The Tiddy Mun: Lincolnshire Folklore Brought to Life by Wergulu Blue
Following on from my blog about our old friend Tiddy Mun, link here. I’m delighted to share a piece of music that captures the spirit of Lincolnshire’s folklore.
The band Wergulu Blue have written a song inspired by the legend of the Tiddy Mun - the ancient, dwarf-like being said to dwell in the fenland waterways, punishing those who disrespect the land. Their track is steeped in atmosphere, and feels like a natural companion to the folklore itself.
If you’re drawn to folk-horror, forgotten legends, and music that feels rooted in place and myth, I highly recommend giving this a listen.
Wergulu Blue in thier own words.
Wergulu Blue was started about 7 years ago. As a songwriter I am inspired by the natural world and our relationship to it. My songs are written from the imagined perspective of specific individuals or ancestors and contain a sense of place and time. I say the songs are written but really, the learning and the research in folklore and history directs the narrative and I find true stories more compelling and engaging than fiction. My aim is to help keep our folklore alive and strengthen the nourishing bond we have with our land. Our songs have been played regularly over the last two years on Rock Radio UK by Roger Nicholls on the excelllent Walrus and Carpenter Show.
🎶 Wergulu Blue – “Tiddy Mun”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvwmt3JDNx4
My thanks to Wergulu Blue for sharing their work - it’s wonderful to see old legends finding new voices.
Stay Spooky
A Reflection on my story 'Fallen Leaves'
I wanted to share an analysis sent to me by one of my readers on Fallen Leaves, the second - and perhaps one of the key - story in Threads of Shadow. A number of readers have now told me that this is the piece they return to once they’ve finished the whole book, revisiting it to gain a deeper understanding of how it connects to the novel as a whole. Anyway a really Big thanks to Sally Billingham for taking the time to read my book and write this analysis.
The Smiling Face of Evil: On Fallen Leaves
By Sally Billingham
Fallen Leaves is a quietly devastating piece of Gothic horror, one that relies not on shock or spectacle but on atmosphere, implication, and the slow erosion of safety. Set in Edwardian England and narrated by an eleven-year-old girl, the story uses a child’s voice to explore themes of innocence, authority, deception, and the persistence of ancient evil beneath civilised surfaces.
At its heart, the story is about absence. Almost every protection that should keep the narrator safe is removed, one by one. Her mother is dead. Her father is away on church business. Miss Preece, who has become a surrogate maternal figure, vanishes abruptly. Even Ned, the earthy, practical presence who understands the land and its dangers, is temporarily misled and sent away. What remains is a house that looks safe but is no longer so, and an adult who wears respectability like a costume.
The narrator’s voice is one of the story’s greatest strengths. She is observant, articulate, and emotionally intelligent, but still unmistakably a child. Her fear is not melodramatic; it is tentative, rationalised, and often suppressed. She repeatedly tells herself she is “a big girl,” that she should not be afraid, which only emphasises how frightened she truly is. Her attempts to understand events are shaped by limited experience, making moments of horror land more sharply. When she hesitates, when she fails to bang on the window or runs instead of helping Ned, the story does not judge her. It recognises fear for what it is: paralysing, especially in the young.
Uncle Roger is a deeply unsettling antagonist precisely because he is so plausible. He does not arrive as a monster, but as a well-dressed, smiling missionary uncle. His authority is rooted in confidence, religious language, and adult composure. He lies easily and convincingly, reframing reality until even the reader momentarily wonders whether the child might be mistaken. His attempt to present her as mentally unwell is particularly chilling, echoing real historical abuses of power, where children, especially girls, were silenced by claims of hysteria or delusion.
What makes him truly frightening is that he operates on two levels at once. He is both a human predator and a cultist serving something older and vastly more powerful than himself. His obsession with the oak tree reveals that he has not stumbled upon this evil accidentally; he has sought it out. The rituals beneath the tree parody Christian worship, twisting familiar gestures of prayer into acts of summoning and submission.
The oak tree itself is a potent symbol. Marked by ancient symbols, bound with copper wire, and surrounded by fallen leaves, it represents a pre-Christian, pre-human power that has never truly left the land. The vicarage, built nearby, feels less like a conquest of evil than a fragile attempt at stewardship. When that stewardship falters, the old forces reassert themselves. The leaf-entity - faceless, towering, and made of decay - is not just a monster but a manifestation of cyclical violence and forgotten history returning to claim the present.
Miss Preece’s fate is handled with restraint, which makes it all the more horrifying. Her disappearance is explained away with polite lies and social convention, yet the truth is revealed obliquely, in moonlight, among rags and fallen leaves. The image of her familiar face among the debris is one of the story’s most powerful moments, precisely because it is not lingered over.
Ned, meanwhile, embodies hard-won wisdom and moral clarity. He distrusts Uncle Roger instinctively, understands the danger of the land, and ultimately believes the child without hesitation. His failure is not moral but circumstantial - he trusts when he should not, delays when urgency is needed. His likely death is tragic not because it is graphic, but because it is inevitable once he chooses to protect her.
The ending of Fallen Leaves refuses comfort. There is no rescue, no revelation that arrives in time, no adult authority to intervene. Instead, the story closes with anticipation - a door opening, a child hiding beneath covers, clutching a doll that has listened to every fear without judgement. Molly, the rag doll, becomes the last refuge of innocence when all human protection has failed.
Ultimately, Fallen Leaves is not about defeating evil, but about how easily it enters when safeguards collapse - and how ancient, patient, and hungry it is. It is a story that understands that the most frightening horrors are not those that roar loudly, but those that smile, speak softly, and wait for the moment when no one is watching.
Herne the Hunter: The Ghostly Legend of Windsor Great Park
Herne the Hunter. Reader feel free to insert horn joke at your leisure.
The county of Berkshire, officially known as the Royal County of Berkshire, is located in the south-east of England, just west of the capital city of London. Beautiful chalk downland makes up parts of its western reaches, while along its southern border with the county of Surrey lies a place once known as Windsor Forest, now called Windsor Great Park. A place with a haunting mystery.
Windsor Great Park is a Royal Park and, for many centuries, served as the private hunting ground of Windsor Castle. Today, it is a gently undulating landscape of sweeping deer lawns, small woods, coverts, and areas dominated by ancient oak trees. In the past, however, it was more heavily forested, wilder, perhaps even more sinister - and said by some to be home to a legendary ghost.
Herne the Hunter is a terrifying sight. His spectral form is said to ride through the parkland on a phantom steed, antlers sprouting from his head like those of some prehistoric deity. He is believed to torment cattle, while the rattling of his chains can be heard echoing through the lush woodland.
The earliest literary reference to Herne comes from William Shakespeare’s The Merry Wives of Windsor, written in 1597. The Bard describes the woodland spectre as follows:
There is an old tale goes, that Herne the Hunter
(sometime a keeper here in Windsor Forest)
Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight
Walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns;
And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle,
And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain
In a most hideous and dreadful manner.
You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know
The superstitious idle-headed eld
Receiv'd, and did deliver to our age
This tale of Herne the Hunter for a truth.
- William Shakespeare, The Merry Wives of Windsor, Act IV, Scene IV
It has been suggested that this passage implies Herne was already an established folk legend by Shakespeare’s time, as he is treated as a well-known ghost story familiar to the audience. Nearly two hundred years later, in 1792, Samuel Ireland expanded on the legend:
The story of this Herne, who was keeper in the forest in the time of Elizabeth, runs thus: — That having committed some great offence, for which he feared to lose his situation and fall into disgrace, he was induced to hang himself on this tree.
The idea of suicide aligns with the traditional belief that such a death would result in a restless spirit. Shakespeare’s reference to rattling chains is also a common ghostly motif.
The supposed location of Herne’s Oak, the tree where he is believed to have ended his life, was uncertain for many years and the subject of much speculation. An oak just north of Frogmore House in the Home Park was eventually named Herne’s Oak, but it was felled in 1796. In 1838, Queen Victoria had another tree planted and gave it the same name; however, this too was blown down in a storm nearly thirty years later. The current oak bearing the title was planted in 1906.
Herne’s horns are a much-discussed feature of the legend, as they are an unusual addition to a ghostly figure. Some have suggested they link him to ancient pagan horned gods of nature, such as Cernunnos, or to other folkloric figures like the Green Man, though some academics dispute this theory.
Another idea is that the horns were Shakespeare’s invention, added to better suit the forest setting or to evoke the humorous image of antlers resembling a cuckold’s horns - a visual joke that would have resonated with an Elizabethan audience. Later versions of the legend also claim that Herne leads the Wild Hunt on certain wild nights of the year.
Supposed Sightings
The most recent recorded sighting of Herne occurred in 1976, when a guard reported seeing what he initially believed to be a horned statue walking through the parkland. He was also supposedly seen by a group of Eton schoolboys in the woods in 1962. After discovering an old hunting horn, they unwisely blew upon it and were chased from the area by Herne himself, mounted upon his steed. Herne is also said to appear as an omen before a royal death.
Herne has featured in many books and television shows, such as The Box of Delights by John Masefield and an old favourite of mine, Robin of Sherwood, where he takes on the role of mentor and guide to Robin of Loxley.
Does the ghost of Herne the Hunter still ride through Windsor Great Park, his steed bounding across that ancient and noble parkland, terrifying unsuspecting ramblers? I cannot say - but I like to imagine that he does.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you enjoyed this piece of folklore. If you did, please consider picking up a copy of either of my books, Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror - terrifying folk novels told through short stories. Available from all Amazon stores. A link can be found below.
‘Exceptional folkloric horror’
★★★★★
Sharon Joy Reads.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Stay Spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
Berkshirelive
The Merry Wives of Windsor by William Shakespeare (1597)
countryfile.com
Slua Sí Folklore: The Wind-Riding Host of the Dead
The Slua Sí - A Storm of the dead
The wind is something we all take for granted. A summer breeze cools our skin; a winter gale causes us to shut our windows and doors tight and stay within the warmth of our homes. We know the wind is there, but for the most part we give it little thought.
There are, however, some people and cultures who actively fear the wind and what it may bring with it.
Both Irish and Scottish folklore speak of an unsettling horde: a supernatural army that rides the skies at night, taking the form of a wild storm, particularly on the 31st of October - Halloween. It is a damned troupe, not mournful but predatory: the Slua Sí.
Slua Sí (pronounced sloo-ah shee), meaning Fairy Host, is the Irish name for this dreaded supernatural force. In Scottish Gaelic it is known as Sluagh na Marbh (pronounced SLOO-ah na MAR-uv), the Host of the Dead. The term Fairy Host is a confusing one, as the Slua Sí are not truly fairies. Rather, they are considered to be a terrifying host of the airborne spirits of the dead.
Perhaps a better rendering of the name - one that more accurately reflects how they are understood in legend - would be “The Host of the Unforgiven Dead.” For centuries it was believed that the evil souls of the restless departed were denied access to the Otherworld by the ancient gods. These malevolent entities found themselves trapped between the realms of the living and the dead, forever cursed, and only able to ride forth on those few occasions each year when the veil between worlds is thinnest.
The Slua Sí travel on the wind, sometimes in a crescent formation like a flock of dark birds, stark against the grey sky. At other times they appear as a violent storm or whirlwind, capable of carrying away any unfortunate soul wandering the Gaelic wilderness.
In bad weather, it is always wise to seek shelter - although where The Slua Sí are concerned even this offers no guarantee of protection. The terrible host was believed to steal gifted children from their beds, replacing them with sick or broken members of their own ranks who were no longer of any use. Those taken by this unnatural army were rarely, if ever, seen again, doomed to be trapped forever among the vicious horde.
There are ways to protect oneself from the Slua Sí. As is often the case with supernatural entities, they were said to be repelled by iron. Christian prayer and symbols, particularly the cross, were also believed to keep them at bay. Folk were advised to avoid lonely lanes and byways at night, and to secure all doors and windows when storms swept in - though, to be fair, most of us would do that anyway.
So as the wind rises and the trees shudder beneath the force of a gale, can you ever be truly certain that what you hear outside is merely a natural thing? Or could it be something far worse - something that might take not only your life, but your very soul?
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this piece of folklore has left you trembling with just the right amount of pleasurable fear. If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow - links below.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Until next week - stay spooky.
★★★★★
‘Folklore horror at it best’
Amazon Reviewer
Steve Howard.
Sources
Wikipedia
spookyisles.com/slua-sidhe-fairy-ireland
lairbhan.blogspot.com
The Baobhan Sith: The Vampire Fairy of Scottish Highland Folklore
The Baobhan Sith - Hunters beware.
Far to the north lies a wind-swept, rain-beaten region of the British Isles: sparsely populated, breathtakingly beautiful, and full of mountain peaks that seem to brush the clouds. Deep, shaded valleys cut through a landscape dotted with heather, where craggy rocks push stubbornly through the grass. It is a place long beloved of writers and artists - the Scottish Highlands.
Over the centuries, the people who have called this unforgiving land home have been hardy folk: crofters, small landowners, and tenant farmers who eked out a living by growing crops or raising cattle in the mountain pastures. Crofting was closely linked to Gaelic culture, with neighbouring crofting families supporting one another through difficult times. It is no surprise, then, that such a region - and such people - should possess a rich and intriguing body of folklore. One such tale speaks of a much-feared being, said to prey upon men as they travel the Highlands about their business: the Baobhan Sith.
The Baobhan Sith (pronounced BAA-van shee) translates from Scottish Gaelic as ‘fairy witch’ or ‘fairy hag’. She is a chilling entity, a member of the Fair Folk, but she is no benign, butterfly-winged creature of children’s fairy tales. She is described as lithe and beautiful, with rich red hair, and clad in a green or white dress. The glamour she casts about herself conceals her true appearance, however, it is not flawless, for she cannot fully conceal her deer hooves, which may be glimpsed beneath her gown.
She shares many similarities with a vampire or succubus, though she is neither undead nor demonic. Generally, she targets hunters, using her charms to put them at ease before draining their blood once they are enveloped in her warm embrace. In many stories, she appears after a hunter expresses a desire for female companionship. A typical tale is given below.
Four men went hunting and took shelter for the night in a lonely shieling. One of the men provided music while the others began to dance. Before long, the men expressed a wish for partners, and soon afterwards four women entered the hut. Three of the hunters danced and made merry with their lovely companions. One, however, was more canny than the rest. Noticing the hooves protruding from beneath one of the women’s dresses, he fled outside and sought refuge among the horses, knowing that fairy beings could not bear the presence of their iron horseshoes. When he returned at dawn, the women were gone, and his friends lay dead - their bodies red ruins.
In some accounts, when the Baobhan Sith begins to feed, her beauty fades and her true visage is revealed. Her skin pales to the hue of a corpse, and her eyes - once bright with the promise of love and affection - darken, becoming cruel and merciless. It would seem that she is bound to the wild places of the Highlands, for there are no accounts of her troubling settlements.
One is left to wonder whether this story was spread by shrewd wives seeking to deter their husbands from straying with wild local lasses while out hunting in the hills.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this little piece of Highland folklore set you trembling with a pleasurable fear. If you enjoy what I do, please consider picking up a copy of my either of my books, Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror , terrifying folk novels told through short stories - link below.
‘Exceptional folkloric horror’
★★★★★
Sharon Joy Reads.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Stay Spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
folklorescotland.com
spookyscotland.net/baobhan-sith
Ded Moroz - The Slavic Spirit of Winter
Ded Moroz, the Slavic Frost Bringer from Eastern European winter folklore.
As the New Year approaches in the East the biting winds gust from the north, guaranteeing snow and ice. In years gone by, the common folk of the Slavic lands had little understanding of the complexities of the weather, but they understood one thing: this harsh climate was brought about by a single being. An entity who embodied everything winter represented - mystery, wonder, and danger - a being known as Ded Moroz.
In Russian, Ded Moroz means Grandfather Frost or Old Man Frost. He is the very spirit of winter, and in darker, older times he was likely seen as a sinister figure - a kind of midwinter demon, a bringer of snow and icy storms. He was said to be capable of ripping the leaves from the trees, leaving them as nothing more than skeletal appendages clawing at the sky. He was believed to abduct children who wandered alone into the snow, and in early folklore he was regarded as a terrible being, akin to a frost giant or ogre.
But then something changed.
As the centuries passed, Ded Moroz grew softer. His sharp angles became rounded and smooth, until eventually he transformed into a figure beloved by children: a gift-giver, a white-bearded gentleman clad in thick, colourful winter robes, who rides across the snowy landscape in a sleigh on New Year’s Eve, handing out presents to deserving children. In many ways, he fulfils the role of Santa Claus.
In modern depictions, Ded Moroz is usually shown as a tall, bearded old man wearing long winter robes in shades of blue, red, silver, or white. He carries a staff made of ice and bears a magical sack of gifts over his shoulder. Today, he is a symbol of winter joy, festivity, and generosity. He is accompanied on his journey by his granddaughter, Snegurochka (the Snow Maiden), a unique figure in seasonal folklore - a magical young woman created from snow.
It is thought that modern literature played a large role in softening Ded Moroz’s image, with the 19th-century play The Snow Maiden by Aleksandr Ostrovsky being particularly influential. By the end of that century, Ded Moroz had become the popular, jolly character we recognise today, and his family-friendly image gradually spread throughout other Slavic regions. Around this time, the tradition of children writing letters to Ded Moroz also began to take hold.
Although his tradition was discouraged during the communist era, the old fellow proved too beloved to be suppressed. By the late 1990s, the town of Veliky Ustyug in Vologda Oblast, Russia, was officially declared the home of Ded Moroz by the Mayor of Moscow. An incredible two million letters a year were soon being received from excited children at its extremely busy post office. The town has also been visited by the President of the Russian Federation as part of the Russian Orthodox Christmas Eve celebrations.
Unlike Santa Claus, Ded Moroz is not clandestine. Rather than slipping quietly down the chimney, delivering gifts unseen and departing unnoticed, this jovial winter figure openly knocks at the door and is invited inside, where he personally hands out presents to over-excited children.
He features prominently at New Year parties, school celebrations, and public Yolka (New Year tree) events. His magical staff is said to create snow, form frosty patterns on windows, or freeze water for ice skating. He travels by troika — in this case, a sleigh pulled by a team of three horses. In some instances, it is his granddaughter who distributes the presents, and she is occasionally called upon to drive away the witch Baba Yaga, who attempts to sneak in and steal them.
There are many regional variations of Ded Moroz, but one thing remains true: this once-terrifying winter spirit has become a much-loved feature of the festive season.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you enjoyed this small piece of New Year folklore. If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of the anthology book, Pocket Christmas Horror - full of seasonal horror stories from the great writers of old. link below.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free written and audio stories by yours truly available in the download section of this website.
Until next week — stay spooky.
Sources:
Wikipedia
Ancient-Origins.net
RussianLife.com
Frau Perchta: The Terrifying Christmas Witch of Alpine Folklore
Frau Perchta - roams the snowy countryside.
As winter settles in the high places of Bavaria, Austria, and Slovenia, snow tumbles from the sky, turning once-green mountain valleys into icy wonderlands. Cold northerly winds force the people of these regions to spend more time shut inside their homes, fires banked high to drive away the seasonal chill. It is a time to sit together by the dim, flickering flames, a time for stories, for old legends, and for whispered warnings of the dreaded Frau Pertcha.
Pertcha, or Berchta, was thought to be a pagan goddess worshipped throughout the Alpine regions. Her name is believed to mean ‘the Bright One’, though there are several interpretations. Perchta is sometimes linked with the Germanic goddess Holda, and acted as a guardian of beasts. She was said to appear during the Zwölften - the twelve days of Christmas - usually on Perchtennacht, on 5th January (Perchten Eve), before Perchtentag (the Day of Perchten), which falls during the Rauhnächte (‘Rough Nights’) the dark midwinter period, between Christmas and Epiphany, when it was believed spirits roamed freely.
Perchta is often described as having two forms. She may appear as a beautiful maiden, white as snow, a caring spirit of nature who spreads her beneficence throughout the land. Yet she also possesses another, far more dreadful aspect - that of Frau Pertcha herself. In this guise she is elderly and haggard, and when she appears so, she must be avoided at all costs.
Frau Pertcha is said to have one unnaturally large foot, sometimes described as that of a goose or swan, perhaps symbolising her ability to shapeshift into animal form. Her face is deeply wrinkled, her nose long and hooked, and her garments are always old, tattered, and torn.
Petcha - the goddess.
This octogenarian menace roamed the countryside during the festive period, though she did not do so alone. She was often depicted at the head of a Wild Hunt, leading a host of demonic entities collectively known as the Perchten. These beings bore horned, animalistic features, thick fur, hooves, and clanking chains and bells.
She would enter the homes she encountered while her demonic host frolicked outside in the snow. Frau Pertcha could tell which children had behaved badly, but they were not her only concern. She was particularly keen to seek out young women, ensuring they had diligently kept up with their wool-spinning duties.
The virtuous were rewarded with coins hidden in items of clothing, but woe betide those who fell short of her exacting standards, for a terrible punishment awaited them.
She was said to cut open the bellies of these poor souls, remove their entrails, and stuff the hollow cavity with straw and stones - a punishment that earned her the grim title of Belly Slitter. For this reason, she was also known as the Christmas Witch. It was further believed that she would inflict the same fate upon anyone who dared eat anything other than her traditional meal of fish and gruel on her feast night.
A cult of Pertcha eventually arose, its followers leaving food and drink for her in the hope of gaining wealth and prosperity, though such practices were strongly condemned by the Church.
Perchten parades are an ancient pagan custom, likely dating back to pre-Christian times. The first recorded accounts, however, appear in the 16th century. These parades were usually - though not always - led by Perchta, either in her guise as a beautiful woman in white or as a hideous crone. She would be followed by people dressed as her Perchten: some as Schiachperchten (‘ugly Perchten’), wearing fearsome masks with fangs and tusks, clothed in furs and horse tails to drive out demons and ghosts; others as Schönperchten (‘beautiful Perchten’), the fairest members of the community, clad in bright clothing and tasked with bestowing blessings of good fortune and prosperity. Together, they paraded through winter streets before crowds of locals wrapped up against the cold.
So it is wise to have your spinning finished and your behaviour beyond reproach come Perchtentag Eve. The consequences of failing to do so could be both dire - and messy.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this little piece of Christmas folklore has given you a pleasing shudder. If you enjoy what I do, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow - link below.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free written and audio stories by yours truly available in the downloads section of this website.
Until next week — stay spooky.
Sources
AtlasObscura. Com
Wikipedia
moonmausoleum.com
Christmas Folklore: The Nordic Yule Goat (Julbocken)
The Yule Goat, delivering gifts.
Hello friends, as the cold sets in across towns and villages, people begin decorating their homes, turning them into little glimmers of starlight against the dark, freezing nights. Winter is upon us, and with it comes Christmas - or Yule - the jolliest time of year. To celebrate, I will continue posting Christmas folklore from across Europe.
Today, we journey north to Scandinavia to meet a character from Northern European Yule tradition: the Julbocken, or Yule Goat. Today, it is best known as a Christmas ornament displayed throughout Nordic countries. This modern version of the Yule Goat is decorative, made from straw bound with red ribbons, and hung on or placed beneath the tree. Larger versions are often erected in towns during Christmastime; this tradition began with the Gävle Goat in 1966.
In Sweden, tradition held that the Yule Goat was an invisible spirit that would appear sometime before Christmas, checking to ensure all preparations for the great day were being carried out correctly.
Local people would craft Yule Goats from the last sheaf of grain gathered at harvest, which was often saved for this purpose as it was believed to contain magical properties. A popular festive prank in Scandinavian society involved secretly placing a Yule Goat in a neighbour’s home. The family successfully pranked was then required to dispose of the small, crafted goat in the same manner.
During the nineteenth century, the Yule Goat was somewhat akin to the modern Santa Claus. He was believed to travel throughout Scandinavia, dispensing gifts to children. Men within the household would dress as the Yule Goat, though this tradition fell out of favour in the mid-twentieth century as Santa became increasingly more commercial and prominent, and the man-sized goat gradually disappeared.
Whilst we cannot be certain of the creature’s origins, it is possible to connect the Yule Goat to the Norse god Thor, who was said to ride across the sky in a chariot pulled by two goats: Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr.
There may also be links to ancient proto-Slavic belief. During the Koliada (Yule) festival, which honoured the god of the fertile sun and the harvest, a deity known as Devac was represented by a white goat. During these celebrations, a person dressed as a goat would go from house to house demanding tributes in the form of gifts. Finally, we find mention of a mysterious, man-sized goat figure in eleventh-century accounts of the Childermas festival which occurred during the twelve days of Christmas, where it was led by a man dressed as Saint Nicholas, symbolising his dominance over Satan.
Julbocken is also the title of a Christmas song written by Alice Tegnér in 1913. It tells of a time when the old Yule Goat enjoyed far greater popularity. Sadly, despite my best efforts, I was unable to find an English translation; however, I have included the original version below for my Swedish readers to enjoy:
En jul när mor var liten,
hörde hon hur någon en kväll
stod där ute och stampa’
och gav dörr’n en smäll.
In där klev en julebock,
skäggig och med luden rock,
han tog ur en påse
små paketer opp.
Mor, hon fick en docka
mycket söt och riktigt klädd.
Men när bocken hoppa,
oj, vad hon blev rädd.
Mor, hon har en bror, du vet,
han fick också sitt paket,
och i det han fann en
trumma och trumpet.
Nu är bocken gammal,
han är nog båd’ halt och grå,
men han kanske hittar
hit till oss ändå.
Stiger in med påsen stor,
ser sig kring och frågar mor:
“Är det här, de glada,
snälla barnen bor?”
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you enjoyed this little legend from the north. With the festive season rapidly approaching, if you are a lover of classic Christmas ghost stories, I have compiled a collection of some of the finest seasonal tales of terror ever told - Pocket Christmas Horror. It makes the perfect companion for these long, dark evenings. Please consider picking up a copy via the link below.
Alternatively, you will find plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, in the downloads section of this website.
Until next week - stay spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
AncientPages.com
MythologyWorldwide.com
Icelandic Folklore – Jólakötturinn, the Giant Yule Cat
The Yule Cat. Reader feel free in inset your own silly comment with the word Puuurfect in it.
The following Christmas legend was suggested to me last year by my old friend Andrew Fellows. My apologies, Andy, for taking so long to write it.
Iceland lies in the freezing ocean between the Arctic and the North Atlantic, described as a land of ice and fire. Its position on the Mid-Atlantic Ridge makes it one of the most volcanically active places on Earth. Lava fields, geysers, hot springs and frequent eruptions shape the landscape; around ten per cent of the country is covered in glaciers, and come winter the land lies beneath a blanket of white snow.
Iceland is therefore a place of great contrasts, rich in terrifying legends and unique Christmas myths. One such tale concerns a monstrous beast said to prowl the winter countryside every Christmastide: a creature of black fur, long of claws and with sharp fangs - the man-eating Jólakötturinn, the Yule Cat.
Jólakötturinn, also called Jólaköttur or the Christmas Cat, is believed to be the size of a small house and to possess glowing eyes capable of seeing through the darkest night and the thickest snowstorm. Good luck hiding from this hungry puss. She is considered the pet of the ogress Grýla and her sons, the Yule Lads. I have written a previous post about those thirteen little blighters, and I’ll leave a link to it here, if you want to know more about them. At some point I shall have to tackle the ogress herself - but that’s a story for another day. For now, back to our macabre feline.
The Yule Cat is believed to set forth on Christmas Eve and stalk the land, favouring as prey anyone who has not received new clothes for Christmas - especially children. These festive monsters do seem to enjoy targeting the younger generation.
Threatening the children does makes sense – another way to encourage little Timmy and little Sally to toe the line and behave at a time of year when excitement may tempt them to nail the furniture to the ceiling.
But why target those without new clothes?
This tradition is thought to stem from Iceland’s historic wool industry of the 17th to 19th centuries. Every household needed to complete the autumn shearing, carding, spinning and weaving before Christmas. The tale of the Yule Cat encouraged people, especially farm workers, to finish processing wool before the winter holiday. Anyone who did so would be rewarded with new clothes and therefore safe from the monstrous moggy.
In this way, the Yule Cat can be seen to represent Iceland’s harsh winter, a time when owning proper clothing was essential for survival. Scholars have also noted that cats are sacred to the Norse goddess Freya, whose chariot was said to be drawn by two great cats. How much this influenced the Yule Cat is difficult to say, but it is fun to speculate.
The belief in Jólakötturinn is undoubtedly an old one, but it was first recorded in writing in the 19th century when scholars began to collect the oral traditions of Icelandic farmers and labourers. Most notably, Jóhannes úr Kötlum helped popularise the creature in the 20th century with his famous 1932 poem Jólakötturinn. A translation of this poem is included below.
You know the Christmas Cat,
That cat is very large,
We don't know where he came from,
Nor where he has gone.
He opened his eyes widely,
Making both glow,
It was not for cowards,
To look into them.
His hair sharp as needles,
His back was high and bulgy,
And the claws on his hairy paw,
Were not a pretty sight.
Therefore, the women competed,
To rock and sow and spin,
And knitted colourful clothes,
Or one little sock.
For the cat could not come,
And get the little children,
They had to get new clothes,
From the grown-ups.
When Christmas Eve was lighted,
And the cat looked inside,
The children stood straight and red-cheeked,
With their presents.
He waved his strong tail,
He jumped and he scratched and blew,
And was either in the valley,
Or out on the headland.
He walked about, hungry and mean,
In hurtfully cold Christmas snow,
And kindled the hearts with fear,
In every town.
If outside one heard a weak meow,
Then bad luck was sure to happen,
All knew he hunted men,
And didn't want mice.
He followed the poorer people,
Who didn't get any new clothing,
Near Christmas – and struggled and lived,
In poorest conditions.
From them, he took at the same time,
All their Christmas food,
And also ate themselves,
If he could.
Therefore, the women competed,
To rock and sow and spin,
And knitted colourful clothes,
Or one little sock.
Some had got an apron,
And some had got a new shoe,
Or anything that was needful,
But that was enough.
For the cat should eat no-one,
Who got some new piece of clothes,
He hissed with his ugly voice,
And ran away.
If he still exists, I don’t know,
But for nothing would be his trip,
If next Christmas everybody got,
Some new rag.
You may want to keep it in mind,
To help if there is need,
For somewhere there might be children,
Who get nothing at all.
Perhaps looking out for those who suffer,
From lack of plentiful lights,
Will give you a good day,
And a merry Christmas.
Visitors to Iceland’s capital, Reykjavík, may encounter this terrifying cat in the form of statues, decorations and artworks. Just be sure to wear new clothes – Jólakötturinn is said to be sneaky, and what you assume to be a harmless monument to the deadly puss might, in fact, be the real thing. You would not want to meet this feline wearing last year’s knitwear.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this little piece of Christmas folklore has given you a pleasing shudder. If you enjoy what I do, please consider picking up a copy of my new anthology, Pocket Christmas Horror - a collection of seasonal spooky tales from some of the all-time greats, neatly packaged in a pocket-sized edition designed to sit comfortably in your coat or bag. Link below.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, both written and audio, available in the download section of this website.
Until next week – stay spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
historyextra.com
www.discoveryuk.com
genius.com (translated poem)
The Terrifying Legend of Krampus: Alpine Christmas Folklore Explained
Krampus, about his sinister business.
By the time the 5th of December arrives, children throughout the world are dreaming of brightly wrapped presents left in stockings or nestled beneath the gently glowing Christmas tree. But for the children of the Alpine region of Europe, this time was not one to be celebrated; it was a night to be feared, for the 5th of December is Krampusnacht (Krampus Night).
Krampus was largely unknown outside the Germanic/Alpine countries until around December 2014, when Austrian-German actor Christoph Waltz spoke about him during an interview on American television. Since then, his popularity - or perhaps I should say infamy - has spread rapidly.
Krampus’s name derives from the German word Krampen, meaning claw. He is described as a monstrous, half-goat, half-demon creature with a lolling red tongue, often depicted as being covered in thick hair. He wears a basket upon his back - a place to imprison any naughty children he manages to seize, for this Yule terror is an abductor of the young.
In his hands, he bears a Ruten, a bundle of birch sticks which he uses to swat and punish wrongdoers. He wears heavy chains, which he rattles loudly to announce his approach to terrified villagers; these chains are believed to symbolise the binding of the Devil in Christian tradition. Large cowbells are tied to his waist - another means by which he can be heard before he is seen. His equipment can vary slightly from region to region, and sometimes he is shown carrying a pitchfork.
Krampus is the devilish companion of St Nicholas, but where jolly old St Nicholas rewards the good, this hunched, leering devil punishes the bad, carrying off ne’er-do-well nippers in his basket. The ultimate fate of these miserable little lads and lasses depends upon the region. Usually, he will dish out a good beating with his Ruten, and children will awaken the following morning nursing welts and bruises. But those pint-sized wrongdoers may count themselves lucky, for the truly wicked are believed to be drowned, eaten, or even carried off to Hell.
Krampus is thought to have his origins in the ancient pagan rituals of the winter solstice. He is believed to be the son of Hel, the Norse god of the underworld, and despite the best efforts of the Catholic Church to ban him, he has survived through the centuries. It is quite possible that he is more popular now than he ever was before.
Festivals involving Krampus include the Krampuslauf (Krampus Run). Here, people parade through the winter streets dressed as the Alpine demon, terrifying spectators and even chasing them. The outfits of the participants are of excellent quality; the masks alone are often hand-carved and highly individualised, and very expensive to purchase. The parade is usually lit by torchlight, with strange, flickering shadows being thrown across the crowded streets.
During the late 20th century, in an effort to preserve cultural heritage, Krampus runs became increasingly popular. Today, Krampus is something of an icon, with many books and films about him. Some see the renewed popularity of Krampus as a backlash against the commercialisation of Christmas., and a return to something simpler that brings the community together.
I have often wanted to write my own Krampus story, but my commitments to completing the Wendlelow Mysteries trilogy have stayed my hand. However, with this project coming to an end, perhaps I shall find the time to turn my attentions to this horned menace, maybe I will have a Krampus tale ready to share with you my friend next Christmas.
So when you settle down to sleep this 5th of December, consider all the things you have done throughout the year. Have you been quite good enough? And remember - the jingling of bells does not always herald the arrival of Santa’s sleigh.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this little piece of Christmas folklore has given you a pleasing shudder. If you enjoy what I do, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow - link below.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, written and audio, by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Until next week - stay spooky.
Folklore - The Linton Worm
The Linton Worm does battle.
The village of Linton can be found in Roxburghshire, in the Scottish Borders. It lies within the Cheviot Hills and is a site that has seen occupation since prehistoric times. It was once an Iron Age hillfort, and although time has greatly reduced the evidence of its defences; some of the earth ramparts are still visible.
Linton is a legend-haunted area and was, many years ago, said to be home to a terrible beast: a dragon-like monstrosity known as the Linton Worm or Wyrm. Wyrm is an Old English term for a serpent. The story of this terror, and its eventual downfall at the hands of one brave knight, was told by Sir Walter Scott in his Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, Volume II (1802).
It is said that the grim beast dwelt in a darkened hollow of the earth on the north-east side of Linton Hill. It was described as being “in length three Scots yards and bigger than an ordinary man’s leg – in form and colour to our common muir edders”: roughly over nine feet long.
At dusk, it would crawl from its lair and slither about the land, terrorising the countryside, devouring cattle, crops, and even unlucky night-time travellers, before vanishing back into its den before sunrise. According to the legend, a few attempts were made to kill it, but normal weapons seemed unable to penetrate the armour of its hide. Thus Linton and the surrounding lands were ravaged by the beast, and gradually the area began to fall into ruin.
Stories of the wyrm and the terror it caused eventually reached the ears of the Laird of Lariston, one John de Somerville, a knight of the realm with a reputation for reckless bravery. Such a man was drawn to the beast like iron to lodestone. He journeyed to the nearby town of Jedburgh, where he rested awhile in a local tavern and listened to the folk whisper tales of the monster, over their foaming cups of ale.
Though brave, he was a canny fellow, and decided to observe the beast before confronting it. That evening, he concealed himself in an ancient grove of trees near the creature’s lair and watched. As the sun’s rays disappeared behind the horizon, and light mists rose up from the ground, it came crawling from the earth. He observed that when it approached its prey, it opened its mouth wide to swallow the doomed victim whole.
An so, idea began to form in the knight’s mind.
The next day, he had a blacksmith craft him an iron lance, upon the end of which he fixed a lump of peat coated in tar and brimstone.
That evening, he rode back to the beast’s lair and waited. Again, as the sun dipped below the misty hillside, the creature emerged. The knight ignited the sticky mass on the end of his lance, then charged. The great wyrm opened its mouth, intent on swallowing both knight and steed, but the flaming lance was driven deep into its throat.
The writhing death-throes of the Linton Worm supposedly created the curious topography of the hills in the area, a place that became known as “Wormington”. The wounded creature retreated into the darkness of its lair to die, its thrashing tail bringing down the hillside behind it and burying it forever.
The legend states that de Somerville’s heroism was memorialised by a carved stone at Linton Kirk. He was raised to the position of Royal Falconer, knighted, and made “First Barrone of Linton” in recognition of his deed, and the family crest of the Somervilles became a wyvern.
Finally, the good folk of Linton could sleep easy in their beds.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog, my friend. I do hope you enjoyed this tale of a dashing knight and his battle against a terrible predatory beast.
I have also recently released a short book for charity, Big Dawg and the Great Walkies Sweepstake. It is a mere 80 pages long and small enough to sit comfortably in a pocket or handbag. The book is a comedy/farce greatly influenced by the work of one of my favourite writers, P. G. Wodehouse, and is entirely family-friendly. All profits will go to a local charity, the Mary Stevens Hospice, whose wonderful staff supported my friend and his family at a very difficult time. I do hope you consider picking up a copy and supporting this worthwhile cause. This little book would make a wonderful Christmas stocking filler.
Link below and Blurb below..
Many thanks,
See you next week - and stay spooky
BIG DAWG - and the Great Walkies Sweepstake.
By P. A. Sheldon
Big Dawg never meant to cause chaos at Poshington Place – honestly. All he wanted was a quiet weekend, a decent breakfast, and perhaps the odd flutter on the elderly ladies’ dog-walking.
Instead, he ends up battling a scheming rival, rescuing the wrong dog, becoming engaged by accident, and relying on a disgruntled Neapolitan mastiff to save him from matrimony.
With Pedro’s terrible ideas and Millhouse’s impeccable damage control, Big Dawg stumbles through a weekend of aristocratic mayhem, canine melodrama, and romantic misfires.
A hilarious country-house caper for fans of Wodehouse, sausage rolls, and badly behaved dogs.
Sources
Wikipedia
Folklorescotland.com
Dscoverscottishborders.com
Irish Folklore – The Fearful Far Darrig.
A Far Darrig - Beware the sound of strange laughter in the night.
There are many different Aos Sí - fairy folk - in Irish folklore. The whole country is rich with legends of these strange beings: some benevolent and helpful to humans, others darker and more solitary. It is to this latter group that the Far Darrig belong.
Tales of the Far Darrig and their mischief can be found throughout Ireland, though these troublesome goblins are most common in the west and south, particularly in the counties of Cork, Clare, and Kerry.
In Irish, the Far Darrig are known as Fear Dearg, meaning “Red Man”, a reference to their fondness for red clothing. They are sometimes called “Rat Boys”, as they are believed to have dark, hairy skin, long snouts, and thin tails. Depending on the source, these rattish qualities may be understated, giving them a more human appearance - but whatever form they take, they are regarded as eaters of carrion.
Of the many solitary and ill-natured fairies that haunt Ireland’s shores, there are few more wretched than the Far Darrig. He is believed to preside over evil dreams. Some stories claim he was once a mortal man who stumbled into fairyland by mistake and now tries - through tricks and warnings - to prevent others from making the same mistake.
Most active during winter, the Far Darrig delights in startling unsuspecting households by banging on their doors in the dead of night, demanding entrance and a place by the fire. To refuse such a request was considered perilous: you might awaken to find your child stolen and a changeling left in its place, or discover that your cattle had mysteriously sickened.
Should you ever encounter a Far Darrig, you would be wise to treat him with the utmost politeness, lest you fall victim to one of his cruel practical jokes. A favoured trick is to persuade an unwitting person to carry a corpse on their back and, in a gruesome twist, convince them it is merely meat, urging them to roast it on a spit.
One tale tells of a Far Darrig who disguised himself as a farmer and tricked a group of men into helping him harvest his field. They laboured diligently, only to discover that they had been gathering pebbles rather than grain. The Far Darrig, delighted with his deception, vanished into thin air, leaving the men thoroughly bewildered.
Another story describes the Far Darrig leading a band of travellers astray in the mountains. He coaxed them into a bog, where he entertained them with wild tales and strange songs. As the travellers grew increasingly intoxicated, the Far Darrig slipped away, leaving them stranded in the marshy darkness.
So take care when wandering Ireland’s lonely places, and listen closely for laughter carried on the wind. This is one creature you would do well not to meet - especially alone.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you enjoyed this little legend from the Emerald Isle. With the festive season rapidly approaching, if you’re a lover of classic Christmas ghost stories, I’ve compiled a collection of some of the finest seasonal tales of terror ever told - Pocket Christmas Horror. It makes the perfect companion for these long, dark evenings. Please consider picking up a copy-link below.
Alternatively, you’ll find plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, in the downloads section of this website.
Until next week-stay spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
OxfordReference.com
HorrorChronicles.com
BellaTerreno.com
Urban Folklore – The Gorbals Vampire
The Gorbals Vampire…
Within the Scottish city of Glasgow, on the south bank of the River Clyde, there can be found the Southern Necropolis, a sprawling Victorian cemetery, within a district called the Gorbals. It is thought the name Gorbals may come from the ecclesiastical Latin word garbale (“sheaf”) and relate to corn tithes that had to be paid to the Church, the Gorbals therefore meaning “the Sheaves.”
By the late 19th century, a mass migration from rural areas of Scotland and Ireland by people looking for work within the city saw it become a densely populated working-class area, with much poverty. But one particularly notorious resident, who stalked the area in the 1950s, has gone down in folklore. And this was a Vampire.
The Southern Necropolis is certainly a place with plenty of atmosphere - old, lichen-crusted graves and tombs huddle together, behind which could be seen a large factory: the Dixon Blazes steelworks, which vomited forth flames and black clouds of smoke into the sky both day and night. Just the sort of place any self-respecting vampire might choose to reside.
This Gorbals Vampire was described as a towering monster with red eyes and iron teeth. The local schoolchildren believed he prowled the graveyard at night, sometimes even wandering the streets in search of victims, it was even whispered that he was responsible for the deaths of two youngsters. Exactly who first started this rumour, history does not record, but it soon became the talk of the playground.
Most children, faced with such a terrible horror stalking the darkness, would lock themselves away of an evening, ensuring their parents bolted all doors and that the windows were tightly fastened.
But not the youth of the Gorbals.
These little nippers were made of sterner stuff; they were not content to cower away. One evening in September 1954, hundreds of children took to the streets armed with homemade stakes and knives, some accompanied by large, excitable dogs. These pint-sized monster hunters gathered in the cemetery, determined to put an end to the undead fiend who stalked their district. They ranged from teenagers to very young children - one four-year-old was reported among their number, though whether he was armed I cannot say! The crowd was so large that the police had to be called to break it up.
The monster hunt continued for several nights, despite the authorities’ best efforts, and some children even claimed to have seen the vampire, which they described as a dark figure lurking amongst the graves and shadowed stone angels, burning red eyes watching them with sinister intent.
Eventually, the panic ran its course and, over time, the excitement died down. But the story made national headlines, with newspapers describing it as “mass hysteria” or “moral panic.” People blamed American horror comics. In response to the uproar, the British government introduced the Children and Young Persons (Harmful Publications) Act of 1955, effectively banning violent comics that were seen as corrupting youth. This was one of the earliest instances of media-driven moral legislation in post-war Britain.
Today, there are many theories about the origin of the monster. Some suggest the “vampire with iron teeth” may have originated from biblical imagery - Daniel 7:7 speaks of a beast with “great iron teeth.”
Others think it was inspired by “Jenny wi’ the Airn (Iron) Teeth”. She was said to have been a hideous witch who prowled around Glasgow Green in the 1800s, with a reputation for devouring children who refused to go to sleep. A rhyme was written about her:
Jenny wi’ the Airn Teeth
Come an tak’ the bairn (child)
Tak’ him to your den
Where the bowgie bides (bogie lives)
But first put baith (both) your big teeth
In his wee plump sides.
Though no vampire has been reported in the Gorbals for many years now, and urban regeneration has greatly changed the area, you can still visit the Southern Necropolis- though I would only recommend doing so by the light of day.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this little piece of Halloween folklore has set you trembling with pleasurable fear. If you enjoy what I do, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow - link below.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Until next week — stay spooky.
Sources:
glasgowworld.com
Wikipedia
spookyscotland.net
scotsman.com
Horrific Folklore – Black Annis the Murderous Hag.
Black Annis - Evil Hag or Goodly Nun?
The Dane Hills can be found in the county of Leicestershire, in the English East Midlands. The area is understood to be so named because it was the site of a Viking encampment around 877 AD. Deep within this windswept countryside lies a lonely cave known as Black Annis’ Bower – a place of grim repute, whispered to be the lair of a witch or hag who goes by that name.
Black Annis, also known as Black Agnes or Black Anna, was not merely a lonely old woman trying to eke out a living on the edge of society. Her reputation was such that there are few other entities within English folklore that are considered as deadly and fearsome.
The unfortunate old time witnesses who claimed to have seen this hideous crone described her as a blue-faced hag with claws of iron and a murderous taste for human flesh – most especially the flesh of children. As with so many terrifying beings of folklore, Black Annis was a sort of bogeyman – or, more precisely, bogeywoman – used to terrify any wayward child into good behaviour.
The isolated residents of the Dane Hills would whisper of her emerging from her cave at night and roaming the hills in search of victims. Usually, this would be cattle left out to pasture, but should she stumble upon a cottage, she was said to reach through the window and drag out her victim, carrying them off to her bower.
The legends state that this bower was dug from the cliff by her own hands, tearing into the sandstone with her iron claws. One piece of folklore stated that when Black Annis ground her teeth, the noise of it would carry for miles on the wind – a sign that she was about her dark business – and cottagers would know to lock their doors, shutter their windows, and bank the flames in the fireplace high. It was rumoured that cottages built close to her lair were given small windows, and that the residents would employ a little folk magic, hanging protective herbs over them to keep the hag at bay.
English historian Ronald Hutton has suggested that the legend might stem from a real person, Agnes Scott, a Dominican nun who cared for a community of lepers in the area. It is thought this devout woman dwelt in the cave, and that, over the centuries, memories of her good deeds became warped and corrupted.
Many of the modern conceptions of Black Annis were popularised in a poem by John Heyrick, given in full in County Folklore (1895), an excerpt of which I give below:
’Tis said the soul of mortal man recoiled
To view Black Annis’ eye, so fierce and wild;
Vast talons, foul with human flesh, there grew
In place of hands, and features livid blue
Glared in her visage, whilst her obscene waist
Warm skins of human victims close embraced.
Not without terror they the cave survey,
Where hung the monstrous trophies of her sway;
’Tis said that in the rock large rooms were found,
Scooped with her claws beneath the flinty ground.
It was also supposed that Black Annis could take the form of a monstrous cat, and this led to a local ritual in early spring, where a dead cat would be dragged before a pack of hounds in front of her bower to celebrate the end of winter.
The earliest known written reference to Black Annis comes from an eighteenth-century title deed that referred to a parcel of land as “Black Anny’s Bower Close”, dated 13th–14th May 1764. There is some debate as to the exact location of Black Annis’ cave, though one of the most widely attributed sites is a cave in woodland close to the village of Scraptoft.
Perhaps you, dear friend, will be brave enough to explore these woods, to seek out the cave and venture into that dark recess in the earth. Perhaps you might share your adventure with us, should you return!
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. As a token of my gratitude for your support, I have a few free scary stories for you to enjoy over this dark season — please visit the download section.
If you favour something more substantial, click the link below and pick up a copy of my latest book, Threads of Shadow. But fair warning - if you do, prepare to be horrified.
Until next week - stay spooky.
Links
Sources:
mythologyplanet.com
hiddengemsleics.co.uk
Wikipedia
The Leiscester Chronicle
HALLOWEEN FOLKLORE – THE PHANTOMS OF NETLEY ABBEY
There is more than one ghost at Netley Abbey…
The ancient Abbey of Netley now lies in ruins - like so many British abbeys - after King Henry VIII seized it during the Dissolution of the Monasteries in the 1530s. Over the years the building has fallen into its current sad, if not romantic, state.
Netley Abbey is located in the county of Hampshire in the south-east of England. It was founded in 1239 by Peter des Roches, the Bishop of Winchester, for the Cistercian order.
There are many legends and stories associated with this lonely ruin, but one in particular is directly linked to the date 31 October - Halloween.
The story told in the area is that anyone who dares to enter the ruins on this most bleak of evenings had best beware, for the phantoms of three misty women are said to appear upon the walls of the abbey, wandering silently, silhouetted against the skyline. All around the crumbling building the ghostly sound of church bells can be heard, carried on the night breeze. Who these women are, or why they walk on this night, is not known - but local folk know to avoid the place on Samhain evening.
Yet the spectral ladies are not the only horrors that lie waiting within the abbey. There are also tales of Blind Peter, another phantom most often sighted around Halloween. He is believed to be the ghost of a monk who roams the ruins and is linked to stories of treasure buried somewhere within the site.
When King Henry VIII took control of the monasteries in the sixteenth century, he claimed their considerable wealth for the Crown. To prevent this happening to their own riches, the monks of Netley are said to have hidden their valuables in a secret passage, sealing them away with one monk left behind to guard them - the unfortunate Blind Peter.
Over the centuries many have tried to find this treasure, but only one man ever came close. His name was Slown.
He reportedly discovered the hidden passage and entered it, while his friends waited anxiously outside for his return. After a long time, he staggered from out the darkness, his face grey and his eyes wild, and fell to his knees before them. He managed to gasp the words, “Seal it up!” before dropping dead at their feet.
Another tale tells of a builder named Walter Taylor, who was commissioned to demolish part of the monastery church. The night before the job was due to be started, he told his wife of a terrible dream in which he was warned that he would pay for his sacrilege with his life if he went ahead with the work. Foolishly, he dismissed the warning - and with a fatal inevitability - he was killed the very next day by falling masonry.
Finally, there are two modern witness accounts of Netley’s ghostly denizens. The first came from a Mrs Neal, who in 1970 claimed to have seen a tall, lean figure in a dark brown cloak with its hood drawn low over the face, beckoning her slowly towards the abbey grounds. Then, in 1981, two people camping within the ruins reported being woken in the night by a “sinister force” that caused a sudden drop in temperature and seemed to linger around their tent. Their dog growled continuously and refused to leave their side to confront the unseen visitor.
Today, Netley Abbey is cared for by English Heritage and welcomes all visitors - both the living and, perhaps, even the dead.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you’ve enjoyed this piece of Halloween folklore. If you did, please consider picking up a copy of my new book Threads of Shadow - link below.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Until next week - stay spooky.
Sources .
The National Trust Website.
Hampshire Live.
davidfarrant.org.
Wikipedia.
Halloween Folklore – The Terrifying Black Tailless Sow
The Tailless black sow - a very effect way to enforce curfew rules…
In Wales, the first day of winter is called Calan Gaeaf — the 1st of November. It is a grey day, marking the beginning of a long, cold struggle through the frozen season, with the dim light of spring but a distant dream.
Nos Calan Gaeaf is the name the Welsh give to the 31st of October - Halloween. Along with all the usual connections to witches, devils, and boggarts, it was considered a Ysbrydnos (spirit night). Traditionally, people would avoid stiles, churchyards, and crossroads on this night, as it was thought that all manner of ghosts would gather in these lonely places.
Nos Calan Gaeaf was also a time when rural communities came together. The night would be filled with feasts, apple bobbing, and large village bonfires. It was a harvest festival, and one popular game in rural communities was called Caseg Fedi – The Harvest Mare. The last bit of corn was not harvested but tied up in the middle of the field. This was the Caseg Fedi, and the menfolk would take turns to throw their sickles at it; the one to cut it down was the winner. Great sport was made with it, throwing it into neighbours’ fields or trying to sneak it into people’s homes.
But there was a black legend associated with this the most shadowed night of the year - that of Hwch Ddu Gwta, the Black Tailless Sow.
She is described as a huge, terrifying black pig - tailless and with glowing red eyes. Sometimes she was accompanied by Y Ladi Wen heb ddim pen, the White Headless Lady. They haunted the lanes and fields about Welsh villages, and children were warned not to stray too far from home and to be back indoors well before dusk, for should they encounter the Black Pig, it would chase them down and attempt to gobble them up.
There was a fearful chant associated with this demonic porker; it went like this:
“Adref, adref, am y cyntaf,
Hwch ddu gwta a gipio’r ola’.”
“Home, home, at once,
The tailless black sow shall snatch the last one.”
As the village bonfire died down, there was a tradition in some parts of Wales that children would gather around it, chanting this dreadful verse. Then a villager, wearing a pigskin, would take on the role of the Black Sow, leaping through the fire’s dying flames to chase the children home.
So, should you ever find yourself wandering the Welsh countryside on the 31st of October, and hear a distant snuffling and grunting carried on the autumn wind – turn about and hurry home. It might just be a regular Pig… but it might be something far more sinister and threatening.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this little piece of Halloween folklore set you trembling with a pleasurable fear. If you enjoy what I do, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow — link below.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Until next week — stay spooky.
Halloween Folklore – The Devil’s Cradle
Auld Nick about his business…
Welcome back, friends. As promised, today I bring you another piece of strange Halloween folklore - this time featuring that international mischief-maker, Auld Nick (the Devil).
The village of Dollar can be found in the county of Clackmannanshire, in central Scotland, about twelve miles east of the city of Stirling. Despite its name, Dollar has no connection with the currency. It is thought the name may originate from Scots Gaelic, meaning “dark” or “gloomy”, or possibly have Pictish roots and mean “a water meadow”.
Not far from this little village lies Burngrens Glen, a wooded area with a stream that bubbles pleasantly beneath its shady boughs. Within this lonely glen can be found a stone shaped like a cradle - it is a place with a grim reputation, and rightly so, for it is believed to be where witches and warlocks gather to perform sinister rituals on dark nights. But the glen is also believed to have a worse visitor than even these dark-hearted magicians, for every Halloween it is said to be visited by the Devil himself.
People are advised to stay away from the area on the night of 31st of October. For it is then that the stone cradle is said to swing back and forth in mid-air with nothing holding it up. Seated snugly within it is “Old Sandy” - a local nickname for the Devil - enjoying being rocked by his followers from the witch cult. They spend all night with “Old Sandy” until sunrise sends them on their way, not to be seen again until the next Halloween night.
It would be a foolish person indeed who ventured there on that particular night of the year - and yet, according to local legend, someone once did. Here is his story:
One Halloween night, a young man who had been drinking with his friends and boasted in front of them that he would visit the stone alone. Taking a bottle of whisky to give him some Dutch courage, he soon set out.
The stone was not far away, so he reached his destination quickly. After a good gulp of whisky, he sat down on the cradle-shaped stone, determined to dispute its rightful ownership should the Devil appear and claim it as his seat.
Every rustle of a leaf, as the wind whistled through the glen, seemed to the young man to herald the Devil’s approach, so he took a few more gulps of John Barleycorn. However, due to the amount he drank, he soon fell asleep upon the stone.
His friends, who had followed him, approached the sleeping man. Shouting and making loud noises, they grabbed him and carried him, half-awake, to the burn. They dipped him in repeatedly, and every time he was immersed in the water, they yelled loudly. The young man, in his drunken and sleepy state - thinking a whole legion of devils surrounded him - was frightened almost to death. He screamed for mercy so pitifully that his friends soon stopped their mischief.
No sooner had the young man got to his feet than he rushed off up the glen and ran home, resolving never to drink again or attempt to toy with the Devil. For a long time, he did not know it had been his friends who had tormented him.
I wonder if anyone today would be brave enough to venture down into the glen on that night of black repute — and if they did, what might they see?
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. As a token of my gratitude for your support, I have a few free scary stories for you to enjoy over this dark season - please visit the download section.
If you favour something more substantial, click the link below and pick up a copy of my latest book, Threads of Shadow. But fair warning - if you do, prepare to be horrified.
Until next week — stay spooky.
Sources
The Ochils: Placenames, History, Tradition – Angus Watson (1995)
Wikipedia
clackmannanshire.scot (accessed 10th December 2023)
Halloween Folklore – Stingy Jack & The Jack O’Lantern
Stingy Jack & his Jack O’Lantern...
The month of October is upon us; it is the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. The cold wind nips the leaves on the trees, turning them scarlet, brown and orange, and Halloween bears down upon us like a spectral freight train. Sorry - getting a bit carried away - but I do love the autumn. The spooky festival is an old favourite of mine.
Anyway, I digress. As a nod to Halloween, throughout this dark month I’ll turn my blog towards some seasonal folklore. Let us begin with the legend of Stingy Jack.
There can be few things more closely linked to Halloween than the Jack O’Lantern. These carved pumpkins are to this celebration what decorated pine trees are to Christmas - except that they are scarier, and have a much darker origin story. To learn about it, we must travel back in time to the mist-shrouded hills and woods of Ireland.
Stingy Jack, also known as Jack the Smith, Drunk Jack, Jack-o'-lantern and Pumpkin Jack, is an old tale told beside winter fires in Irish cottages, or muttered about in warm taverns to scare locals on their journey home. It goes something like this:
Jack was a drunken blacksmith, and what we in business might call a bit of a wrong ’un. One day he uncharacteristically decided to help an old man, who turned out to be an angel. As a reward, the angel offered Jack three wishes.
This was a mistake.
Rather than use the wishes to better his lot - or better still to perform acts of charity, which would no doubt have been the angel’s chosen preference - Jack decided to use his wishes to punish anyone who sat in his chair, took wood from his tree, or tried to take his tools.
The angel, naturally disappointed, punished Jack by preventing him from entering Heaven.
Enter the Devil.
Jack was drunk and wandering through the countryside at night when he came upon a body on the cobblestone path. It had an eerie grimace on its face and turned out to be the Devil himself. Jack realised this was his end, so he made a final request: to have one last drink of ale before being dragged to Hell.
Satan took Jack to the local pub. Upon quenching his thirst, Jack asked the Devil to pay for the ale. Jack convinced him to turn himself into a silver coin to pay the bartender, and to change back once no one was looking. Satan did so - possibly impressed by Jack’s unyielding cunning.
Shrewdly, Jack slipped the now-transformed Devil (in coin form) into his pocket, which also contained a crucifix. The crucifix’s presence kept the Devil trapped, unable to escape. To win his freedom, Satan was forced to agree to Jack’s demand: in exchange for his release, he must spare Jack’s soul for ten years.
Ten years passed, and the Devil once more appeared. As Satan once more prepared to take him to Hell, Jack asked if he could have one last apple, as he was hungry. Satan - who clearly had not learnt his lesson the first time - climbed up the branches of a nearby apple tree. Quickly, Jack surrounded the tree with crucifixes. Frustrated at being entrapped yet again, the Devil demanded his release. This time, Jack demanded that Satan should never take his soul to Hell. Reluctantly, the Devil agreed and was set free.
When Jack finally died, he found that he was barred from both Heaven and Hell, and was forced to wander the earth as a spirit, with only a glowing ember in a carved turnip to light his way.
It has been suggested that this is the origin of the Jack O’Lantern, though scholars have also proposed that such carvings could be connected to ancient Celtic head cults.
Much like Jack, the people of Ireland created their Jack O’Lanterns from turnips and other root vegetables. I made one from a turnip when I was a boy and it was bluming hard work to carve the thing!
Fortunately, America had the answer: pumpkins - much easier to hollow out and carve, whilst also providing a pleasing orange glow.
A Jack O’Lantern is also another name for a will-o’-the-wisp, those mischievous spirits seen around bogs and marshy lands. It’s easy to imagine a lonely traveller on a dark Halloween road seeing such a light dancing about, imagining it to be Jack and his turnip lantern roaming the countryside.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog, my friend. I want to give a huge thank you to my wonderful wife, who takes the time to read and edit my posts - without her hard work, the whole thing would be total gobbledygook.
FINALLY – FREE BOOK ALERT
From now until 8th October, my new book Threads of Shadow will be available free on Kindle - so don’t delay, download your copy today. Then curl up by the fire and prepare for some pleasing chills. It’s the perfect Halloween read.
Links below.
Stay Spooky.
Sources
www.carnegiemnh.org
The Very First Halloween Jack-O’-Lantern, Bill Russo, 2017
Wikipedia
Black Shuck – The Grim English Devil Dog.
Black Shuck - Scratching to get in.
East Anglia is an area of south-east England which includes the counties of Norfolk, Suffolk and Cambridgeshire; some parts of Essex are also considered to belong to the region. Its name comes from the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of the East Angles, whose people originally came from northern Germany, from an area called Angeln — a peninsula on the coast of Jutland.
East Anglia is claimed to be home to a ghostly black dog that haunts the coastline and countryside of the region. Referred to by the local folk as Black Shuck, Old Shuck, or simply Shuck, he is described as a huge beast, often the size of a pony or even a fully grown horse. The name “Shuck” likely comes from the Old English scucca or sceocca, meaning “demon” or “devil”, though some have suggested it could also derive from shucky, meaning shaggy.
A printed account of the beast appears in 1850, when Reverend E. S. Taylor described him in the journal Notes and Queries:
“Shuck the Dog-fiend: this phantom I have heard many persons in East Norfolk, and even Cambridgeshire, describe as having seen as a black shaggy dog, with fiery eyes and of immense size, and who visits churchyards at midnight.”
Perhaps the best-known description, however, comes from Highways & Byways in East Anglia by W. A. Dutt (1901):
“He takes the form of a huge black dog, and prowls along dark lanes and lonesome field footpaths, where, although his howling makes the hearer’s blood run cold, his footfalls make no sound. You may know him at once, should you see him, by his fiery eye; he has but one, and that, like the Cyclops’, is in the middle of his head. But such an encounter might bring you the worst of luck: it is even said that to meet him is to be warned that your death will occur before the end of the year. So you will do well to shut your eyes if you hear him howling; shut them even if you are uncertain whether it is the dog-fiend or the voice of the wind you hear. Should you never set eyes on our Norfolk Snarleyow you may perhaps doubt his existence, and, like other learned folks, tell us that his story is nothing but the old Scandinavian myth of the black hound of Odin, brought to us by the Vikings who long ago settled down on the Norfolk coast.”
Witnesses who have encountered Old Shuck often describe an aura of dread. He is said to appear silently, padding up behind travellers on dark lanes or waiting in the shadows at crossroads, his single eye blazing like an infernal lantern. As A. W. Dutt points out he is usually considered a death omen, and so the thought of meeting him filled the local people with fear. However, on rare occasions, he is described as escorting the witness - perhaps even protecting them from some unseen threat.
The most notable of his appearances was said to have occurred on 4th August 1577, recorded that same year by Abraham Fleming in A Straunge and Terrible Wunder.
Fleming describes how Black Shuck burst through the doors of Holy Trinity Church at Blythburgh. His arrival was marked by a clap of thunder; he ran up the nave past the terrified congregation, killing a man and a boy as he did so and causing the steeple to collapse. As the dog departed, he left scorch marks on the north door, which can still be seen at the church today. (See photos.)
On the same day, the beast is said to have appeared again - this time at St Mary’s Church in Bungay. Once more, he broke into the church during a religious service, running among the kneeling worshippers, biting heads and breaking necks before vanishing again.
Other accounts attribute these events to the Devil himself, and the scorch marks on the door are still referred to by local people as the Devil’s fingerprints, commemorated in the following verse:
All down the church in midst of fire,
The hellish monster flew,
And passing onward to the quire,
He many people slew.
Black dogs are common in English folklore; nearly every county has its own dark hound said to stalk the land, and very few of them are friendly. Indeed, it would seem that evening rambles down lonely country lanes are a rather hazardous occupation in this country. Perhaps in the future I will blog about a few more of these beasts — let me know if you would like me to.
FREE KINDLE BOOK – UNTIL 8th OCTOBER
THREADS OF SHADOW
Greetings, friends of the uncanny. my new book Threads of Shadow is free to claim on Kindle, but only until 8th October. Do not linger too long; the offer fades with the turning of the moon. It’s the perfect companion for these darkening nights and the chill approach of Halloween.
link Amazon - UK - www.amazon.co.uk/Threads-Shadow-Wendlelow-Mysteries-Sheldon-ebook/dp/B0FBL8MB21
link Amazon US - www.amazon.com/Threads-Shadow-Wendlelow-Mysteries-Sheldon-ebook/dp/B0FBL8MB21
Until next week, stay spooky.
Sources
Highways & Byways in East Anglia by W. A. Dutt (1901)
A Straunge and Terrible Wunder by Abraham Fleming (1577)
Notes and Queries: by Reverend E. S. Taylor (1850)
Wikipedia
Irish Ghost Lore – Corney the Dublin Poltergeist
Corney the Poltergeist…
Before I begin today’s spooky blog, I want to say a big thank you to all the people who take the time to come here to read my witterings on the strange and unnatural.
As Hallowe’en is slowly emerging from the mists and lurching uncontrollably towards us, I thought it might be nice to provide a special spooky gift: a free copy of my story The Postman’s Tale. I have made it available in EPUB and PDF, so everyone should be able to enjoy it. I recommend reading it in the evening, preferably when wild winds are rattling the windowpanes and making ghostly groans through the trees, whilst you are curled up by the fire with a warm drink. Links to the story will appear at the end of the blog.
Now, on with this week’s tale.
Dublin’s fair city is the capital of Ireland and the largest in the country. It is situated south of the Dublin Mountains, which form part of the Wicklow range. The Irish name for Dublin is Baile Átha Cliath. The settlement was established by the Gaels in the 7th century.
Many years ago, there was a mansion in the city, described as a pretty one, and it was bought by a family with much wealth, who lived there with their servants. Though its precise location seems to have been lost to time, it was believed to have been close to a place called St Stephen’s Green.
Now, this mansion housed more than just the family and its retainers. It was also home to something else – something darker and more terrifying – an entity, a poltergeist who went by the name of Corney.
For a short while the family lived in the house undisturbed, until one day the father of the household injured himself and was forced to get about with the aid of a stick. Whenever he moved about the house he made a thumping noise upon the floorboards.
That very night the stick disappeared.
And everything changed.
The family and servants searched all about the property, looking for the missing item. The feel of the house became more oppressive, and eventually they gave up and returned to bed. The next morning, as they prepared for breakfast, a strange voice was heard calling up from the cellar. The witnesses described it as sounding as if it were speaking through an empty barrel.
The voice introduced itself as Corney, though oddly it denied that this was really its name. All members of the household heard the booming voice.
“A fine morning to you!” it said. “Close the door above, for it is cold where I am.”
A brave servant was sent into the cellar to see who was hiding there, when he returned he was quite shaken, and reported not a living soul in that darkened space.
The thing in the basement became quite active. It moved items about the house, cheekily pinched servants as they worked. It loved imitating the sound of the master’s walking stick thumping against the floor.
The voice often spoke, always from the grim darkness of the cellar. As the days went by it became more of a nuisance, hiding cutlery and hanging vegetables from the store about the house like Christmas decorations. Corney laid claim to one particular cupboard in the kitchen. Nothing was allowed in there – any item placed inside was promptly tossed out.
He would regularly interrupt conversations that occurred in the kitchen. One man was left un-harrassed by this spectral nuisance, and that was the uncle of the family. Unlike everybody else he had no fear of the entity, openly mocking it and calling it “Four Eyes”, one time going as far as to bang on the cellar door with a poker and demand Corney speak to him, but he was only greeted with silence.
The next morning the poker was found broken in two.
He also was silent in the company of priests, claiming he would never speak whilst “those good men were in the house.” When a courageous individual asked for details about the ghost Corney reply, “I was a bad man, and I died the death.” He even named the room in the house in which he had passed.
When asked where he was now he said, “The Great God would not permit me to tell you.”
This troublesome tomb-dodger seemed to have a dislike of being locked up, for he would, with great regularity, destroy any number of locks and keys within the mansion.
As time went on, Corney grew bolder, and the lady of the house found it harder to retain servants. They slept in the kitchen and complained of being terrorised at night by the wicked poltergeist. She tried moving them into the attic, but Corney simply followed them there, announcing: “Haha, here I am! I’m not limited to just one place in the house.”
Only one person ever claimed to have seen him – a young boy of about seven years old, who ran into his parents’ bedroom at night terrified. He described seeing a naked old man “with a curl on his forehead, and skin like a clothes-horse!” (meaning very thin and pale).
One Hallowe’en things took a darker turn when Corney announced that he would be having guests that evening. As that night wore on, many different voices were heard about the house, and come the next morning the water in the house was as black as ink, and the bread and butter in the pantry were streaked with sooty finger marks.
Eventually the family were forced to sell the mansion at a greatly reduced price. It was supposed the house was bought by a widow, though whether she was disturbed in any way by Corney is not known.
It has been suggested that Corney may have been the spectre of an old servant called Cornelius, who died in the property with unfinished business. But the full truth of his origins will – I suppose – never be known.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog. I do hope it gave you a pleasing shudder. Below is the link to my free story. If you enjoy it please consider supporting me by buying a copy of one of my books from the shop.
Until next week, stay spooky.
Sources
True Irish Ghost Stories – St John D. Seymour (1914)
Wikipedia
yourirish.com