingly or designedly so, of Luella Miller, and to her personal appearance. When this old woman spoke—and she had the gift of description, although her thoughts were clothed in the rude vernacular of her native village—one could seem to see Luella Miller as she had really looked. According to this woman, Lydia Anderson by name, Luella Miller had been a beauty of a type rather unusual in New England. She had been a slight, pliant sort of creature, as ready with a strong yielding to fate and as unbreakable as a willow. She had glimmering lengths of straight, fair hair, which she wore softly looped round a long, lovely face. She had blue eyes full of soft pleading, little slender, clinging hands, and a wonderful grace of motion and attitude. more here
A different sort of vampire…
Luella Miller was a libtard.
Yup, Jethro, a lazy, know-nothing, entitled libtard.
Mary Freeman was trying to warn us away from them 100 years ago.
Seems like the right place for this…
https://youtu.be/q9hOirkH0-k
“Down in Louisiana, where the black trees grow
Lives a voodoo lady named Marie Laveau
She got a black cat’s tooth and a Mojo bone
And anyone who wouldn’t leave her alone
She’d go… another man done gone
She lived in a swamp in a hollow log
With a one-eyed snake and a three-legged dog
Bent, bony body and stringy hair
And if she ever seen y’all messin’ ’round there
She’d go… another man done gone
And then one night when the moon was black
Into the swamp came handsome Jack
A no good man like you all know
Lookin’ around for Marie Laveau
He said, “Marie Laveau, you lovely witch
Gimme a little charm that’ll make me rich
Gimme a million dollars and I tell you what I’ll do
This very night, I’m gonna marry you”
Then It’ll be (uhh), another man done gone
So Marie done some magic, shook a little sand
Made a million dollars and she put it in his hand
Then she giggled and she wiggled, and she said, “Hey, Hey
I’m gettin’ ready for my weddin’ day”
But old handsome Jack said, “Goodbye Marie
You’re too damned ugly for a rich man like me”
Marie started mumblin’, her fangs started gnashin’
Her body started tremblin’, and her eyes started flashin’
And she went… another man done gone
So if you ever get down where the black trees grow
And meet a voodoo lady named Marie Laveau
If she ever asks you to make her your wife
Man, you better stay with her for the rest of your life”
-Bobby Bare, “Marie Laveau”
…or this…
…one day, a man was out in the forest looking for a nice tree to hang himself on. It seems he had been fired for embezzling, his wife had left him, and he was about to get arrested.
Suddenly, he came upon a clearing. In it was an old, decrepit house with and old, decrepit woman in front. She saw him and said,
“I see you have many troubles. Know ye that I am a witch, mighty in the Coven of Hecuba, and I can do much with just a word of a spell. Tell me then your troubles, and I will tell you my price.”
He had nothing to lose, so he did, and said “I have no money, so I can’t meet any price.”
But then she bowed her legs, breifly uncrossed her eyes, and intoned, “ZORCH! Your company’s money is back in the bank! YVENTES! The warrant has been vacated! ZOLLA MONTA! Your wife is back home with love in her heart!”
He boggled at her, and said “but I can not pay!
She told him “I need no money, BUT these things will pass away if you do not make love to me for an hour. THAT is my price!
She looked bad, smelled bad, and had leaky warts, but he thought “well, for all THAT, I can do what I gotta do to and imagine whatever to get it up. Its only an hour.”
…an hour later, he rose from her slimy embrace, threw up a little, then dressed to go home.
As he was leaving, she asked him “Sonny, how old are you?”
He answered, “39. Why do you ask?
She rolled her eyes and smiled, and said “Aren’t you a little old to be believing in witches?”
SNS, HAAAA!
Excellent!
Lotta words and no pitchers.
(F)JB,
The best kind of stories, Leaves the images up to your imagination.
Of course, if you’re a politician, with no imagination…….