(Warning: Contains some graphic content; do not eat while reading.)
Gather 'round, my friends, and hear my tale about the ghosts of Lofoten, Norge. Many learned men and women with analytical minds have set out to dispell the claims made by those who have encountered the tilsynekomst. If you are of such thinking, then I challenge you to visit Rusfjord. But beware, 'tis said that if you do not leave before midnight, as the church bell tolls on any given day of the month, you shall fore'er be ensnared.
'Twas mid-Oktober when my crew and I sailed fra Troms" toward the islands of Austv"g"y, Vestv"g"y and Flakstad. We sailed beyond the white beaches of Haukland, and the pebble beach at Eggum. Passing by the coastal village of Henningsv"r, I decided to moor at the fishing hamlet of Rusfjord. Surrounded by the sea, the area is spectacularly beautiful with the mountains at its back and the brightly red-painted sj"hus (sea house) and few cozy rorbu cabins. The hour had grown late. Darkness was already upon us by the time we reached the weather-beaten tavern that served the residents of the small town. The path leading to the building was quite treacherous in places; one misstep and you mayhap find yourself sliding and toppling down the slope toward the ice cold water. If you hit your head against an outcropping of rocks, you could very well drown if nei one came to your rescue in time. Perhaps that is exactly what happened to some of the people when fear o'ertook their sensibilities.
We were surprised at how run-down the drinking establishment was considering how new the sj"hus, cabins and the majority of cottages appeared. The only other building that seemed in need of repair was the stave church constructed up on the hillside; it is a tall landmark one cannot miss from the sea. Standing near the tavern's door was a well-dressed young lad of approximately ten years of age. I inquired of him why the two structures were in such poor condition compared to the others in the village.
He whispered his reply, "Because they're haunted!" And off he ran, as if Loki himself was snapping sharp teeth at his heels, disappearing around the corner in a blink of an eye.
My crew and I exchanged anxious glances. We became apprehensive about entering the tavern. Without uttering a word between us, we decided to retreat to the sj"hus and bed down for the night. But just as we were readying to make our way back down the trail the gray, water-warped door slowly opened, creaking on its rusty hinges. A hunch-backed figure stood black within the framework, outlined by a flickering, yellowish light cast from the stone fireplace within. In his right hand was a lantern that contained a stub of a candle with a burning wick that barely held onto life.
"Velkommen to Rusfjord. Please come in and varm yourself by the fire while I prepare your drinks."
His voice was eerily deep and gravelly. We had nei idea what his face looked like since he held the lantern low. I noticed his hand was old in appearance; wrinkled with thickly gnarled fingers, prominent dark blue veins and liver spots standing out vividly against pale skin. His clothing reeked, like the carcass of a decaying rodent.
Custom bade us to accept his invitation nei matter how much we wished to decline. Being the leader, my crew waited for me to go first. As nervous as I was I did not want to look like a coward, and so I steeled my resolve and moved through the narrow doorway. It did not register in my brain at the time, but thinking upon it later I realized that when I brushed by the man I did not feel any physical contact between us. E'en when he turned sideways to allow me entry, we both should not have fit. The same applied to my crew. None of them mentioned the disparity, either.
The interior was draped with cobwebs and dust. It smelled dank and musty, much like a root cellar. The only light emanated from the fireplace and that old lantern, which the proprietor (presuming that is who he was) had placed on the bar. Three oak wood tables, each with four rickety chairs, were available for seating. Unless, of course, one wished to sitte at the counter. We chose to sitte at hearthside. After pushing the trio of tables together, we reluctantly sat down on the unstable chairs and waited for our beverages. The old man ne'er asked us what we wanted in order to quench our t"rst, so we were curious as to what he had in mind.
While my crew kept their eyes fixed upon the fire, I glanced to my left because I caught movement in my periphery. I was prepared to finally look upon the proprietor's face, but instead there stood two young, waifish-thin ragamuffins; a boy and a girl. They did not look any older than seven years. Both were fair-skinned with unkempt sno-white hair and sunken cornflower-blue eyes. Their attire was torn and filthy, and barely was there enough material to cover those emaciated bodies. Obviously the children had known severe hardship.
They spoke in unison, "Shall we sweep or shall we rake?"
Sweep or rake" What a strange question. I turned to see if the others had anything to say, but they did not seem awares.
"Did you hear their question?" I inquired of my crew.
"Whose question' Nobody has said anything." The men peered at me as if I had gone mad.
I glanced back at the children who remained standing statue-still, not more than three feet fra me. Clearly they were in plain sight.
"Shall we sweep or shall we rake?" The pair asked me for a second time.
Before I could respond, a disembodied voice of an old hag called out in glee, "Sweep! Sweep! By all means sweep! For by sweeping you will be sure to catch everything, but if you rake you will miss most of what you want disposed!" Then came a high-pitched cackling. It sent chills up my spine and goosebumps to appear on my arms.
But that was not the end of it.
The children faded fra sight, directly in front of my eyes. And then we heard the slow, steady shuffling of bare feet moving across the dusty floorboards. Ask anyone of us and we will all say, to this day, that it sounded as if there were two dozen more people in that tavern besides ourselves, and they were headed in our direction. Did we see twenty-four others" Nei. We saw only one ....the old man. He was carrying a tarnished silver serving tray of glass mugs full of what looked like dirty, scum-covered water.
'Twas not the disgusting liquid in the drinking vessels that frightened us. 'Twas the proprietor himself. Blood had puddled beneath his skin, resulting in black boils all o'er his body; fra his nearly bald head to the tips of his swollen toes. One of those buboes on the side of his neck was close in size to that of an apple, split open and oozing pus and blood. The stench was revolting.
Escape could not come fast enough, in our opinion, but we were able to get out unharmed. We scrambled down the path, hoping none of us would fall to our death, and when we reached the sj"hus we rushed inside, slammed shut the door and slid the bolt into place. Just as we thought we were safe, a question was asked. This time I was not the only one who heard it. It distinctly sounded like the old man's coarse voice, inside the large quayside building, somewhere behind us.
"Shall we sweep or shall we rake?"
The deep, maniacal laugh that followed served in hjelping us out the door in quick-time!
'Twas so very dark outside; clouds blotted out the moonlight. E'erything appeared to have a sinister shape, e'en my longship; our imaginations were running rampant. Shortly we were aboard the Norsk Dronning and underway. We had sailed a nautical mile or two with a strong, pungent wind at our back when we heard the church bell toll twelve times.
Our next Port of Call, I decided, would be the fishing village of Reine, located on the island of Moskenes?y, on the Kirkefjord. Far away fra the tilsynekomst. 'Twas in Reine we learned how fortunate we were to escape Rusfjord before midnight. And we found out something else that was unnerving ....not only is that hamlet haunted, it does not appear visible to e'eryone. As of yet, nei one knows the reason(s) why some can see it and others cannot.
Certainly known and recorded in the historie books: the Black Death struck Rusfjord, and scarcely anyone survived. Perhaps if there had been raking instead of sweeping many more lives would have been spared.
(Notes: 1.) Rusfjord is a fictional place, borne of my imagination. 2.)The Black Death/Bubonic Plague eventually killed one-third of Europe's population. In Norway, land fell out of cultivation, towns were ruined, trading activities faltered and the national coffers decreased by 65%. As much as 80% of Norway's nobility perished. 3.) Cross-post from Dragons Tales)
Gather 'round, my friends, and hear my tale about the ghosts of Lofoten, Norge. Many learned men and women with analytical minds have set out to dispell the claims made by those who have encountered the tilsynekomst. If you are of such thinking, then I challenge you to visit Rusfjord. But beware, 'tis said that if you do not leave before midnight, as the church bell tolls on any given day of the month, you shall fore'er be ensnared.
'Twas mid-Oktober when my crew and I sailed fra Troms" toward the islands of Austv"g"y, Vestv"g"y and Flakstad. We sailed beyond the white beaches of Haukland, and the pebble beach at Eggum. Passing by the coastal village of Henningsv"r, I decided to moor at the fishing hamlet of Rusfjord. Surrounded by the sea, the area is spectacularly beautiful with the mountains at its back and the brightly red-painted sj"hus (sea house) and few cozy rorbu cabins. The hour had grown late. Darkness was already upon us by the time we reached the weather-beaten tavern that served the residents of the small town. The path leading to the building was quite treacherous in places; one misstep and you mayhap find yourself sliding and toppling down the slope toward the ice cold water. If you hit your head against an outcropping of rocks, you could very well drown if nei one came to your rescue in time. Perhaps that is exactly what happened to some of the people when fear o'ertook their sensibilities.
We were surprised at how run-down the drinking establishment was considering how new the sj"hus, cabins and the majority of cottages appeared. The only other building that seemed in need of repair was the stave church constructed up on the hillside; it is a tall landmark one cannot miss from the sea. Standing near the tavern's door was a well-dressed young lad of approximately ten years of age. I inquired of him why the two structures were in such poor condition compared to the others in the village.
He whispered his reply, "Because they're haunted!" And off he ran, as if Loki himself was snapping sharp teeth at his heels, disappearing around the corner in a blink of an eye.
My crew and I exchanged anxious glances. We became apprehensive about entering the tavern. Without uttering a word between us, we decided to retreat to the sj"hus and bed down for the night. But just as we were readying to make our way back down the trail the gray, water-warped door slowly opened, creaking on its rusty hinges. A hunch-backed figure stood black within the framework, outlined by a flickering, yellowish light cast from the stone fireplace within. In his right hand was a lantern that contained a stub of a candle with a burning wick that barely held onto life.
"Velkommen to Rusfjord. Please come in and varm yourself by the fire while I prepare your drinks."
His voice was eerily deep and gravelly. We had nei idea what his face looked like since he held the lantern low. I noticed his hand was old in appearance; wrinkled with thickly gnarled fingers, prominent dark blue veins and liver spots standing out vividly against pale skin. His clothing reeked, like the carcass of a decaying rodent.
Custom bade us to accept his invitation nei matter how much we wished to decline. Being the leader, my crew waited for me to go first. As nervous as I was I did not want to look like a coward, and so I steeled my resolve and moved through the narrow doorway. It did not register in my brain at the time, but thinking upon it later I realized that when I brushed by the man I did not feel any physical contact between us. E'en when he turned sideways to allow me entry, we both should not have fit. The same applied to my crew. None of them mentioned the disparity, either.
The interior was draped with cobwebs and dust. It smelled dank and musty, much like a root cellar. The only light emanated from the fireplace and that old lantern, which the proprietor (presuming that is who he was) had placed on the bar. Three oak wood tables, each with four rickety chairs, were available for seating. Unless, of course, one wished to sitte at the counter. We chose to sitte at hearthside. After pushing the trio of tables together, we reluctantly sat down on the unstable chairs and waited for our beverages. The old man ne'er asked us what we wanted in order to quench our t"rst, so we were curious as to what he had in mind.
While my crew kept their eyes fixed upon the fire, I glanced to my left because I caught movement in my periphery. I was prepared to finally look upon the proprietor's face, but instead there stood two young, waifish-thin ragamuffins; a boy and a girl. They did not look any older than seven years. Both were fair-skinned with unkempt sno-white hair and sunken cornflower-blue eyes. Their attire was torn and filthy, and barely was there enough material to cover those emaciated bodies. Obviously the children had known severe hardship.
They spoke in unison, "Shall we sweep or shall we rake?"
Sweep or rake" What a strange question. I turned to see if the others had anything to say, but they did not seem awares.
"Did you hear their question?" I inquired of my crew.
"Whose question' Nobody has said anything." The men peered at me as if I had gone mad.
I glanced back at the children who remained standing statue-still, not more than three feet fra me. Clearly they were in plain sight.
"Shall we sweep or shall we rake?" The pair asked me for a second time.
Before I could respond, a disembodied voice of an old hag called out in glee, "Sweep! Sweep! By all means sweep! For by sweeping you will be sure to catch everything, but if you rake you will miss most of what you want disposed!" Then came a high-pitched cackling. It sent chills up my spine and goosebumps to appear on my arms.
But that was not the end of it.
The children faded fra sight, directly in front of my eyes. And then we heard the slow, steady shuffling of bare feet moving across the dusty floorboards. Ask anyone of us and we will all say, to this day, that it sounded as if there were two dozen more people in that tavern besides ourselves, and they were headed in our direction. Did we see twenty-four others" Nei. We saw only one ....the old man. He was carrying a tarnished silver serving tray of glass mugs full of what looked like dirty, scum-covered water.
'Twas not the disgusting liquid in the drinking vessels that frightened us. 'Twas the proprietor himself. Blood had puddled beneath his skin, resulting in black boils all o'er his body; fra his nearly bald head to the tips of his swollen toes. One of those buboes on the side of his neck was close in size to that of an apple, split open and oozing pus and blood. The stench was revolting.
Escape could not come fast enough, in our opinion, but we were able to get out unharmed. We scrambled down the path, hoping none of us would fall to our death, and when we reached the sj"hus we rushed inside, slammed shut the door and slid the bolt into place. Just as we thought we were safe, a question was asked. This time I was not the only one who heard it. It distinctly sounded like the old man's coarse voice, inside the large quayside building, somewhere behind us.
"Shall we sweep or shall we rake?"
The deep, maniacal laugh that followed served in hjelping us out the door in quick-time!
'Twas so very dark outside; clouds blotted out the moonlight. E'erything appeared to have a sinister shape, e'en my longship; our imaginations were running rampant. Shortly we were aboard the Norsk Dronning and underway. We had sailed a nautical mile or two with a strong, pungent wind at our back when we heard the church bell toll twelve times.
Our next Port of Call, I decided, would be the fishing village of Reine, located on the island of Moskenes?y, on the Kirkefjord. Far away fra the tilsynekomst. 'Twas in Reine we learned how fortunate we were to escape Rusfjord before midnight. And we found out something else that was unnerving ....not only is that hamlet haunted, it does not appear visible to e'eryone. As of yet, nei one knows the reason(s) why some can see it and others cannot.
Certainly known and recorded in the historie books: the Black Death struck Rusfjord, and scarcely anyone survived. Perhaps if there had been raking instead of sweeping many more lives would have been spared.
(Notes: 1.) Rusfjord is a fictional place, borne of my imagination. 2.)The Black Death/Bubonic Plague eventually killed one-third of Europe's population. In Norway, land fell out of cultivation, towns were ruined, trading activities faltered and the national coffers decreased by 65%. As much as 80% of Norway's nobility perished. 3.) Cross-post from Dragons Tales)