The Leprechaun: The Mysterious Trickster of Irish Folklore
The Leprechaun - with his precious gold.
Ireland is an ancient land with many different legends. Tales of heroes, monsters and phantoms can be found throughout the Emerald Isle, but if there is one mysterious entity who captures the spirit of the place and has become most closely associated with it, then that is Leprechaun.
The Leprechaun is rarely mentioned in early Irish mythology and only becomes prominent in later medieval folklore. The name likely derives from the Irish “leipreachán”, meaning “a small-bodied fellow”. They are a mischievous kind of fairy, often depicted as shoemakers, and famously associated with a pot of gold - a later addition to the legend - usually said to be located at the end of a rainbow. Leprechauns were believed to hide their treasure where it could never be found; hence the rainbow, which has no true ‘end’.
They are said to lead solitary lives in remote rural areas, often dwelling in underground caves or hollow trees, preferring to remain hidden from humans. Modern depictions describe them as short - usually around two to three feet tall - with bright reddish-orange facial hair. They wear a green coat and a top hat, the later often perched at a jaunty angle, while their boots and belts are adorned with brightly polished metal buckles. They are believed to be cunning, possessed of a sparkling wit, and fond of tricks and riddles.
However, in older stories these diminutive troublemakers are described somewhat differently. According to D. R. McAnally, the leprechaun is the son of an “evil spirit” and a “degenerate fairy” and is “not wholly good nor wholly evil”. He goes on to describe a very dapper little chap:
He is about three feet high, and is dressed in a little red jacket or roundabout, with red breeches buckled at the knee, grey or black stockings, and a hat, cocked in the style of a century ago, over a little, old, withered face. Round his neck is an Elizabethan ruff, and frills of lace are at his wrists.
Older versions also provide him with a leather apron, as he was considered a master shoemaker.
There are few accounts of people claiming to have encountered these pint-sized pranksters, but one or two tales persist. Perhaps the most famous comes from County Kerry in the eighteenth century. A local fisherman claimed to have caught a leprechaun while fishing. The fairy promised to reveal the location of his treasure if released. This story reflects the common narrative surrounding leprechauns and their legendary gold.
A more modern sighting allegedly occurred in Dublin in 1989, when a family reported observing a small figure darting behind a tree in an urban park. They described it as wearing a green suit and hat and claimed that, upon approaching, it vanished into thin air - fuelling rumours of these strange beings in contemporary society.
Today, the Leprechaun is most likely to be encountered in cartoons, films and advertising, and is strongly associated with St Patrick’s Day, 17 March - the traditional death date of Saint Patrick, the foremost patron saint of Ireland.
I do hope you have enjoyed today’s blog, my friend. 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
aprilroane.com/post/leprechauns-legends-sightings-and-cultural-beliefs
yourirish.com/folklore/legend-of-leprechauns
#leprechaun #folklore #Irishmyth #stpatricksday
Folk Hero – Johnnie Armstrong & the Restless Spirits of Gilnockie Tower
Johnnie Armstrong, notorious villain or folk-hero?
Just north of the village of Canonbie, in Dumfriesshire in south-west Scotland, stands an old fortified tower. The present structure largely dates from the early seventeenth century, although an earlier tower is believed to have stood on the site. Originally known as Hollows Tower, it is today called Gilnockie Tower.
The name Gilnockie is thought to derive from the Scottish Gaelic Geal Cnocan, meaning “little white hill”. The tower is traditionally associated with Johnnie Armstrong, a notorious Border reiver who later became a folk hero.
Armstrong was a clan leader followed by around one hundred and fifty men. He raided both English and Scottish lands, shifting his allegiance according to which crown held the upper hand. Operating with relative impunity from his base at Gilnockie, and under the protection of Lord Robert Maxwell, Armstrong even raided and burned the town of Netherby in Cumberland in 1527.
By 1530 the Borderlands had become so volatile that James V personally led a campaign to impose royal authority. The King offered to meet Armstrong, who, believing he would receive a royal safe conduct, agreed to meet him face to face at Carlenrig Chapel, accompanied by about thirty followers.
He was deceived.
Instead of receiving a pardon, Armstrong and his men were seized by the King’s much larger force and hanged without trial. The execution was intended as a stark warning to other reivers and an attempt to restore law and order to the Borders. It did not have the desired effect.
Because the King had effectively lured Armstrong under a supposed assurance of safety, many viewed the act as treacherous. In death, Armstrong’s reputation began to change. Whatever he may have been in life — arguably little more than a violent outlaw — he became something more in legend. A traditional ballad, Johnie Armstrang, commemorated his fate, and he later appeared in the writings of Walter Scott. In these and other accounts he is portrayed as well dressed and charismatic, loyal to his men, and unjustly executed. Some later interpretations even cast him as a defender of Scottish independence rather than a self-interested raider.
Modern historians tend to regard Armstrong as both a criminal and a casualty of shifting political authority in a lawless frontier society.
Gilnockie Tower itself fell into ruin for a time but has since been restored. It now stands as a monument to Border history and continues to attract visitors.
The tower remains open to the public and is well worth a visit. Local tradition attaches several curious tales to the place. Stories tell of the phantoms of a family of three and their loyal hunting dog, said to be heard moving about the building at night. There is also the mysterious “yin leggit” ghost — a one-legged apparition glimpsed on cold, foggy evenings. Visitors have reported footsteps on empty staircases, faint voices drifting through the tower, and the unsettling sensation of being watched.
Could any of those whispers belong to Johnnie Armstrong himself? Might the old reiver return to his former stronghold from time to time? And if he does, what would he make of it now?
Who can say?
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. If you enjoyed this piece of border folklore, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow - chock-full of phantoms and monsters, their stories entwined in a novel guaranteed to send a shiver down your spine - available worldwide on Amazon. Search P A Sheldon. or click the link below.
Alternatively, you’ll find plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Until next week — stay spooky.
Llamhigyn y Dŵr – The Dreaded Water Leaper
Llamhigyn y Dŵr – The Water leaper
Wales is a country famous for its mountains and deep valleys - a place of vivid beauty in which a person can truly lose themselves. Yet these mountains and valleys also contain lakes, rivers and ponds, and some of these waters were long regarded with suspicion. They were thought to be the domains of black-hearted devils, terrifying spectres and dangerous beasts.
Dangerous beasts such as the Llamhigyn y Dŵr.
In Welsh, Llamhigyn y Dŵr (pronounced Hlam-HIG-in uh DOOR) literally means “Water Leaper”. It is said to resemble a large and monstrous toad, limbless except for membranous, bat-like wings which it uses to glide when it springs from the water at its prey. It possesses a long tail tipped with a cruel, venomous-looking stinger.
It hunts by hiding in murky water, waiting for a victim to venture too close. Then it erupts from the depths and launches itself at the unsuspecting unfortunate. Shepherds are careful not to let their flocks or dogs stray too near lakes where these froggish fiends are believed to lurk. Anglers returning home with rod and tackle after an unsuccessful day at the water know precisely what is to blame for their empty creels.
The scholar of Welsh language and lore, Sir John Rhys (1840–1915), relates a tale in his book Celtic Folklore: Welsh and Manx (Clarendon Press, London, 1901), which he says was told to him by a fisherman named Old Ifan Owen. Ifan claimed that he himself had once run into this amphibious wrong ’un, and that his father had encountered the creature on many occasions. His recorded account is given below:
Once in particular, when he had been angling for hours towards the close of the day without catching anything, he found that something took the fly clean off the hook each time he cast it. After moving from one spot to another on the lake, he fished opposite the Benlan Wen, when something gave his line a frightful pull, “and, by the gallows, I gave another pull,” the fisherman used to say, “with all the force of my arm: out it came, and up it went off the hook, whilst I turned round to see, as it dashed so against the cliff of Benlan that it blazed like lightning.” He would add, “If that was not the Llamhigyn, it must have been the very devil himself.” That cliff must be two hundred yards at least from the shore.
As to his father, he had seen the Water Spirit many times, and had also been fishing in the Llyn Glâs or Ffynnon Lâs when he hooked a wonderful and fearful monster. It was not like a fish, but rather resembled a toad, except that it had a tail and wings instead of legs. He pulled it easily enough towards the shore, but as its head rose from the water it gave a terrible shriek - enough to split the fisherman’s bones to the marrow. Had there not been a friend standing by, he might have fallen headlong into the lake and been dragged under like a sheep; for there was a tradition that if a sheep entered the Llyn Glâs, it could never be recovered, as something would at once drag it to the bottom.
Rhys adds that this was the belief of the shepherds of Cwm Dyli within his memory, and that they acted upon it by never allowing their dogs to pursue sheep too close to the lake.
I could find no firm accounts of this bat-winged Batrachian attacking people outright. Nevertheless, owners of dogs and sheep might be wise to beware, lest a beloved pet or valuable livestock become its next meal.
So is this croaking menace real - an ever-present danger to Welsh dog walkers - or merely a tall tale, a convenient excuse offered by anglers in the warmth of the pub after a long day on the water, explaining why today’s catch slipped away?
I shall leave you, dear reader, to judge.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you have liked this monstrous Welsh legend.
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, available on Amazon stores worldwide. Links to the UK and US editions are below.
Until next week -
Stay spooky.
Sharon Joy Reads
“Exceptional folkloric horror”
★★★★★
Sources
Wikipedia
abookofcreatures.com
Celtic Folklore: Welsh and Manx (Sir John Rhys, 1901)
An Encyclopedia of Fairies (Katherine Briggs)
Robin Hood and Sherwood Forest: The Legend
Robin Hood & Maid Marian. The other merry men can be seen hiding in the trees.
Travel deep into England’s green heart and you will find the ceremonial county of Nottinghamshire. Here lies a nature reserve of more than a thousand acres - a remnant of something far older - a place known as Sherwood Forest.
Though greatly reduced today, this mighty woodland once covered a quarter of Nottinghamshire and cast its leafy shadow into neighbouring counties. In ages past it was known as Sciryuda - “the woodland belonging to the shire” - or, the shire (sher) wood of Nottinghamshire.
Within these ancient tracts of forest, beneath bough and birdsong, tradition tells of one of England’s greatest folk heroes: Robin Hood.
For more than six centuries, Robin has been bound to this landscape. An outlaw of the medieval world, he is said to have robbed the rich to give to the poor, outwitted corrupt officials, and stood against injustice with his longbow in hand. Yet whether he was a living man of flesh and blood, a composite of several wandering outlaws, or merely a figure woven from the songs of travelling minstrels remains a matter of debate.
Curiously, the name “Robin Hood” - or “Robin Hode” - appears in medieval legal records as a term for an unnamed criminal, much as “John Doe” is used today in America. Even then, the name had already begun to slip into myth.
The earliest surviving ballads date to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, among them:
A Gest of Robyn Hode
Robin Hood and the Monk
Robin Hood and the Potter
In these early tales, Robin is a yeoman - a skilled commoner with a strong moral code, loyal to the “good old ways”, hostile to greedy churchmen and corrupt sheriffs, and fiercely protective of his band.
Around him gathered the Merry Men - companions as memorable as he himself:
Little John, towering and steadfast, his strength matched only by his loyalty.
Friar Tuck, boisterous and red-cheeked, fond of food and drink, yet not scared to a fight with is staff.
Maid Marian, a later addition to the legend, Robins true love, who has grown in modern tellings into a figure of courage and quiet resolve.
Will Scarlet, hot-blooded and quick to anger, clad in scarlet cloth as bright as autumn leaves.
Set against them stand the figures of authority: the Sheriff of Nottingham, the embodiment of corrupt rule; Sir Guy of Gisbourne, his ruthless right hand man; and, in later retellings, the grasping Prince John.
It was Sir Walter Scott’s 1819 novel Ivanhoe that reshaped Robin into a dispossessed nobleman - a Saxon lord driven into the greenwood by Norman oppression. This romantic vision took root, and from it grew the Robin many recognise today.
Across Britain, the legend has left its mark upon the landscape. Caves, wells and cliffs bear his name:
Robin Hood’s Stride in Derbyshire - twin rocks said to mark the place where the hero made a single impossible leap.
Robin Hood’s Bay on the Yorkshire coast - a village with a history of smuggling that later became entwined with the outlaw’s tale.
Robin Hood’s Well near Fountains Abbey in Yorkshire - some traditions place Robin’s origins in Loxley near Sheffield, and in these versions his adventures unfold in Barnsdale rather than Sherwood. The ballad Robin Hood and the Curtal Friar connects Robin with this fountain, which may explain the naming of the spring where the well was later constructed.
Robin Hood’s Grave is a monument in Kirklees Park Estate, West Yorkshire, near the ruins of Kirklees Priory. It is traditionally said to mark the burial place of the English folk hero, who, according to legend, was poisoned by the Prioress, whilst he was recovering from his wounds there. It is here that some claim to have glimpsed his ghost lingering in the surrounding woodland at twilight, bow in hand.
Perhaps the surest way to feel the spirit of the old legend is to visit the great Major Oak in Sherwood Forest. One of Britain’s most venerable trees, it is believed to be around a thousand years old, a truly ancient woodland king.
To stand beneath its summer canopy and hear the wind stir its leaves and the birds calling between its branches is, for a moment, to feel oneself drift from the modern world and become one with something ancient and wild.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you have enjoyed this old English legend.
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, available on Amazon stores worldwide. Links to the UK and US editions are below.
Until next week -
Stay spooky.
Sharon Joy Reads
“Exceptional folkloric horror”
★★★★★
Sources
Wikipedia
discoverbritain.com
mythencyclopedia.com
International Robin Hood Bibliography
visitsherwood.co.uk
The Hag of Beara: Ireland’s Ancient Winter Goddess
The Hag of Beara… patiently she waits.
If you go far enough south in Ireland you will come to County Cork, here the land eventually begins to break apart.
The coastline is torn and folded, bitten into by the Atlantic over countless ages. Long peninsulas reach out into the sea like skeletal fingers - Beara, Sheep’s Head, Mizen - places where the wind never quite rests and the land feels older than memory. It is on the Beara Peninsula, looking straight out into the western ocean, that you’ll find a rough, weathered stone with an unsettling name: the Hag of Beara.
In Irish, she is known as An Chailleach Bhéarra . She is sometimes called the Old Woman of Dingle, or simply the Cailleach (pronounced KAL-yukh VYAR-ra) . In Gaelic folklore, she is no ordinary figure but a divine hag - a being bound to winter, storms, and the shaping of the land itself.
But legend tells that she was not always old.
Once, long ago, she was young and radiant - a queen who ruled the land and took many lovers. But the world moves on, and so did she. The earth aged, and she aged with it. As the hills softened and the seas carved deeper into the coast, time wore her down as surely as salt and wind wear stone.
She is said to have lived through seven long lifetimes, outlasting everyone she ever loved.
The most enduring tale places her on the Beara Peninsula, standing at the edge of the land and staring out across the Atlantic. There she waits for her husband, Manannán mac Lir, the god of the sea, who sailed westward and never returned.
She never followed him.
Instead, she stayed - braced against the wind, eyes fixed on the horizon. Years passed. Centuries. Ages. At last, worn down by waiting and weather, she turned to stone, her face still set towards the ocean. That stone, grey and lichen-covered, is said to be all that remains of her now: the Hag of Beara, still watching the sea, still waiting.
Later Christian stories tell it differently.
In those versions, the Hag steals a holy book from Saint Caitiarán. When confronted, she refuses to give it back, and the saint curses her for her defiance, turning her to stone where she stands.
The Hag’s power is strongest in winter. At Samhain - Halloween, when the old year dies and the dark season begins - she is said to walk the land. Frost follows her footsteps. Storms rise at her bidding. People and cattle are driven indoors.
Her reign is assured until Imbolc, on the 1st of February. On that day tradition says if the weather is fine, the Cailleach is out gathering firewood, and winter will linger. If the weather is foul, she is asleep - and winter is nearly done.
This belief lingers on in St Brigid’s Day. This saint is young and beautiful, and when she takes over the land winter loosens its grip. In some stories, Brigid replaces the Cailleach entirely. In others, she is the Cailleach herself, a goddess, renewed and made young again.
The Hag of Beara was once one of the great figures of Irish mythology, and her presence is felt far beyond Cork. Across Ireland, stones, hills, and ancient monuments are linked to her. In County Meath, the Hag’s Chair at the Loughcrew passage tombs is said to be where she sat, looking out over the land she shaped.
So when winter draws in, and the storms batter the coast, remember the old stories. The Cailleach is abroad, freezing the ground and scouring the land - but she never stays forever. Even goddesses must move on in the end.
And when she does, she leaves spring behind her.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. If you enjoyed this piece, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow available worldwide on Amazon. Search P A Sheldon.
Alternatively, you’ll find plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Until next week — stay spooky.
★★★★★
‘Folklore horror at its best’
Amazon Reviewer
Steve Howard
Sources
Wikipedia
theirishplace.com
thegypsythread.org
The Grey Man of Ben Macdui: Scotland’s Most Terrifying Mountain Legend
The Big Grey man of Ben Macdui. Both a hairy and hair raising sight…
The Cairngorms are a mountain range found in the eastern reaches of the Scottish Highlands, characterised by an Arctic-like plateau. They are home to the second-highest mountain in Scotland - and in all of the British Isles. Ben Macdui, meaning “MacDuff’s mountain.” It is a popular destination for mountain walkers, despite being reputedly haunted by a large, wraith-like being.
This entity goes by the Gaelic name Am Fear Liath Mòr (“the Big Grey Man”), but is also known as the Big Grey Man of Ben Macdui, or simply the Grey man. He has been encountered by many people, some of them quite experienced mountaineers, and all of them agree on one thing: he is terrifying.
He is rarely seen. Instead, people report a sudden, overwhelming sense of being watched, accompanied by the steady sound of footsteps crunching behind them. This is often paired with an intense feeling of dread or panic, sometimes strong enough to send even experienced mountaineers fleeing downhill. Those unlucky few who claim to have laid eyes upon it describe an enormous shadow, far taller than any man, looming out of the fog towards them.
The first recorded account of the Grey man was given by J. Norman Collie in 1925. A respected professor and member of the Royal Geographical Society, Collie recounted a terrifying experience he had whilst hiking alone near the summit of Ben Macdui in 1891:
I was returning from the cairn on the summit in a mist when I began to think I heard something other than merely the noise of my own footsteps. Every few steps I took I heard a crunch, and then another crunch, as if someone was walking after me but taking steps three or four times the length of my own. I said to myself, this is all nonsense. I listened and heard it again, but could see nothing in the mist. As I walked on and the eerie crunch, crunch sounded behind me, I was seized with terror and took to my heels, staggering blindly among the boulders for four or five miles, nearly down to Rothiemurchus Forest. Whatever you make of it, I do not know, but there is something very queer about the top of Ben Macdui and I will not go back there again.
It was Collie’s account, reported in the local press, that opened the floodgates. Other climbers soon came forward with their own stories. One climber, Hugh D. Welsh, said that he and his brother hiked to the summit in 1904. Throughout the day and night, they heard “slurring footsteps, as if someone was walking through water-saturated gravel.” Both men felt “frequently conscious of something near us, and a horrible sense of apprehension.”
Peter Densham was part of a rescue team working in the Cairngorms during the Second World War. He said that one day, whilst on Ben Macdui, he heard strange noises as a thick mist rapidly closed in around him. He then felt an increasing pressure around his neck and fled in terror before witnessing anything more. Densham later told a friend and fellow mountaineer, Richard Frere, about the encounter. Frere himself had experienced strange events on that lonely mountain, and also recounted how another friend - who wished to remain anonymous - had once camped on Ben Macdui, only to be awakened during the night by an inescapable sense of dread. Summoning enough courage to look out of his tent, he was greeted by the sight of a large, dark-hairy figure silhouetted against the moonlight.
In 1958, The Scots Magazine published a piece by naturalist Alexander Tewnion, describing his own encounter with the thing in 1943:
I spent a ten-day leave climbing alone in the Cairngorms. One afternoon, just as I reached the summit cairn of Ben MacDhui, mist swirled across the Lairig Ghru and enveloped the mountain. The atmosphere became dark and oppressive; a fierce, bitter wind whisked among the boulders, and… an odd sound echoed through the mist – a loud footstep, it seemed. Then another, and another… A strange shape loomed up, receded, then came charging at me! Without hesitation I whipped out my revolver and fired three times at the figure. When it still came on, I turned and hared down the path, reaching Glen Derry in a time I have never bettered. You may ask: was it really the Fear Liath Mòr? Frankly, I think it was.
To date, no one has managed to photograph the Grey man. However, photographer John A. Rennie claimed to have discovered a series of strange footprints in the Spey Valley. These were far too large to be human. He is said to have photographed them and published the images in a book, though I have been unable to locate any copies of these photographs.
So what is it that haunts the peaks and passes of Ben Macdui? Some researchers have suggested that the region is home to a Yeti-like being - a sort of British Bigfoot - that wanders the wilderness and makes the Cairngorms its home. Others have hinted that it may be a ghost: the spectral remnants of one of humanity’s primitive ancestors, forever doomed to roam this wild place.
The sceptical explanation is the Brocken spectre - a natural optical phenomenon in which your own shadow is projected onto mist and appears gigantic, often ringed with a halo. Combined with exhaustion, isolation, and the eerie acoustics of the plateau, it could account for some sightings.
But… not all.
The footsteps.
The pacing.
The shared dread across multiple witnesses.
Those are harder to shrug off.
One thing is certain: it takes a brave soul to camp on Ben Macdui, particularly at dusk, as the mists begin to draw in.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this strange tale has not put you off visiting the Highlands, which are a truly stunning region. 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
folklorescotland.com
scotclans.com/pages/the-fear-liath
The Black Nun of Llangrannog: A Ghost, a Tulpa, or a Shared myth?
The Black Nun of Llangrannog.
The little coastal village of Llangrannog, located in the Welsh county of Ceredigion, is a rather charming place. It lies at the end of the narrow valley of the River Hawen, whose waterfall cascades close to the settlement. On the beach stands a striking, sea-weathered rock stack pointing out towards the bay, known as Carreg Bica (Bica’s Rock).
Legend tells that this rock was once the tooth of the giant Bica, who dwelt in the county. One day, after suffering from a terrible toothache, he was forced to spit the offending tooth onto the beach, where it can still be seen today.
But Llangrannog is a village stained with a legend far darker and more unpleasant than that of a giant and his rotten gnashers. For it is home to a very modern myth - a Welsh campsite ghost story - a tale that has chilled youngsters for decades: The Black Nun.
Urdd Gobaith Cymru is an activity centre located close to Llangrannog. It has been active since 1922 and was founded by Sir Ifan ab Owen Edwards. Children travel there on school trips to take part in outdoor activities, drama classes, and team-building exercises, all conducted through the Welsh language. They sleep overnight at the residential centre, and for many children this is their first time away from home.
The legend of the Black Nun was possibly created by the children themselves to scare one another at night in their bunks, or perhaps even by members of the residential staff. The basic elements of the tale vary, but common details speak of a faceless or shadowy nun who roams the dormitories and corridors at night, punishing children who stay up after lights-out, or stealing the eyes or tongues of unsuspecting sleepers. Some versions even claim that she killed a girl and hid the body beneath a bunk bed — usually, unnervingly, in the very room the listeners were staying in.
A common memory - and complaint - among residential staff was having to sand away graffiti about the Black Nun, often scratched into the bunk beds themselves. One theory suggests the tale may have been influenced by a 1978 episode of the television series Armchair Thriller, which featured a similarly sinister nun. Today, ex-residents and former staff often recall teachers or older pupils playing pranks on the unwary to keep the legend alive.
However, some ex-residents have gone online to report what they describe as genuine encounters with the Nun on forums and chat rooms. One claims that he and his friends were looking out of a window at dusk when they saw the Nun sitting on a swing. The sight terrified them, leading to a troubled night’s sleep. Another commentator reported seeing a figure dressed in black rush past their dormitory window.
Despite my best efforts, I could find no evidence of a nunnery ever existing near this location. So what are we to make of these stories? They could, of course, be tall tales spread to frighten new arrivals - or perhaps something truly does walk the halls at night.
Tibetan Buddhist mysticism speaks of a phenomenon known as a Tulpa, a being created through sustained thought, belief, and repetition — an idea given shape until it behaves as if it were real. Could the shared fear and belief of thousands of children have created a shadowy entity where originally none existed? Tulpas are often described as vague, indistinct figures, which to the impressionable and over-excited mind of a child could easily be mistaken for a nun.
So what is the Black Nun of Llangrannog? A ghostly remnant of some long-lost and forgotten convent? A Tulpa given form through decades of belief? Or an intriguing example of a modern legend, told and retold by generation after generation of children, surviving on through internet chat rooms and memory?
I will let you, dear reader, decide for yourself.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this ghostly tale has left you trembling with a pleasurable fear. 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.
Sharon Joy Reads
‘Exceptional folkloric horror’
★★★★★
Sources
Wikipedia
Walesonline.co.uk
walescoastpath.gov.uk
nation.cymru/culture
Stories from Reddit
The Tiddy Mun: Lincolnshire Folklore Brought to Life by Wergulu Blue
Following on from my blog about our old friend Tiddy Mun, link here. I’m delighted to share a piece of music that captures the spirit of Lincolnshire’s folklore.
The band Wergulu Blue have written a song inspired by the legend of the Tiddy Mun - the ancient, dwarf-like being said to dwell in the fenland waterways, punishing those who disrespect the land. Their track is steeped in atmosphere, and feels like a natural companion to the folklore itself.
If you’re drawn to folk-horror, forgotten legends, and music that feels rooted in place and myth, I highly recommend giving this a listen.
Wergulu Blue in thier own words.
Wergulu Blue was started about 7 years ago. As a songwriter I am inspired by the natural world and our relationship to it. My songs are written from the imagined perspective of specific individuals or ancestors and contain a sense of place and time. I say the songs are written but really, the learning and the research in folklore and history directs the narrative and I find true stories more compelling and engaging than fiction. My aim is to help keep our folklore alive and strengthen the nourishing bond we have with our land. Our songs have been played regularly over the last two years on Rock Radio UK by Roger Nicholls on the excelllent Walrus and Carpenter Show.
🎶 Wergulu Blue – “Tiddy Mun”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvwmt3JDNx4
My thanks to Wergulu Blue for sharing their work - it’s wonderful to see old legends finding new voices.
Stay Spooky
A Reflection on my story 'Fallen Leaves'
I wanted to share an analysis sent to me by one of my readers on Fallen Leaves, the second - and perhaps one of the key - story in Threads of Shadow. A number of readers have now told me that this is the piece they return to once they’ve finished the whole book, revisiting it to gain a deeper understanding of how it connects to the novel as a whole. Anyway a really Big thanks to Sally Billingham for taking the time to read my book and write this analysis.
The Smiling Face of Evil: On Fallen Leaves
By Sally Billingham
Fallen Leaves is a quietly devastating piece of Gothic horror, one that relies not on shock or spectacle but on atmosphere, implication, and the slow erosion of safety. Set in Edwardian England and narrated by an eleven-year-old girl, the story uses a child’s voice to explore themes of innocence, authority, deception, and the persistence of ancient evil beneath civilised surfaces.
At its heart, the story is about absence. Almost every protection that should keep the narrator safe is removed, one by one. Her mother is dead. Her father is away on church business. Miss Preece, who has become a surrogate maternal figure, vanishes abruptly. Even Ned, the earthy, practical presence who understands the land and its dangers, is temporarily misled and sent away. What remains is a house that looks safe but is no longer so, and an adult who wears respectability like a costume.
The narrator’s voice is one of the story’s greatest strengths. She is observant, articulate, and emotionally intelligent, but still unmistakably a child. Her fear is not melodramatic; it is tentative, rationalised, and often suppressed. She repeatedly tells herself she is “a big girl,” that she should not be afraid, which only emphasises how frightened she truly is. Her attempts to understand events are shaped by limited experience, making moments of horror land more sharply. When she hesitates, when she fails to bang on the window or runs instead of helping Ned, the story does not judge her. It recognises fear for what it is: paralysing, especially in the young.
Uncle Roger is a deeply unsettling antagonist precisely because he is so plausible. He does not arrive as a monster, but as a well-dressed, smiling missionary uncle. His authority is rooted in confidence, religious language, and adult composure. He lies easily and convincingly, reframing reality until even the reader momentarily wonders whether the child might be mistaken. His attempt to present her as mentally unwell is particularly chilling, echoing real historical abuses of power, where children, especially girls, were silenced by claims of hysteria or delusion.
What makes him truly frightening is that he operates on two levels at once. He is both a human predator and a cultist serving something older and vastly more powerful than himself. His obsession with the oak tree reveals that he has not stumbled upon this evil accidentally; he has sought it out. The rituals beneath the tree parody Christian worship, twisting familiar gestures of prayer into acts of summoning and submission.
The oak tree itself is a potent symbol. Marked by ancient symbols, bound with copper wire, and surrounded by fallen leaves, it represents a pre-Christian, pre-human power that has never truly left the land. The vicarage, built nearby, feels less like a conquest of evil than a fragile attempt at stewardship. When that stewardship falters, the old forces reassert themselves. The leaf-entity - faceless, towering, and made of decay - is not just a monster but a manifestation of cyclical violence and forgotten history returning to claim the present.
Miss Preece’s fate is handled with restraint, which makes it all the more horrifying. Her disappearance is explained away with polite lies and social convention, yet the truth is revealed obliquely, in moonlight, among rags and fallen leaves. The image of her familiar face among the debris is one of the story’s most powerful moments, precisely because it is not lingered over.
Ned, meanwhile, embodies hard-won wisdom and moral clarity. He distrusts Uncle Roger instinctively, understands the danger of the land, and ultimately believes the child without hesitation. His failure is not moral but circumstantial - he trusts when he should not, delays when urgency is needed. His likely death is tragic not because it is graphic, but because it is inevitable once he chooses to protect her.
The ending of Fallen Leaves refuses comfort. There is no rescue, no revelation that arrives in time, no adult authority to intervene. Instead, the story closes with anticipation - a door opening, a child hiding beneath covers, clutching a doll that has listened to every fear without judgement. Molly, the rag doll, becomes the last refuge of innocence when all human protection has failed.
Ultimately, Fallen Leaves is not about defeating evil, but about how easily it enters when safeguards collapse - and how ancient, patient, and hungry it is. It is a story that understands that the most frightening horrors are not those that roar loudly, but those that smile, speak softly, and wait for the moment when no one is watching.
Herne the Hunter: The Ghostly Legend of Windsor Great Park
Herne the Hunter. Reader feel free to insert horn joke at your leisure.
The county of Berkshire, officially known as the Royal County of Berkshire, is located in the south-east of England, just west of the capital city of London. Beautiful chalk downland makes up parts of its western reaches, while along its southern border with the county of Surrey lies a place once known as Windsor Forest, now called Windsor Great Park. A place with a haunting mystery.
Windsor Great Park is a Royal Park and, for many centuries, served as the private hunting ground of Windsor Castle. Today, it is a gently undulating landscape of sweeping deer lawns, small woods, coverts, and areas dominated by ancient oak trees. In the past, however, it was more heavily forested, wilder, perhaps even more sinister - and said by some to be home to a legendary ghost.
Herne the Hunter is a terrifying sight. His spectral form is said to ride through the parkland on a phantom steed, antlers sprouting from his head like those of some prehistoric deity. He is believed to torment cattle, while the rattling of his chains can be heard echoing through the lush woodland.
The earliest literary reference to Herne comes from William Shakespeare’s The Merry Wives of Windsor, written in 1597. The Bard describes the woodland spectre as follows:
There is an old tale goes, that Herne the Hunter
(sometime a keeper here in Windsor Forest)
Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight
Walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns;
And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle,
And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain
In a most hideous and dreadful manner.
You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know
The superstitious idle-headed eld
Receiv'd, and did deliver to our age
This tale of Herne the Hunter for a truth.
- William Shakespeare, The Merry Wives of Windsor, Act IV, Scene IV
It has been suggested that this passage implies Herne was already an established folk legend by Shakespeare’s time, as he is treated as a well-known ghost story familiar to the audience. Nearly two hundred years later, in 1792, Samuel Ireland expanded on the legend:
The story of this Herne, who was keeper in the forest in the time of Elizabeth, runs thus: — That having committed some great offence, for which he feared to lose his situation and fall into disgrace, he was induced to hang himself on this tree.
The idea of suicide aligns with the traditional belief that such a death would result in a restless spirit. Shakespeare’s reference to rattling chains is also a common ghostly motif.
The supposed location of Herne’s Oak, the tree where he is believed to have ended his life, was uncertain for many years and the subject of much speculation. An oak just north of Frogmore House in the Home Park was eventually named Herne’s Oak, but it was felled in 1796. In 1838, Queen Victoria had another tree planted and gave it the same name; however, this too was blown down in a storm nearly thirty years later. The current oak bearing the title was planted in 1906.
Herne’s horns are a much-discussed feature of the legend, as they are an unusual addition to a ghostly figure. Some have suggested they link him to ancient pagan horned gods of nature, such as Cernunnos, or to other folkloric figures like the Green Man, though some academics dispute this theory.
Another idea is that the horns were Shakespeare’s invention, added to better suit the forest setting or to evoke the humorous image of antlers resembling a cuckold’s horns - a visual joke that would have resonated with an Elizabethan audience. Later versions of the legend also claim that Herne leads the Wild Hunt on certain wild nights of the year.
Supposed Sightings
The most recent recorded sighting of Herne occurred in 1976, when a guard reported seeing what he initially believed to be a horned statue walking through the parkland. He was also supposedly seen by a group of Eton schoolboys in the woods in 1962. After discovering an old hunting horn, they unwisely blew upon it and were chased from the area by Herne himself, mounted upon his steed. Herne is also said to appear as an omen before a royal death.
Herne has featured in many books and television shows, such as The Box of Delights by John Masefield and an old favourite of mine, Robin of Sherwood, where he takes on the role of mentor and guide to Robin of Loxley.
Does the ghost of Herne the Hunter still ride through Windsor Great Park, his steed bounding across that ancient and noble parkland, terrifying unsuspecting ramblers? I cannot say - but I like to imagine that he does.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you enjoyed this piece of folklore. If you did, please consider picking up a copy of either of my books, Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror - terrifying folk novels told through short stories. Available from all Amazon stores. A link can be found below.
‘Exceptional folkloric horror’
★★★★★
Sharon Joy Reads.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Stay Spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
Berkshirelive
The Merry Wives of Windsor by William Shakespeare (1597)
countryfile.com
Slua Sí Folklore: The Wind-Riding Host of the Dead
The Slua Sí - A Storm of the dead
The wind is something we all take for granted. A summer breeze cools our skin; a winter gale causes us to shut our windows and doors tight and stay within the warmth of our homes. We know the wind is there, but for the most part we give it little thought.
There are, however, some people and cultures who actively fear the wind and what it may bring with it.
Both Irish and Scottish folklore speak of an unsettling horde: a supernatural army that rides the skies at night, taking the form of a wild storm, particularly on the 31st of October - Halloween. It is a damned troupe, not mournful but predatory: the Slua Sí.
Slua Sí (pronounced sloo-ah shee), meaning Fairy Host, is the Irish name for this dreaded supernatural force. In Scottish Gaelic it is known as Sluagh na Marbh (pronounced SLOO-ah na MAR-uv), the Host of the Dead. The term Fairy Host is a confusing one, as the Slua Sí are not truly fairies. Rather, they are considered to be a terrifying host of the airborne spirits of the dead.
Perhaps a better rendering of the name - one that more accurately reflects how they are understood in legend - would be “The Host of the Unforgiven Dead.” For centuries it was believed that the evil souls of the restless departed were denied access to the Otherworld by the ancient gods. These malevolent entities found themselves trapped between the realms of the living and the dead, forever cursed, and only able to ride forth on those few occasions each year when the veil between worlds is thinnest.
The Slua Sí travel on the wind, sometimes in a crescent formation like a flock of dark birds, stark against the grey sky. At other times they appear as a violent storm or whirlwind, capable of carrying away any unfortunate soul wandering the Gaelic wilderness.
In bad weather, it is always wise to seek shelter - although where The Slua Sí are concerned even this offers no guarantee of protection. The terrible host was believed to steal gifted children from their beds, replacing them with sick or broken members of their own ranks who were no longer of any use. Those taken by this unnatural army were rarely, if ever, seen again, doomed to be trapped forever among the vicious horde.
There are ways to protect oneself from the Slua Sí. As is often the case with supernatural entities, they were said to be repelled by iron. Christian prayer and symbols, particularly the cross, were also believed to keep them at bay. Folk were advised to avoid lonely lanes and byways at night, and to secure all doors and windows when storms swept in - though, to be fair, most of us would do that anyway.
So as the wind rises and the trees shudder beneath the force of a gale, can you ever be truly certain that what you hear outside is merely a natural thing? Or could it be something far worse - something that might take not only your life, but your very soul?
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this piece of folklore has left you trembling with just the right amount of pleasurable fear. If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow - links below.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Until next week - stay spooky.
★★★★★
‘Folklore horror at it best’
Amazon Reviewer
Steve Howard.
Sources
Wikipedia
spookyisles.com/slua-sidhe-fairy-ireland
lairbhan.blogspot.com
The Baobhan Sith: The Vampire Fairy of Scottish Highland Folklore
The Baobhan Sith - Hunters beware.
Far to the north lies a wind-swept, rain-beaten region of the British Isles: sparsely populated, breathtakingly beautiful, and full of mountain peaks that seem to brush the clouds. Deep, shaded valleys cut through a landscape dotted with heather, where craggy rocks push stubbornly through the grass. It is a place long beloved of writers and artists - the Scottish Highlands.
Over the centuries, the people who have called this unforgiving land home have been hardy folk: crofters, small landowners, and tenant farmers who eked out a living by growing crops or raising cattle in the mountain pastures. Crofting was closely linked to Gaelic culture, with neighbouring crofting families supporting one another through difficult times. It is no surprise, then, that such a region - and such people - should possess a rich and intriguing body of folklore. One such tale speaks of a much-feared being, said to prey upon men as they travel the Highlands about their business: the Baobhan Sith.
The Baobhan Sith (pronounced BAA-van shee) translates from Scottish Gaelic as ‘fairy witch’ or ‘fairy hag’. She is a chilling entity, a member of the Fair Folk, but she is no benign, butterfly-winged creature of children’s fairy tales. She is described as lithe and beautiful, with rich red hair, and clad in a green or white dress. The glamour she casts about herself conceals her true appearance, however, it is not flawless, for she cannot fully conceal her deer hooves, which may be glimpsed beneath her gown.
She shares many similarities with a vampire or succubus, though she is neither undead nor demonic. Generally, she targets hunters, using her charms to put them at ease before draining their blood once they are enveloped in her warm embrace. In many stories, she appears after a hunter expresses a desire for female companionship. A typical tale is given below.
Four men went hunting and took shelter for the night in a lonely shieling. One of the men provided music while the others began to dance. Before long, the men expressed a wish for partners, and soon afterwards four women entered the hut. Three of the hunters danced and made merry with their lovely companions. One, however, was more canny than the rest. Noticing the hooves protruding from beneath one of the women’s dresses, he fled outside and sought refuge among the horses, knowing that fairy beings could not bear the presence of their iron horseshoes. When he returned at dawn, the women were gone, and his friends lay dead - their bodies red ruins.
In some accounts, when the Baobhan Sith begins to feed, her beauty fades and her true visage is revealed. Her skin pales to the hue of a corpse, and her eyes - once bright with the promise of love and affection - darken, becoming cruel and merciless. It would seem that she is bound to the wild places of the Highlands, for there are no accounts of her troubling settlements.
One is left to wonder whether this story was spread by shrewd wives seeking to deter their husbands from straying with wild local lasses while out hunting in the hills.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this little piece of Highland folklore set you trembling with a pleasurable fear. If you enjoy what I do, please consider picking up a copy of my either of my books, Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror , terrifying folk novels told through short stories - link below.
‘Exceptional folkloric horror’
★★★★★
Sharon Joy Reads.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Stay Spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
folklorescotland.com
spookyscotland.net/baobhan-sith
Ded Moroz - The Slavic Spirit of Winter
Ded Moroz, the Slavic Frost Bringer from Eastern European winter folklore.
As the New Year approaches in the East the biting winds gust from the north, guaranteeing snow and ice. In years gone by, the common folk of the Slavic lands had little understanding of the complexities of the weather, but they understood one thing: this harsh climate was brought about by a single being. An entity who embodied everything winter represented - mystery, wonder, and danger - a being known as Ded Moroz.
In Russian, Ded Moroz means Grandfather Frost or Old Man Frost. He is the very spirit of winter, and in darker, older times he was likely seen as a sinister figure - a kind of midwinter demon, a bringer of snow and icy storms. He was said to be capable of ripping the leaves from the trees, leaving them as nothing more than skeletal appendages clawing at the sky. He was believed to abduct children who wandered alone into the snow, and in early folklore he was regarded as a terrible being, akin to a frost giant or ogre.
But then something changed.
As the centuries passed, Ded Moroz grew softer. His sharp angles became rounded and smooth, until eventually he transformed into a figure beloved by children: a gift-giver, a white-bearded gentleman clad in thick, colourful winter robes, who rides across the snowy landscape in a sleigh on New Year’s Eve, handing out presents to deserving children. In many ways, he fulfils the role of Santa Claus.
In modern depictions, Ded Moroz is usually shown as a tall, bearded old man wearing long winter robes in shades of blue, red, silver, or white. He carries a staff made of ice and bears a magical sack of gifts over his shoulder. Today, he is a symbol of winter joy, festivity, and generosity. He is accompanied on his journey by his granddaughter, Snegurochka (the Snow Maiden), a unique figure in seasonal folklore - a magical young woman created from snow.
It is thought that modern literature played a large role in softening Ded Moroz’s image, with the 19th-century play The Snow Maiden by Aleksandr Ostrovsky being particularly influential. By the end of that century, Ded Moroz had become the popular, jolly character we recognise today, and his family-friendly image gradually spread throughout other Slavic regions. Around this time, the tradition of children writing letters to Ded Moroz also began to take hold.
Although his tradition was discouraged during the communist era, the old fellow proved too beloved to be suppressed. By the late 1990s, the town of Veliky Ustyug in Vologda Oblast, Russia, was officially declared the home of Ded Moroz by the Mayor of Moscow. An incredible two million letters a year were soon being received from excited children at its extremely busy post office. The town has also been visited by the President of the Russian Federation as part of the Russian Orthodox Christmas Eve celebrations.
Unlike Santa Claus, Ded Moroz is not clandestine. Rather than slipping quietly down the chimney, delivering gifts unseen and departing unnoticed, this jovial winter figure openly knocks at the door and is invited inside, where he personally hands out presents to over-excited children.
He features prominently at New Year parties, school celebrations, and public Yolka (New Year tree) events. His magical staff is said to create snow, form frosty patterns on windows, or freeze water for ice skating. He travels by troika — in this case, a sleigh pulled by a team of three horses. In some instances, it is his granddaughter who distributes the presents, and she is occasionally called upon to drive away the witch Baba Yaga, who attempts to sneak in and steal them.
There are many regional variations of Ded Moroz, but one thing remains true: this once-terrifying winter spirit has become a much-loved feature of the festive season.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you enjoyed this small piece of New Year folklore. If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of the anthology book, Pocket Christmas Horror - full of seasonal horror stories from the great writers of old. link below.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free written and audio stories by yours truly available in the download section of this website.
Until next week — stay spooky.
Sources:
Wikipedia
Ancient-Origins.net
RussianLife.com
Frau Perchta: The Terrifying Christmas Witch of Alpine Folklore
Frau Perchta - roams the snowy countryside.
As winter settles in the high places of Bavaria, Austria, and Slovenia, snow tumbles from the sky, turning once-green mountain valleys into icy wonderlands. Cold northerly winds force the people of these regions to spend more time shut inside their homes, fires banked high to drive away the seasonal chill. It is a time to sit together by the dim, flickering flames, a time for stories, for old legends, and for whispered warnings of the dreaded Frau Pertcha.
Pertcha, or Berchta, was thought to be a pagan goddess worshipped throughout the Alpine regions. Her name is believed to mean ‘the Bright One’, though there are several interpretations. Perchta is sometimes linked with the Germanic goddess Holda, and acted as a guardian of beasts. She was said to appear during the Zwölften - the twelve days of Christmas - usually on Perchtennacht, on 5th January (Perchten Eve), before Perchtentag (the Day of Perchten), which falls during the Rauhnächte (‘Rough Nights’) the dark midwinter period, between Christmas and Epiphany, when it was believed spirits roamed freely.
Perchta is often described as having two forms. She may appear as a beautiful maiden, white as snow, a caring spirit of nature who spreads her beneficence throughout the land. Yet she also possesses another, far more dreadful aspect - that of Frau Pertcha herself. In this guise she is elderly and haggard, and when she appears so, she must be avoided at all costs.
Frau Pertcha is said to have one unnaturally large foot, sometimes described as that of a goose or swan, perhaps symbolising her ability to shapeshift into animal form. Her face is deeply wrinkled, her nose long and hooked, and her garments are always old, tattered, and torn.
Petcha - the goddess.
This octogenarian menace roamed the countryside during the festive period, though she did not do so alone. She was often depicted at the head of a Wild Hunt, leading a host of demonic entities collectively known as the Perchten. These beings bore horned, animalistic features, thick fur, hooves, and clanking chains and bells.
She would enter the homes she encountered while her demonic host frolicked outside in the snow. Frau Pertcha could tell which children had behaved badly, but they were not her only concern. She was particularly keen to seek out young women, ensuring they had diligently kept up with their wool-spinning duties.
The virtuous were rewarded with coins hidden in items of clothing, but woe betide those who fell short of her exacting standards, for a terrible punishment awaited them.
She was said to cut open the bellies of these poor souls, remove their entrails, and stuff the hollow cavity with straw and stones - a punishment that earned her the grim title of Belly Slitter. For this reason, she was also known as the Christmas Witch. It was further believed that she would inflict the same fate upon anyone who dared eat anything other than her traditional meal of fish and gruel on her feast night.
A cult of Pertcha eventually arose, its followers leaving food and drink for her in the hope of gaining wealth and prosperity, though such practices were strongly condemned by the Church.
Perchten parades are an ancient pagan custom, likely dating back to pre-Christian times. The first recorded accounts, however, appear in the 16th century. These parades were usually - though not always - led by Perchta, either in her guise as a beautiful woman in white or as a hideous crone. She would be followed by people dressed as her Perchten: some as Schiachperchten (‘ugly Perchten’), wearing fearsome masks with fangs and tusks, clothed in furs and horse tails to drive out demons and ghosts; others as Schönperchten (‘beautiful Perchten’), the fairest members of the community, clad in bright clothing and tasked with bestowing blessings of good fortune and prosperity. Together, they paraded through winter streets before crowds of locals wrapped up against the cold.
So it is wise to have your spinning finished and your behaviour beyond reproach come Perchtentag Eve. The consequences of failing to do so could be both dire - and messy.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this little piece of Christmas folklore has given you a pleasing shudder. If you enjoy what I do, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow - link below.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free written and audio stories by yours truly available in the downloads section of this website.
Until next week — stay spooky.
Sources
AtlasObscura. Com
Wikipedia
moonmausoleum.com
Christmas Folklore: The Nordic Yule Goat (Julbocken)
The Yule Goat, delivering gifts.
Hello friends, as the cold sets in across towns and villages, people begin decorating their homes, turning them into little glimmers of starlight against the dark, freezing nights. Winter is upon us, and with it comes Christmas - or Yule - the jolliest time of year. To celebrate, I will continue posting Christmas folklore from across Europe.
Today, we journey north to Scandinavia to meet a character from Northern European Yule tradition: the Julbocken, or Yule Goat. Today, it is best known as a Christmas ornament displayed throughout Nordic countries. This modern version of the Yule Goat is decorative, made from straw bound with red ribbons, and hung on or placed beneath the tree. Larger versions are often erected in towns during Christmastime; this tradition began with the Gävle Goat in 1966.
In Sweden, tradition held that the Yule Goat was an invisible spirit that would appear sometime before Christmas, checking to ensure all preparations for the great day were being carried out correctly.
Local people would craft Yule Goats from the last sheaf of grain gathered at harvest, which was often saved for this purpose as it was believed to contain magical properties. A popular festive prank in Scandinavian society involved secretly placing a Yule Goat in a neighbour’s home. The family successfully pranked was then required to dispose of the small, crafted goat in the same manner.
During the nineteenth century, the Yule Goat was somewhat akin to the modern Santa Claus. He was believed to travel throughout Scandinavia, dispensing gifts to children. Men within the household would dress as the Yule Goat, though this tradition fell out of favour in the mid-twentieth century as Santa became increasingly more commercial and prominent, and the man-sized goat gradually disappeared.
Whilst we cannot be certain of the creature’s origins, it is possible to connect the Yule Goat to the Norse god Thor, who was said to ride across the sky in a chariot pulled by two goats: Tanngrisnir and Tanngnjóstr.
There may also be links to ancient proto-Slavic belief. During the Koliada (Yule) festival, which honoured the god of the fertile sun and the harvest, a deity known as Devac was represented by a white goat. During these celebrations, a person dressed as a goat would go from house to house demanding tributes in the form of gifts. Finally, we find mention of a mysterious, man-sized goat figure in eleventh-century accounts of the Childermas festival which occurred during the twelve days of Christmas, where it was led by a man dressed as Saint Nicholas, symbolising his dominance over Satan.
Julbocken is also the title of a Christmas song written by Alice Tegnér in 1913. It tells of a time when the old Yule Goat enjoyed far greater popularity. Sadly, despite my best efforts, I was unable to find an English translation; however, I have included the original version below for my Swedish readers to enjoy:
En jul när mor var liten,
hörde hon hur någon en kväll
stod där ute och stampa’
och gav dörr’n en smäll.
In där klev en julebock,
skäggig och med luden rock,
han tog ur en påse
små paketer opp.
Mor, hon fick en docka
mycket söt och riktigt klädd.
Men när bocken hoppa,
oj, vad hon blev rädd.
Mor, hon har en bror, du vet,
han fick också sitt paket,
och i det han fann en
trumma och trumpet.
Nu är bocken gammal,
han är nog båd’ halt och grå,
men han kanske hittar
hit till oss ändå.
Stiger in med påsen stor,
ser sig kring och frågar mor:
“Är det här, de glada,
snälla barnen bor?”
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you enjoyed this little legend from the north. With the festive season rapidly approaching, if you are a lover of classic Christmas ghost stories, I have compiled a collection of some of the finest seasonal tales of terror ever told - Pocket Christmas Horror. It makes the perfect companion for these long, dark evenings. Please consider picking up a copy via the link below.
Alternatively, you will find plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, in the downloads section of this website.
Until next week - stay spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
AncientPages.com
MythologyWorldwide.com
Icelandic Folklore – Jólakötturinn, the Giant Yule Cat
The Yule Cat. Reader feel free in inset your own silly comment with the word Puuurfect in it.
The following Christmas legend was suggested to me last year by my old friend Andrew Fellows. My apologies, Andy, for taking so long to write it.
Iceland lies in the freezing ocean between the Arctic and the North Atlantic, described as a land of ice and fire. Its position on the Mid-Atlantic Ridge makes it one of the most volcanically active places on Earth. Lava fields, geysers, hot springs and frequent eruptions shape the landscape; around ten per cent of the country is covered in glaciers, and come winter the land lies beneath a blanket of white snow.
Iceland is therefore a place of great contrasts, rich in terrifying legends and unique Christmas myths. One such tale concerns a monstrous beast said to prowl the winter countryside every Christmastide: a creature of black fur, long of claws and with sharp fangs - the man-eating Jólakötturinn, the Yule Cat.
Jólakötturinn, also called Jólaköttur or the Christmas Cat, is believed to be the size of a small house and to possess glowing eyes capable of seeing through the darkest night and the thickest snowstorm. Good luck hiding from this hungry puss. She is considered the pet of the ogress Grýla and her sons, the Yule Lads. I have written a previous post about those thirteen little blighters, and I’ll leave a link to it here, if you want to know more about them. At some point I shall have to tackle the ogress herself - but that’s a story for another day. For now, back to our macabre feline.
The Yule Cat is believed to set forth on Christmas Eve and stalk the land, favouring as prey anyone who has not received new clothes for Christmas - especially children. These festive monsters do seem to enjoy targeting the younger generation.
Threatening the children does makes sense – another way to encourage little Timmy and little Sally to toe the line and behave at a time of year when excitement may tempt them to nail the furniture to the ceiling.
But why target those without new clothes?
This tradition is thought to stem from Iceland’s historic wool industry of the 17th to 19th centuries. Every household needed to complete the autumn shearing, carding, spinning and weaving before Christmas. The tale of the Yule Cat encouraged people, especially farm workers, to finish processing wool before the winter holiday. Anyone who did so would be rewarded with new clothes and therefore safe from the monstrous moggy.
In this way, the Yule Cat can be seen to represent Iceland’s harsh winter, a time when owning proper clothing was essential for survival. Scholars have also noted that cats are sacred to the Norse goddess Freya, whose chariot was said to be drawn by two great cats. How much this influenced the Yule Cat is difficult to say, but it is fun to speculate.
The belief in Jólakötturinn is undoubtedly an old one, but it was first recorded in writing in the 19th century when scholars began to collect the oral traditions of Icelandic farmers and labourers. Most notably, Jóhannes úr Kötlum helped popularise the creature in the 20th century with his famous 1932 poem Jólakötturinn. A translation of this poem is included below.
You know the Christmas Cat,
That cat is very large,
We don't know where he came from,
Nor where he has gone.
He opened his eyes widely,
Making both glow,
It was not for cowards,
To look into them.
His hair sharp as needles,
His back was high and bulgy,
And the claws on his hairy paw,
Were not a pretty sight.
Therefore, the women competed,
To rock and sow and spin,
And knitted colourful clothes,
Or one little sock.
For the cat could not come,
And get the little children,
They had to get new clothes,
From the grown-ups.
When Christmas Eve was lighted,
And the cat looked inside,
The children stood straight and red-cheeked,
With their presents.
He waved his strong tail,
He jumped and he scratched and blew,
And was either in the valley,
Or out on the headland.
He walked about, hungry and mean,
In hurtfully cold Christmas snow,
And kindled the hearts with fear,
In every town.
If outside one heard a weak meow,
Then bad luck was sure to happen,
All knew he hunted men,
And didn't want mice.
He followed the poorer people,
Who didn't get any new clothing,
Near Christmas – and struggled and lived,
In poorest conditions.
From them, he took at the same time,
All their Christmas food,
And also ate themselves,
If he could.
Therefore, the women competed,
To rock and sow and spin,
And knitted colourful clothes,
Or one little sock.
Some had got an apron,
And some had got a new shoe,
Or anything that was needful,
But that was enough.
For the cat should eat no-one,
Who got some new piece of clothes,
He hissed with his ugly voice,
And ran away.
If he still exists, I don’t know,
But for nothing would be his trip,
If next Christmas everybody got,
Some new rag.
You may want to keep it in mind,
To help if there is need,
For somewhere there might be children,
Who get nothing at all.
Perhaps looking out for those who suffer,
From lack of plentiful lights,
Will give you a good day,
And a merry Christmas.
Visitors to Iceland’s capital, Reykjavík, may encounter this terrifying cat in the form of statues, decorations and artworks. Just be sure to wear new clothes – Jólakötturinn is said to be sneaky, and what you assume to be a harmless monument to the deadly puss might, in fact, be the real thing. You would not want to meet this feline wearing last year’s knitwear.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this little piece of Christmas folklore has given you a pleasing shudder. If you enjoy what I do, please consider picking up a copy of my new anthology, Pocket Christmas Horror - a collection of seasonal spooky tales from some of the all-time greats, neatly packaged in a pocket-sized edition designed to sit comfortably in your coat or bag. Link below.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, both written and audio, available in the download section of this website.
Until next week – stay spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
historyextra.com
www.discoveryuk.com
genius.com (translated poem)
The Terrifying Legend of Krampus: Alpine Christmas Folklore Explained
Krampus, about his sinister business.
By the time the 5th of December arrives, children throughout the world are dreaming of brightly wrapped presents left in stockings or nestled beneath the gently glowing Christmas tree. But for the children of the Alpine region of Europe, this time was not one to be celebrated; it was a night to be feared, for the 5th of December is Krampusnacht (Krampus Night).
Krampus was largely unknown outside the Germanic/Alpine countries until around December 2014, when Austrian-German actor Christoph Waltz spoke about him during an interview on American television. Since then, his popularity - or perhaps I should say infamy - has spread rapidly.
Krampus’s name derives from the German word Krampen, meaning claw. He is described as a monstrous, half-goat, half-demon creature with a lolling red tongue, often depicted as being covered in thick hair. He wears a basket upon his back - a place to imprison any naughty children he manages to seize, for this Yule terror is an abductor of the young.
In his hands, he bears a Ruten, a bundle of birch sticks which he uses to swat and punish wrongdoers. He wears heavy chains, which he rattles loudly to announce his approach to terrified villagers; these chains are believed to symbolise the binding of the Devil in Christian tradition. Large cowbells are tied to his waist - another means by which he can be heard before he is seen. His equipment can vary slightly from region to region, and sometimes he is shown carrying a pitchfork.
Krampus is the devilish companion of St Nicholas, but where jolly old St Nicholas rewards the good, this hunched, leering devil punishes the bad, carrying off ne’er-do-well nippers in his basket. The ultimate fate of these miserable little lads and lasses depends upon the region. Usually, he will dish out a good beating with his Ruten, and children will awaken the following morning nursing welts and bruises. But those pint-sized wrongdoers may count themselves lucky, for the truly wicked are believed to be drowned, eaten, or even carried off to Hell.
Krampus is thought to have his origins in the ancient pagan rituals of the winter solstice. He is believed to be the son of Hel, the Norse god of the underworld, and despite the best efforts of the Catholic Church to ban him, he has survived through the centuries. It is quite possible that he is more popular now than he ever was before.
Festivals involving Krampus include the Krampuslauf (Krampus Run). Here, people parade through the winter streets dressed as the Alpine demon, terrifying spectators and even chasing them. The outfits of the participants are of excellent quality; the masks alone are often hand-carved and highly individualised, and very expensive to purchase. The parade is usually lit by torchlight, with strange, flickering shadows being thrown across the crowded streets.
During the late 20th century, in an effort to preserve cultural heritage, Krampus runs became increasingly popular. Today, Krampus is something of an icon, with many books and films about him. Some see the renewed popularity of Krampus as a backlash against the commercialisation of Christmas., and a return to something simpler that brings the community together.
I have often wanted to write my own Krampus story, but my commitments to completing the Wendlelow Mysteries trilogy have stayed my hand. However, with this project coming to an end, perhaps I shall find the time to turn my attentions to this horned menace, maybe I will have a Krampus tale ready to share with you my friend next Christmas.
So when you settle down to sleep this 5th of December, consider all the things you have done throughout the year. Have you been quite good enough? And remember - the jingling of bells does not always herald the arrival of Santa’s sleigh.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this little piece of Christmas folklore has given you a pleasing shudder. If you enjoy what I do, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow - link below.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, written and audio, by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Until next week - stay spooky.
Folklore - The Linton Worm
The Linton Worm does battle.
The village of Linton can be found in Roxburghshire, in the Scottish Borders. It lies within the Cheviot Hills and is a site that has seen occupation since prehistoric times. It was once an Iron Age hillfort, and although time has greatly reduced the evidence of its defences; some of the earth ramparts are still visible.
Linton is a legend-haunted area and was, many years ago, said to be home to a terrible beast: a dragon-like monstrosity known as the Linton Worm or Wyrm. Wyrm is an Old English term for a serpent. The story of this terror, and its eventual downfall at the hands of one brave knight, was told by Sir Walter Scott in his Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, Volume II (1802).
It is said that the grim beast dwelt in a darkened hollow of the earth on the north-east side of Linton Hill. It was described as being “in length three Scots yards and bigger than an ordinary man’s leg – in form and colour to our common muir edders”: roughly over nine feet long.
At dusk, it would crawl from its lair and slither about the land, terrorising the countryside, devouring cattle, crops, and even unlucky night-time travellers, before vanishing back into its den before sunrise. According to the legend, a few attempts were made to kill it, but normal weapons seemed unable to penetrate the armour of its hide. Thus Linton and the surrounding lands were ravaged by the beast, and gradually the area began to fall into ruin.
Stories of the wyrm and the terror it caused eventually reached the ears of the Laird of Lariston, one John de Somerville, a knight of the realm with a reputation for reckless bravery. Such a man was drawn to the beast like iron to lodestone. He journeyed to the nearby town of Jedburgh, where he rested awhile in a local tavern and listened to the folk whisper tales of the monster, over their foaming cups of ale.
Though brave, he was a canny fellow, and decided to observe the beast before confronting it. That evening, he concealed himself in an ancient grove of trees near the creature’s lair and watched. As the sun’s rays disappeared behind the horizon, and light mists rose up from the ground, it came crawling from the earth. He observed that when it approached its prey, it opened its mouth wide to swallow the doomed victim whole.
An so, idea began to form in the knight’s mind.
The next day, he had a blacksmith craft him an iron lance, upon the end of which he fixed a lump of peat coated in tar and brimstone.
That evening, he rode back to the beast’s lair and waited. Again, as the sun dipped below the misty hillside, the creature emerged. The knight ignited the sticky mass on the end of his lance, then charged. The great wyrm opened its mouth, intent on swallowing both knight and steed, but the flaming lance was driven deep into its throat.
The writhing death-throes of the Linton Worm supposedly created the curious topography of the hills in the area, a place that became known as “Wormington”. The wounded creature retreated into the darkness of its lair to die, its thrashing tail bringing down the hillside behind it and burying it forever.
The legend states that de Somerville’s heroism was memorialised by a carved stone at Linton Kirk. He was raised to the position of Royal Falconer, knighted, and made “First Barrone of Linton” in recognition of his deed, and the family crest of the Somervilles became a wyvern.
Finally, the good folk of Linton could sleep easy in their beds.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog, my friend. I do hope you enjoyed this tale of a dashing knight and his battle against a terrible predatory beast.
I have also recently released a short book for charity, Big Dawg and the Great Walkies Sweepstake. It is a mere 80 pages long and small enough to sit comfortably in a pocket or handbag. The book is a comedy/farce greatly influenced by the work of one of my favourite writers, P. G. Wodehouse, and is entirely family-friendly. All profits will go to a local charity, the Mary Stevens Hospice, whose wonderful staff supported my friend and his family at a very difficult time. I do hope you consider picking up a copy and supporting this worthwhile cause. This little book would make a wonderful Christmas stocking filler.
Link below and Blurb below..
Many thanks,
See you next week - and stay spooky
BIG DAWG - and the Great Walkies Sweepstake.
By P. A. Sheldon
Big Dawg never meant to cause chaos at Poshington Place – honestly. All he wanted was a quiet weekend, a decent breakfast, and perhaps the odd flutter on the elderly ladies’ dog-walking.
Instead, he ends up battling a scheming rival, rescuing the wrong dog, becoming engaged by accident, and relying on a disgruntled Neapolitan mastiff to save him from matrimony.
With Pedro’s terrible ideas and Millhouse’s impeccable damage control, Big Dawg stumbles through a weekend of aristocratic mayhem, canine melodrama, and romantic misfires.
A hilarious country-house caper for fans of Wodehouse, sausage rolls, and badly behaved dogs.
Sources
Wikipedia
Folklorescotland.com
Dscoverscottishborders.com
Irish Folklore – The Fearful Far Darrig.
A Far Darrig - Beware the sound of strange laughter in the night.
There are many different Aos Sí - fairy folk - in Irish folklore. The whole country is rich with legends of these strange beings: some benevolent and helpful to humans, others darker and more solitary. It is to this latter group that the Far Darrig belong.
Tales of the Far Darrig and their mischief can be found throughout Ireland, though these troublesome goblins are most common in the west and south, particularly in the counties of Cork, Clare, and Kerry.
In Irish, the Far Darrig are known as Fear Dearg, meaning “Red Man”, a reference to their fondness for red clothing. They are sometimes called “Rat Boys”, as they are believed to have dark, hairy skin, long snouts, and thin tails. Depending on the source, these rattish qualities may be understated, giving them a more human appearance - but whatever form they take, they are regarded as eaters of carrion.
Of the many solitary and ill-natured fairies that haunt Ireland’s shores, there are few more wretched than the Far Darrig. He is believed to preside over evil dreams. Some stories claim he was once a mortal man who stumbled into fairyland by mistake and now tries - through tricks and warnings - to prevent others from making the same mistake.
Most active during winter, the Far Darrig delights in startling unsuspecting households by banging on their doors in the dead of night, demanding entrance and a place by the fire. To refuse such a request was considered perilous: you might awaken to find your child stolen and a changeling left in its place, or discover that your cattle had mysteriously sickened.
Should you ever encounter a Far Darrig, you would be wise to treat him with the utmost politeness, lest you fall victim to one of his cruel practical jokes. A favoured trick is to persuade an unwitting person to carry a corpse on their back and, in a gruesome twist, convince them it is merely meat, urging them to roast it on a spit.
One tale tells of a Far Darrig who disguised himself as a farmer and tricked a group of men into helping him harvest his field. They laboured diligently, only to discover that they had been gathering pebbles rather than grain. The Far Darrig, delighted with his deception, vanished into thin air, leaving the men thoroughly bewildered.
Another story describes the Far Darrig leading a band of travellers astray in the mountains. He coaxed them into a bog, where he entertained them with wild tales and strange songs. As the travellers grew increasingly intoxicated, the Far Darrig slipped away, leaving them stranded in the marshy darkness.
So take care when wandering Ireland’s lonely places, and listen closely for laughter carried on the wind. This is one creature you would do well not to meet - especially alone.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you enjoyed this little legend from the Emerald Isle. With the festive season rapidly approaching, if you’re a lover of classic Christmas ghost stories, I’ve compiled a collection of some of the finest seasonal tales of terror ever told - Pocket Christmas Horror. It makes the perfect companion for these long, dark evenings. Please consider picking up a copy-link below.
Alternatively, you’ll find plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, in the downloads section of this website.
Until next week-stay spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
OxfordReference.com
HorrorChronicles.com
BellaTerreno.com
Urban Folklore – The Gorbals Vampire
The Gorbals Vampire…
Within the Scottish city of Glasgow, on the south bank of the River Clyde, there can be found the Southern Necropolis, a sprawling Victorian cemetery, within a district called the Gorbals. It is thought the name Gorbals may come from the ecclesiastical Latin word garbale (“sheaf”) and relate to corn tithes that had to be paid to the Church, the Gorbals therefore meaning “the Sheaves.”
By the late 19th century, a mass migration from rural areas of Scotland and Ireland by people looking for work within the city saw it become a densely populated working-class area, with much poverty. But one particularly notorious resident, who stalked the area in the 1950s, has gone down in folklore. And this was a Vampire.
The Southern Necropolis is certainly a place with plenty of atmosphere - old, lichen-crusted graves and tombs huddle together, behind which could be seen a large factory: the Dixon Blazes steelworks, which vomited forth flames and black clouds of smoke into the sky both day and night. Just the sort of place any self-respecting vampire might choose to reside.
This Gorbals Vampire was described as a towering monster with red eyes and iron teeth. The local schoolchildren believed he prowled the graveyard at night, sometimes even wandering the streets in search of victims, it was even whispered that he was responsible for the deaths of two youngsters. Exactly who first started this rumour, history does not record, but it soon became the talk of the playground.
Most children, faced with such a terrible horror stalking the darkness, would lock themselves away of an evening, ensuring their parents bolted all doors and that the windows were tightly fastened.
But not the youth of the Gorbals.
These little nippers were made of sterner stuff; they were not content to cower away. One evening in September 1954, hundreds of children took to the streets armed with homemade stakes and knives, some accompanied by large, excitable dogs. These pint-sized monster hunters gathered in the cemetery, determined to put an end to the undead fiend who stalked their district. They ranged from teenagers to very young children - one four-year-old was reported among their number, though whether he was armed I cannot say! The crowd was so large that the police had to be called to break it up.
The monster hunt continued for several nights, despite the authorities’ best efforts, and some children even claimed to have seen the vampire, which they described as a dark figure lurking amongst the graves and shadowed stone angels, burning red eyes watching them with sinister intent.
Eventually, the panic ran its course and, over time, the excitement died down. But the story made national headlines, with newspapers describing it as “mass hysteria” or “moral panic.” People blamed American horror comics. In response to the uproar, the British government introduced the Children and Young Persons (Harmful Publications) Act of 1955, effectively banning violent comics that were seen as corrupting youth. This was one of the earliest instances of media-driven moral legislation in post-war Britain.
Today, there are many theories about the origin of the monster. Some suggest the “vampire with iron teeth” may have originated from biblical imagery - Daniel 7:7 speaks of a beast with “great iron teeth.”
Others think it was inspired by “Jenny wi’ the Airn (Iron) Teeth”. She was said to have been a hideous witch who prowled around Glasgow Green in the 1800s, with a reputation for devouring children who refused to go to sleep. A rhyme was written about her:
Jenny wi’ the Airn Teeth
Come an tak’ the bairn (child)
Tak’ him to your den
Where the bowgie bides (bogie lives)
But first put baith (both) your big teeth
In his wee plump sides.
Though no vampire has been reported in the Gorbals for many years now, and urban regeneration has greatly changed the area, you can still visit the Southern Necropolis- though I would only recommend doing so by the light of day.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this little piece of Halloween folklore has set you trembling with pleasurable fear. If you enjoy what I do, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow - link below.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Until next week — stay spooky.
Sources:
glasgowworld.com
Wikipedia
spookyscotland.net
scotsman.com