Goblins and Ghosties by Maggie Pearson

garden.
    He cried out, ‘Take me with you! Don’t leave me here alone!’ but by the time he reached the window, there was nothing to see but the snow softly falling.

The Brownie under the Bridge
    Scotland
    Ever since he was a wee, small boy, Torquil had been afraid of the brownie that lived under the bridge. It began with his father, Torquil sitting up beside him every Wednesday, driving their pony cart to market. As they came to the bridge, his father would whip up the pony till she was going so fast it was a wonder she didn’t go flying up into the sky, cart and all.
    When Torquil asked him why, his father told him it was because of the brownie living there. ‘If that brownie ever lays hands you,’ he said, ‘why then, you’re finished. You’ll never see your home or your kinfolk again.’
    When he grew up and took over the farm, Torquil did as his father had done, going at top speed over the bridge, because the chances were that the brownie was still there. Brownies live a long time, so he’d been told, maybe two or three hundred years.
    In time he married his childhood sweetheart, Jeannie, a sensible sort of a girl who didn’t try to change his mind, since Torquil’s fear of the brownie cut short their weekly trip to market by a good ten minutes.
    Soon, she found she was expecting a baby. The weeks and months went by, until one evening she said to Torquil, ‘I think the baby’s coming. You must go and fetch the doctor.’
    â€˜What, now?’ said Torquil, thinking of driving the trap over the brownie’s bridge in the dark.
    â€˜ Yes, now.’
    â€˜Can it not wait till morning?’
    â€˜This baby will be born long before morning. Off you go now and fetch the doctor.’
    â€˜Would it not be better if I stayed with you?’
    â€˜What do you know about delivering babies?’
    â€˜I don’t like to leave you alone.’
    â€˜I won’t be alone for long. The sooner you go, the sooner you’ll be back.’
    â€˜What if I don’t come back? What if the brownie…?’
    â€˜If you don’t bother the brownie, it won’t bother you. Please, Torquil, I’m begging you…’
    At that moment, a knock came at the door.
    Outside, stood a little old tinker woman. She was wrinkled and bent and smelt of fish and mouldering leaves, but Jeannie welcomed her in as if she’d been an angel sent from heaven.
    The old woman had barely begun to speak, ‘I wonder, could you spare me a bite to eat and if I could sleep in the stable…’, when, ‘ Come in! Come in!’ says Jeannie. ‘There’s a pot of stew on the stove and bread made fresh this morning. And a proper bed, too, for you to rest your weary bones this night, if you’ll just keep me company while this man of mine goes for the doctor.’
    â€˜I’d be happy to,’ the old woman beamed. ‘Off you go now, lad – spit-spot!’
    With the two women standing against him now, Torquil knew he’d no choice but to go, so he took the road at such a lick that he barely noticed the brownie’s bridge till he was safely over it and knocking on the door of the doctor’s house.
    It wasn’t till the doctor was fetching his little black bag that Torquil realised the pickle he was in. He’d got to drive the doctor back to the farm. Then, after the baby was born, he’d have to bring the doctor home again, and then drive back to the farm again, alone. Four times in one night he’d be driving over the brownie’s bridge.
    â€˜No, no!’ he whispered. ‘I cannot do it!’
    The doctor was very understanding when he explained. ‘No problem,’ he said. ‘I’ll saddle up my own pony and ride behind you. Then there’ll be no need for you to bring me home.’
    But saddling up the doctor’s pony took that little bit more time. And that pony could no more break into a