Storyteller's Cabin
			-3- All these events had gone just as the conjure woman had planned. For you see, she had always been jealous of Mr. and Mrs. Flowers, with their plentiful crops and healthy livestock. All she had were just a few skinny chickens. Soon after the funeral was over, she would sneak up to the old farm each night and steal as many chickens, horses and cows as she could handle. By week's end, she had nearly taken all the livestock from the Flowers' farm. To celebrate a job well done, she plopped down into a chair, cackled loudly, and took a big swig of her homemade cherry wine. She soon drank herself into a sound sleep. Later that night, the hag was suddenly awakened by the loud crowing of a rooster. She peered out the window through bloodshot eyes, and noticed there was not a trace of light in the sky. Why was the rooster crowing so early? She rolled over with a grunt and put a pillow over her head, but still the crowing continued, growing louder and louder. Now totally awake, she jumped out of bed and ran out into the yard. "Shut up!" she screamed, chasing the terrified chickens around the yard. But though the loud crowing filled the air, she could not find the rooster. The same thing happened night after night. The moment she would fall off to sleep, a loud crowing long before dawn would jolt the old hag awake. She would run through the yard screaming, "Where are you, you cursed rooster? When I find you, I'm gonna chop off your head!" But the crows from the mysterious rooster would only grow louder and louder. One night, after nearly two weeks without sleep, the crazed hag took an ax and chopped the heads off every chicken she could find. But the unseen rooster continued to crow. As months went by without sleep, the hag slowly went insane. She was convinced that the rooster was mocking her, its crows turning into cackling laughter. The hag grabbed her ax and ran screaming into the night, hacking away at anything she could see. As she ran aimlessly, the swamp was filled with a cacophony of unbearable noises, as if all the trees and swamp critters were joining in the mocking symphony. The hag never returned home again. Months later, some fishermen found her decomposed remains, still dressed in a tattered nightgown, her skeletal hand clutching her ax. Over the years, folks who were brave enough to venture into the swamp at night claimed they saw the old hag's sleep-deprived ghost running through the trees, swinging her ax wildly into thin air. The children in town named her "Ol' Sleepyhead," and she became a local legend. But closer to our time, they drained the swamp and built a new freeway through the area, which brought the haunting to a sudden stop. Was that old rooster really the vengeful ghost of Mrs. Flowers? Guess we'll never know. But if there's one thing this story taught me, it's the importance of a good night's sleep. Sleep tight!!! - THE END - What did you think of this story? Think you have a better one? Sound off on our Message Boards.
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