Ghosts and Legends of Caerphilly Castle
The following blog comes at the request of one of my readers, who kindly asked me to write about the ghostly Green Lady of Caerphilly Castle. I was unfamiliar with this spooky tale, so I was forced to visit my dusty library and burn the midnight oil, sifting through venerable old tomes of lore. Imagine my delight when I discovered an entire cast of supernatural terrors that call the old castle home.
Caerphilly is a town in South Wales, situated at the southern end of the Rhymney Valley. Its magnificent castle was originally built in the thirteenth century by the powerful Marcher lord Gilbert de Clare as a base from which he could strengthen his control over Glamorgan. It is a place that has witnessed considerable conflict between the de Clare family and the local Welsh rulers. With such a long and violent history, it was surely destined to become the domain of phantoms.
According to legend, Gilbert de Clare married a beautiful French princess named Alice of Angoulême, who came to live at the castle. One day, a handsome Welsh lord called Gruffudd the Fair, Prince of Brithdir, visited Caerphilly. Alice and Gruffudd fell hopelessly in love and became secret lovers.
They might have succeeded in keeping their trysts hidden, but Gruffudd foolishly confessed his love for the lady to a local monk. This duplicitous holy man immediately ran to Gilbert de Clare and revealed everything.
An enraged Gilbert sent the princess back to France before capturing and executing Prince Gruffudd, hanging him from a tree. The vengeful lord then took great pleasure in sending a message to his wife informing her of her lover’s fate. Legend says that, upon receiving the letter, the poor woman dropped dead from shock.
Now, on starry evenings and overcast days, her shade is said to walk the castle ramparts, attired in a beautiful green gown. The colour of her dress is believed to represent her husband’s jealousy.
The Green Lady is not the only spectre said to walk the walls of Caerphilly. People have reported seeing ghostly soldiers standing silently upon the battlements before vanishing in front of startled witnesses. These apparitions are often associated with Caerphilly’s violent medieval past.
A terrifying red figure has also reportedly been seen stalking through the castle ruins. Little is known about this sinister phantom; however, some speculate that it might be the spectre of Gilbert de Clare, whose red hair earned him the name of the “Red Earl”.
There are also reports of a mysterious perfume detected within one of the castle’s towers. Visitors and those working at the castle have reportedly noticed this strange fragrance, the source of which can never be established. It is often accompanied by a sensation of uneasiness and a sudden chill.
There is one more truly horrifying being said to lurk close to the castle. The marshes near Caerphilly were once believed to be home to a dreadful entity known as the Gwrach y Rhibyn.
According to a tradition recorded by Welsh folklorist Marie Trevelyan, the creature would rise from the marshy waters during rainy weather. She was a terrifying sight, with water streaming from her bat-like wings, long black hair and talon-like fingers. She would wring her hands and utter dreadful moans and prolonged wails before flying towards the castle and disappearing within its walls.
The Gwrach y Rhibyn is found throughout Welsh folklore and is commonly regarded as an omen of approaching death. She is, therefore, most certainly one supernatural being you would not wish to go hunting for.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog, my good friend. If you enjoy these tales of folklore, I would urge you to consider picking up copies of The Wendlelow Mysteries, a trilogy of folk-horror novels told through interconnected short stories and guaranteed to give you a shudder during the coming dark months. The books are available from Amazon, and links can be found in the shop section of this website.
Until next week.
Stay Spooky
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Sources
Wikipedia
Marie Trevelyan, Folk-lore and Folk-stories of Wales (London: Elliot Stock, 1909)
www.spookywales.com/caerphilly-haunted-places
Lancashire Folklore – The Lubberfiend
Lancashire is an English county located in the north-west. It is a place of flat coastal plains, upland moors, rivers and forests; its traditions are ancient, its lore and legends intriguing. Come with me, then, dear friend, as we learn of one of its stranger supernatural residents, the Lubberfiend.
Despite its slightly sinister name, the Lubberfiend was never considered dangerous. If it could be described in one word, that word might be lazy. The term fiend, in this instance, does not refer to something demonic, but instead was often used in old England to describe something of supernatural origin.
Also called a Lob, Lubberkin, or Lob Lie-by-the-Fire, this legendary creature had a role very similar to that of a Scottish Brownie or a Hob from northern England. That is to say, a mythical household spirit, said to dwell within one's home and perform household duties, such as tidying and washing. But where Hobs and Brownies were seen as industrious, tiny, sprite-like beings, the Lubberfiend's appearance was slightly more disturbing.
A typical Lubberkin is described as a large, hairy fellow with a tail. Like a reluctant teenager, he would unenthusiastically perform menial housework in exchange for a saucer of milk and a place in front of the fire. Folktales say that he was born from a union between a witch and the Devil.
Our best source for this lazy but well-meaning entity is John Harland and T. T. Wilkinson's 1867 book, Lancashire Folk-Lore. Here, one of these slothful spirits was said to have been resident in the farmhouses of the Cliviger district, around the Vale of Todmorden. He was described as a stupid demon that would stretch its hairy body across the warm hearthstones, like an idle dog seeking winter warmth.
The Lubberfiend features in a book, The Red Axe, by nineteenth-century Scottish writer S. R. Crockett. Here, he writes:
“…Jan Lubber Fiend, will ever be at his tricks. 'Tis my young mistress that encourages him, more is the pity! For poor serving-men are held responsible for his knavish on-goings. Why, I had just set him cross-legged in the yard with a basket of pease to shell, seeing how he grows as much as a foot in the night—or near by. But so soon as my back is turned he will be forever answering the door and peeping out into the street to gather the mongrel boys about him. 'Tis a most foul Lubber Fiend to keep about an honest house, plaguing decent folks withal!”
There is another being called the Abbey Lubber, which features in European folklore. This is a more sinister entity, said to lurk in the shadows of monastic cellars. It lingers around these holy houses and tempts monks into acts of drunkenness, gluttony and lust – all things that are highly frowned upon for those in holy orders. This being is seen as more demonic than the Lubberfiend, and it is best to steer clear of them if you want to avoid a hangover.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog, my good friend.
If you would like to hear one of my own tales brought chillingly to life, the wonderfully talented Morgan Scorpion has narrated my short story, Fireside Horror, on her YouTube channel. She has done a truly marvellous job, and I warmly recommend exploring her channel and supporting her work.
You can listen to the story by following the link below:
Link to Morgan’s You tube Channel - www.youtube.com/watch?v=wHPkGfSrgus
If you enjoy the tale, please consider liking the video, leaving a comment and subscribing to Morgan’s channel.
Until next week, my friends.
Stay Spooky.
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The Green Lady of Crathes Castle
Crathes Castle is located in the Scottish county of Aberdeenshire, near the town of Banchory. It lies within the historic county of Kincardineshire.
This impressive building was constructed during the sixteenth century and is a classic Scottish harled tower house. Harling is a roughcast wall finish, traditionally created using lime and aggregate, which is applied to the outer walls of a building to help protect it from the harsh, wet Scottish weather.
It is one of those wonderful Scottish buildings that seems filled with a sense of the macabre, brimming with tales guaranteed to freeze the blood of even the heartiest whisky-soaked soul. The Burnett family lived in the castle for more than 350 years, but they are not the only residents of Crathes Castle. For the building has other… unseen residents.
The castle's principal and most famous phantom is that of a woman dressed in green. She is said to haunt the aptly named Green Lady's Room. Here, witnesses have reportedly seen her ghostly figure standing beside the fireplace, a small baby cradled lovingly in her arms. She is said to drift slowly across the room before vanishing.
Some weight was added to this spooky tale when the bones of a child were reportedly discovered beneath the hearthstone during renovations in the nineteenth century. The National Trust for Scotland records the discovery, stating that the child was presumed to have been murdered.
The story goes that the Green Lady was a young woman who fell in love with a handsome servant. The two lovers attempted to keep their relationship secret, but eventually she became pregnant and the truth was revealed. According to the legend, the family were ashamed of their daughter's behaviour, and the young woman was confined to the Green Lady's Room.
The fate of the child was never known.
Whether this tragic tale explains the appearance of the Green Lady is impossible to say. Indeed, the National Trust for Scotland states that the true identity of the apparition remains shrouded in mystery.
There are other spectral residents said to haunt Crathes Castle's ancient halls, including a White Lady. She is traditionally identified as Bertha, the young lover of Alexander Burnett.
According to the legend, Bertha was poisoned by Lady Agnes, who considered the young woman unworthy of her son's hand in marriage. It is said that Bertha returns as a pale spectral figure, gliding through the darkness on the anniversary of her murder.
It seems that loving someone from the lower classes could be a fatal act in days of yore, particularly for those on the wrong side of the social divide.
Thankfully, modern attitudes are rather more understanding when it comes to romance between people of different social backgrounds. Although, if the ghosts of Crathes Castle are anything to go by, perhaps the old stories have not quite finished reminding us of the consequences of forbidden love.
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, stay spooky.
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THE PHANTOM COACH OF MALLOW CASTLE
In the south of Ireland, we find a delightfully spooky location in County Cork, situated in the charming town of Mallow.
The name Mallow derives from the Irish Maghalla, meaning ‘The Plain of the Swans’. It is a place steeped in history. Originally established as a defensive settlement on the River Blackwater, it guarded an important ford. Over the years, helped by the rich agricultural land surrounding it, the settlement grew into a prosperous market town.
But it is Old Mallow Castle that concerns this blog, my friend, and the many legends and stories that still haunt this dramatic location.
Mallow Castle might have been built with the sole purpose of providing a home for the spectral and strange. Its crumbling towers and walls stand stark against the skyline: a place of history, a place for phantoms.
Local people and visitors have, for years, told tales of a phantom coach. As the evening breeze stirs the treetops, the clattering of horses' hooves and the rumbling of wheels upon the driveway can apparently be heard. The sensible will flee, running into the castle's substantial 33 acres of grounds to hide amongst the bushes whilst the supernatural vehicle goes on its way.
But what of the brave—or perhaps the foolish—who stand their ground? What have these unfortunate souls witnessed?
The few witnesses who will speak of it tell of a dark coach, pulled by four headless horses that gallop wildly up the driveway. Its origins are shrouded in mystery, leaving the terrified spectator to ponder who—or what—might be riding within the dark carriage.
But the ruined castle is home to other spectral occupants. Strange lights are frequently reported dancing in its windows. And walkers out for an evening stroll have reported seeing the misty forms of two figures who suddenly appear, walking ahead of them, only for them to disappear again, like a mist upon the breeze.
The castle's dark history also speaks of Sir John Norreys, a remarkable but controversial soldier in Elizabeth I's army. He eventually became Lord President of Munster. A fearsome figure, it was rumoured that he sold his soul to the Devil, eventually meeting his demise within Mallow Castle's walls at the age of fifty, when his dark debt finally became due.
So, dear reader, visit Old Mallow Castle, but please do so in the daylight. Linger not after the falling of dusk, for this place is a house of ghosts and deviltry.
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.
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Rhiannon: The Ghostly Queen of Welsh Mythology
Travel, dear reader, seven miles northwards from the village of Amroth on the Pembrokeshire coast, and you will find yourself in the small, pleasing town of Narberth, an ancient settlement that dwells beneath the shadow of a ruined castle.
Legend has it that this castle and the surrounding lands were the scene of a famous tale, enshrined forever within the pages of the Mabinogion, a collection of early Welsh legends compiled during the Middle Ages. The story centres upon Rhiannon and her love for Pwyll, the ruler of Dyfed.
One day, in an age when the sun rose and set much as it does today, Pwyll was riding beside the ancient and magical mound of Gorsedd Arberth with his retinue of men when he spied a beautiful maiden riding towards him upon a pure white horse.
Intrigued, he sent members of his retinue ahead to greet her and discover who she was. However, although the riders appeared to be travelling at a normal pace, they were never able to close the distance between themselves and the mounted woman.
Eventually, Pwyll called back his men and decided to ride forth and meet her himself. Yet, despite approaching her at a gallop, he still could not overtake her. Finally, he called out to her, asking her to stop. Which she duly did.
She told him that her name was Rhiannon and revealed that she had been riding out to meet him, for she had chosen him to be her husband. In this sense, Rhiannon is a remarkably modern female protagonist. She is not a passive princess sitting patiently and awaiting rescue. She is active.
She chooses Pwyll.
And Pwyll, moved by her grace and beauty, finds himself entirely smitten.
But, good reader, as has been the case in this kind of tale so many times before, the course of true love never runs smooth.
You see, Rhiannon was already promised to another, a man named Gwawl ap Clud, and he would not willingly release her from his claim. Still, Rhiannon had a quick mind and devised a plan.
She gave Pwyll a magical bag that could never be filled and instructed him to invite Gwawl to a feast at his hall. At her direction, Pwyll persuaded Gwawl to enter the bag, and Gwawl, who was clearly not the sharpest tool in the shed, agreed.
Once inside, Pwyll trapped him and stamped upon the bag until his rival finally agreed to relinquish his claim upon Rhiannon.
And so, Rhiannon and Pwyll were wed.
Rhiannon has many other adventures in the Mabinogion, but it is this first encounter that interests us today, for the story is associated with the area around the charming little town of Narberth and is still celebrated there in local tourism and folklore.
It is also claimed that residents of the town have witnessed the ghost of Pwyll’s queen riding over the hills and fields surrounding Narberth. She is usually seen at dusk, always at a distance, mounted upon her magnificent white horse.
Folklorists have suggested that Rhiannon may be connected to an ancient Celtic horse goddess and that her name could be related to the reconstructed Celtic name Rigantona, generally interpreted as “Great Queen”.
Whatever the truth, I would urge any bold, folklore-loving reader to visit Narberth and walk its fields at dusk. Perhaps then you might truly absorb the spirit of the ancient tale.
And who knows? Perhaps you might even catch sight of the beautiful queen as she gallops silently into the twilight.
Thank you for taking the time to read my spooky blog, dear friend. If you enjoy it, I would urge you to visit M. Lee Goodson’s wonderful Facebook page, which is chock-full of spooky legends. This week, she talks about the urban legend surrounding 13 Bends Road.
Here is a link: www.facebook.com/mleegoodson
Finally why not consider picking up a copy of Pocket Horror, an anthology of classic tales of terror by some of the finest horror writers history has ever produced? All are bound together in a handy, pocket-sized book.
Links to the book on Amazon can be found in the shop section of this website.
Until next week,
Stay Spooky.
Available on Amazon.
Sources
Wikipedia
The Mabinogion
Britannica.com
THE VOICE OF THE MOUNTAIN – FREE FOLK HORROR STORY DOWNLOAD
THE VOICE OF THE MOUNTAIN – FREE DOWNLOAD
Hello, dear reader.
Here is a free download of my folk horror tale, ‘The Voice of the Mountain’. This tale is an abridge version of the one that appears in my folk horror novel ‘A Crows Scream’.
Set in a small village in North Wales, the story follows a young constable investigating a series of strange deaths and mysterious disappearances.
What is the cause of these disturbing events? And how are they connected to the ancient, legend-shrouded mountain of Dinas Emrys, with its tales of lost treasure and the monstrous beast said to guard it?
And what caused the terrifying noise that awoke the entire village one cold autumn night?
The voice of the mountain.
Download, share, enjoy — and stay spooky.
The Woodwose: The Wild Man of English Folklore
Throughout medieval England, one belief held strong. It can be seen carved into old wind-worn churches, woven into the tapestries of the nobility, and painted in the illuminated manuscripts produced by the monks who recorded the history of the age. A strange creature, hairy and often depicted with a club resting upon his shoulder, this figure was known as the Wild Man, or, as he is more commonly called today, the Woodwose.
The word Woodwose derives from the Middle English wodewose, itself descended from the Old English wudu-wāsa, meaning "woodland being" or "creature of the forest".
To be fair, the Woodwose is not unique to England. Variations of the legend can be found across mainland Europe. A Woodwose could vary in size from a dwarf-like figure to a gigantic being standing anywhere between seven and ten feet tall, covered in hair or moss and carrying a small tree as a club. They were usually said to be solitary creatures, although some medieval illustrations depict them living in small family groups.
So, what exactly was a Woodwose? Some people have interpreted these beings as men and women who fled society to live in the wild forests and lonely moorlands. Over time, their unkempt hair and ragged clothing may have given them a wild, almost animal-like appearance. Other scholars draw comparisons with the satyrs of Greek mythology, while some believe the Woodwose is simply the personification of the forest itself: untamed, unpredictable and forever beyond mankind's control.
According to local tradition, a terrifying Wild Man lived in the woods near Stainfield in the county of Lincolnshire, terrorising the surrounding countryside. A local knight, Francis Tyrwhitt, was promised an estate if he could slay the creature. It is said that the brave knight found the Wild Man asleep beside a pit after the cries of disturbed plovers alerted him to its presence. He killed the creature, and the Wild Man subsequently became part of the Tyrwhitt family's crest. Although the story was first recorded in the early twentieth century by the Rev. James Alpas Penny, it almost certainly preserves a much older local tradition.
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Another famous Wild Man tale comes from the twelfth-century chronicles of Orford in Suffolk. Here, fishermen discovered a hirsute, wild-looking man trapped in their nets. According to contemporary accounts, he possessed enormous strength but was incapable of human speech, although he appeared to understand human behaviour. Chroniclers noted that he was strongly drawn to water and repeatedly attempted to escape back to the sea. He was imprisoned in Orford Castle for several months, fed on a diet of raw fish, and eventually released, whereupon he disappeared into the sea and was never seen again.
There is also a much more modern account of an encounter with what many believe to have been a Woodwose. In the year 2000, a man employed on a rural Cornish farm making bird cages for pheasant shoots claimed that, while working alone, he repeatedly heard strange noises coming from the nearby woods at St Mawgan. There were knocks, rustling sounds, clicking noises and eerie whistles. Then, one day, as he stood waiting near the edge of the woodland, he noticed a leathery face watching him from the undergrowth. Whatever it was slowly rose to its full height. He described it as over six feet tall, naked and covered in a thick mass of copper-coloured hair.
Understandably shaken, the man told his employer what he had seen. According to the account, the farmer responded in a calm, matter-of-fact manner:
"They call them Woodwoses. Best to leave them alone."
Reports of such encounters continue even today. One allegedly occurred not far from where I am sitting as I write this. While walking in the woods on the ridge above the Himley Hall estate in Staffordshire, an elderly couple claimed to have seen a large, hairy figure following them through the trees. They said it watched them from behind the trunk of an old tree before disappearing into the woodland. Unsurprisingly, the experience left them badly shaken.
So, what are we to make of these stories? Is the Woodwose some British equivalent of Bigfoot, a remnant population of prehistoric beings eking out an existence on the very fringes of civilisation? If so, how could such creatures remain hidden in a country as densely populated as Britain?
Or are these sightings simply glimpses of reclusive men and women who have abandoned modern society to live in the wilderness, their appearance transformed by years of isolation?
Or, perhaps, the truth is stranger still...
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, has now been unleashed upon the world. It is available on Amazon links in shop section of this website.
Stay spooky
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The Loch Ness Monster: Scotland's Most Enduring Legend
Deep within the Highlands of Scotland, in a wild, legend-shrouded region renowned for its breath taking scenery, lies Britain's largest volume of freshwater.
Loch Ness.
It stretches roughly twenty-three miles in length and contains more water than all the lakes in England and Wales combined. It is home to salmon, brown trout and Arctic char, whilst those with sharp eyes may spot cormorants, ospreys and black-headed gulls soaring overhead. Along its shores roam magnificent red deer stags, red squirrels and pine martens.
Yet another creature is said to call these dark waters home—a beast of enormous size, whose history spans centuries and which has become one of the most famous monsters in the world.
I speak, of course, of the Loch Ness Monster.
The Loch Ness Monster (Scottish Gaelic: Uilebheist Loch Nis), known affectionately as Nessie, first appears in written records dating from the seventh century. The Irish monk Adomnán recounted how St Columba encountered a terrifying creature in the River Ness. According to the account, the beast had already killed one man and attacked another who was attempting to swim across the river. St Columba made the sign of the cross and commanded the beast to go no further and not to harm the swimmer. The creature is said to have retreated immediately, and the unfortunate man was saved.
The next notable account did not appear until the nineteenth century, when a gentleman by the name of Mackenzie reported seeing an object resembling an upturned boat wriggling and churning through the water at a steady pace.
Roughly a decade later, Alexander MacDonald claimed to have seen what he described as a large, stubby-legged animal emerge from the loch before coming ashore only a short distance from where he stood. Alarmed by what he had witnessed, he reported the incident to the Loch Ness water bailiff, Alex Campbell, describing the creature as resembling a giant salamander.
It was later in the twentieth century that the same Alex Campbell, who was not only the water bailiff but also a journalist for the Inverness Courier, published an article entitled "A Strange Spectacle in Loch Ness". In it, he described an encounter witnessed by a husband and wife while driving beside the loch.
He wrote:
"The creature disported itself, rolling and plunging for fully a minute, its body resembling that of a whale, and the water cascading and churning like a simmering cauldron. Soon, however, it disappeared in a boiling mass of foam. Both onlookers confessed that there was something uncanny about the whole thing, for they realised that here was no ordinary denizen of the depths, because, apart from its enormous size, the beast, in taking the final plunge, sent out waves that were big enough to have been caused by a passing steamer."
Campbell also noted that there had long been an oral tradition claiming the loch was home to a fearsome beast, suggesting that stories of the creature were already well established amongst local people.
Perhaps the encounter that truly propelled Nessie into the national imagination occurred in 1933, when George Spicer and his wife were driving alongside the loch. They claimed to have seen a strange creature cross the road directly in front of their car. They described it as having a large body with a long, wavy, narrow neck, slightly thicker than an elephant's trunk. Apparently, it was carrying what looked like the body of a small animal in its mouth. They saw no limbs, saying that it lurched across the road towards the loch, leaving a trail of crushed undergrowth in its wake. Spicer later described it as:
"The nearest approach to a dragon or pre-historic animal that I have ever seen in my life."
This was the first widely reported sighting in which the creature was compared to a prehistoric plesiosaur, a marine reptile that became extinct around sixty-six million years ago.
As for this writer, I visited Loch Ness with my wife during our honeymoon in 1999. We took a Nessie-spotting boat trip across the loch, and the skipper showed us a remarkable photograph he had taken a few years earlier. It appeared to show a large grey body breaking the surface of the water. It certainly did not resemble a floating log or a wave, and the image fascinated us.
There have been many more sightings of our aquatic friend over the years, and even as I write this article, new videos continue to emerge claiming to show large, dark shapes moving beneath the surface.
But what are people really seeing?
Over the years, many explanations have been proposed, ranging from deliberate hoaxes to surviving prehistoric animals and even bizarre theories involving interdimensional creatures. Here are a few of the more plausible suggestions.
A Giant Eel
Perhaps the most convincing explanation is the humble European eel. Loch Ness contains a healthy population of these remarkable fish, and some researchers have suggested that unusually large individuals could account for at least some of the sightings. While there is no evidence that eels grow to monstrous proportions, their long, sinuous bodies could certainly create a convincing illusion in the loch's dark waters.
Floating Logs and Seiches
The peat-rich waters of Loch Ness occasionally cause old pine logs to become waterlogged before suddenly rising to the surface. Combined with underwater oscillations known as seiches, which can produce unusual waves even on calm days, these natural phenomena may explain many reports of mysterious humps or moving shapes.
The Greenland Shark
During investigations for River Monsters and in later interviews, presenter Jeremy Wade suggested another intriguing possibility—the Greenland shark (Somniosus microcephalus). This enormous fish can reach over six metres (twenty feet) in length, inhabits cold, deep water and possesses a broad, dark body that could resemble a series of humps when viewed from a distance. Greenland sharks have occasionally been recorded in the waters around northern Scotland.
However, they are marine animals, and there is currently no evidence that they can survive permanently in the freshwater environment of Loch Ness. Although Wade considers the shark an interesting possibility, he does not believe it fully explains the mystery.
Whatever the truth may be, something continues to be seen upon the waters of Loch Ness. Whether these sightings are the product of natural phenomena, mistaken identity, or something genuinely unknown remains one of Scotland's greatest mysteries.
So, should you ever find yourself walking the lonely shores of Loch Ness, keep your eyes fixed upon the dark water... and your wits about you. You never know what may be watching from the depths.
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.
Visit the shop section of this website for more information and links.
Sources
Wikipedia
River Monsters – Season 5, Episode 6: "Legend of Loch Ness" (originally aired 27 May 2013).
Whyte, Constance. More Than a Legend. London: Hamish Hamilton, 1957.
Williams, Gareth. A Monstrous Commotion: The Mysteries of Loch Ness. Coffee House Press, 2015.
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.
The Wendlelow Mysteries Folk Horror Trilogy.
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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
