The Morrígan: Ireland's Phantom Queen of Battle
Celtic mythology is filled with unforgettable characters. There are heroes, mighty warriors who perform epic deeds that echo through history; powerful wizards who seem able to bend reality to their will; and mighty gods, some wise and benevolent, others possessing a darker nature and delighting in war and death. Sadly, today, my friend, I shall be writing about the latter—a sinister goddess whose exploits have ensured that she is still remembered today.
I speak of the Morrígan, the Irish goddess of battle. She was a complex deity associated with war, prophecy, sovereignty and transformation. Feared by warriors and kings alike, it was said that wherever she trod, bloodshed was sure to follow.
The name Morrígan is often translated as "The Great Queen", from the Old Irish elements mór ("great") and rígan ("queen"). However, some scholars argue that her name is better understood as "The Phantom Queen", reflecting her spectral nature as a supernatural figure who haunted battlefields.
She was believed to be one of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the supernatural race who ruled Ireland before the arrival of mortal men. The Morrígan was also regarded as a sovereignty goddess. In this role, she represented the land of Ireland itself, and a ruler's right to govern was symbolically linked to her favour.
Modern depictions usually portray the Morrígan as a dark-haired goddess of war, accompanied by a single raven or a flock of ravens. Earlier traditions, however, paint a far more complex picture. She was a shape-shifter, appearing not only as a beautiful woman but also as a crow, a wolf or even an eel.
In some traditions she is not a single goddess at all, but part of a triple goddess made up of three sisters, each embodying a different aspect of her power:
Badb – associated with ravens, slaughter and the frenzy of battle.
Macha – linked with kingship, horses and warfare.
Nemain – the embodiment of panic, terror and confusion in battle.
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The Morrígan was also said to appear before battles, washing the bloodstained clothing of those destined to die that day.
The goddess plays an important role in the Táin Bó Regamna ("The Cattle Raid of Regamna"), where she first encounters the great hero Cú Chulainn. Their meeting centres on a dispute involving a mysterious heifer, during which Cú Chulainn unknowingly challenges the goddess before she reveals her true identity.
Their most famous encounter takes place later in the Táin Bó Cúailnge ("The Cattle Raid of Cooley"). Disguised as a beautiful young woman, the Morrígan offers Cú Chulainn both her love and her aid in battle. Proud and dismissive, he rejects her advances, prompting the goddess to vow that she will oppose him throughout the coming conflict.
True to her word, the Morrígan repeatedly attempts to hinder the young hero during battle. She transforms herself into an eel to trip him as he crosses a ford, a wolf to stampede cattle against him, and finally a heifer leading a charging herd. Each time, however, Cú Chulainn wounds the creature without realising it is the goddess herself., only serving to anger her further.
Later, she disguises herself as an old woman milking a cow. When Cú Chulainn encounters her in this guise, he unknowingly blesses her as he drinks the milk she offers him, miraculously healing the wounds he had previously inflicted upon her.
Like so many great heroes of legend, Cú Chulainn ultimately dies in battle. Although he defeats enemy after enemy, the wounds he receives gradually take their toll. Determined to meet death standing, he ties himself to a standing stone with his own belt. Terrified that the mighty warrior may still be alive, none of his enemies dares approach him. Only when a raven lands upon his shoulder do they realise that he has passed.
The raven is the Morrígan.
By settling upon his shoulder, she fulfils her role as the goddess who marks those destined to fall in battle.
Unlike some other Celtic deities, there is relatively little evidence of widespread formal worship of the Morrígan. However, her repeated appearances throughout medieval Irish literature suggest that she was an immensely important figure in early Irish belief.
So watch the skies, and beware the ravens, for they may herald the arrival of a very dark and tempestuous goddess.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. If you enjoy tales of the strange and the unknown, please consider delving into my horror trilogy, The Wendlelow Mysteries. It tells the story of a haunted town and the people—and things—that call it home, unfolding across twenty-seven interconnected stories that reveal both the town's origins and its ultimate fate. Links to the books can be found in the Shop section of this website.
Until next time, my friend.
Stay Spooky.
Know Your Goblins – The Pwca: The Mischievous Welsh Goblin.
“Gord blimey, what is that?
Why is it looking at me like that?
Get it off me blumin’ shoe!”
Once more, my keen ears detect a cry for help, and as ever, I am quite prepared to step forward and aid those in distress. With tentative fingers, I reach for an old dusty tome that has lain untouched for far too long, as I prepare to assist some poor reader who is in desperate need of help to “know their goblins.”
Today, I venture into that myth-shrouded region of the British Isles known as Wales. A small country, but one with an unusually large goblin problem. Why should this be so? I cannot say! Perhaps they simply have a particular fondness for Bara Brith!
The Pwca (also spelled Puca or Pooka) is an unpredictable little chap, but also a fascinating one. Treat one with respect and it may reward you with kindness and generosity. However, should you be rude, arrogant, or foolish enough to offend it, prepare yourself for a world of trouble. The Pwca is more than capable of making your life a living nightmare.
Be warned.
Your first problem lies in identifying this potential troublemaker. The Pwca is a shapeshifter with no fixed form. Witnesses have claimed that it can appear as a shaggy goat, a hare, a dog, or a raven. Sometimes it takes the form of a magnificent black horse with glowing eyes.
Perhaps the most unsettling shape it can assume, however, is that of a human. There is something not quite right about it in this form—something slightly unnatural that leaves those who encounter it feeling uneasy. Perhaps it is the wild hair, the unsettling smile, or simply the strange manner in which it behaves.
One tale of the Pwca tells of a man returning home one evening who encountered a beautiful mare standing alone by the roadside. With no saddle or harness, he thought the discovery of an unclaimed horse was an extraordinary stroke of good fortune. He climbed onto the creature's back, intending to ride it home.
This was a mistake.
The moment he was seated, the beast sprang into motion. Across fields, over hills, and through rivers it galloped at an impossible speed, completely ignoring the man's desperate attempts to control it. Finally, after a terrifying journey, the creature let out a dreadful cackle of laughter before skidding to a halt and throwing its unfortunate rider into a muddy puddle.
The Pwca's tricks extend far beyond these wild rides. They include tangling horses' manes, spoiling milk—an old goblin favourite—mimicking voices in the mist to lure people into lonely places, and that timeless prank beloved by schoolboys throughout the ages: knocking on a stranger's door and running away before anyone answers.
To be fair to the Pwca, most of these tricks are relatively harmless and leave no lasting damage.
If a Pwca takes a liking to you, however, it may prove a valuable companion. Some tales claim they will help with farm work during the night, offer wise counsel to those in need, and occasionally even reveal the location of hidden treasure.
So, you can see, it may be worthwhile trying to remain on its good side.
One way to please these unpredictable little troublemakers was to leave the final sheaf of corn standing in a field at harvest time. In some Welsh villages, this offering was believed to satisfy the Pwca and encourage it to use its influence to ensure a successful harvest the following year.
So, my good friend, my advice is simple: show kindness, charity, and above all, respect when dealing with these curious Welsh goblins. Nobody likes to have their milk soured, their horses' manes tangled, or their peaceful evenings interrupted by a mysterious knocking at the door.
Besides, you never know...
That strange little creature lurking at the edge of the mist might just lead you to hidden treasure.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. If you enjoy tales of the strange and the unknown, please consider delving into my horror trilogy, The Wendlelow Mysteries. It tells the story of a haunted town and the people—and things—that call it home, unfolding across twenty-seven interconnected stories that reveal both the town's origins and its ultimate fate.
Links to the books can be found in the Shop section of this website.
Until next time, my friend.
Stay Spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
Marie Trevelyan, Folk-Lore and Folk-Stories of Wales (1909).
The Blue Men of the Minch: Scotland's Mysterious Sea Spirits & Maritime Folklore
Let us venture, dear friend, to Scotland's wild, untamed stretch of sea, located between the Highlands and the chain of islands known as the Outer Hebrides. This channel is called The Minch.
Now, the sea has always presented a challenge to intrepid adventurers. Even today, the mightiest vessel can develop a fault or fall foul of bad weather, sinking to be lost forever beneath the waves. But the Minch contains another danger, one whispered of in dockside taverns by old sailors as they down their beer and chew on their pipes. These threats were known as The Blue Men of the Minch.
According to myth, these blue men originated from a group of fallen angels who divided themselves into three factions. One became the faeries, dwelling on land in forests and glens. Another became the Merry Dancers, said to be the Northern Lights that sometimes dance across the night sky. The third became the ocean-dwelling Blue Men, who made the Minch their domain.
The Blue Men (Scottish Gaelic: Na Fir Ghorma) are also known as Storm Kelpies. Sailors whispered that, when angered, they could summon violent storms, raising enormous waves and capsizing ships. Any surviving sailors who found themselves floating in their watery domain were dragged beneath the waves, and for generations fishermen blamed sudden squalls and mysterious shipwrecks on the Blue Men.
Witnesses claimed that these aquatic entities were roughly the size and build of a man. You will not be too surprised to learn that, just as their name suggests, their skin was a vivid shade of blue. Their faces were described as long and greyish, adorned with green or white beards, while their arms were equally long and of a similar grey colour. In a handful of rare accounts, they are even said to possess wings.
If you feel bold and wish to catch a glimpse of a Blue Man yourself, they are said to dwell in caves beneath the tempestuous waters around the Shiant Isles, to the north of the Isle of Skye. However, I cannot recommend such a journey. Even without the troublesome Blue Men to contend with, you would face rapid, unpredictable tides and treacherous currents. Such is the area's fearsome reputation that one stretch of water is known as The Current of Destruction, owing to the number of ships wrecked there.
An especially intriguing aspect of the legend is the Blue Men's love of verse. Before launching an attack upon a vessel, the chief of the Blue Men would rise from the depths and call out the opening lines of a poem to the crew. The sailors then had to compose matching lines on the spot to complete the rhyme.
If they succeeded, the Blue Men admired the sailors' wit and allowed the ship to sail on in peace.
However, should they pause—or fail to produce a satisfactory rhyme—the Blue Men would summon a storm and sink the vessel.
Folklorist Donald A. Mackenzie records the following exchange between the skipper of a threatened ship and the leader of the Blue Men:
Blue Chief:
Man of the black cap, what do you say
As your proud ship cleaves the brine?
Skipper:
My speedy ship takes the shortest way,
And I'll follow you line by line.
Blue Chief:
My men are eager, my men are ready
To drag you below the waves.
Skipper:
My ship is speedy, my ship is steady;
If it sank, it would wreck your caves.
According to Mackenzie, the chief of the Blue Men was so impressed by the skipper's wit and quick response that he allowed the vessel to pass unharmed.
The true origins of these ocean-going entities have been lost in the haze of time. Some researchers have suggested that they preserve folk memories of the seafaring Picts, whose bodies were said to have been painted with blue woad and who may once have posed a threat to shipping. Others argue that they are simply a personification of the sea itself, representing the unpredictable and often deadly nature of the Minch.
Whatever the truth, for any brave sailors reading this, the old maritime advice still stands: be wary when sailing the Minch, and have a rhyme prepared—just in case.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. If you enjoy tales of the strange and the unknown, please consider delving into my horror trilogy, The Wendlelow Mysteries. It tells the story of a haunted town and the people—and things—that call it home, unfolding across twenty-seven interconnected stories that reveal both the town's origins and its ultimate fate. Links to the books can be found in the Shop section of this website.
Until next time, my friend.
Stay Spooky.
The Hellfire Club of Ireland: Ghosts, Demons and Dark Secrets
On the northern edge of the Wicklow Mountain range, overlooking the ancient city of Dublin, stands Montpelier Hill, also known as Slieve Gorra. High on its summit are the remains of two prehistoric passage tombs. It was here, in the eighteenth century, that a local politician decided to build a hunting lodge, using some of the stones from these age-old structures. That lodge would become the home of one of Ireland's most notorious societies: The Hellfire Club.
There have been several Hellfire Clubs throughout British history. They were exclusive societies whose members were drawn from the upper classes. Their gatherings were reputed to be scenes of debauchery, occult practices and, according to some accounts, even ritual murder. Legends claimed that lonely travellers were kidnapped and sacrificed, while an empty chair was traditionally left at their meetings for the Devil as an act of religious mockery or provocation.
How much of this is true is difficult to say. There certainly was a Hellfire Club in Ireland, and there is little doubt that its members indulged in rather louche behaviour. However, allegations of murder and Satanism are far harder to substantiate. The lodge was certainly a place of drinking, gambling and vice, with a little hunting on the side—it was, after all, built with this purpose in mind.
The Hellfire Club has since inspired countless legends, ghost stories and tales of the supernatural. Here are just two of the most famous.
The Black Cat
One legend tells of a visitor who decided to spend the night at the notorious lodge, no doubt intrigued by the tales surrounding the Hellfire Club. The following morning he was found dead by a local farmer with whom he had been staying, who immediately summoned a priest.
The brave man of the cloth entered the building alone and discovered that the table in the hall had been laid for a grand banquet. Lurking in the shadows was a truly enormous black cat.
The priest began to perform an exorcism, during which the cat was torn apart, forcing the demonic spirit possessing the animal to flee the lodge.
Sadly, upon leaving the building, the priest discovered that the farmer who had accompanied him was lying dead on the ground, his face ripped apart by deep claw marks.
The Dark Stranger
One day, after a long and exhausting hunt, a group of gentlemen gathered at the lodge. They drank, gambled and talked long into the night. Outside, a violent storm raged, and despite their weariness, none wished to retire to bed.
Suddenly, a loud knocking echoed at the door.
Who could possibly be abroad on such a dreadful night?
When they answered, they found a hooded stranger asking for shelter. They welcomed him inside, and he soon joined their card game. Throughout the evening he remained in the shadows, his hood pulled low over his face.
At one point, one of the players dropped his cards. As he bent to retrieve them, he noticed that the stranger had cloven hooves instead of feet.
The horrified man gasped.
Instantly, the mysterious guest vanished in a great ball of fire and was never seen again.
Today, the Hellfire Club is little more than a ruin. Even so, visitors who wander its lonely remains at dusk still report hearing strange noises and smelling foul, unholy odours drifting from the crumbling walls.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. If you enjoy tales of the strange and the unknown, please consider delving into my horror trilogy, The Wendlelow Mysteries. It tells the story of a haunted town and the people—and things—that call it home, unfolding across twenty-seven interconnected stories that reveal both the town's origins and its ultimate fate. Links to the books can be found in the Shop section of this website.
Until next time, my friend.
Stay Spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
myrealireland.com/irish-knowledge/the-hell-fire-club/
dublin.ie/live/stories/the-hell-fire-club/
England's Screaming Skulls: The Terrifying Folklore of Britain's Most Haunted Relics
Every country in the world has its own unique set of problems. From Malaysia to Timbuktu, these may take many and varied forms. Sometimes it is dangerous animals, poisonous snakes, or large predatory cats; at other times, the problems have political origins, leading to a sense of unease.
England's problem is rather unique: England has a problem with Screaming Skulls.
As the name suggests, your average screaming skull is a noisy blighter, wanting nothing more than to keep a person awake at night. It is also not at all keen to be moved from the place it calls home. What has driven these skulls to such a rash course of action, and where are their favourite haunts? Come with me, dear reader, as we uncover their secrets.
The county of Dorset lies on England's south coast, and it is here that we find our first example of a Screaming Skull: Bettiscombe Manor. The existing property was built around 1694 and was the seat of the Pinney family.
According to the most widely reported version of the tale, the Pinneys had an African servant who was brought from his home in the Caribbean in 1830. On his deathbed, the man requested that the family return his body to his homeland. Promises were made, but sadly they were not kept. Instead, his body was buried in the churchyard of St Stephen's Church.
It is never wise to ignore a deathbed request; the deceased have ways and means of making their displeasure known.
Following the burial, there was a great disturbance in the hall. Ill fortune plagued the local village, while screams and cries were reportedly heard coming from the churchyard. Disturbances were also reported at the manor house, with windows mysteriously rattling and doors slamming of their own accord.
In desperation, the villagers petitioned the Pinney family to do something. The servant's body was exhumed and moved to the manor house. All that remains of it now is the skull; however, it had the desired effect. The disturbances ceased, and peace once again reigned in Bettiscombe. It is said, however, that should the skull ever be removed from the property, it will once again find its voice, and none shall rest peacefully.
Another famous example of a Screaming Skull can be found at Burton Agnes Hall, near Driffield in East Yorkshire. This impressive Elizabethan manor has been occupied since the early seventeenth century.
Here, legend speaks of a young woman named Anne Griffith, who lived at the hall. One evening, the unfortunate woman was waylaid by robbers and mortally wounded.
Before her death, she begged her sisters to allow part of her to remain in "our beautiful home as long as it shall last". She made them promise that, when she died, her head would be severed and preserved in the hall forever. To pacify her, the sisters agreed. However, when she died, they buried her in the local churchyard instead.
This proved to be an error. Strange footsteps and unexplained noises echoed throughout the hall, and a great sense of dread settled over the old place. Eventually, the sisters decided to relent, and Anne's skull was brought to the hall. As soon as it arrived, the disturbances ended. No one has been foolish enough to remove it since.
There are many other tales of Screaming Skulls. As I said previously, England has a real problem with them. However, I do not think my nerves can take any more of these frightening tales, and I have no wish to be the reason that you, my friend, suffer a sleepless night. So I shall leave the others for another day.
The final book in The Wendlelow Mysteries trilogy, A Crow's Scream, is now available. It marks the conclusion of this particular series, a trilogy told through twenty-seven interconnected short stories that chronicle the history and eventual fate of the haunted town of Wendlelow and the people who call it home.
It has been a wonderful journey, and I would like to thank everyone who has joined me along the way. Your support, encouragement, and kind words have meant more than I can say.
Fear not, however, for there are still many dark tales waiting to be told. There will be more horror of a distinctly folky kind, more mysteries to unravel, more revelations to uncover, and, of course, more things lurking in the shadows.
For now, I hope you enjoy this final visit to Wendlelow and the strange, haunted world that has grown around it.
Stay Spooky.
Ghosts, Witches & Legends of Clydach Gorge
In the south-east of Wales can be found an area of outstanding natural beauty: a steep-sided, wooded valley called Clydach Gorge, or Cwm Clydach, which runs for about three and a half miles. The entire area falls within the Brecon Beacons National Park and is definitely worth a visit, particularly for those adventurous souls seeking to immerse themselves in a wonderful landscape. This valley is also steeped in folklore and legend.
There is evidence of human occupation in the gorge from the Iron Age right through to the Industrial Revolution, when it became the site of an iron furnace and numerous limeworks. There has therefore been ample time for stories of the strange and mysterious to gather in the area. It is a few of these tales, dear reader, that I would like to share with you now.
There are a total of seventeen waterfalls within the gorge. The tallest is a dramatic sixty-foot cascade at a place called Devil's Bridge, so named because it is claimed that the waters of the River Clydach wore away the rock to form an image of Old Nick's face. This area is whispered to be the home of a Pwca, a Welsh shape-shifting goblin, so I would not advise lingering there after darkness falls.
Witches were thought to concoct evil brews in the gorge, stirring their cauldrons on certain special nights. Local farmers tell the story of an old woman who supposedly cursed some farmhands attempting to bring a cartload of straw through the gorge. The curse caused their workhorse to halt in its tracks and refuse to go any further.
The story claims that the men were forced to beat the old woman with switches until she bled, as it was believed that the only way to break a witch's curse was to draw her blood. Beating vulnerable old women does not seem a particularly pleasant way to spend an afternoon, and fortunately this practice has long since fallen out of favour.
Another witch said to have made the gorge her home was Old Magw, a woman employed at the ironworks school in Clydach who was reputed to dish out the most extreme punishments to her young charges. She was also said to curse the plants in local gardens. Witches seem to have been a real nuisance in the area, for it was believed that they would steal horses and ride them wildly through the night, and even make pigs stand on their heads. (I cannot fathom why they would do this. Poor pigs.)
Problems with teachers were almost as rife as those with witches. According to legend, John Dawson was a schoolmaster reputed to be harsh and unpopular, feared by his pupils and neighbours because of his bad temper and strict discipline. He was rarely seen without his three beloved companions: a black jackdaw, a cat, and a Welsh terrier.
Each day he walked across the mountain from Twyn Wenallt to the school. Then, one day, he vanished without a trace. When local people searched for him, they discovered a sack in a nearby pond containing the bodies of his three pets. Dawson himself, however, was never found. The grim discovery led many to suspect foul play.
In the years that followed, stories began to spread of a strange apparition seen high on Gilwern Hill, particularly near the old quarry workings known as the Tyla. Witnesses spoke of a solitary figure dressed in old-fashioned clothing and wearing a broad-brimmed hat. Tradition held that this was the spectre of John Dawson, forever wandering the hills in search of justice for his unsolved disappearance.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I do hope these tales have not put you off visiting this wonderful gorge. If you are worried, simply make sure to go during daylight hours, and try to avoid angering any strange old ladies in pointed hats or stern-looking schoolmasters.
FREE STUFF.
Before I go, I am excited to announce that Fireside Horror, the first book in The Wendlelow Mysteries folk horror trilogy, is currently FREE to download on Kindle.
This offer ends on Tuesday 23rd June, so don't hesitate to grab a copy and begin your journey into the haunted town of Wendlelow.
Links to the Amazon page are below.
Stay Spooky.
Sawney Bean and the Cave of Horrors: A Chilling Scottish Folklore Tale
Scotland is a wonderful country; a place of great natural beauty, rich history, and warm, welcoming people. So it is with great sadness that I lead you down today's path, a journey that will take us to the darker corners of this remarkable land and introduce us to a figure whose story is drenched in blood, and whose exploits would sicken even the most jaded horror enthusiast.
Our tale takes us to the small town of Girvan on the Ayrshire coast, and to the lair of the region's most notorious killer, Sawney Bean.
The tale of Alexander "Sawney" Bean (sometimes known as Sandy Bane) is set in the sixteenth century. He was born in East Lothian, the son of a ditch digger, and though his father tried his hardest to guide his son into this humble but important trade, young Sawney had little interest in honest work. His interests were of a much darker kind.
He left home with a woman named "Black" Agnes Douglas, she had a vicious reputation and was said to have been branded a witch. For a while, they journeyed across the land, robbing unfortunate travellers. But theft was the lesser of their crimes, for these two had other terrible plans for their victims. It is with some regret that I must tell you that, according to legend, they were cannibals, and their bloody appetite was insatiable.
After a time, they made their home in a coastal cave at Bennane Head, between Girvan and Ballantrae. The cave was said to extend some 200 metres into the cliffs, and at high tide its entrance was almost completely cut off. They never announced their presence, and because of the isolated position of their bloody den they remained undetected for twenty-five years.
During this time, they are said to have produced six daughters and eight sons, along with fourteen granddaughters and eighteen grandsons. According to the legend, the grandchildren were the products of incestuous unions between the Bean children.
This large clan continued its trade of robbery and its practice of cannibalism, I suppose it is important to keep up one's hobbies. They would bring the bodies back to their cave, feast upon them, pickle those parts they did not immediately consume, and then discard the inedible remains by casting them into the sea in barrels.
Naturally, this wave of murder and robbery did not go unnoticed by the more observant members of the local population, and searches of the surrounding area were undertaken. One man even discovered the cave itself, but assumed it was uninhabitable because of its position and so made no attempt to explore it.
Suspicion for the crimes often fell upon others, including local innkeepers, and several innocent people were reportedly executed. Thus, the Beans continued their bloody trade undetected, but such a reign of terror could not continue forever.
One night, the clan attacked a newly married couple as they made their way home from a local fair. The husband was armed with both sword and pistol and was a capable fighter. Though his poor wife was captured and taken away to her terrible fate, he managed to hold off his attackers long enough for a large group of fairgoers to arrive and rescue him.
The Beans' existence had finally been revealed.
Upon learning of the murderous clan, King James VI of Scotland reportedly brought four hundred armed men to search the region. Royal bloodhounds eventually led them to the cave, where the clan was arrested and taken away.
Having thoroughly de-Beaned the cave, the royal force was horrified by what they discovered. Human remains hung from the walls, barrels were filled with severed limbs, and piles of stolen treasure lay scattered throughout the cavern.
The entire clan was executed. Black Agnes, along with her daughters and granddaughters, was forced to watch the menfolk being hung, drawn and quartered. Afterwards, according to the tale, the women were burned alive at the stake.
And so concludes the sorry tale of Sawney Bean and his clan.
But is there any truth to this gruesome story?
Historians have found no official records relating to Sawney Bean, nor any contemporary accounts of his crimes or execution. Most versions of the tale appear in much later crime publications, such as The Newgate Calendar during the eighteenth century. Some scholars have suggested that the story may be exaggerated folklore or even anti-Scottish propaganda.
Let us hope that is true.
Let us hope that Sawney Bean is merely a tall tale, a bogeyman used to frighten travellers on lonely roads, for the alternative says far too much about mankind's capacity for violence and depravity, and hardly bears thinking about.
I do hope you did not find this story too disturbing, dear reader.
I am excited to announce the release of the final book in The Wendlelow Mysteries trilogy, A Crow's Scream. It marks the conclusion of this particular series, a trilogy told through twenty-seven interconnected short stories that chronicle the history and eventual fate of the haunted town of Wendlelow and the people who call it home.
It has been a wonderful journey, and I would like to thank everyone who has joined me along the way. Your support, encouragement, and kind words have meant more than I can say.
Fear not, however, for there are still many dark tales waiting to be told. There will be more horror of a distinctly folky kind, more mysteries to unravel, more revelations to uncover, and, of course, more things lurking in the shadows.
For now, I hope you enjoy this final visit to Wendlelow and the strange, haunted world that has grown around it.
Stay Spooky.
The Banshee: Ireland's Wailing Spirit and Harbinger of Death
There is a very ancient legend in Ireland, one found in Lebor Gabála Érenn, a medieval Irish text. It records the arrival of the Milesians, or Sons of Míl, on the shores of Ireland many centuries ago. They are believed to be the true ancestors of the Irish people: Gaels who sailed from Iberia in search of a land to call their home.
When they first made landfall on the Emerald Isle, they encountered the Tuatha Dé Danann, a supernatural race who had long dwelt there. An agreement was reached between the two peoples: the Tuatha Dé Danann would live in the world below, whilst the Sons of Míl would occupy the world above.
But the Milesians may have brought something with them across the ocean. Spirit, curse, or warning, it was known in Irish as the bean sí. Today, however, it is better known by another name: the Banshee.
The Banshee is a fairy woman, a spirit said to lament the death of any man or woman descended from the original Milesian settlers. She is not particularly evil; rather, to hear her cry is a sign that a member of that ancient line will soon pass away.
In parts of Ireland there was a tradition called keening, which formed part of the mourning process. Usually performed by a woman, it involved weeping whilst singing a lament for the departed. In regions where the practice was especially common, some women even took on the role of professional keeners.
A Banshee can therefore be seen as a high-status keener: a fairy woman sent to mourn an impending death within one of Ireland's old families. It is often said that families bearing the Ó, O', Mac, or Mc prefix are the most likely to receive a nocturnal visit from this wailing spirit, though there are exceptions to the lore. For example, a Banshee may also mourn a person gifted in music or song.
The Banshee is usually described as a woman, often elderly, with flowing robes and long hair. Her eyes are perpetually red from endless weeping. She is frequently depicted wearing grey, though some witnesses claim she is clad in green.
Lady Jane Wilde, the mother of Oscar Wilde, provided the following description of the entity:
The size of the banshee is another physical feature that differs between regional accounts. Though some accounts of her standing unnaturally tall are recorded, the majority of tales that describe her height state the banshee's stature as short, anywhere between one foot and four feet. Her exceptional shortness often goes alongside the description of her as an old woman, though it may also be intended to emphasise her state as a fairy creature.
Sometimes the banshee assumes the form of some sweet-singing virgin of the family who died young, and has been given the mission by the invisible powers to become the harbinger of coming doom to her mortal kindred. Or she may be seen at night as a shrouded woman, crouched beneath the trees, lamenting with a veiled face; or flying past in the moonlight, crying bitterly; and the cry of this spirit is mournful beyond all other sounds on earth, and betokens certain death to some member of the family whenever it is heard in the silence of the night.
A famous example of a Banshee visitation is that of the Bunworth Banshee. Reverend Charles Bunworth lived in the south of Ireland, and many people reported hearing the mournful keening of the supernatural spirit in the week leading up to his death.
Most notably, a herdsman claimed that he and several others heard the cry of the Banshee in the days before the reverend's passing. On the night of his death, an elderly woman who had been sitting at his bedside reported hearing a strange moaning sound. It seemed, she said, "as if whoever was making it was holding their mouth close to the window".
She hurried to alert other members of the household. Two men, highly sceptical of the claims, rushed outside to investigate. The sound ceased immediately, and despite a thorough search of the grounds, no source could be found. Strangely, when they returned indoors, they were informed that whilst they had been outside the noise had intensified considerably.
I am sad to say that Reverend Bunworth did not live to see the morning.
And so, a warning to anyone of Irish descent, and indeed to those gifted in music or song. Beware the wailing of the wind at your window in the dead of night. You never know — it might be something far more unnatural.
Some exciting news, dear reader. The final book in The Wendlelow Mysteries trilogy, A Crow’s Scream, has now been released in the US (link below) and is due to arrive on all other Amazon platforms over the next few days.
This marks the conclusion of this particular series of books. It has been a wonderful journey, and I would like to thank everyone who has joined me along the way. Your support, encouragement, and kind words have meant more than I can say.
Fear not, however, for there are still many dark tales waiting to be told. There will be more horror of a distinctly folky kind, more mysteries to unravel, more revelations to uncover, and, of course, more things lurking in the shadows.
For now, I hope you enjoy this final visit to Wendlelow and the strange, haunted world that has grown around it.
As always, thank you for reading.
Stay spooky.
Know your Goblins: The Spriggan
“What the bleedin’ heck is that thing?” I hear a worried voice cry out.
“Know your goblins,” comes the very sensible reply.
And so once more I find myself in my old library, attempting to identify a particularly unpleasant member of the goblin genus: the Spriggan. Read on, dear friend, and let us learn of this troublesome little terror.
Deep within Cornwall — that wild realm where a wanderer will encounter moorland, ancient woodland, and, if they journey far enough, eventually reach the vast ocean — there is a place called the Hayle Estuary. It is one of the few natural harbours on Cornwall’s north coast. A place that has long been important for trade and movement, with evidence of settlement dating back to prehistory.
One such settlement is Trencrom Hill, which eventually developed into an Iron Age hillfort and looks out over the estuary. The hill was recorded as Torcrom in the 18th century, derived from the Cornish “torr crobm”, meaning “hunched bulge”. Doubtless, many legends and stories have circulated around this place over the years, but today we are interested in one particular tale: that of the Spriggan.
Our friend the Spriggan is described as a grotesquely ugly, wizened old chap with a large, childlike head. They are small in stature, but are strangely thought to be the ghostly forms of an ancient race of giants who once made Cornwall their home. In one tale collected by the antiquarian Robert Hunt in the 19th century, the Spriggan is said to swell to an enormous size when angered or threatened. It was Hunt who first recorded this goblin as being linked with Trencrom Hill in local tradition.
Spriggans were notorious, and the places they were thought to inhabit would no doubt have been avoided after nightfall. They were said to kidnap children and leave changelings in their place, so parents were warned to look out for a sudden, dramatic change in a child’s personality. They were guardians of ancient treasure and would violently attack any person they suspected of grave robbing or treasure hunting. Their list of crimes is considerable: they were also blamed for raising storms, blighting crops, and leading unsuspecting travellers astray. In fact, I am sorry to say I cannot find one positive thing to say about these little blighters.
A sculpture of the Spriggan was created by Marilyn Collins and installed in Crouch End Park in London in 1993. It is an impressive sight: a horned being seeming to step up out of the very earth. It is sometimes mistaken for the old god Pan.
Whilst Trencrom Hill is their most famous residence, stories of these size-altering pests can be found in many parts of Cornwall. They are usually thought to dwell in prehistoric barrows, cromlechs, stone circles, and old moorland ruins. So be warned.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I do hope you enjoyed it. If so, and you would like to support me, please consider purchasing a copy of my new audiobook Threads of Shadow, wonderfully brought to life by Mark Adams, available on Amazon and Audible.
Stay spooky.
The Gwyllgi of Wales: The Terrifying Hound of Welsh Folklore
The little market town of Ruthin sits in the county of Denbighshire, in north-east Wales, within the charming Vale of Clwyd. The town’s name derives from rhudd (‘red’) and din (‘fort’), a reference to the colour of the sandstone bedrock from which the castle was built in the thirteenth century.
A road runs from this old settlement, an ancient route connecting the town to Wrexham in the east. Today it is known as the A525, though no doubt it has borne many other names, now lost to time. It is an important road, a lonely road, and one said to be trodden by a horrifying thing: the Gwyllgi.
I have little doubt, my friend, that travellers of old - particularly those making the journey on foot - would have journeyed in pairs, such was the fear attached to a certain stretch of this highway. At its most desolate point, the road runs through the Nant y Garth Pass, a steep-sided wooded valley following the course of the Nant y Garth stream, and it is in this isolated place that the Gwyllgi is said to haunt.
Tradition says the Gwyllgi appears as the dreadful apparition of a great mastiff or black wolf, with foul breath and flaming red eyes. It is a cousin to the phantom black dogs that roam England’s twilight lanes - the likes of Black Shuck in East Anglia and the Skriker in Lancashire.
One account of an encounter with this horrific hound was recorded by T. Gwynn Jones in Welsh Folklore and Welsh Folk-Custom (1930). In his book, he recounts a tale told to him by his grandmother. Apparently, when she was much younger, she and her husband had been riding near Ruthin. She had ridden a little ahead of her spouse when her horse suddenly became nervous. Moments later, she noticed “a huge mastiff with glowing red eyes” standing in the road before her. Sensing her distress, her husband - who I assume was the author’s grandfather - rode up to assist her. Together, they eventually managed to calm the horse. The woman claimed she watched the black hound run down the path and vanish into the gloom, though her husband insisted he had seen nothing at all.
These creatures appear throughout Wales. There is, for instance, a reputedly haunted lane leading from Mousiad to Lisworney Crossways, where locals report seeing a shadowy hound with flaming eyes. Another is said to have been sighted in a field called Cot Moor, and a third near the pit at Pant y Madog, close to Laugharne.
One such beast, described as being larger than a young steed, was said to stand guard over the flock of sheep grazing outside the lands of Yspaddaden Pencawr. Its breath was thought to have scorched the plain bare, burning the foliage to ash.
Like its English cousins, the Gwyllgi was also seen as a portent of doom — an omen of death soon to come within the witness’s community. Quite aside from its terrifying appearance, it is easy to understand why places said to be haunted by such beasts were avoided wherever possible.
So, should you find yourself wandering down a lonely Welsh lane at twilight, and you see a dog standing in the shadow of a hedgerow, do not be tempted to approach it. Do not offer it a treat, and most certainly do not try to pet it. It may be a Gwyllgi - and if it is, losing an arm may be the least of your worries.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I do hope you enjoyed it. If so, and you would like to support me, please consider purchasing a copy of my new audiobook, Threads of Shadow, wonderfully brought to life by Mark Adams, available on Amazon and Audible.
Stay spooky.
Available on Amazon and Audible
Threads of Shadow - The Audio Book is released.
Hello my friends,
I will take a moment away from my usual blogging to announce that my book Threads of Shadow has now been released on Audible and Amazon - excellent news for those who love spooky stories.
Wonderfully narrated by the talented Mark Adams, Threads of Shadow continues the tales of Wendlelow’s haunted streets and lanes. It is a novel told through nine short stories, so you can have fun piecing together how the stories connect as the audiobook unfolds.
Pick up a copy today for some seriously spooky folk horror, and please consider leaving a review on Amazon or Audible. It really helps. I have attached links to the books.
Cat Sìth – The Dark Fairy Cat of Celtic Folklore
Cat Sìth. Puuurfectly terrifying…
The Highlands are home to much wildlife. Grand stags, nature’s monarchs, roam the land their heads adorned with crowns of antlers; grouse take to wing should people draw too near to their hiding places; and the nocturnal pine marten slinks its way through the heather. But there is one creature not fully of this realm — a strange beast that some say is kin to fairykind, whilst others claim it is the form of a shapeshifting witch — and this beast is the Cat Sìth.
The Cat Sìth is a creature whose origins stretch back into Celtic mythology. It is said to resemble a huge black cat — the size of a large dog — with a white patch upon its chest. Yet this feline is said to walk upon its hind legs when it believes no one is watching. It is an intelligent creature, and, I am sorry to say, one driven by malice.
Cat Sìth comes from Gaelic: cat meaning cat, and sìth (or sidhe) meaning fairy mound or fairy being. Roughly translated, its name means “Fairy Cat”. It was much feared in the Highlands, for it was believed to steal the soul of a corpse before burial. For this reason, people would keep watch over the bodies of the newly deceased, a tradition which seems connected to the older Celtic belief in the soul’s journey.
During Samhain (Halloween), when the boundary between worlds was believed to grow thin, the Cat Sìth was thought to roam freely. On this night, some Scottish households would leave out saucers of milk as an offering to the mythical moggy. The hope was that, if the furry villain was pleased, it would bless the house. Failure to provide this offering could see the Cat Sìth exact revenge by drying up the milk of the household’s cows.
There is also a strong connection to witchcraft. In some traditions, the Cat Sìth is believed to be a witch with the power to shapeshift. According to this lore, if a practitioner transformed into feline form nine times, they would become trapped as a cat for the remainder of their days.
The Cat Sìth is also found in Irish folklore. In her book The Schools’ Collection: County Kerry, Margaret Doyle recounts the following tale:
Once upon a time there was a man living near Ballymalis Castle called Jeremiah Carter. One day he went to Killorglin to buy sheep. When he came home, his wife told him that the cat had been making mournful noises around the house all day. He went to hunt out the cat but could not find it. The next day his sheep strayed away and he did not know where to find them. At last, he said he would go towards the castle in search of them. When he reached Ballymalis Castle, he heard a great wailing within. He waited for an hour, and at last a big cat came out on top of the castle. The cat spoke to him and told him to tell her sister at home that her mother was dead. He gathered his sheep and went home. When he reached home, he told his wife what the cat had said. When the other cat heard the news, she went away and was never seen again. It is said those two cats were witches.
To those who dabbled in the occult, it was said to be possible to summon a demonic Cat Sìth named Big Ears. The ritual required to do this was a long one, taking four days and four nights to complete, so the black-hearted magician who undertook it would need considerable commitment. Worse still, the ceremony required the practitioner to burn the bodies of cats. I shall include nothing more of this cruel ritual here — neither the words of power nor the key semantic gestures required to invoke the entity — lest one of my more unscrupulous readers be tempted down a dark and unpleasant path.
Today, folklorists believe that the legend of the Cat Sìth may have been inspired by the Kellas cat, a rare hybrid between domesticated cats and the wildcats of the Scottish Highlands. I, for one, can only hope they are correct.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog, dear friend. If you enjoy a frightening tale, why not try my horror trilogy, The Wendlelow Mysteries? The final, thrilling conclusion, A Crow’s Scream, is set to be unleashed upon the world in the coming months. It will be available on Amazon and Audible - links below.
Stay spooky
The Dearg Due: The Forgotten Vampire of Ireland
The Dearg Due. Beauty and Doom.
The County of Waterford, in the south-east of Ireland, shares its name with the city, one of the oldest and most populous settlements in southern Ireland. Originally a small Viking town, it grew over the centuries in both size and importance, with defensive walls and fortifications raised during the medieval period. But it is not the city’s history that concerns us here. It is the grim thing said to lurk beyond its walls - an undead being that once terrorised the region and was believed to dwell beneath an old oak called Strongbow’s Tree.
It is likely this troubled tree took its name from Richard de Clare, the Norman lord who captured Waterford in 1170. Worryingly, the exact location of the tree has long since been lost to folk memory. Whether it still stands somewhere forgotten, or was cut down long ago and the thing beneath it put to the flame, I cannot say.
But what was this creature? What was it that caused the good people of County Waterford to quiver in fear as darkness fell over their city and the lands beyond? Prepare yourself, dear reader, and I shall tell the tale of the Dearg Due.
Long ago, when the air was fresher, the waters cleaner, and the summer breeze gentler upon the skin, there lived a young woman as beautiful as a flower blooming beneath the midsummer sun. She was deeply in love with a handsome young farmhand, and he with her. Together they had made plans to marry. Sadly, they lived in a time when arranged marriages were common, and love often bowed before wealth.
The girl’s father was a cruel and greedy man who cared far more for gold than for his daughter’s happiness. He forced her into marriage with a wealthy clan chieftain, trading her future for land and coin.
Her new husband was no kinder. Jealous and possessive, he kept her locked away in a tower and took cruel delight in hurting her, merely to see blood upon her pale skin. As the years passed, she withered, fading like a rose left too long in winter.
When at last she died, she was buried beneath Strongbow’s Tree, but the villagers neglected an important custom: to place stones upon the grave, a ritual meant to keep restless spirits from rising and poisoning the land.
It was a foolish mistake. For rise she did.
Her beauty remained, even in death, but all kindness had rotted away, poisoned by grief, cruelty, and the agony of unfulfilled love. She returned to the world of the living as one of the undead, seeking vengeance upon those who had ruined her life.
First, she returned to her childhood home. There, as her father slept, she stole the very breath from his body, leaving him cold and lifeless before dawn.
Then she sought out her husband. She found him staggering drunkenly home from the tavern. As her lips met his, she drew not only the air from his lungs, but the blood from his veins.
But her vengeance did not end there. It is said the Dearg Due lingered on, haunting the roads and lanes of Waterford, luring young men with her beauty before feasting upon their blood. Desperate to end her reign of terror and spare others from her hunger, the villagers gathered by have grave, placing heavy stones upon it trapping her spirit, imprisoning it beneath the earth.
“But the Dearg Due is gone now,” I hear you say with confidence.
Yet cities in Ireland, like cities throughout the world, still have their disappearances. People vanish in the night, leaving behind no trace, no explanation, no farewell. Are there rational answers for such tragedies? Perhaps.
But perhaps - just perhaps - a handful of them may be laid at the feet of something ancient and wicked, something that has found its way into our modern world, something that still walks the nocturnal streets, thirsting for vengeance. Thirsting for blood.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog, dear friend. If you enjoy a frightening tale, why not try my horror trilogy, The Wendlelow Mysteries? The final, thrilling conclusion, A Crow’s Scream, is set to be unleashed upon the world in the coming months. It will be available on Amazon and Audible - links below.
Stay spooky
The Ghosts and Hauntings of Leap Castle – Ireland’s Most Haunted Castle
Travel to the Midlands of Ireland, to the county of Offaly, and you will find the charming town of Roscrea - a place filled with friendly locals and wonderful historic buildings. If you are brave - and I suspect you are, for you are reading this - then venture north from the town for roughly four miles and, rising from the lonely countryside, you will find Leap Castle, said by some to be Ireland’s most haunted fortified building.
The original castle is believed to have been constructed around 1250 AD by the O’Bannon clan, with further expansions added over the centuries. It was originally called Léim Uí Bhanáin, or Leap of the O’Bannons. According to local tradition, the “leap” refers to a brutal contest between two O’Bannon brothers. To settle a dispute over who would lead the clan, both men were said to leap from the rocky outcrop where the castle now stands.
The one who survived became chieftain. A grim beginning for a place with such a bloody history.
Later, the castle fell into the hands of the O’Carroll clan. According to tradition, a bitter dispute broke out between two O’Carroll brothers over succession. One was a priest and, one day, while conducting Mass in the chapel, his brother burst in and murdered him at the altar. Dark rumours claim the priest’s spirit never left, with visitors reporting sightings of him wandering the Bloody Chapel and the stairwell below.
But it was during the twentieth century that one of the castle’s most gruesome discoveries was made. Restoration work was being carried out in the chapel when workers discovered an oubliette - a dungeon accessible only by trapdoor - concealed behind a wall. Inside were piles of human bones, many impaled on spikes. It is said that nearly three cartloads of remains were removed and taken for burial.
Dear reader, I trust the implications are clear.
These poor souls were thrown into that spiked pit and left there to die.
The tale of the Red Lady is a tragic one. She is seen gliding through the halls, dressed - not surprisingly - in red, carrying a bloody dagger. According to legend, she was once a captive who became pregnant, only for her child to be murdered. Wracked with grief, she took her own life and now wanders the castle by night.
Other spectres include an old governess, said to be seen peering from the upper windows and the phantoms of two small children - is there any ghost more unsettling than that of a child? Well, yes, as you shall soon discover. These supernatural little wanderers are often seen running and playing upon the stairs. If local lore is to be believed, one of the children, called Emily, can sometimes be seen falling from the battlements, vanishing before she strikes the ground.
But there is one entity that haunts Leap Castle’s troubled halls that is so dreadful, I must steady myself before I speak of it. Something so horrible it scarcely has a name.
It is known simply as The Thing, or The Elemental.
Those unfortunate enough to encounter it describe something small and twisted, with a decomposing face and accompanied by the overpowering stench of sulphur and rotting flesh.
The origins of the Thing remain uncertain. Some claim it was a spirit left by druids to guard the land and punish intruders. Others say it is merely a symptom of the castle’s violent history - a creature shaped over the centuries by accumulated hatred and suffering. Still others claim it was summoned accidentally by a woman named Mildred Darby.
Mildred lived in the castle during the early twentieth century and was known to practise séances. It is feared the Thing crept through from whatever dark realm it inhabits, drawn into our world during one of her spiritualist rituals. Mildred herself wrote of the creature after it terrified several of her servants:
“Whilst dressing I was startled by a loud yell of terror-stricken male and female voices coming apparently from the hall…”
She later described seeing the Thing leaning upon the gallery rail, its dreadful form accompanied by a foul and unnatural smell, before it slowly faded from sight. According to the servants, all who witnessed it became violently sick afterwards.
There are many more spectres associated with Leap Castle. It is, by all accounts, a deeply troubled place. But I do not believe my nerves can bear much more, and I would not wish to be the reason you, my dear friend, suffer a sleepless night. So for now, I shall say no more.
Perhaps, if my courage returns, I shall one day revisit Leap Castle and complete its phantasmal catalogue.
FREE STUFF
Tomorrow sees the release of the audiobook of my novel, Threads of Shadow, wonderfully and chillingly brought to life by narrator Mark Adams.
If you’d like a free copy, I have twenty spare codes available. Simply message me on Facebook or via the contact section of this website, and I’ll happily send one over in return for an honest review.
Until next week, stay spooky.
Raw Head and Bloody Bones: The Terrifying Monster That Haunted Children.
Raw Head & Bloody Bones enjoying a relaxing afternoon in his well…
The north of England is a place of many natural wonders - scenery guaranteed to take the breath away from any traveller; a place to inspire writers and poets… and also a place where things lurk that inspire a gut-twisting fear.
It is such a thing that I will speak of now - an entity so terrifying that its memory travelled across an ocean and found fertile ground in the southern states of America. A creature that dwells in the shadows, awaiting the moment to seize unwary children… a thing called Raw Head and Bloody Bones.
Raw Head and Bloody Bones is also referred to as Rawhead, Tommy Rawhead, or simply Bloody Bones. The term “bloody bones” can be traced back as far as 1548, according to the English dictionary. However, the figure itself was later recorded by the English physician and philosopher John Locke in 1693. He had the following to say on this gruesome legend:
“…used to awe children, and keep them in subjection.”
The name Raw Head and Bloody Bones gives a fairly clear impression of the sort of chap we are dealing with, a walking skeleton, its bones slick with rivulets of red, sticky blood; its head almost without skin, the raw muscular tissue beneath horribly exposed.
In Yorkshire, he was believed to dwell in pools and wells, dragging small children to a watery doom if they dared approach alone. But his name was not confined to England’s northern regions. As far south as Cornwall, we find the legend of Old Bloody Bones in the village of Baldhu, where he was said to inhabit an old knucker hole, lurking in the shadows and waiting for an unsuspecting traveller to stray too close to his domain…
In Somerset folklore, this supernatural blighter was worse still, for he did not limit his nefarious activities to the outdoors. Here, he was said to dwell in cupboards beneath the stairs. If a child were brave - or foolish - enough to peer through a crack in the door or a keyhole, they might glimpse him, perched upon a pile of bones.
Bones of his former child victims.
Young victims who had been caught lying… or perhaps even worse, using bad words.
As I mentioned earlier, Old Rawhead eventually grew tired of tormenting England’s younger generation and decided to try his luck in the “land of opportunity”. I can only assume he hid in the hold of a ship to get there, as no right-minded individual would have rented him a cabin.
Perhaps weary of the notoriously dreary English weather, he made his home in the southern United States, enjoying the balmy climate while inflicting his particular brand of horror upon the local populace. There, he turned his attentions to those possessing what was described as a “wicked tongue” - a worryingly vague offence. He became a particularly troubling figure in African-American folklore.
Our old friend Raw Head has clearly been used as a cautionary tale - to keep children from wandering too close to dangerous places, and to discourage certain taboos, particularly the use of those most notorious bad words - of which I shall not give an example here, dear reader… you can thank me later.
And so, he is clearly not real.
And yet… my wife has just asked me to fetch the broom from beneath the stairs.
Why, then, does my hand tremble so?
I do hope you did not find today’s blog to gory my friend. If you want to support me please consider picking up a copy of Threads of Shadow - a folkloric horror novel told through short stories, available on Amazon stores worldwide. Links to the UK and US editions are below. Or search P A Sheldon.
Until next week -
Stay spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
Locke, John. Some Thoughts Concerning Education (1902 ed.).
Briggs, Katharine (1976). An Encyclopedia of Fairies
www.scarystudies.com/rawhead-and-bloody-bones-rawhead-rex/
Know Your Goblins – The Trow
The Dreaded Trow. Fiddle players beware…
Once more a voice calls out, ‘Know your goblins.’ I cannot see the individual who cried these words, but I suspect they are a very sensible person, with a good head on their shoulders. As I have previously stated, goblin awareness is a vital life skill, and so I pull out my dusty books, settle down in a dim corner of the room, and prepare to research and deliver this essential information.
Today we head to the far north of Scotland, to the Orkney and Shetland Islands, to trace that most dangerous of goblinkind: the Trow.
Life on the Scottish isles can be harsh. Stormy winds batter the small settlements that cling there, and wind-tossed seas make journeys to the mainland a challenge. The folk of these islands are a hardy breed; the goblins that haunt them, even more so.
A Trow (also referred to as trowe, drow, or dtrow) is a malignant fairy or goblin. They are usually described as short, stunted, and ugly, though there are occasional tales of giant, multi-headed trows terrorising whole communities.
A large number of the ancient mounds located on the islands are thought to be ‘trowie knowes’ (earthen mound dwellings), where they hide from the light of day, venturing out only after dusk. Indeed, if caught in sunlight, they cannot return home until the following evening.
Local folk would avoid these old monuments, particularly after dark, for fear of a nocturnal encounter. Trows are known to have a fondness for music, particularly the fiddle, and are notorious for abducting musicians in the night and imprisoning them within their mounds, so those of you who are musically gifted and can play a violin beware…
The name Trow (or Drow) is thought to derive from an Old Norse dialect, as these isles were once occupied by Norse settlers before the Scots drove them out. The word may stem from draugr, meaning revenant, devil, or troll.
It was considered unfortunate to speak of Trows, and even more unlucky to lay eyes upon one of the blighters - particularly if you happen to play an instrument requiring a bow. There were believed to be two distinct kinds of Trow: the hill-trows and the sea-trows, said to be mortal enemies. We have already spoken of the hill-trow; now let us turn our attention to its ocean-loving cousin.
Descriptions of sea-trows vary, but they are often said to resemble a colt with matted hair. However, the Orkney variety is thought to be among the most unpleasant imaginable: a scaly creature with matted hair, a monkey-like face, and a sloping head. It was said to be frail-bodied, yet possessed disproportionately large limbs, with disc-shaped feet - “round as a millstone” - and webbed hands and feet, giving it a slow, lumbering, almost “wabbling” gait.
Finally, and with great regret, we must speak of the Kunal Trow, or King Trow - perhaps the worst of the lot - said to dwell on the island of Unst in Shetland. They are a race without females, wandering the darkness and weeping with loneliness. They take human wives, but tragically these women never survive the birth of Trow–human offspring, forcing the Kunal Trow to abduct unwilling women to act as wet nurses for their young.
Some of the traditional tunes of the Shetland Islands are believed to have come from the Trows. A wandering musician might hear one of these troublesome beings playing a strange melody and later reproduce it. Such alleged Trowie tunes include “Da Trowie Burn”, “Da Trow’s Reel”, and “Da Peerie Hoose in Under Da Hill” (“The Little House Under the Hill”).
I hope this blog has been useful, particularly to any of my violin-playing readers. Remember, these goblins are out there - and they are a blooming nuisance.
If you enjoy what I do, please consider picking up a copy of either of my books, Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror, terrifying folk-horror collections told through short stories — available on all Amazon stores, I have enclosed link to the UK & US versions below.
Until next week,
Stay spooky.
BOOK UPDATE : A CROW’S SCREAM - THE FINAL CHAPTER OF THE WENDLELOW MYSTERIES
A book cover and a noisy bird…
Hello dear friends,
After much hard graft and quite a few ups and downs, it is with nervous excitement that I can announce the upcoming release of Book Three of The Wendlelow Mysteries. The final book in this trilogy - told through 27 short stories - will explore the origins of the haunted Shropshire town, and the ultimate fate of the residents you have grown to know so well. Julie, Elspeth, Nolan and Roger will return, joined by a host of new characters, as we weave our way towards the witch-haunted settlement’s final destiny.
I want to thank you all for bravely taking this journey with me. As these novels are made up of short stories, I always envisioned readers returning to them, to dip into a few favourite tales now and again, perhaps around Halloween or Christmas, giving the books an extended life in the reader’s mind.
The Wendlelow Mysteries marks the conclusion of over twenty years’ work. It was only a couple of years ago, during a bout of illness, that I decided to do something with these stories, producing my first book, Fireside Horror. This was followed by the audiobook, a couple of anthologies, and finally Book Two, Threads of Shadow.
A Crow’s Scream will soon make its way to my editor, who will work her magic and make it fit for human consumption. Once it is returned, I will implement the necessary edits and prepare it for release, so, hopefully, it will be out within the next two months.
And after that. Well, I have begun making notes on a sequel to the series, a novel set after the Wendlelow events, and I am also planning to release a book of unconnected stories set within the same area and time frame. Finally, I hope to compile a folklore volume based on my Fireside Folklore blog.
And thank you, dear reader, for taking this journey with me. I hope you have had as much joy reading these books as I have had writing them.
Stay spooky,
Your friend,
Paul
Jenny Greenteeth: The Terrifying Water Hag of English Folklore
Jenny Greenteeth. Traveller Beware…
Travel – if you dare – to the north-west of England, and you will find yourself in the county of Lancashire, an area dissected by three rivers: the Lune, the Wyre, and the Ribble, all of which wend their way westward before flowing into the storm-tossed Irish Sea. Naturally, these rivers branch into smaller tributaries and streams, until the whole region is veined with waterways.
These waters can be calming to behold, and a traveller might be tempted to rest upon their banks, listening to their gentle murmur. However, any rambler who chooses to do so should beware, for something sinister is said to lurk within their murky depths - a water-dwelling hag known as Jenny Greenteeth.
Jenny Greenteeth, also known as Wicked Jenny, Ginny Greenteeth, or Grinteeth, is a figure of English folklore. Tales of her are fairly widespread; she is also whispered of in North Staffordshire, as well as in Cheshire and Shropshire (Wendlelow country ;-)). Here, she is known by similar names, including Wicked Jenny, Ginny Greenteeth, and Jeannie Greenteeth.
She is described as green-skinned, her teeth and gums caked in algae, with long, sharp teeth and fingers ending in cruel, claw-like nails - more akin to the talons of a raptor than the hands of a woman. No one is entirely safe from her predations, but the young and the elderly are said to be particularly at risk, as she favours easy prey.
In some accounts, she is believed to lurk in the branches of trees at night, watching her victims and preparing to drop upon the unsuspecting. If they are fortunate, they may receive a warning, as fetid droplets of water fall from above. Some historians suggest this image may have been confused by folklorists with the northern English Jinny-hewlet, an old folk name for an owl.
Folklorist Roy Palmer, in Folklore of Herefordshire and the Welsh Border (2009), records the following Staffordshire saying:
“Jenny wi’ green teeth lives i’ th’ pool-
she’ll have thee if tha leans too far.”
In their excellent book The Lore of the Land (2005), Jennifer Westwood and Jacqueline Simpson record the following northern oral tradition:
“Tha’d best keep away fro’ th’ cut, or Jenny Greenteeth’ll get thee-
she sits under th’ weeds, waitin’, an’ she’ll grip thi ankles an’ drag thee down.”
It seems Jenny Greenteeth serves as a cautionary tale - much like the Scottish Blue Men of the Minch or the Slavic Rusalka - used to warn children of the dangers of water, particularly ponds covered in duckweed, which may conceal hidden depths and hazards.
Indeed, the idea of a frightening being dwelling in water is found worldwide and is almost always used to deter adventurous youngsters from venturing where they ought not. In Australia, there is the Bunyip; in Jamaican folklore, the River Mumma (River Mother). In American folklore, we encounter the Storm Hag of Lake Erie in Pennsylvania, a creature said to lurk beneath the waters and blamed for shipwrecks in the region. Like Jenny Greenteeth, the Storm Hag is often described as a green-skinned woman with sharp, unnatural teeth and piercing eyes.
The similarities between Old Jenny Greenteeth and the Storm Hag are striking, and one is left to wonder, brave reader, whether they might be one and the same - an old English tradition carried across the Atlantic by immigrants, finding a new home and continuing to terrorise distant shores.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you have enjoyed this piece of English folklore.
If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror - folkloric horror collections told through short stories set in the troubled Shropshire town of Wendlelow, available on Amazon stores worldwide. Links to the UK and US editions are below.
Until next week -
Stay spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
The Lore of the Land (2005) – Jennifer Westwood and Jacqueline Simpson
Folklore of Herefordshire and the Welsh Border (2009) – Roy Palmer
Know Your Goblins – The Coblynau
A Coblyn approaches, but is he friend or foe?
A voice calls out: “Know your goblins.” Words of wisdom that ought to be engraved in every public space in the country. There are many different kinds of goblin, not just in Britain but throughout the world - but which are friendly, and which are devious little miscreants? Being able to identify them correctly might save you a great deal of trouble in the long run. Indeed, goblin education should be compulsory in every school throughout the land.
Today, I will speak of a type of goblin from Wales: the mine-dwelling coblyn.
The name coblyn (plural coblynau) has two possible meanings: one is “knocker” or “thumper”, whilst the other is “sprite”. They stand at around a foot and a half tall and are generally considered rather ugly; however, they are also thought to be friendly and good-natured. Like their Cornish cousins, the Knockers, they inhabit mines and caverns. In dress, they mimic a miner’s garb, wearing functional work clothes and a small hard hat. They carry miniature hammers and picks, and can be found pushing tiny wheel barrows busily about or else industriously working away at a seam of precious metal. - bless them.
They are more often heard than seen, and workers in the dark depths report the sound of them pounding away in distant, abandoned tunnels. Generally, they are considered to bring good luck, but be wary: if you speak ill of them, they may grow moody and begin throwing stones.
Coblynau were regarded as protectors of the mine, and any peculiar occurrences - such as strange noises or missing equipment - were often attributed to them. They were also believed to lead workers to rich veins of ore, and in some cases hidden treasure, by knocking or rapping in a particular area.
Occasionally, people have reported encountering these miniature miners outside of caverns, often in mountainous regions, much to the surprise of unsuspecting ramblers. The Rev. Edmund Jones, in his book A Relation of Apparitions of Spirits in the County of Monmouth and the Principality of Wales (printed 1813), recounts the following encounter:
Egbert Williams, “a pious young gentleman of Denbighshire, then at school,” was one day playing in a field with three girls, one of whom was his sister. Near the stile beyond Lanelwyd House, they saw a company of fifteen coblynau dancing in the middle of the field. They danced in a manner somewhat akin to Morris dancers, but with a wildness and swiftness in their movements. They were clothed in red like British soldiers and wore red handkerchiefs spotted with yellow, wound around their heads. A strange circumstance was that although they were almost as tall as ordinary men, they retained the unmistakable appearance of dwarfs.
Presently, one of them left the group and ran towards the children near the stile, who were terribly frightened and scrambled to escape. Barbara Jones got over first, then her sister, and as Egbert Williams helped his sister across, they saw the coblyn close upon them. They barely made it over before its hairy hand grasped the stile. It stood there, leaning upon it, gazing after them as they fled, with a grim, copper-coloured countenance and a fierce expression. The young people ran to Lanelwyd House and called the elders out, but though they hurried quickly to the field, the dwarfs had already vanished.
Rev. Edmund Jones also recounts a less alarming encounter, experienced by one William Evans of Hafodafel:
While crossing the Beacon Mountain very early in the morning, he passed what appeared to be a fairy coal mine, where fairies were busily at work. Some were cutting coal, others carrying it to fill sacks, and some lifting the loads onto horses’ backs - all in complete silence. He considered it “a most extraordinary, supernatural sight” and was greatly impressed, for he knew there was no coal mine in that place. He was described as a man of unquestionable honesty, “a great man in the world - above telling an untruth.”
Remember my friends being able to correctly identify a goblin is an essential life skill so stay informed, stay vigilant and most importantly Stay Spooky.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog, my friend. I hope you found it enjoyable - perhaps even useful. Please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow - chock-full of phantoms and monsters, the stories entwining into a novel guaranteed to send a shiver down your spine - available worldwide on Amazon. Simply search P. A. Sheldon, or click the link below.
Alternatively, you will find plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, in the download section of this website.
Until next week.
Link to Amazon UK - Threads of Shadow
Link to Amazon US - Threads of Shadow
Sources
Wikipedia
'A Relation of Apparitions of Spirits in the County of Monmouth and the Principality of Wales' Rev. Edmund Jones (1813)
monstropedia.org
britishfairies.wordpress.com
The Dullahan - Ireland’s Headless Horseman
The Dulllahan rides forth…
When the wild wind blows and the mists weave their way across the hills and into Ireland’s sunken lanes, both humble and lofty folk alike bolt their doors, throw more fuel upon the fire, and pray for the rays of the early morning sun to bless the land. For these conditions are ripe for one of the Emerald Isle’s most terrifying entities - The Dullahan.
Tales of the Dullahan, or Dulachan (Irish: Dubhlachanreach), do not seem confined to any one particular area of Ireland; his reach spreads throughout the land. He has a somewhat gruesome appearance, so steel your nerves dear reader, before proceeding. He is described as a ghostly rider upon a black horse, he has no head upon his shoulders, instead he carries it before him, gripping it by the hair. It bears a particularly revolting aspect, a wide toothy grin said to nearly split it in half. This dire trophy is further described by Thomas Crofton Croker in the 18th century, a collector of strange Irish tales:
...such a head no mortal ever saw before. It looked like a large cream cheese hung round with black puddings: no speck of colour enlivened the ashy paleness of the depressed features; the skin lay stretched over the unearthly surface almost like the parchment head of a drum. Two fiery eyes of prodigious circumference, with a strange and irregular motion, flashed like meteors.
As might be expected of any self-respecting dark entity, he dresses in black. More unsettling still, he is sometimes described as carrying a whip made from a human spine, which he uses to viciously thrash his unfortunate spectral mount.
There are also tales of a “Headless Coach” (also called the Cóiste Bodhar, or “Soundless Coach”), driven by the Dullahan down lonely roads. Irish writer Robert Lynd recounts the testimony of a witness from Connemara, who spoke of walking the lanes one night when he encountered the silent shadow of a coach passing by him in utter stillness.
The fear of encountering this terrifying equestrian was very real, for it was believed that he could strike a person blind in one eye, or use eldritch powers - which as we all know are surely the very worst kind of powers - to draw out a victim’s soul, killing them on the spot. He was often seen atop a hill, holding his head aloft, scanning the countryside for lonely travellers to terrorise. Some tales even speak of him riding from village to village, knocking upon cottage doors; should anyone be foolish enough to answer, well…
The Dullahan was said to be repelled by gold, and so nocturnal travellers were advised to carry some with them to ward off any potential encounter. Of course, carrying precious metals through the countryside at night might well draw the attention of a far more mortal danger. So one must decide what is to be feared more: a headless phantom, or a band of robbers.
In a blog on Irish customs, Bridget Haggerty relates the following tale of an encounter with this unfriendly spectre:
One story from Galway tells of a man walking home late at night when he heard the sound of horse’s hooves pounding along the road behind him. In dread, he turned and saw the Dullahan. He ran, but nothing can outrun the angel of death. Then, remembering the old lore, he dropped a gold coin upon the road. A terrible roar sounded in the air above him, and when he dared to look again, the Dullahan had vanished.
Our old friend Croker also provides a tale in his book Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland (1828):
A peasant named Larry Dodd, a resident of the “White Knight’s Country” at the foot of the Galtee Mountains, travels to Cashel, where he purchases a nag, intending to sell it at Kildorrery fair that very evening. Along the way, he offers a ride to a cloaked woman. When he attempts to claim a kiss as payment, he discovers - to his horror - that she is a Dullahan. Losing consciousness, he later awakens within the ruins of a church, where he beholds a dreadful sight: a wheel of torture adorned with severed heads, surrounded by headless Dullahans - men and women, nobles and commoners alike. He is offered a drink, but as he begins to praise it, his head is struck from his body mid-sentence. When he regains his senses, his head is restored, though his horse is lost to the Dullahans forever.
My best advice to visitors to Ireland is therefore this: remain indoors of an evening, sit comfortably beside a roaring fire, and if you do venture out to a local pub, do so in the company of good friends. And when at last you wend your drunken way home, be certain to carry a piece of gold upon your person - for you never know what may come riding up behind you.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this strange tale has not put you off visiting the emerald isle, which is a beautiful place. If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of my book, Fireside Horror - a terrifying folk-horror novel told through short stories, available on all Amazon stores. I have enclosed links to the UK and US versions below. It are also available to order from Waterstones.
Until next week,
Stay spooky.
HORROR REVIEW
★★★★★
‘A gem of a book’
Sources
Wikipedia
Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland T C Croker (1828)