Okay, so if you ever spent an evening sitting around a campfire listening to ghost stories, then the chances that you’ve heard the story of ‘The Man With The Hook’ are somewhere around about 2 billion percent. It’s one of those wonderfully chilling tales that never fails to send a tingle up the spine, and it has made its way into any number of folk stories told all over the world [1].

I recently discovered a wonderful retelling of the tale over on AmericanFolklore.net, and I’d love to encourage you to go over and read the story, if for no better reason than it might remind you (as it did me) of some great times you spent at a younger age being scared out of your wits by a good tale.

Interestingly, I’ve encountered two different main retellings of this tale in my life. The first is very much like the version over on American Folklore, where the young couple discover the psychopath’s bloodied hook attached to the car door handle, indicating a very narrow escape.

The second, which may well have been borrowed from some other tale of a terrible encounter with a maniac, is even grislier still!

In this version the boyfriend leaves the young woman to go for help. A few minutes later she hears a sound on the top of the car, and moments after that a police loud hailer instructs her to run from the car for her life, and that whatever she does, she’s not to look back. Of course, she does risk a glance back at the car as she flees, and the story ends with her screams as she sees the The Man With The Hook standing on the roof of the car, holding the severed head of her unfortunate boyfriend [2].

Hope you enjoy the read, and I’d love to hear about your own encounters with the story of ‘The Man With The Hook’ in the comments below.

[div dl]PS: Fans of scary movies will probably recognise the way the cult horror classic, Candyman, combined the story of ‘The Man With The Hook’ with the equally scary story of Bloody Mary, to create a single very scary character![/div]

Photo courtesy of TJ Scott.

Footnotes:

1.	For example, I first heard it when I was about 12, at a Christmas Camp I attended just south of Brisbane, here in Australia.
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2.	Seriously, when I look back on stories like these, is it any wonder we all had nightmares as children?
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I thought I’d share a poem I was asked to read at my Father’s funeral service on Christmas Eve, this year.

It’s called Where the pelican builds its nest, by Mary Hannay Foott.

It speaks very much of my Father’s lifelong love of Australian poetry, and also gently tugs at a deep sense of longing and perhaps also of regret.

Where the pelican builds its nest

by Mary Hannay Foott

The horses were ready, the rails were down,
But the riders lingered still —
One had a parting word to say,
And one had his pipe to fill.

Then they mounted, one with a granted prayer,
And one with a grief unguessed.
"We are going," they said, as they rode away —
"Where the pelican builds her nest!"

They had told us of pastures wide and green,
To be sought past the sunset’s glow;
Of rifts in the ranges by opal lit;
And gold ‘neath the river’s flow.

And thirst and hunger were banished words
When they spoke of that unknown West;
No drought they dreaded, no flood they feared,
Where the pelican builds her nest!

The creek at the ford was but fetlock deep
When we watched them crossing there;
The rains have replenished it thrice since then,
And thrice has the rock lain bare.

But the waters of Hope have flowed and fled,
And never from blue hill’s breast
Come back — by the sun and the sands devoured —
Where the pelican builds her nest.

I recently picked up a copy of Italian Folktales by Italo Calvino in a wonderful little bookstore while in Hobart. It’s a collection of distinctly ‘Italian’ folk stories [1], and while I’m only partway through it, I’ve discovered some interesting things when compared to folk tales with which I am more familiar, which generally come from Western Europe or the US.

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Footnotes:

1.	Though some are quick to point out that it’s difficult to define ‘Italian’ in a folk sense, since historically what we think of as ‘Italy’ was in fact a number of distinct provinces with their own folk traditions and tales.
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Norman Harold Wells, born 19 March 1925, passed away early this morning.

He was my Father, my hero and my friend.

He was the best man I have ever known, and he has left me in a world that is less bright and less beautiful and less full of wonder because he is no longer within it.

Today, for me, was the day the stories died, and I desperately wish tears could bring them back.

I miss you Dad. I love you. I will keep the promises I made to you.

Barry Williams, Lord Magisterial Inquisitor Of The Holy Skeptical Empire (Incorporated), has submitted several more variants of the Nigerian Scam.

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