The Legend of Long-Shanks

Goody Patience had just laid her head upon the pillow when it happened. For a moment, she believed she were dreaming, so she rolled over and paid it no heed. Her eyes snapped open again the same second she closed them, however, when she heard it once more: a sharp knock-knock-knocking on the front door downstairs.

Sighing an oath that did not fit her name at all, Goody Patience lit the candle at her bedside and tugged on her woolen shawl hastily. One could not blame her for feeling so ruffled, to be fair. Any God-fearing man or woman would surely act the same if someone pounded on their door at such an abysmal hour of the night. The banging persisted right up to the second that Goody Patience laid her hand upon the door latch... but then, defying all logic, it stopped on a sixpence.

Befuddled and woefully disgruntled, Goody Patience moved to the window beside the door. Her long, hooked nose wormed its way between the shutters, peeping out through the narrow crack while trying to let as little heat as possible escape. Time and great age had dimmed her eyes somewhat, forcing her to squint to bring the tall, dark figure at her door into focus.

"Who is it?!" she grumped, raising her candle a little higher to better see the strange visitor. "What is your business here?! Speak, if your able!"

A gust of bracingly cold, October wind was the only answer she got at first. No matter how high she raised her candle, the visitor remained almost fully engulfed in shadow. As if he or she were deliberately staying just out of the old woman's view.

"A thousand apologies, Goody Patience," a friendly voice eventually called back. "I realize the hour is late, but I must speak with you. It is a matter of utmost import."

Goody Patience squinted so hard, a slip of gossamer could not fill the gap between her lids. While she could not see the visitor's face, her keen ear knew his voice in a heartbeat: Goodman Pious. Her humble home had never been blessed with children, and he was the closest thing she ever knew to a son since his mother's passing.

"Dear Pious?" she asked, "This is most unusual, for you to come banging on my door in the middle of the night like a heathen! Whatever you wish to say surely is not so important that it cannot abide upon your tongue until morning. Away with you now!"

She closed the shutters with a resolute snap, latching them that same instant. The moment she did, Goodman Pious started knocking again.

"Please, Goody," he begged, "It cannot wait. At least let me warm myself by your fire for a moment before heading back home. It's quite a long walk, and the night is ever so cold."

"Have your ears turned to tin?!" the old woman snapped, "I said away with you already, so begone now! If you ask again, the only thing you shall receive from me is a swift whack of my cane! You are not too old yet to bend 'cross my knee!"

To emphasize her point, Goody Patience thumped the door with her walking stick. She checked to be sure the door was still bolted, just in case Goodman Pious got any ill-favored ideas, then shuffled back to bed. She'd spoken her piece, and she refused to entertain this ridiculous charade a moment longer. Her foot had just alighted on the staircase, though, when Goodman Pious started knocking again.

Hoping he would eventually get the message and go away on his own, Goody Patience turned a deaf ear to the knocking and continued on to bed. She didn't get a wink of sleep the whole night, though, as Goodman Pious knocked and knocked and knocked until the first light of dawn. Not a minute after the knocking stopped, the church bells in the village square rang out their clear, mournful song, letting her know it was time to get up and get ready for service.

As soon as Reverend John finished his sermon, Goody Patience wasted no time singling her dear, misguided Pious out of the congregation. With hellfire flashing in her eyes, she led him out of the church by his ear, thwacking him on the buttocks with her cane once they were outside. She gave him an earful in front of the entire community, shaming him for his harassing, uncouth behavior outside her door, and insisting she'd raised him to higher standards than that.

Goodman Pious just stared at the old woman, rubbing his sore ear and backside in bewilderment. "I know not of what you speak, Dearest Patience," the doughy young man insisted. "All last night I were at home, by my Little Alice's bed. She caught a bad chill ere-yesterday. Reverend John is my witness, as is my dear wife Constance."

Goody Patience was agog, not believing a word that flew from her Pious' lips. With the speed of a rifle shot, her shock morphed back into ire.

"Age may have dimmed my sight, but it has not dulled my wits," she snarled. "I know who I heard outside my door, Pious Ichabod Ramsey! Should you play such a childish jest at my expense again, may God have mercy on your wicked soul... because I surely won't!"

It took the better half of an hour for Reverend John to get Goody Patience's dander down. Once she and the reverend were settled comfortably at her kitchen table with a relaxing cup of tea, she told him what she heard and saw the night before. Reverend John listened to the old woman's tale closely, refraining from commenting until its conclusion. What he had to say did not please her at all.

"I cannot say who it was you heard, Goody," the holy man mused, "...but I can confirm without a doubt it was not Young Pious. I prayed at Little Alice's bedside with him for many hours last night. There was no time nor opportunity for him to leave, least not without my notice."

Despite Reverend John's assurances to the contrary, Goody Patience would not be swayed. There was no doubt in her mind that Goodman Pious was the one banging on her door all night long, and there was nothing Reverend John could do or say to convince her otherwise. Even her servant girl, Gabrielle, admitted to hearing Pious' voice at the door, clear as a bell from her bedroom in the attic. At his wit's end, the clergyman offered the dear old lady a solution to settle the matter once and for all. He personally volunteered to sleep in her front parlor that night, just so he could bear witness in case Goodman Pious started up his antics again. Goody Patience agreed to his terms, eager to prove her case.

That night, neither the reverend nor Goody Patience were disappointed.

At the very same hour as the previous night, Goody Patience heard knocking on her door. It was even more insistent than before; she feared the sturdy oaken panel would fall in under such a racket, shaken off its hinges from the force of the knuckles striking it. Reverend John was already at the door when Goody Patience made it downstairs, with Gabrielle hot on her heels. She could see the shadow of his back in the firelight, peeking through the shutters and shielding the flickering light of the candle in his grip with his cupped palm.

"Ho there, My Child," the reverend called softly, "Pray, who is it who calls? Speak your business, and be quick about it."

Just like the night before, no one answered for a long minute. All Goody Patience heard was the quiet, lonesome howling of the wind, which eventually snuffed out the reverend's candle despite his efforts to preserve it. A moment later, a soft voice filtered through the door... but it was not the voice Goody Patience expected.

"Reverend John," a woman's low, sultry voice called out, "It is I: Goody Hope. Prithee, let me in. I seek comfort, and your guidance. Please, open the door."

Reverend John's tall, proud frame turned at once to stone. His face paled to a sallow green, his throat tightening with a series of rapid swallows. If Goody Patience did not know any better, he looked as if he might be sick. Slowly, he backed away from the door and closed the shutter.

"You lie," the reverend snarled, "The only Goody Hope I know has never set foot on these shores. You are not her! Away with you, Foul Spectre!!"

Another icy wind guttered across Goody Patience's front porch, so strong it caused the shutters to fly open. The glowing embers in the fireplace died in the blink of an eye, blown out by that same wind flowing down the chimney. The only light remaining was the candlestick trembling in Gabrielle's hand, and the full moon glowing through the windows. It was so bright, Goody Patience could clearly see the outline of the person standing on her porch through the oil paper stretched over the window frames.

Although the person who spoke was a woman, the blurry shape she saw undoubtedly belonged to a man. Goody Patience knew of no man in their village who possessed such a tall, lanky silhouette, however. The gangling figure on her porch towered over the window frame so, she could not see his head. What she could see were his fingers - long and spindly as spider legs and sharper than razors - raking down the oil paper with a low, eerie scritch... scritch... scritch.

Before Goody Patience had time to gather her wits, Reverend John slammed the shutters and latched them tight. In the same fluid motion, he pulled his prayer book out of his jacket pocket and recited the 23rd Psalm. Goody Patience watched - terrified and bewildered - as the reverend prayed with all his might. Gabrielle followed his example, filling the air with her whimpering prayers in mingled English and French, as she cowered like a child at his feet. All the while, the mysterious visitor banged and scratched at the door, like a feral hound digging after a rat in a woodpile.

Goody Patience shuffled closer to the others, clinging to Reverend John's back and wringing Gabrielle's hand, while prayers flowed from her own terror-stricken lips. The banging and scratching continued for what felt like hours, until it abruptly stopped as suddenly as it began. Goody Patience let a relieved breath escape her, believing that it was all over. Her assumptions were proven to be incorrect, however, as a desperate sob broke the stillness that followed. A cry that belonged to a child.

"Mamon," the small voice wailed, "Please... let me in. It's so cold out here. Why won't you let me in, Mamon? I need you to hold me in your arms. S'il vous plait, Mamon... open the door."

Gabrielle's dark face turned ash grey in the light of her candle. She cupped her hand over her mouth, barely holding in a grievous wail, her large, brown doe eyes filling immediately with tears. Goody Patience had no idea why she seemed so upset; Gabrielle was unmarried when she left Barbados. Furthermore, she did not recognize the voice of the child who had spoken. Goody Patience had lived in that village all her life, and she knew every person young and old who resided there. Who was this child, and why was he searching for his mother here?

"Ph-Phillipe?" Gabrielle cried, "C'est vous?! No... No, it cannot be! I buried you two summers ago! It must be a trick!"

"Oui, Mamon," the small voice answered, sounding even more desperate than before, "It is I; please... let me in! I miss you, and I am sorely afraid!"

Gabrielle's entire frame shook with a sob, her face contorting into a tearful grin. Before either Reverend John or Goody Patience could stop her, Gabrielle leapt to her feet and threw the door open. The nineteen-year-old girl's candle blew out immediately, plunging the entire room into darkness. Goody Patience did not see what happened - she was far too preoccupied fumbling to light another candle - but she heard Gabrielle scream in terror. The sound only lasted a bare second, however, before it ended abruptly in a strangled grunt. By the time Goody Patience got her candle lit, Gabrielle had disappeared. Leaving nothing but gouges from her fingernails on the sides of the doorframe.

In all her years, Goody Patience had never felt such fear as she did looking through that open door at the creature upon her porch. The fine hairs on the back of her neck stood as straight as bone needles, while her heart quivered like a newborn kitten behind her bony bosom. Even with the moonlight streaming behind him, Goody Patience's eyes were too dim to make out the full shape of him... but frankly, she did not wish to. The awful reek of him was enough; a mixture of brimstone and fetid meat, like an animal carcass that was just beginning to rot before it was thrown onto a raging bonfire. A moment later, her ears pricked at a strange, crunching and crackling noise; the sound of teeth, rending flesh from bone. Then, as suddenly as he'd appeared, the visitor was gone. Vanished into thin air, just like Gabrielle.

Reverend John slammed the door and bolted it fast, turning the abhorred old woman's face into his shoulder. They sat up together the rest of the night, deadlocked in stony silence. At daybreak, the reverend finally made his leave. But not before shattering the uneasy quiet first.

"Speak not of what has transpired here tonight, Goody," he insisted, "I fear it will be damaging for us both. 'Tis best we forget it ever happened, and count our blessings that we survived."

Goody Patience stared up at the holy man, astonished. "Perhaps it would be easier to forget if I understood at all what I have witnessed," she said sharply, "If you have even the smallest whit of knowledge about these events, Reverend, I implore as your elder to impart it upon me!"

Reverend John grew silent again for a long while, his clenched hands shaking at his sides and the muscles in his jaw jumping. Eventually, he breathed a heavy sigh through his nose.

"I do not know its proper name," he admitted, "...but I have crossed paths with this creature before; in my home village back in England. It took everything from me: my home... my parents... my little sisters... even my sweet, beloved Hope." The reverend slowly sank into a kitchen chair again, rubbing his tired face forlornly. "Whenever I move to a new parish, it follows," he muttered, "I thought I would be safe from it here in the New World... but it appears I was wrong. As long as I draw breath, I shall never be free of it."

Reverend John looked close to tears, his fingers dancing along the spine of his prayer book nervously. "No matter how far I go, or how often I flee," he whispered, "Long-Shanks will find me. Always."

Goody Patience nodded her understanding, wringing the head of her cane pensively. "Very well," she murmured, "You have my word that no mention of this 'Long-Shanks' will cross my lips... and your secret is safe within these walls."

Goody Patience kept her oath well, but in the weeks that followed it soon became apparent that something was amiss in their quiet, little town. Word quickly spread of Gabrielle's disappearance, and she was not the only member of their village to do so. From the end of October to the first week of Advent, no less than twenty men and women had gone missing without a trace. When Pious' Little Alice became number twenty-one, Reverend John announced he'd been called to a different parish the morning after she was reported missing. The village saw him on his way with heavy hearts, not knowing that they were also saying goodbye to Long-Shanks.

As far as anyone knows, Long-Shanks never visited that quaint little village again. To her dying day, however, Goody Patience had this wisdom to impart on anyone who was willing to listen: if a strange, cold wind blows past your house on a quiet Autumn night, ensure that all your doors and shutters are locked fast. Say an extra prayer before going to bed... and, should a visitor come a-knocking on your door in the dead of night, do not answer it. No matter how sweet or familiar the voice you hear may be. It may very well be Long-Shanks... looking for another foolish soul to slake his insatiable hunger.