Tales Unleashed, 28 very unique short stories....

 

Published in a pocket sized book you can put in your purse or back pocket,  

Tales Unleashed is a book you can 'sample' read right now at Amazon....

go, take a look, read a few stories for free...you'll get the idea of what the 

book is all about.

Top reviews from the United States

Posey picker 48

5.0 out of 5 stars Cute stories

Reviewed in the United States on May 7, 2019

Verified Purchase

Very well told with a bit of "Alfred Hitchcock" type stories with humor. Highly recommend this for fun, light reading.

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Good cooking

5.0 out of 5 stars Appropriate spooky stories for any age

Reviewed in the United States on July 9, 2019

Had to get this book for my daughter after reading a copy I got from a friend. It is rare to get “spooky stories” that are appropriate for any age group. Great short stories for reading around the campfire! (Does anyone do that any more?). A good read that makes you look over your shoulder at twilight time!

It's family.....from one generation to the next.

 

This story was posted here a few months ago......I don't have anything Christmas related,

but this truly is a 'feel good' story...and is about family....and the holidays are about

family indeed.  So indulge me here.....and follow Mary Pritchard in her quest for a 

retirement home. 

   Is it possible to be 'drawn' to a certain place? Can your 'sixth sense' take

over and actually lead you to a place where you are supposed to be?

It does seem so.  Mary Pritchard found that out upon her retirement...drawn to

a place, and actually to a time that she had experienced before. Mary did find

that perfect retirement home....in Morgantown. It's chapter 4, 'The Mason's mark'

one of 28 stories to be found in Tales Unleashed.  

The Mason’s Mark

Mary Pritchard had always wanted to live in a nice quiet home, one with a front yard, perhaps a porch, maybe even a large dining room. But as a youngster in the 1950's, she had little choice about where she would be. Her mother had passed when she was a very young girl.

Mary possessed the one and only doll that her mother had gifted her on her fourth birthday. Soon after that, with her mother’s passing, she would have to go live with her Aunt Trudy, her only known relative. Mary’s father Miles had also passed away very tragically while on a job near their home in Morgantown. Miles was a master mason . . . a bricklayer, if you will. His work was beyond compare and Miles had helped build dozens of homes that were the envy of all who viewed them.

As Mary neared her retirement age, the call of returning to Morgantown kept coming to mind. And so, a year before retiring, Mary contacted a number of real estate agents in the Morgantown area to arrange to look at some homes there. By email, Mary finally had two or three very nice homes to look at . . . and her excitement grew as she marked two walk-throughs on her calendar, scheduled on the same weekend.

Meeting the local agent at a small friendly coffee spot in Morgantown, Mary looked at the information about the two homes that the agent had laid out in front of her. Both were well-kept homes, in nice neighborhoods, and each offered the right accommodations for someone soon to retire. But there was something about 151 Spruce Street that drew Mary’s attention more than the other property. The front yard was small and easily maintained, a nicely decorated porch graced the front, and the home was entirely made of brick. It weathered well over the years and had been maintained beautifully by its previous owners.

That same afternoon the real estate gal drove Mary to 151 Spruce. My, it was a lovely home, and even had a picket fence!

“The price is a bit high,” Mary exclaimed to the agent as they made their way up the front walk. “Do you think they might come down a bit?” The agent assured her she would see what could be done if Mary decided she wanted to buy. The agent gave Mary the quick tour . . . guiding her along the way from room to room and pointing out the amenities as they went.

“I must show the basement,” said the agent. “It has a new furnace, new water heater, cement floor, and it’s completely dry!”

As the two descended the ten short steps down, Mary felt a warm sensation, as if someone was welcoming her to this place. Yet she had never been in this house before. She was sure of that.

As the two gals chatted back and forth, Mary made her way to the straight and square red chimney on the west side of the basement. Old it was, but showed no signs of wear or deterioration. Two bricks up from the basement floor, Mary spotted an irregularity on one brick’s surface. Squatting down and brushing the dust from the brick she read, MJP, 9-’50. As she touched the brick a second time, a wave of exhilaration came over her. She knew then and there that her father Miles James Pritchard had helped build this house, presumably in September of 1950.

She stood up, turned with tears in her eyes, and said, “I’m home, I’ll have a check in full for you tomorrow.”

After more than fifty years, Mary had come home to Morgantown . . . not just a home, but a home that her father had helped to build for her. A better retirement gift, no one could ever have asked for.

"Undertakings" now in it's sixth year.....

 

Wow....how the months fly by.  Hope your Thanksgiving was a good one...

even in this strange time we continute to live in. Hopefully sometime in 2022,

we'll all have an end in site from this Covid thing....it has been long and tedious

for everyone.  And before you know it.....that time will come for those new

year's resolutions...you know... those things you say you are going to try and

accomplish, but can't quite get past the starting gate....lol...well, that's me in a

nutshell!

January will mark year 6 for Undertakings of an Undertaker... and I'm amazed 

how well the book continues to do....especially overseas in the UK. For some

reason, folks there keep buying the book, month after month after month. 

And it's practically with no advertising on that side of the globe....just word of

mouth and the internet.....simply amazing.  And a shout out here to my undertaker

friend Peter in Bristol, England, he has been a loyal supporter and follower. 

Well, some interesting projects in the works for 2022...and I'm hoping I can get

back to some speaking engagements....the last 20 months or so have been pretty 

lean....let's hope that can be turned around... I miss getting out in front of people

and telling stories.  Stop back soon... and check out some of the writings you'll

find in the column on the right of this posting....and don't be too scared... just 

leave a light on!  SS 

What did Julie van Buren experience that day?

 

It's story number 24, page 91 from 

Tales Unleashed.

A Skate on Strange Ice

At age nine, Julie van Buren loved playing in the shallow McHenry Creek, just behind her house in Lancaster, Pennsylvania. She would sit on the bank of the creek with her mother and toss stones into the water; on occasion they would launch a paper boat, set it in the water and watch intently it as it slowly made its way southward. 

Winter time was just as much fun. Her mom would let her skate unattended on the very shallow creek which had a few pools of water less than ten feet across and less than nine inches in depth. It was a safe and gleeful place that had entertained many families over the years. 

Today was a beautiful sunny day in February of 1954. Julie laced up her skates and shoved off from the bank onto the frozen surface of McHenry Creek, its ice lightly covered with fresh snow from the night before. Julie’s smile was ear to ear as she pushed herself around the frozen pool. The scarf wrapped around her neck barely kept the cold air from creeping under her collar. As Julie completed her fourth or fifth trip around the ice, she dropped a glove and quickly turned to retrieve it. She didn’t know why she even had the gloves with her today—it was cold, but the sun was warm, and they were tucked in her coat and out of the way. Julie arrived at the spot where the glove laid, and as she reached down to pick it up, something beneath the ice caught her attention.

She sat down, moved the glove, and brushed away the light snow with her left hand. As she peered down through the ice Julie was startled to see a young girl’s face just below the surface. It was a young face, perhaps about her same age: rounded, highlighted by chin-length blond hair with curls on the forehead. The eyes were closed, and Julie thought it resembled a Halloween mask. The face was pale with no color and no movement whatsoever.

Julie was startled and tried to get up quickly, but lost her balance and fell back to the ice. She struggled to get away from the face that she had just seen. She made her way quickly to the back door and went to the kitchen to report to her mom of her ghostly encounter. Her mother assured her that it was just her imagination, but she persisted and the two returned to the creek and the spot that Julie had told her about. They found nothing.

The next few days passed with little being said about the incident by Julie or her mother. On the fifth day, her mother’s curiosity had gotten the best of her, and while Julie was at school, she went to the local library to do some research.

Finding some Lancaster history books she started thumbing through the pages of gathered materials looking for anything out of the ordinary. One story in particular jumped off the page at her. The headline from 1928 read: Lancaster girl Ruth O’Brien still missing.

Reading on she discovered that the young gal had disappeared in February of that year while playing in light snow. A total search of the area, including local waterways, had shed no clue. Along with the article was a pencil sketch of what Ruth looked like at the time of her going missing. Julie’s mother copied the article and the sketch and took it home, it was something she wanted to study further as time allowed her. 

Three days later young Julie discovered the article and the pencil drawing at her mother’s desk. Picking up the picture and going to the kitchen, Julie said to her mother, “Mom, where did you get this drawing? This is the girl that I saw in the creek last week. Remember me telling you?”

“I’m sure it’s just coincidence, honey,” said her mother. “That little girl lived here a long time ago.”

Julie’s mom decided to call the sheriff the next day, just to report what Julie had seen. The sheriff, getting on in years, chuckled and said, “There have been numerous other sightings over the years of young Ruth, but nothing has ever come of them.”

And so, Julie’s sighting in McHenry Creek would be the latest to be lodged with the local authorities.  

 The girl Ruth, who had vanished almost three decades ago during the month of February, had just made another brief stop near Lancaster.   

Staying in touch...

I like getting feedback from those that check into my blog from

time to time. You'll find some pretty good stories I think on these

pages...and multiple stories listed here on the right of your screen...

many are from both books....all stories have been published in some

shape, manner or form. 

Drop a note anytime.....I will respond in kind if you leave an

email wher I can reach you...

    reach me at:   undertakings@inbox.com 

 I kept it simple.... much like me I guess.... lol...

Halloween... almost here....a few good stories below on the

subject....don't be too scared....it's only make believe. SS 

Jimmy's nighttime visitor.....

 

It's October.....a time of year that is majical indeed...when shadows become

longer and the daylight slips by into darkness quickly. 

Take note here..anything can happen during this time of year....and young 

James discovered such shortly after retiring for the night. 

Jimmy’s Nighttime Visitor

Jimmy’s family farm was just outside of Harrisburg, and Fall was his most favorite time of year. The crisp air, the bright blue skies, and the changing leaves on the sugar maples made October magical. The house and two accompanying barns sat in the middle of about one hundred acres that was the small family farm. His dad now worked away daily and dabbled in some livestock, keeping his hand in the business but not depending on it as a living anymore. 

Surrounding the well-weathered barns was about fifty acres of corn that his dad had planted and would later harvest to help feed the young cattle through the winter. Adjacent to that, Jimmy and his mom had a beautifully-tended garden which kept them canning and freezing the abundant harvest at each summer’s end. Smack dab in the middle of the garden was the scarecrow he helped his father put  together so many months ago. Hoisted up and attached to a cross eight feet high, the figure truly was a masterpiece. 

His dad had stuffed an old work shirt and pair of jeans with golden straw, covered the figure with an old choir robe that his mom had brought home from church. On the scarecrow’s head sat an old black work hat. The scarecrow was most scary at sunset, with the sun actually setting behind the figure which stood so bravely looking over the garden and repelling any bird that would come within its shadow.

It was late afternoon and Jimmy was in the garden, picking beans and squash, smiling as he made his way on hands and knees, not wanting to miss a vegetable which was ready for his willing hands. As Jimmy worked his way down the last row for the day, he found himself in the long shadow of the scarecrow. He stopped, looked up and examined the figure that towered over him. Something, he thought, had changed. He hadn’t remembered the left arm being bent and pointing downward. He was sure his father had secured both arms straight out. Jimmy studied the figure. Its darkness had the ability to give you slight chills if you looked at it too long. A light breeze came in as Jimmy studied the figure, moving the straw fingers of the scarecrow, almost making it look lifelike. He could see why birds and other creatures would feel the need to stay away, as it was quite intimidating for sure. 

That evening just before bed, Jimmy looked out of his upstairs window that overlooked the garden and  sentinel scarecrow. It was almost dark now, and the shadows around the buildings and garden were growing in their length as the night air began to cool.

Jimmy’s eyes focused on the scarecrow, and to his amazement, the left arm was no longer bent and pointing down, but rather was back in its straight out position, matching the one on the right. Funny, thought Jimmy, maybe his dad had seen it late that day and felt a need to re-figure before the upcoming rain could do more damage.

Jimmy read a couple of comic books and turned the light out. Bedtime always came too early. He hadn’t been asleep very long when he became overwhelmed by a dream he couldn’t wake up from. He dreamt the scarecrow was at his window, climbing the flower trellis along the outside of the house which reached almost to his room. He woke in a panic, kicking his covers off, jumping out of his bed and turning on the night light. He noticed the window curtains moving in the slight breeze, a bit of light rain hitting the upper pane. 

His mother had heard him moving about in his room and came to him. She knocked twice before she entered the room.

“Jimmy, are you alright?”

“A bad dream mom, real bad. The garden scarecrow was up the trellis, outside my window.”

His mom made her way to his bed, tucked him in, and said, “You’ve got to stop reading those comics before bedtime young man. They get you all worked up, it was just a dream kiddo. But many times they can seem so real. Go back to sleep.”

She turned off the light, walked over to the room and pulled the window shut. How many times had she told him not to sleep with it open, especially if it was threatening rain?  As she turned from the window to leave the room, her bare foot stepped on something that felt foreign on the worn carpet. She reached down and picked up what felt like wet grass. There were several pieces in a clump, and she  continued out of the room to the light of the hallway. 

Opening her hand she discovered eight or ten pieces of bright yellow straw, which were dripping with an abundance of rain water.  She disposed of the straw in the waste basket and headed back to her room, thinking as she went that she should have gone to his room earlier to secure the window.

Her mind recalled the words she had spoken just minutes before: “Many times they can seem so real.” Did Jimmy have a near-visitor that night? Perhaps. It’s a definite reminder to always check your window before retiring . . . just in case.

The Pumpkin weeps........

 

from Tales Unleashed.....'tis the season for; 

The Pumpkin Weeps

“Slow down, Jimmy! Carving a pumpkin takes patience, a keen eye, and most importantly, a steady hand.”

Chad Osborn was sitting next to his son Jimmy as the eight year-old boy inserted the knife into the outer skin of the pumpkin they had just purchased a half mile down the road. The knife was not a sharp one—which was probably part of the problem—and Jimmy tried in vain to accomplish a deep cut. Chad knew that his wife would not approve of this whole plan, but under strict supervision, Chad thought Jimmy could at least do the task without taking a finger off.

“I want to make a big frown on the face, Dad.”.

“Why a frown?”

“Well,” replied Jimmy, “I can’t be too sure the pumpkin would have a smile on his face after being pulled out of his patch. That was his home, right?”

His dad chuckled. “I guess that’s right, son . . . I hadn’t thought of it that way.”

And so the two continued for the next half hour to make the face that Jimmy had envisioned, Jimmy getting his wish as he put the finishing touch on the pumpkin that made it quite sad-looking indeed.

“Can we put in on the front stoop tonight with a candle inside, dad? I’ll be careful. I promise. And I’ll watch it closely.”

“Okay” his dad said. “We’ll come out at dusk and light it up for a couple of hours before you go to bed.”

And so the plan was in place. Jimmy couldn’t wait to eat his supper, get his homework done, and prepare for the first pumpkin lighting of his young career. Wow, what a night it would be! A couple hours had passed, and Jimmy became increasingly anxious to start the night’s festivities. Jumping on his dad’s lap and knocking the newspaper from Chad’s hands, he asked, “Can we go out front and light it now dad? Can we, can we?”

“Okay son, I’ll go get some matches and we’ll see how that project of yours turned out.” His dad put down his paper, grabbed his son, and they headed out the front door with a shared mission in mind.  

Sitting on either side of the pumpkin, Jimmy and his dad examined the masterpiece they had created earlier in the day. The face wasn’t scary—it looked more sad than angry. Jimmy lifted the stem attached to the top and sat it aside as his dad struck the match and reached down inside to light the small white candle. 

Replacing the top and getting down in front of the pumpkin, Jimmy exclaimed with joy, “Dad, look at it . . . it’s perfect!”

 But Jimmy’s broad smile became a straight line as his face went from joyful to serious.

“What’s wrong, son?” his father asked.

“Dad, look at this.”

Coming around front, his father knelt beside Jimmy and saw what had changed the child’s face.  On either side of the pumpkin, and at the outer corner of each eye, several drops of water dripped down the pumpkin’s cheek. Almost a stream, if you will. “Oh that’s just condensation from inside son. Pumpkins are very wet inside you know.”

“No, dad. This pumpkin is most unhappy that we have ripped it away from its home, and it’s crying. Look at it.” Jimmy started to well up himself, his bottom lip quivering. “We have to take it back tomorrow. It has to go back.”

“Son, nobody’s going to take back a carved pumpkin . . . but we’ll try.” With that, the pair blew out the candle and retired for the evening.

The next day being Saturday, Jimmy and his father placed the pumpkin in the front seat of the station wagon and headed back down the road to the stand from which it came. The old man who operated the stand sat on a rusty old milk can and struck a match to his pipe as the pair approached him.

 “Problem?” inquired the man as Chad and Jimmy placed the carved piece at his feet.

“No, none at all,” replied Chad. “It was nice, but my son wants it returned to where it came from. Can you do that?”

“Well, I’ve never had anyone bring one back before, rather unusual, but guess I could. Can’t give your money back though.”

“Oh no, don’t expect that. Thanks so much, we’ll try and get back next year.”

“Suit yourself,” said the old man as he loaded the pumpkin into a wheelbarrow.

Sitting in the car, Chad and Jimmy reviewed the day that had just passed between them and the pumpkin.

“Do you think that pumpkin felt it when I cut it with the knife dad?”

“I don’t think so Jimmy. Many say that plants can communicate with each other, but I don’t believe that a plant can show any kind of emotion, let alone produce tears. How about an ice cream?”

 As the two drove away, they watched the old man as he moved the wheelbarrow out from behind his stand. Picking the pumpkin up and gently placing it back near another of its kind, the old man walked away with water dripping from his hands. “Boy, I don’t think I’ve ever handled one that wet,” he remarked as he dried his hands with his well-worn handkerchief.

Jimmy’s pumpkin was back home, as Jimmy had requested. Had his pumpkin produced tears after being ripped away from the fertile ground? Had it felt not only the separation, but also the knife that Jimmy had held to produce the frown that now adorned its face? Lots of questions indeed to ponder.

The sun settled two hours later on the old man’s pumpkin patch. Tonight, there would be a new face there, one with a most distinctive frown, and perhaps even a dried tear or two to reflect the moonlight that was yet to arrive.