Book Update - ‘Threads of Shadow’ Early Release.
Threads of Shadow
Hello, my friends. Just a short update on the release of my next book in the Wendlelow Mysteries, entitled Threads of Shadow. I had planned to release the book in early July (around the 1st), with the Kindle version being made available for pre-order today.
However…
Amazon have made the Kindle edition available for purchase today. I’m not entirely sure how this happened - perhaps I did something wrong - or it may also be a mistake on Amazon’s part. But, it’s not a problem; it just means Kindle readers will have access to the book a few weeks early.
The softback and hardback editions will be available to purchase on 1st July, for anyone who would like to own a physical copy of the book.
A big request to anyone who purchases a copy of any of my books: please consider leaving a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. It really helps us authors a lot.
I hope you have as much joy reading Threads as I did writing it. I enclose a link to the book on Amazon.
Stay spooky, friends..
Highland Folklore - The Monstorous Fachan
He is hopping mad…
The Highlands lie in the north of Scotland – a vast, sparsely populated area dominated by mountainous regions and large tracts of moorland. It is a stunning but harsh landscape, inhabited by hardy men and women.
In the Highland regions, Scots banded together in kinship groups called clans, from the Scottish Gaelic clann, literally meaning 'children', but more broadly 'kindred'. You did not need to have direct family connections to the clan chief in order to adopt his name. Many clansmen took the clan surname as a show of solidarity, or to obtain a degree of protection and resources.
It is easy to imagine these family groups gathered together after a hard day's work, drawn close to their peat fire, sharing stories – tales of love, tales of adventure, tales of terror.
High in the peaks surrounding Rannoch Moor lies the source of the River Etive. It carves a sinuous path through the landscape, eventually emptying into the sea loch, Loch Etive. On its journey to the ocean, it passes through Glen Etive—a wild region, home to the Dwarf of Glen Etive also known as The Fachan.
The Fachan, is described as either a dwarf or sometimes as a giant, a ferocious being, possessing a single eye in the middle of its face, a single hand protruding from its chest in place of arms, and a single leg emerging from its central axis. It has a solitary tuft of hair on the top of its head. It was believed to hop about with great agility. Given the strong historical ties between Scotland and Ireland, it is possible that the name Fachan derives from the Irish word for giant, fathach.
The Fachan was a terrifying presence. It was said to be a solitary creature, hostile to any who wandered into his glen. In battle, he would carry a large club, which he wielded with great effect against intruders. Any disappearances in Glen Etive or the surrounding area would be blamed on this vile monster.
Some believe the Fachan to be an imperfect folk memory of a druid in the corriugneacht (crane position), in which the ancient priest would stand on one leg, with one eye closed and one hand extended before him. Other theories suggest his origins lie in tales of the Scottish wild man.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. If you enjoy stories of ghosts, monsters, and the uncanny, please consider supporting me by purchasing a copy of my book Fireside Horror—a novel told in short stories. It is currently available from Audible, narrated by the wonderfully talented Aubrey Parsons, who does a marvellous job of bringing the stories and characters to life. Visit my shop for more information.
Until next time, stay spooky.
Book Update - Hurrahhh
Lilly celebrates her freedom.
Hurrah – splendid news! The advanced copies of my new book Threads of Shadow are winging their way to readers as we speak, and the release date is officially set: 1st July 2025.
Meanwhile, now that book two is out of my hands, my long-suffering dog Lily is finally off footstool duty and back where she belongs – curled up on my lap, thoroughly content. Time at last for a well-earned breather and a few days of glorious loafing!
And there's more good news – the Kindle edition of Threads of Shadow will be available to pre-order from 5th June 2025.
In the meantime, you can enjoy my first book Fireside Horror, available on Audible, and in paperback, hardback, and Kindle. Links can be found in the shop tab on my website.
Stay spooky, friends.
Ghostly Folklore - The Herlathingi. Army of the Dead.
The army of the dead rides forth…
The Welsh Marches are an area in the United Kingdom between England and Wales, particularly the counties of Shropshire and Herefordshire. In medieval Europe, the term Marches or Mark was used to describe any borderland. It could be a dangerous place to live, as raids and skirmishes were not uncommon.
In England, the King appointed Marcher Lords to guard the borders between the two countries. These men were given a greater degree of independence and had very specific rights, allowing them to better handle the dangers they faced.
The following tale ends in this oft-troubled region. It is a tale of a strange goblin lord, and an army of the dead.
King Herla was a mythical ruler of Britain. One day, he met a red-bearded dwarf with hooves for feet, mounted on a goat. The little fellow told King Herla that he too is a king, and the two make a pact: the dwarf will attend King Herla’s wedding, if he in turn will then visit the kingdom of the dwarf and be present for his.
The dwarf king is true to his word and attends Herla’s marriage, bringing with him a great host and many fine gifts.
One year later, the dwarf king dispatches a messenger requesting that King Herla be present for his nuptials. So, gathering his entourage about him, the King rides forth. He comes to a cave and, upon entering, finds himself in an underground realm illuminated with strange lamps.
The fairy wedding lasts for three whole days, and when finally King Herla prepares to ride forth, his diminutive host approaches him and offers him a gift: a small hound, which sits on King Herla’s lap.
Twelfth-century Latin author Walter Map delivers the remainder of this tragic tale in the book De Nugis Curialium:
When Herla and his band return to the human realm, they encounter an elderly shepherd, whom Herla asks for news of his queen. The old man, astonished, replies, “I can barely understand your speech, for I am a Saxon and you are a Briton.” The elderly shepherd describes a legend of a very ancient queen of the Britons bearing that name mentioned - she was the wife of King Herla who was said to have disappeared with a dwarf king into that very cliff and was never seen again. The shepherd also adds that the Saxons had been in possession of the kingdom for the last two hundred years and had driven out the native Britons.
Herla, who thought he had been away for just three days, is so amazed he can barely stay in the saddle. Some of his men jump down from their horses, only to crumble quickly into dust. Herla warned his remaining companions not to dismount, so they ride on, eventually becoming a ghostly host called The Herlathingi, doomed to ride for all eternity. It is believed by some that this spectral war band eventually rode into the River Wye in Hereford during the reign of King Henry II, never to be seen again.
You are forced to imagine the horror that must have gripped the minds of the poor local medieval peasantry at the idea that a sombre host of undead warriors might make its silent way past them, as they wandered England’s byways on some nocturnal errand.
The Herlathingi have also been linked with The Wild Hunt, which is usually associated with the god Woden in his guise as leader of the Germanic Wild Hunt. The name Herlathingi is thought to be related to the French Harlequin (a variant form of Harlequin, Hellequin), the leader of the Wild Hunt in Old French tradition.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. I hope you are keeping well.
Until next time, stay spooky.
Book Update – Nearly Done
Wait is that the beating of wings I hear on the night breeze…..
After many hours of writing, reading, editing, then re-reading and editing , then re-reading and editing again and then once more for good luck, I have finally completed Threads of Shadow. A huge thanks must go out to Carson Buckingham, who worked tirelessly editing the book and suggesting changes to make the overall story clearer. Carson is an American journalist and author, and a real godsend.
So what next?
Even after all that editing, reading, and eyestrain, there is still one last thing that needs doing: I must send out copies of my book to advance readers to look for any final typo goblins lurking within the sinister depths of the text, and to make sure that the story is clear and understandable to fresh eyes.
So, the advance readers’ copies have been requested. They usually take a week or two to arrive. Then they will be dispatched to my willing victims… sorry, volunteers, to read. Once this is done, the book should be ready for release.
I await the arrival of the review copies, as they wing their sinister way to me.
Stay Spooky my friends.
Devon Folklore - Wistman’s Wood.
The Wisht Hounds…
In the southern English county of Devon lies the mysterious Wistman’s Wood. It is a rare example of a stunted oak forest. With their twisted, moss-covered branches, the trees look like something out of a grim fairy tale. It is thought to date back to the prehistoric era.
Wistman’s Wood lies deep within Dartmoor, a place simply teeming with strange and fearful tales. It is believed that once the woodland spread all over Dartmoor, making it a substantial forest. But the years have seen it greatly reduced in size, and now it covers just over 8 acres of land.
There are a few possible origins for the name Wistman’s Wood. Because of its supposed links to the ancient Druids, its name could come from the Saxon word Witan, which means “wise man” – so it would be “Wise Man’s Wood”. Alternatively, it may derive from the dialect word wisht, meaning eerie/uncanny or pixie-led/haunted.
The Wisht Hounds
Though a lovely place to visit during the hours of daylight, much of the wood’s charm vanishes with the coming of darkness, for it is said that the trees conceal the kennels of the diabolic Wisht Hounds – the very spectral hounds that can be heard running with the Wild Hunt over the lonely moors. Exactly who leads this hunt cannot be agreed upon: some say it is the Devil himself, chasing down lost souls, while others claim it is a spirit of the land called ‘Old Crockern’, who lives nearby on Crockern Tor. Even today, nocturnal travellers report the sounds of baying hounds running through the mist.
Druids
As previously mentioned, Wistman’s Wood has long been associated with the ancient Druids – a class of prehistoric priests who held much sway in ancient Britain. It is thought that they once held their rituals beneath the wood’s moss-covered trees. In a central grove is a large boulder called the Buller Stone (named after 19th-century botanist Wentworth Buller). It is also known as the Druid’s Stone, and folk claim it is where the old-time priests held their most important rituals. Indeed, ghostly figures seen walking amongst the trees are thought to be the restless spirits of Druids – or their sacrificial victims.
Ghosts
Near to the northern side of the wood is the ancient Lych Way, or ‘Way of the Dead’ – a track that was used to carry corpses for burial at Lydford. There have been reports of a ghostly procession of monastic-looking men, dressed in habits, slowly walking past the trees in sombre silence. There is also said to be the ghost of a little dog called ‘Jumbo’ that died when it was bitten by a nesting adder. He has been seen and heard scurrying about the in valley.
Normally, I would encourage people to visit such a beautiful area, but sadly an increase in tourists has seen much damage done to the woodland. It is now advised that people admire the trees from afar and not risk venturing beneath their venerable boughs.
If you have not already done so, now is a great time for a scary treat - so pick up a copy of my book Fireside Horror to immerse yourself in the first part of The Wendlelow Mysteries. It is available on Audible and Amazon - click on the Shop in the menu above for more information.
Stay Spooky my friend.
Book Update –Unpicking the Shadowy Knot.
Its alive……….
As my new book - Threads of Shadow - approaches its release date I continue with what has been the fairly large task of editing the all-important final story. This is the one that will bring all the other tales together and change the book from a collection of short stories into something more akin to a novel. It’s certainly been a hard slog.
As with my first book, Fireside Horror, that last chapter is the tricky one – making sure all the plot threads come together in a logical, understandable way is not as easy s it sounds.
However, today, I finally unpicked the final knot. Now I just have to review the manuscript for errors (again), and then prepare it for publishing. when that is done I can dispatch the ARCs (Advanced Reader Copies) to a few willing victims to get their feedback and make sure everything is clear. Then I can release the blummin’ thing and start all over again with the third and final book.
If you have not already done so, now is a great time for a scary treat - so pick up a copy of my book Fireside Horror to immerse yourself in the first part of The Wendlelow Mysteries. It is available on Audible and Amazon - click on the Shop in the menu above for more information.
Thanks for taking the time to read this blog. Stay spooky, my friends.
Welsh Folklore - Corpse Candles.
The Corpse Candle…
Corpse roads, also known as Lych Ways and bier roads – along with many other regional names – can be found throughout Great Britain. They provided a route to transport the dead from remote villages to places of burial. They could be very long tracks, often winding their way through remote areas and over difficult terrain.
Long corpse roads would frequently have coffin-rests on them. These were stones on which coffins could be placed while the bearers took a much-needed break. Because the coffin did not touch the ground, it is believed that the spirit could not escape from it and infect the land.
The entrances to British churchyards frequently had lychgates – a lych is the old Saxon word for corpse, so it literally means corpse gate. They consisted of a four-pillared, roofed, porch-like structure over a gate. Inside these small constructions, there were often benches on which you could put a coffin, enabling them to function like the stone coffin-rests.
There are many stories of the Canwyll Corff (pron. can-noo-will cor-f), or corpse candles, in Welsh tradition – today ghost hunters would probably call them orbs – and they are directly connected to Lych Ways. Witnesses describe them as small balls of yellow or blue light that follow the trail of these old roads, passing across moors, through forests, and over streams, vanishing when they arrive at their destination.
They were seen as omens of death, so to witness one was considered very unfortunate, as it meant that a friend or member of the family would soon pass away. In the shadowed corners of chapels, parishioners would whisper, “Where the corpse candle passeth, soon shall a coffin follow.”
Even Shakespeare refers to these odd entities. In A Midsummer Night's Dream, Puck says:
Now it is the time of night,
That the graves all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the church-way paths to glide.
Accounts
There is the tale of a farmer who lived near Llanrwst and was witness to a dim light moving across his field. Intrigued, he followed it until it vanished before the local churchyard. Three nights later, his wife passed in her sleep, and the funeral bore her coffin along the very path the candle had traced.
Writer James Motley encountered this phenomenon in 1848. He wrote that they:
“seem to be of electrical origin, when the ears of the traveller's horse, the extremity of his whip, his spurs or any other projecting points appear tipped with pencils of light… the toes of the rider's boots, and even the tufts of hair at the fetlocks of his horse, appeared to burn with a steady blue light, and on the hand being extended, every finger immediately became tipped with fire.”
James seems to have survived his encounter and does not report the loss of any friends or relatives immediately following the event.
Corpse candles were often a feature of phantom funerals – mysterious processions that followed the old corpse roads, foretelling a funeral was soon to take place in the village. Such processions were often accompanied by the noise of muffled sobbing and the shuffling of spectral feet.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend.
Until next time, stay spooky.
Book Update - Return of the Shadow
Look out behind you….
Great news, my friends. My editor, Carson Buckingham, returned Threads of Shadow to me last week. I’m currently hard at work slogging through the edits, but the end is in sight. A huge thank you to Carson for all her hard work and patience. Hopefully, everything should be ready to send to review readers in a couple of weeks, and I can have the book ready for its audio reading at the same time. Until then, it’s going to be a few late nights and early mornings for me whilst I get everything ready.
If you have not already done so, now is a great time for a scary treat - so pick up a copy of my book Fireside Horror to immerse yourself in the first part of The Wendlelow Mysteries. It is available on Audible and Amazon - click on the Shop in the menu above for more information.
More updates to follow.
Until then, stay spooky.
Irish Folklore - The Werewolves of Ossory.
And ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ thought she had it bad.
The medieval kingdom of Osraige, anglicised as Ossory, was located in the south-east of Ireland, in what is now part of County Kilkenny and western County Laois. It was controlled by the Osraige tribe, whose name means ‘people of the deer’. The kingdom declined during the Norman invasion in the 12th century.
Despite their name, the Osraige had more of a wolf-like reputation. Their warriors were tough, brave men who were known to go wolfing (raiding) in neighbouring lands. The stories tell of the raiders adopting lupine hairstyles and wearing wolfskin clothes during such excursions, further adding to their victims’ terror, and perhaps creating the bedrock for a famous Irish myth: the Werewolves of Ossory.
Though now extinct, wolves were once a real threat in Ireland. There is even a story of a wolf pack attacking the town of Coleraine in the 17th century. The Irish bred wolfhounds - huge dogs that could reach a man’s shoulder - in order to hunt these beasts, and there are even stories of some Irish warriors taking wolves to war with them. In short, the wolf had a reputation for violence and savagery.
The medieval Irish work Cóir Anmann (Fitness of Names) gave details of a terrifying warrior-werewolf called Laignech Fáelad. He was said to be the ancestor of a tribe of werewolves who were descended from the kings of Ossory. The text says:
He was a man that used to go wolfing, i.e. into wolf-shapes, i.e. into shapes of wolves he used to go, and his offspring used to go after him and they used to kill the herds after the fashion of wolves, so that it is for that that he used to be called Laignech Fáelad, for he was the first of them who went into a wolf-shape.
The Book of Ballymote, written in the 14th century, speaks of this tradition, claiming that "the descendants of the wolf" in Ossory had the power to change themselves and go forth to devour people. It is possible to imagine the fear of those who lived in the realms bordering Ossory, huddled round their fire in their small homes. They might hear a howl on the night wind - was it wolves? Would your wooden door be able to hold them back? Or just perhaps, was it something even worse - something more diabolic and warlike?
Finally, one famous tale is told by Gerald of Wales. In it, a young priest is wandering in southern Ireland when he encounters a dying wolf - who is actually an old woman. She claims that she and her husband came from the kingdom of Ossory, and had been cursed to spend seven years in the form of wolves. Feeling pity for the woman, and at the requested of her distraught husband, he agrees to offer her the last rights.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. If you enjoy stories of ghosts, monsters, and the uncanny, please consider supporting me by purchasing a copy of my book Fireside Horror - a novel told in short stories, each one certain to send a shiver down your spine. Available on Amazon and Audible. Link below.
Until next time, stay spooky.
Ghostly Folklore – The Ghostly Piper of Duntrune Castle.
The Piper plays his sad Dirge.
There can be few more stirring images than that of the lonely phantom piper, his haunting tunes drifting over a foggy Scottish loch on a cold winter’s evening.
Duntrune Castle is located in the West of Scotland. Originally built in the 13th century by the MacDougall clan, it was eventually taken by Clan Campbell and remained their seat until the 18th century. Sitting on the northern banks of Loch Crinan, it is a romantic site – the perfect setting for a ghostly tale.
There are a couple of variations regarding the origins its ghost, but the one told to me runs thus:
In 1644, Duntrune was captured by Clan Campbell while the leader of the MacDonald clan, Alasdair MacColla, was away with the majority of his warband. Alasdair was a shrewd man and had dispatched his piper to the castle to act as a spy. Unfortunately, he was discovered. Now, bagpipers were privileged members of a clan, being educated and widely travelled. As such, they were protected from harm during times of war. Thus, MacColla’s piper was not killed, but instead imprisoned.
When MacColla returned to Duntrune, he sailed up the loch, determined to reclaim his home from his bitter enemy. The piper, realising his master was outnumbered, played a tune called Piobaireachd-dhomh-naomhadh, or in English, The Piper’s Warning to His Master. Upon hearing the haunting notes drifting over the loch’s dark waters, Alasdair MacColla sadly turned his ship away.
Angered by the piper’s actions, the Campbells enacted a cruel punishment: they cut off the brave man’s hands so he would never play the bagpipes again. Unable to stop the flow of blood, the piper soon died.
Over the years, many people have claimed to encounter unusual phenomena within Duntrune’s ancient walls – strange shadows passing through empty hallways, objects moving without cause. But still, there were unbelievers – people who thought the tale nothing more than a colourful myth.
Then, in 1888, repairs were made to the castle, and incredibly, workers unearthed a skull beneath the first floor. Digging further, they found the skeletal remains of a man. With great care, they removed the skull, torso, legs, feet, and arms – and made a remarkable discovery: there were no hands. The piper’s remains were given a Christian burial in an unmarked grave in Kilmartin churchyard, where they remain to this day.
And so, you might stand on the banks of Loch Crinan as night casts its veil over the land and look out over its waters towards Duntrune. There, standing upon one of the parapets, you may see a lonely figure facing the sea, playing on his bagpipes. And if you listen very carefully, you may just hear the notes of Piobaireachd-dhomh-naomhadh carried on the breeze.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friends. I’ve attached a YouTube link to a video of the talented Faye Henderson playing The Piper’s Warning to His Master. So grab a whisky, settle down, and enjoy. Until next time – stay spooky.
Folklore - The Yorkshire Revenant.
A Revenant stalks the land…
A revenant is a very particular kind of undead and can be imagined as a kind of medieval zombie. They are usually associated with remote, out-of-the-way villages, where they would terrorise the local population. The name revenant comes from the Old French word revenant, meaning “returning.”
A revenant would often possess a set of characteristic features, which included corporeal (physical) bodies - very often bloated or rotting. They were harbingers of plague; like modern zombies, revenants were thought to spread disease. They were believed to have been sinners during their lives or to possess unshriven souls. In most cases, it was thought that the only way to lay these fiends to rest was to exhume the body and either burn or behead it.
William of Newburgh was a 12th-century historian and chronicler, and one of our best sources for medieval revenant stories. He came from Bridlington in Yorkshire, in England’s northeast.
William told the story of a “man of evil conduct” who fled York to avoid justice. He later married, but being a distrustful fellow, he concealed himself in the rafters of his home, hoping to catch his wife in the act of infidelity. However, he accidentally fell from his perch and died of his injuries a few days later. William goes on to say:
A Christian burial, indeed, he received, though unworthy of it; but it did not much benefit him: for issuing, by the handiwork of Satan, from his grave at night-time, and pursued by a pack of dogs with horrible barkings, he wandered through the courts and around the houses while all men made fast their doors, and did not dare to go abroad on any errand whatever from the beginning of the night until the sunrise, for fear of meeting and being beaten black and blue by this vagrant monster.
It seems this ghastly being was held responsible for the deaths of some local people, and so a group of stout hearted young men:
Snatching up a spade of but indifferent sharpness of edge, and hastening to the cemetery, began to dig; and whilst they were thinking that they would have to dig to a greater depth, they suddenly, before much of the earth had been removed, laid bare the corpse, swollen to an enormous corpulence, with its countenance beyond measure turgid and suffused with blood; while the napkin in which it had been wrapped appeared nearly torn to pieces. The young men, however, spurred on by wrath, feared not, and inflicted a wound upon the senseless carcass, out of which incontinently flowed such a stream of blood, that it might have been taken for a leech filled with the blood of many persons. Then, dragging it beyond the village, they speedily constructed a funeral pile; and upon one of them saying that the pestilential body would not burn unless its heart were torn out, the other laid open its side by repeated blows of the blunted spade, and, thrusting in his hand, dragged out the accursed heart. This being torn piecemeal, and the body now consigned to the flames...
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. If you enjoy stories of ghosts, monsters, and the uncanny, please consider supporting me by purchasing a copy of my book Fireside Horror - a novel told in short stories, each one certain to send a shiver down your spine. Available on Amazon and Audible. Link below.
Until next time, stay spooky
Book Update - Character Dive - Doctor Benedict Mogfadian
Doctor Benedict Mogfadian.
Doctor Benedict Mogfadian is a somewhat mysterious individual. A self-styled magician, he is the employer of the main protagonist, Casper Trenchton. Though he currently spends most of his time at his house in Wendlelow, he also owns a rather grand home in the Cotswolds called Puddlebury Hall.
A somewhat eccentric individual, the doctor likes to wear a top hat, dark clothing, and a short cape. He always carries a mysterious blackthorn cane with him when he is out and about.
He lives with his niece, Julie, who assists him in his laboratory, where he brews concoctions that he refers to as “potions.”
As Threads of Shadow nears its publication date, now is a great time to delve into the mysteries and horrors of Wendlelow by picking up the first book in the sequence: Fireside Horror.
If you enjoy stories of ghosts, monsters, witchcraft, and prehistoric devils, I’m sure you’ll get a kick out of it.
Irish Folklore - The Monstrous Dobhar-chú
Ireland has a great many monsters haunting its mist shrouded shores, but few are as dangerous as the man-eating Dobhar-chú. A terrifying beastie said to occupy the lakes, and rivers throughout Ireland. The name Dobhar-chú (pronounced do-war coo) translates to Water Hound, though it is sometimes called The King Otter, and is described as part otter, part dog.
Those people who have survived an encounter with this monster tell of a thing about five times the size of a regular otter - nearly 5 meters long - with a white pelt, black tips on its ears, and a dark cross on its back. Some varieties, that dwell in murkier, peat stained waters are said to have darker fur. There are few written accounts of the Dobhar-chú, most of the stories about it have been passed down through oral tradition.
Killing a Dobhar-chú is extremely hard, they live in mating pairs, which often attack together, and are as swift on land as they are in the water. As if this were not bad enough, whoever kills the beast will find themselves cursed, and doomed to die within twenty four hours. Anyone stumbling across the scene of all this slaughter could find themselves in possession of the creature’s pelt which is thought to have magical properties.
The Legend of the Headstone
A church yard in County Leitrim, in the north of Ireland, contains a headstone (picture in gallery above) with a gruesome tale attached to it.
In the year 1722 Grace McGloighlin known locally by her maiden name Grace Connolly, lived in the town of Creevelea, near to Glenade Lough (Lake.) One afternoon she went down to the lough to wash some clothes. When she failed to return that evening her husband, Terrance, went looking for her and discovered her mutilated body by the water, a Dobhar-chú sleeping on top of her. He ran home, collected his knife, and crept up on the beast, slaying it. As the thing died it let out a whistling yell to its mate, who soon rose from the lough, and chased after poor Terrance. In desperation he sought the aid of a friend, and fortifying a local farm house, they fought and eventually killed the second beast.
More Sightings
On 1st May 1968, two local men spotted a Dobhar-chú swimming in Loch Sraheen on Achill Island, they wisely left the area before it spotted them.
British folklorist Dr Katherine Briggs, also found a reported sighting of a Dobhar-chú at Dhu-Hill. Witnesses said it was accompanied by a host of normal otters.
In 2000, Irish artist Sean Corcoran claimed to have seen a Dobhar Chu in a lake on Omey Island in Connemara, County Galway. Corcoran describes it as large, dark, and with orange flippers, it swam the width of the lake from west to east, finally leaping onto a huge boulder before disappearing with a haunting screech. He drew a picture of his sighting, which can be seen in the gallery above.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog my friend. If you enjoy stories of ghosts, monsters, and the uncanny, please consider supporting me by purchasing a copy of my book ‘Fireside Horror,’ a novel told in short stories, it is currently available from Audible, narrated by the wonderfully talented Aubrey Parsons, who does a marvellous job of bringing the stories and characters to life. Links Below.
Until next time, stay spooky.
Book Update - Character Dive - Julie Mogfadian
Julie Mogfadian
Julie is the niece of Doctor Mogfadian. She likes to wear a Bretton Fiddlers Cap - as she thinks it irks her somewhat stifling uncle – and has many boyish affectations. She is intelligent, if not a little naïve and helps the Doctor with some of his more esoteric tasks, as well as running a small antiques shop close to Wendlelow’s market. She is a member of a local Folklore Society, run by the universities head librarian Nolan Perkins.
With such a strange uncle, and living in a town plagued by sinister forces, it was only a matter of time before she was forced to confront the terrors that dwell in the darkness.
As Threads of Shadow nears its publication date, now is a great time to delve into the mysteries and horrors of Wendlelow by purchasing the first book in the sequence. ‘Fireside Horror.’ If you enjoy stories of ghosts, monsters, witchcraft and prehistoric devils, your are sure to get a kick out of it.
Folklore - The Simonside Dwarves.
A Duergar, he is not happy…
In Northumberland, in England’s North East, not far from the market town of Rothbury can be found the Simonside Hills, an area of highland that stands about 300 to 400 meters (980–1,310 feet) above sea level. Tossun Hill is the highest point in the area at nearly 440 meters (1,444 ft).
The origin of the name ‘Simonside’ is much speculated on, one 13th Century document refers to the hills as Simundessete. The name may be a corruption of Sigemund's seat, Sigemeund being an old Germanic hero from ‘The Song of the Nibelungs’ an epic poem written around 1200 AD in Middle High German. An alternative explanation for the name is a corruption of "seaman's sight", as it is alleged that they are visible from the North Sea.
Whatever the truth of the names origins it is undoubtedly a dangerous area, with precipices and bogs ready to claim the life of any traveller and, as if this were not bad enough, the unwary rambler must also contend with a supernatural threat, that of the Simonside Dwarves.
The Simonside Dwarves, also referred to as the Duergar are a mythical race from English folklore, said to dwell in the hills. Malevolent beings, it is thought they emerge at dusk, using lighted torches to led solitary wanderers off the path and into dangerous locations.
Accounts
One account tells of a traveller who, seeking refuge from the bitter night wind, found a small hut with a fire within. He was joined by a grumpy, diminutive figure, who sat with him in silence, although nervous, the exhausted man was eventually able to find sleep, but when he awoke at dawn he discovered both the hut and the figure had vanished, leaving him alone and perilously close to a cliff's edge.
Another tale describes a man who went searching for the little fellows. As he wandered the moors it became dark and he called out for a light, much to his surprise one appeared on a distant rise, he moved towards it, but then remembering how dangerous it was to follow such enchanted globes. He tossed a clod of earth into a bog, causing a splash. The light went out.
Happy to have deceived the dwarves he called out, mocking them (very unwise) in a moment he found himself surround by a group of mean looking Duergar, all carrying clubs, he fainted in shock. When he woke the dwarves had gone, and badly shaken, he made his way home.
In a third story two men had been out hunting in the hills, they stopped to eat by the shelter of a rock. They recounted being approached by a short man dressed in clothes the colour of bracken. He asked them if they knew who he was, to which they replied “the Lord of the Manor”, and offered to hand over the birds they’d shot that morning. The dwarf declined, claiming to be a vegetarian, and invited the two men to join him at his home for a meal. Wisely, and politely, they refused, and quickly headed back to Rothbury where they recounted their tale at a local tavern, The Landlord praised their decision not to accompany the little man. After all, the Simonside dwarves enjoyed.luring humans into their lairs, where they would murder and then devoured them.
One local man from Thropton recalled that as a boy in the late 1950s, and early 1960s he was often told not to cross to the Simonside of the river after dark because the little people might come down by Little Tosson and get him. He always put this down to stopping him wandering too far, but as he grew older he started to wonder… He was also told of people dancing in the dark in strange ceremonies.
Finally another witness from the area stated "I have been told they are most active in April, so you missed high season by a month! A friend told me of something that happened to a man he knows, several years ago - he swears it's true...
‘There were accounts of a witches' coven that used to go up to Simonside in the seventies, and the rumours were they danced naked round a fire - all very scandalous. So after a night of boozing in the pub, this local man decided to go up there and spy on them. He saw lights in the distance and snuck up on the small group, but as he got closer he was terrified to see their faces were ugly and mangled and far from being young, nubile women, they were in fact, dwarves. They saw him and gave chase, he ran for all he was worth and made it back to his car. As he struggled to get his key into the ignition in the dark, all he could hear was the scraping of long fingernails on the car windows...he lived to tell the tale, however.’
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog my friend. A big thanks to Deborah Hatswell of Being Believed Research for the witness reports, please take the time to visit her excellent website, link below.
Until next time, stay spooky.
Book Update - Character Dive - Casper Trenchton.
Casper Trenchton
My book ‘Fireside Horror’ has received some wonderful reviews and was well received, this encouraged me to write the first of its sequels entitled ‘Threads of Shadow.’ This book is currently in the hands of my editor, who is hard at work hunting down any grammatical goblins that may be lurking within its pages. Like its predecessor ‘Threads of Shadow’ is a novel told through short stories. In the run up to its release I will drop a few teasers about the characters and locations that will turn up in the book.
Casper Trenchton
Elspeth McGinnity is gone, vanished on a train journey to her native Ireland, but Wendlelow’s problems continue.
Casper Trenchton is a troubled, melancholic young man, whose mind was badly scarred by an event in his youth. He is tall and powerfully built, resembling a rugby player. Following the death of his father he finds himself a resident of Wendlelow’s haunted streets, in the employment of the enigmatic Doctor Mogfadian.
Casper must prepare himself, and find his strength if he is to face the horrors that lurk in and around the little Shropshire town. Will he be able to do it?
Folklore - Horror in the Ancient Woodland.
The Beast reveals itself….
The United Kingdom classifies Ancient Woodland as: Any that has existed continuously since before the 15th Century. Woodland planting was not done prior to that date, so a wood that was present in the 1600’s was more than likely to have developed naturally.
The Forest of Dean is one of the few surviving areas of ancient woodland in England, it is located in the county of Gloucestershire, in the South West of the country, and was the second largest Royal Forest (or Kingswood) in the land. A Royal Forest was a special area set aside for the hunting privileges of royalty during the medieval period. But there was one beast in The Forest that struck terror into knight and commoner alike.
The Beast of Dean.
The first reports of the beast can be traced back in folklore to the 18th and 19th century, with local people describing it as a cross between a giant boar and a moose, it was believed to possess great tusks and huge branching antlers, and is alleged to have been so powerful that it was more than capable of toppling trees and forcing passage through the thickest of hedgerows.
There have been several attempts to hunt and capture this terrifying beastie, the first of which occurred in the early 19th Century, when folk from the local village of Parkend bravely undertook an expedition into the woodland to track down, and capture, or kill the monster. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately from the creatures point of view, they were unsuccessful, and the beast managed to elude them.
Modern Encounters
There are still strange encounters reported in the forest. Back in 1995 a group of ramblers reported encountering a large three toed foot print, found in the wet ground. It was claimed to be 8 inches in length and 6 inches in width. The ramblers took photographs of the print and reported their discovery to the local authorities and newspapers. Copies of these photographs have sadly been lost.
In 2019 a group of teenagers reported encountering the monster while on a camping trip, they described the beast as being over 6 feet in length and with dark brown shaggy fur, it so scared them that they abandoned their trip and fled the area.
In modern times boars have been reintroduced into the forest and can be seen scavenging for food, particularly in the autumn time, and whilst British boars can be dangerous, and thus should not be approached, they do not grow over 6 feet in length.
I would urge you not to be deterred by the this terribly beastie or even it smaller cousins the wild boar. The Forest of Dean is a beautiful area, and definitely worth a visit, just remember to keep your eyes peeled for anything… unusual.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog my friend.
Until next time, stay spooky.
Ghostly Folklore - The Phantom Train of Dunphail
The Grey Ghost Train - Beware…
The ghost train is an iconic kind of haunting - although I would suggest an uncommon one. The idea of a spectral steam engine, charging through the night, belching flames and smoke, terrifying onlookers, only to vanish before their very eyes, instils that pleasing terror that lovers of spooky folklore regularly quest for.
In Northern Scotland, in Moray (Scottish Gaelic: Moireibh or Moireabh.) There runs the Old Dava Railway line. This section of track was opened in 1863 and ran over the old Dava Moor, for a while this was the main route to London. Sadly the line did not survive Mr Beeching’s axe and was closed down in 1965. The Dava Way, is a modern Railway walk, managed by The Dava Way Association (DWA.) Thanks to this hardworking group, you can trek the route taken by those old time trains today. However, to take this journey at night might require a little liquid courage (Whiskey) beforehand.
The Legend of the Grey Train of Dunphail.
Dunphail Railway Station, near Forres, is the scene of a terrifying haunting, folklore suggests that a locomotive carrying cattle met a fiery end nearby, and that this has resulted in its ghostly apparition being spotted intermittently since the 1920s, with sightings even as recent as the 1960s.
Sightings
On a clear winter’s night, John Macdonald was heading home along a path close to Dunphail railway station, when a locomotive with a full head of steam, pulling four carriages, appeared and rushed past the startled local. MacDonald claims the train was travelling around 2ft above the tracks. The date of John’s sighting varies depending on the source, with claims it was sometime between 1917 and 1920.
Two men alleged to have witnessed a strange bright light on the track whilst in a railway cutting. Eventually it faded away. One of the men reported it to the Stationmaster the next day, and discovered that many other people had encountered this unexplained illumination.
One evening in 1949, a woman was returning home after visiting a relative, she was walking along the track, secure in the knowledge that no trains ran at that time of night. To her surprise she claimed to hear a steam engine coming up the line. The noise grew louder and she looked over her shoulder, to her horror she saw the spectral grey train approaching her at full steam. In a panic the poor woman scrambled up the bank and fell to the ground whilst the phantom locomotive raced through the night below her, she reported seeing the fierce glow of the firebox reflected in the pall of smoke from the chimney, and brightly lit carriages streaming behind, all of which were some two feet off the ground!
If you would like more information on the old railway line and its history I enclose a link to the Dava Way website below, it is well worth a visit.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog my friend. If you enjoy stories of ghosts, monsters, and the uncanny, please consider supporting me by purchasing a copy of my book ‘Fireside Horror,’ a novel told in short stories, each one certain to send a shiver down your spine. Available on Amazon and Audible, Link Below.
Until next time, stay spooky.
Ghostly Folklore – The Haunting of RAF Montrose
Scary goings on at the now abandoned Airbase.
RAF Montrose (also known as Royal Airforce Base Montrose.) Was one of the country’s most haunted military airfield bases; located in Angus, Scotland, it was the first operational military airbase in Britain, being set up on 26th February 1913, and was one of twelve air force bases planned at the time for the United Kingdom, its was intended to allow the then Royal Flying Corp to provide protection to nearby naval bases.
There are a great many ghosts to be found at this now unused airbase (it closed permanently on 4th June 1952.) From reports of damaged radios, playing old wartime broadcasts, as well as phantom planes being seen overhead, only to mysteriously vanish before the viewer’s eyes, to spectral pilots, wandering about the base at night. Indeed such was its reputation that newcomers to the airbase were given a printed document to help familiarise themselves with the site, a part of which warned about the expected paranormal sightings.
The most famous of Montrose’s phantom inhabitants, and possibly one of the first aviation hauntings, is that of Irishman Desmond Arthur (Picture above), who fell to his death on May 27, 1913, when his plane broke up. His story is recounted below.
On 23rd of May, 1913, at around 7.00am in the morning Arthur took his BE2 biplane for a training flight, after flying for about forty minutes, The right wing broke off the aircraft and Arthur’s seatbelt failed, throwing him out of the plane as it went into a death spin.
One report at the time claimed that the luckless pilot had jumped from the plane of his own free willing, instead of choosing to crash with the machine. The accident was witnessed by an individual on a nearby farm, who provided the authorities with the following macabre details. He heard the plane overhead, and then a strange sound. Looking skywards he saw something plummeting to the ground. Horrified he realised that it was a man, falling in perfect silence. The body of the doomed aviator, was perfectly straight, with its arms held directly above its head. When medics arrived at the scene, Arthur was found dead, nearly every bone in the poor man’s body had been broken.
An Enquiry held after the event blamed the incident on poor manufacturing.
There have been many sightings of Arthur’s ghost over the years, he has been seen walking to the mess hall, vanishing before he reaches its entrance. One pilot spoke of awaking in the middle of the night and feeling terribly cold, looking around he saw a uniformed man sitting in a chair. When he tried to speak to him, the individual slowly faded away.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog my friend. If you enjoy stories of ghosts, monsters, and the uncanny, please consider supporting me by purchasing a copy of my book ‘Fireside Horror,’ a novel told in short stories, each one certain to send a shiver down your spine. Available on Amazon and Audible, Link Below.
Until next time, stay spooky.