"River Derbane, being what it is, a great many rituals and superstitions have grown up around the proper methods of interment for lost limbs and eyes..."

-Tipton Peyregne

After hearing many stories, I have pieced together a working hypothesis of the supernatural. As a corollary to my theory, I’ve also compiled a list of rules regarding the behavior of ghosts. Now these rules should not be taken as governing the affairs of the non-living. They are  simply my own observations regarding the many comings and goings of specters.

-Tip Peyregne

Tradition holds that he first grave dug in a new cemetery should be left empty. If not, the cemetery will soon be filled...

"The sounds, like someone was working on the bridge with a hammer and chisel, could be heard all through the night by anyone that happened by, but when anyone took a boat under the bridge to investigate, the noises would stop. Then, as soon as the investigators were clear of the bridge they would start up again..."

 “Just mind your thoughts till we’re married, and that will be enough for me, but break your promise and the devil will mark you for all to see...”

"The ghost ship, called the Bonnie Rose Lee  disappeared during a particularly violent summer squall, and its loss vexed Yulee’s father to the point that he hired a diviner, a fellow that uses a divining rod to locate lost objects. Well, the diviner located the ship just off the mouth of the Bayou, but in such a condition that nothing but the ship’s bell could be salvaged. Yulee’s father hung the bell in the Catholic church as a sort of memorial, and that was the end of the affair, at least until folks started spotting the Bonnie Rose Lee sailing up the Bayou... "

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Strangetastic

"According to everyone that knew him, my father enjoyed cards and gambling to a degree that most folks found unsavory. This obsession began in boyhood, and it continued until his untimely death. Uncle Bose told me that any occasion where he couldn’t play cards, such as Sunday church or at the dinner table, he’d get a far away look in his eyes, and you’d know he was imagining a card game. I tell you this to explain how my father ended up losing my inheritance to a ghost..."

"For some reason, Yulee decided to keep the head for himself, and for several months afterward he carried it with him everywhere. He made a great sport of pretending it had oracular powers, asking it questions and listening to it closely before calling out the head’s supposed proclamation..."

Being a man of good cheer, I have always enjoyed the Christmas season, and River Derbane, with its warm winters and veritable cornucopia of traditions, is a fine place to celebrate. Of course, if you know anything about River Derbane, it should not surprise you that our yule tide festivities involve a ghostly visitation.

There are many stories of our Christmas ghost, too many to tell them all today, so I thought I might share with you a poem I composed about The Gifting Ghost.

"Several attempts to move the piano were made, but it would not budge, even with the efforts of a half dozen strongest men present. So terrible was the racket that one man suggested that they take an axe to the strings, and another proposed that they set fire to instrument, but the preacher would not allow them to try either solution. Finally, a man in the crowd began to sing. He tried one hymn and then another and another, trying to find the words that might fit the unrecognizable melody that streamed from the old piano..."

"Before Uncle Bose could protest that he knew exactly how many children he had, the door to the dining room swung open with a creak and his sons and daughters filed in silently and took their seats, leaving an empty place at the far end of the table. Uncle Bose bowed his head to bless the food, but the sound of someone laughing cut him off. He looked up and saw a boy of about eight years old sitting at the extra place...."

He met his death after being attacked by his own dogs, which had gone mad from near-starvation, food being scarce during the siege. His children abandoned the home after the war, and no one lived there there for many decades afterward, though it might not be fair to say the house was uninhabited. Over the years, many people claimed to see the doctor pacing along the veranda on moonless nights, accompanied by a pack of ghostly dogs. Others spoke of encounters with him in the woods near the family home, and of being chased by the hounds...

In her later years, my mother nursed the dying, feeding and bathing them and generally offering comfort. Though she did this for monetary compensation, I do not believe her motives were entirely crass, and the death of a patient often left her deeply moved. When her own time came, I found myself in the role that she had played for so many others, and spent long hours at her bedside. I would read to her, and when she was able, she would tell me stories of those she had watched pass on before her. I believe she felt her time with the dying had given her a special insight into the journey ahead, and telling their stories eased her own fears of that undiscovered country death.

The main trademark of a Painter Simmons revival service is something he calls “the challenge,” in which he calls upon the gathered faithful to issue a challenge to him or to his faith, and then after much prayer and speaking in tongues, he accomplishes the task. By many accounts, he’s healed the sick, made the blind to see, and on one notable occasion he raised the dead and preached a sermon to them...

"The year before I began my schooling, the River Derbane school burned to the ground in a tragic accident, killing one student and leaving several others with terrible scars. My older sister, whose apparent gift of “second sight” I have mentioned before, refused to attend school that day, and later told me she’d had a premonition of the flames. The boy who died, Hosea Bartich, was only a year older than me, but I don’t believe that I ever met him in life. However, my sister claimed that I came very near to meeting him afterward..."

After he reformed from drinking, my old friend Yulee Bryant found himself in need of work. His family had been well to do, but Yulee managed to squander his inheritance, and so he was forced to seek employment. Unfortunately, he was no longer fit for honorable work, and he found himself living in a dilapidated old shack on the grounds of the River Derbane cemetery, working as the caretaker. While many of us who knew him regarded this as a mighty long step down from his former station in life, it suited Yulee just fine. The leisurely and solitary nature of the work fit well with his newly chosen vocation as a theologian and erstwhile voice in the wilderness. His one complaint, he told me, was the ghosts..."

Given its location on the stormy Gulf Coast, it should come as no surprise that the town of River Derbane suffers a fair number of storms, many of them deadly. Just a few years before my birth, a storm blew in and killed more than a hundred people, no small disaster in a town the size of ours. Aside from their grief, the citizens of the town were quite concerned about the possibility of being overrun by ghosts, the superstition being that tragedy begets wakeful spirits. They called upon a man known as a ‘power doctor,’ a practitioner of voodoo and pagan rites, and asked if he could relocate the ghosts of their friends and loved ones. He told them he could for a price, and a they struck a deal.

During my boyhood, I collected bottles and insects, and in adult life I’ve acquired collections of books, wine, and more than a few rare coins. I have always believed that human beings are natural collectors, and that every person has a collection of something, though it may not be strictly physical. Some people collect hurt feelings, misapprehensions, and ill-formed opinions are also common, and of course, some collections are strictly metaphysical.

"One afternoon, I found myself with a free hour, and decided to rest a while with a book. I’d taken a seat near the front of the building, when I happened to overhear a conversation between the head librarian, a woman by the name of Bethesda, and a new assistant librarian."

" When pressed upon the matter, most people will define a ghost as the undeparted spirit of a deceased individual. This view is correct as far as it goes, but if one believes the stories I’ve been told, it does not go far enough. My sister, rest her soul, used to tell me that even a feeling or an event could have a ghost, and it may be that she was correct."

"For many years now, I have purchased the majority of my earthly goods from Champlain’s Dry Goods and Market. My loyalty to Champlain’s is based partly on convenience (it is very close to my home) and partly in wonder, as Champlain’s houses the most delightful collection of goods for sale that I’ve ever had the pleasure of perusing. The shelves are piled high and crammed full of goods and clothing from every year since its doors opened in the 1890s. From mustache wax to patent medicines and buggy whips, nothing is too impractical to find a place."

I would not characterize myself as a lothario, but I’ve had dealings with members of the fairer sex in my time. While most of them seemed agreeable, a few of them were quite the opposite. Perhaps the most hateful female I ever met was a girl by the name of Esther. From the moment I laid eyes on her, it was clear that Esther had the mind of a demon and no heart at all. Of course, I fell madly in love with her, and while my traitorous heart and ill-fated love affair are no topic for a ghost story, they did bring me as close to a personal experience with the supernatural as I believe I’ve ever been.

Despite its lascivious sounding name, Sin Street actually takes its name from the Seine, that lovely river that runs through the city of Paris, France. It’s just that we’ve had a couple of centuries to improve upon its spelling and pronunciation.

The lock was a big, iron padlock that would not have looked out of place in a medieval dungeon. I asked her once where she got it, and she told me that she’d bought it second hand from the old widow woman next door, who couldn’t use it on account of the ghost in her house.

-Tipton Peyregene

I suppose just about every little town has a crybaby bridge, at least any town that water runs through, and River Derbane is no exception. Nonetheless, there are certain features of the story that I believe deserve a telling. Now the bridge is nothing spectacular of itself, just a little wooden structure crossing a tributary of our bayou, but if you stand atop it quietly on a still and moonless night, you’ll hear the crybaby ghost. Off in the distance, or maybe right in front of you, the sound of a wailing infant starts up. The voice drifts around, and those that try to find the child usually end up lost or worse.
-Tipton Peyregne

"For a few years, before he got religion, my good friend Yulee Bryant was widely considered by the citizens of River Derbane to be the town drunk. There were other favorites for the title, but none so auspicious as the eldest son of the town’s wealthiest man. It was during these years that he experienced the event he would always refer to as “The Extra Door.” Now I am the first to admit that the town drunk should not be considered a reliable witness, but the story is of interest to me, so I offer it up here..."

-Tipton Peyregne

"The first people to call River Derbane a town settled here over two hundred years ago, but I think someone must have been here before them because of the mighty strange things these settlers reported. Up in Mobile, they have a collection of letters from the early inhabitants, and among other things they mention talking animals, ghostly warriors, and an alligator guarding a treasure. Most of it is pure nonsense, but one of the stories intrigues me because it bears a resemblance to a story told by my mother."

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