Welsh Folklore – The Murderous Brenin Llwyd, and His Court of Mists and Shadow.
Brenin Llwyd brings mists and bad weather…
A mysterious being is recorded throughout the mountainous regions of Wales: his name, the Brenin Llwyd (translated as “The Grey King”), is sometimes also rendered as “The Monarch of the Mist” - a terrifying entity said to prey on the unwary.
As the names suggest, the Brenin Llwyd is described as a grey figure with an imposing, regal presence, surrounded by mists and shadow. He is believed to make his home at the peaks of Wales’ great mountain ranges, and is frequently associated with Snowdonia and Cader Idris in the northern Welsh highlands.
Welsh writer and folklorist Marie Trevelyan gave a compelling account of this mysterious, mountain-dwelling king in 1909:
"Stories about the Brenin Llwyd, the Grey King or Monarch of the Mist, were told in the most mountainous districts. In the North, he was described as being very mighty and powerful. He was represented as sitting among the mountains, robed in grey clouds and mist, and woe to anybody who was caught in his clutches! Snowdon and the ranges of it, Cadair Idris, Plinlimmon, and other lofty places, were his favourite haunts. In the South, he was regarded as 'hungering' for victims, and children were warned not to venture too high up the mountains, lest the Brenin Llwyd should seize them."
From Marie Trevelyan, we see that the Grey King takes on a more threatening role the further south one ventures. In all regions, he was considered to influence bad weather and was therefore a danger to those who travelled or worked in the high places. However, further south, his desire to slay mortals was more pronounced, and he would actively seek out victims. Trevelyan provides the following account:
"An old woman said that many a time she shuddered when they ascended to the mineral wells on the Smaelog, and was glad to come down, because the people and children warned everybody not to linger late, for the Brenin Llwyd would be after them. She was further told that there was no trusting him, for sometimes on the brightest summer evening he would come suddenly and draw them into his clutches."
So the Grey King could be seen as a bogeyman, sensibly warning children to be wary in the Welsh highlands. Other 19th-century folklorists, including Elias Owen, give vague accounts of the Grey King as a local superstition whispered about by shepherds and quarrymen.
Marie also recorded an account from Carmarthenshire that contained elements not found elsewhere. In this, she says the King dwelt in a ‘Court of Mists’ and was associated with “Hounds of the Sky” – great mystical hunting dogs, which may hint at a connection with the Celtic Underworld and its ruler, Annwn, and his Cwm Annwn (spectral hounds).
As with nearly all the other folk tales and myths I have explored, I am forced to wonder how many tales of the Brenin Llwyd have been lost to history, forgotten before the great folklorists of the 19th century could set them down on paper.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. I do hope you didn’t find it too chilling. My new book, Threads of Shadow, is now available. If you enjoy ghosts, monstrous entities, and strange magic inspired by folktales – and would like to support the author and his work – please consider picking up a copy. Links below. Stay Spooky.
Vampire Folklore – The Hunderprest of Melrose Abbey
The Hunderprest stalks the land…
Melrose Abbey is located near the town of Melrose on the Scottish Borders. The origin of the name Melrose is thought to be Mailros, meaning "the bare peninsula". This refers to a neck of land close to the River Tweed to the east, where the abbey was founded in the 6th century. However, this was eventually abandoned.
In the 12th century, King David I of Scotland took the throne and declared his intention to create a new Cistercian abbey, which was built at the site of today’s town, and was also called Melrose. Over the years a settlement gradually building up around it. Eventually, the abbey fell into ruin after the Reformation. Today, its remains make for an imposing sight. Its legend is a chilling one.
The abbey was said to be the home of a revenant - a medieval equivalent of a zombie, with an added dash of vampire for good measure. The name of this fearful being was the Hunderprest.
The Legend
There was a chaplain, well known for his many vices; his chief pleasure was hunting with his pack of dogs, and this earned him the nickname ‘Hunderprest’, meaning ‘Dog Priest’. John Lang, in his book Stories of the Border Marches, has this to say of the wicked old clergyman: “Other things he also loved that made not for sanctity, and when, at last, he died, his death was no more holy than his selfish, sensual life had been.”
When he finally died, his spirit could find no rest, and his dark revenant was seen stalking the border town at night in search of blood. No sober man would leave his home once the sun’s rays ceased to kiss the land. Desperate, the poor townsfolk turned to the abbey for a solution to their plight. Four monks were chosen to confront him. They decided to watch the old priest’s grave, and that first night they were terrified to see the ghoulish entity rise from the grave and stalk menacingly in their direction. The lead monk, armed with a staff, repeatedly struck at the undead being whilst praying aloud, until eventually it retreated back into its grave.
The monks knew they were dealing with a revenant, and also knew how to dispose of the supernatural menace. Awaiting daylight, they returned to the Hunderprest’s grave armed with tools for digging, and proceeded to exhume the revenant priest’s corpse. They found the body in its coffin, remarkably well-preserved, with fresh blood about its lips. They burned the corpse scattering the ashes to the four winds.
And yet, something of the Hunderprest still remains, and even today local folk speak of hearing the muted cries of the wicked old sinner coming from the abbey ruins on nights when the moon is fat.
During the 17th to 19th centuries, the legend saw something of a resurgence, with the evil priest adopting more vampire-like qualities. In the new retellings, he could turn into a bat and would drink the blood of his former mistress…
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. I do hope you did not find it too chilling. With your permission, I will indulge in a bit of shameless advertising for my new book Threads of Shadow. If you enjoy ghosts, monstrous entities, and strange magic - inspired by folktales - please give it a try. Links below.
Somerset Folklore - The Witch of Wookey Hole.
The terrifying Witch of Wookey. In no way connected to Chewbacca or a certain sci-fi franchise…
Somerset is a mainly rural county found in South West England. It is bordered by the Bristol Channel, and Gloucestershire to the north, Wiltshire to the east, Dorset to the south-east, and Devon to the south-west. Its largest settlement is the city of Bath, but perhaps its most unusual location is Wookey Hole Caves.
Wookey Hole Caves are a series of limestone caverns, and are a big tourist attraction in the area, with the upper levels being dry caves that are accessible to tourists. The word ‘Wookey’ is thought to be from the Old English wocig (meaning an animal trap). The caves have a long history of human occupation, dating as far back as the Stone Age, but their most notorious occupant was the Witch of Wookey.
The ‘Witch of Wookey’ is a large stalagmite thought to resemble a witch’s face in profile. A small stone nearby is also thought to be the sleeping remains of her dog. Both these stones come with a legend, which goes thus:
In medieval times, these caves became the lair of an evil witch. Cattle sickened and died, crops failed, and some people even disappeared under sinister circumstances. Folk began to suspect that there were dark forces at work, and the locals were increasingly convinced that the much-feared Witch of Wookey Hole was to blame.
Desperate, the locals sent to nearby Glastonbury Abbey for aid. The Abbot duly despatched a monk, Father Barnard, to investigate. On entering the caves, the good Father soon found himself confronted by the witch. She tried to curse him, but God’s power preserved him from harm. Taking some water from the River Axe, as it flowed through the caves, he blessed it and sprinkled it over the witch. As he did so, he made the sign of the cross and recited the Pater Noster (Lord’s Prayer).
The witch let out a blood-curdling scream and then fell suddenly silent. The holy water turned her to stone. A sinister-looking stone ‘statue’ can still be seen in the caves today, commonly referred to as the Witch Stone. Thus, the witch was vanquished, and the surrounding countryside freed from her dark curses. Sadly, some of the holy water landed on her small dog, also petrifying him.
There are many other stories associated with these caves, a few of which I list below:
The Ghostly Monk
The cave is said to be haunted by the spirit of the monk who battled with the witch. Witnesses claim to have seen a hooded figure close to the entrance of the cave. Some say they were greeted by the strong scent of incense, or heard a whispered voice in prayer.
The Giant Eel
It is claimed that a giant eel once dwelt in the River Axe. It became quite a nuisance, causing severe damage to the local fishermen’s nets. Eventually tiring of the slimy pest, the river men gathered together and drove it upriver into the cave, where it is still said to inhabit the underground pools. Cave divers beware!
I will leave you with a poem from 1748, written by Dr Henry Harington. He was moved to write the piece after hearing the legend of the witch. Finally, my new book, Threads of Shadows, has just been released. Like its predecessor, it is a horror novel told through short stories. So if you enjoy ghosts, monstrous entities and strange folk magic - inspired by folktales - please give it a try. Links after poem.
Stay spooky, my friend.
In aunciente days tradition shows,
A sorry wicked elf arose,
The witch of Wokey hightp,
Oft have I heard the fearful tale.
From Sue and Roger of the vale,
Told out in winter night.
Deep in the dreary dismal cell
Which seem'd, and was y-cleped hell,
This blue-eye'd hag was sty'd;
Nine wicked elves have legends sayne
By night she chose her guardian train,
All kennell'd close her side.
Here screeching owls oft made their nest,
While wolves its craggy sides possest,
Night howling through the rocks;
No wholesome herb cou'd here be found,
She blasted every plant around,
And blister'd o'er the flocks.
Her haggard face so foul to see,
Her mouth unmeet a mouth to be,
With eyne of deadly leer;
She nought devis'd but neighbours ill,
On all she wreak'd her wayward will,
And marr'd all goodly cheer.
All in her prime, have poets sunge,
No gaudy youth, gallante and younge
Ere blest her longing arms;
Hence rose her fell despight to vex,
And blast the youth of either sex,
By dint of hellish charms.
From Glaston came a lerned wight,
Full bent to marr her fell despight,
And well he did I ween;
Save hers, sich mischief ne'er was knowne,
And since his mickle lerninge showne,
Sich mischief ne'er has beene.
He chauntede out his godlie booke,
He cross'd the water, bleste the brooke,
Then — Pater-noster done,
The gastly hag he sprinkled o'er,
When lo! where stood the hag before,
Now stood a gastly stone.
Full well 'tis knowne adown the vale,
Tho' strange may seem the dismal tale
Eke wondrous may appear;
I'm bold to say, there; s never one
That has not seen the witch in stone,
With all her household gear.
But tho' this lernede clerke did well,
With grieved heart, alas I tell,
She left this curse behind;
"My sex shall be forsaken quite,"
"Tho' sense and beauty both unite,"
"Nor find a man that's kinde."
Now lo e'en as this fiend did say,
The sex have found it to this day,
That men are wondrous scante;
Here's beauty, wit, and sense combin'd,
With all that's good, and virtuous join'd,
Yet scarce there's one gallante.
Shall such fair nymphs thus daily moan!
They might I trow as well be stone,
As thus forsaken dwell;
Since Glaston now can boast no clerks
From Oxenford come down, ye sparks,
And help revoke the spell.
Yet stay — nor thus despond, ye fair,
Virtue's the gods peculiar care,
Then mark their kindly voice;
"Your sex shall soon be blest again,"
"We only wait to find sich men"
"As best deserve sich choice."
Dr Henry Harington (1748)
Irish Folklore - The Dreaded Fetch
Ahh its a Fetch
There is an ominous saying in Ireland: “To see a Fetch is to see a soul departing.”
In Irish folklore, the Fetch is an apparition - a double or doppelgänger - of either the witness or someone the person knows. It can be seen as either a harbinger of death or a sign of spiritual transition.
The word “Fetch” may come from the Old Irish feithid, meaning “apparition” or “phantom.” As well as the German doppelgänger, it also has similarities to the Norse vardøger.
The Fetch is not bound to just one region and can be found throughout Ireland. It is often described as a quiet, pale double of a living person that eerily lacks any emotion. It can be seen in cities or in the wilds - sometimes spotted among a crowd, walking at a distance, or fleetingly glimpsed passing by a person’s home.
The time at which the Fetch is encountered is important. It is believed that if you see your spooky double around dusk or midnight, it means that your death is imminent. However, if the double appears in the morning rather than the evening, it could be a sign of a long life.
Sightings
The Fetch of Lord Beresford
In Co. Waterford during the 18th century, Lady Beresford allegedly saw the double of her husband standing at the foot of her bed - he was away at the time. It was later that day that she received a message to say her husband had passed away, around the time of her sighting.
A Visitor in the Mist
In a village near Enniskillen in Northern Ireland, an elderly gentleman said that one misty night he was disturbed by a repeated knocking at his door. Looking through the window, he saw it was his son, who he believed was many miles away in the city of Dublin. When he finally opened the door, no one was there, and his dog whimpered and refused to go near the threshold. It was the next morning that the dreadful news arrived - his son had died in the night of a fever.
The Mirror Fetch
There is a report from County Clare in the 19th century of a young lady who was dressing for a local dance. She claimed to see her reflection in the mirror blink independently from her own actions. Terrified, she notified her mother. The young woman later passed away from a heart condition. The locals said that the mirror had ‘shown her Fetch’.
The William Carleton Account
William Carleton was an Irish writer who included a story of a Fetch in his book Traits and Stories of the Irish Peasantry (1830s–40s). He retells the account of a local parish priest who claimed to have seen the double of one of his parishioners about the village. The man had failed to attend Mass that Sunday - it was only later that the priest learned the fellow had recently passed away.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog. I do hope you didn’t find it too scary, and that you’re still able to look in the mirror today.
My new book, Threads of Shadows, has just been released. Like its predecessor, it is a horror novel told through short stories. So if you enjoy ghosts, monstrous entities and strange folk magic - inspired by folktales - please give it a try. Links Below.
Stay spooky, my friend.
Book Update - Threads of Shadow
Hello, my friends. Just a short update to let you know that my new book is finally available to purchase on Amazon, in Kindle, paperback, and hardback formats.
Like my previous book, Fireside Horror, it is a novel told through short stories - aimed at lovers of folk horror, fantasy, and historical mysteries.
A big thank you for all your support. I hope you find as much joy in reading the book as I had in writing it. Below is a link to Amazon where the book can be purchased. Finally, please consider leaving a review on Amazon or Goodreads, as it really helps.
Stay spooky,
Paul
Book Summary
Casper Trenchton is a man haunted by his past. Fleeing to the quiet lanes of Shropshire in search of solace, he finds instead a town steeped in secrets. Under the employment of the enigmatic
Doctor Mogfadian and his niece, Julie, Casper is drawn into a web of uncanny occurrences. Wendlelow, he soon learns, is no haven; it is a place where darkness festers and ancient horrors stir.
Within these pages lie nine chilling, interconnected tales from a town that reason forgot. So stoke the fire, draw the curtains tight, and prepare to be horrified.
Folklore - Cath Palug the Monstrous Black Cat.
Cath Palug - Purrrfectly terrifying…
The Island of Anglesey is the setting for a most unusual tale, featuring a magic pig, a brave Arthurian knight, and a monstrous black cat called Cath Palug.
Anglesey – Welsh: Ynys Môn – lies off the north-west coast of Wales. At 275 square miles, it is by far the largest island in Wales. It has many old poetic names, including: Ynys Dywyll (Shady Isle), as it once contained many groves believed to be sacred; Ynys y Cedairn (Isle of the Brave), for its royal courts; and Y Fêl Ynys (Honey Isle). It is a place rich with prehistoric monuments and was believed to be the last stronghold of the British Druids.
The story goes that Hen Wen was raised by Coll, son of Collfrewy, a pigkeeper for Dallwyr Dallben, in a settlement supposedly located in Cornwall. Prophecy foretold that when this legendary porker gave birth, it would not bode well for the Isle of Britain. So, the pregnant sow was chased across the sea into Wales, where she gave birth to a black kitten. This was thrown into the sea, but was caught in a fisherman’s net and brought ashore on the Isle of Anglesey. There, it was raised by the sons of Lord Palug, and over time it grew to a tremendous size.
Cath Palug means Palug’s Cat, but it seems that the beast became too big to control and wandered the island, a danger to man and beast alike. According to an incomplete poem, Arthur’s knight Kay went to Anglesey and did battle with the beast, eventually killing it. In other legends, the giant cat appears in France and is fought by King Arthur himself.
Large black cats are not officially recognised as inhabiting the United Kingdom, yet every year newspapers report many sightings of these elusive beasts, often seen slinking through hedgerows or across fields. Farmers also report strange sheep killings. These creatures are referred to as phantom cats or British big cats and are described as being as large as a Labrador – sometimes even bigger. Sleek, muscular, and usually black, witnesses sometimes report seeing them stalking pets or livestock, or hearing eerie screams and growls coming from woodland at night.
Famous Encounters
There are many reports of big cat encounters – far too many to list in this small blog – but I have included three here. Many more can be found in books, newspaper reports, and by searching online.
An early historical sighting of a british big cat occurred in the 1760s, when William Cobbett, an English farmer and journalist, recalled how, as a boy, he had seen a cat “as big as a middle-sized Spaniel dog” climb into a hollow elm tree in the grounds of the ruined Waverley Abbey near Farnham in Surrey.
A notable sighting took place in 1995 on Bodmin Moor, when two off-duty police officers witnessed a large black cat-like creature crossing the road in front of their car. They estimated its length to be around five feet. The sighting was followed by a search involving police and a Royal Marines helicopter, but no concrete evidence was found.
In 2000, police received a report of a black, leopard-like animal attacking an 11-year-old boy in Monmouthshire. The boy was with his brother, searching for their pet cat near their home in Trellech, when he said the animal attacked him in long grass. He received medical treatment for scratch marks to his face. The police were never able to locate the beast said to be responsible.
Explanations for these sightings vary, from escaped zoo animals to exotic pets released into the wilds in the 1960s, after it was made illegal to keep such creatures. But could the legend of Cath Palug not hint at a folk memory of such beasts, suggesting the possibility that these creatures have always haunted the shores of this ancient island?
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. My new book, Threads of Shadow, is due to be released on 1st July in softback and hardback, and is currently available on Kindle. It is part of my series of books entitled The Wendlelow Mysteries. If you enjoy stories of folk horror, ghosts, monsters, and mysteries, that all link together to form a complete novel, why not give it a try?
Ghostly Folklore – The Phantom Chicken of Pond Square
You’re Plucking kidding me…
There are many ghostly animals in Great Britain, from spectral monkeys to black dogs, but perhaps one of the most unusual can be found in Pond Square, Highgate, London: that of a phantom chicken.
Sir Francis Bacon, who lived from 22nd January 1561 to 9th April 1626, was the 1st Viscount St Alban and 1st Baron Verulam. He was a statesman, lawyer, and philosopher, and has been described as the Father of Empiricism. Empiricism holds that true knowledge or justification comes only - or primarily - from sensory experience and empirical evidence.
Whilst riding home one cold spring morning in the snow, he pondered whether it might be possible to use ice to preserve meat instead of salt. It was these ruminations that led to the infamous chicken incident - and, very possibly, his own death.
The fateful events of that day were described by an associate of Sir Francis’s named John Aubrey. He wrote:
“As he (Sir Francis Bacon) was taking the air in a coach with Dr Witherborne (a physician) towards Highgate, snow lay on the ground, and it came into my lord’s thoughts, why flesh might not be preserved in snow, as in salt. They were resolved they would try the experiment at once. They alighted out of the coach, and went into a poor woman’s house at the bottom of Highgate Hill, and bought a hen, and made the woman gut it, and then stuffed the body with snow, and my lord did help to do it himself. The snow so chilled him, that he immediately fell so extremely ill, that he could not return to his lodgings, but went to the Earl of Arundel’s house at Highgate, where they put him into a good bed warmed with a pan, but it was a damp bed that had not been laid in about a year before, which gave him such a cold that in two or three days, as I remember Mr Hobbes told me, he died of suffocation.”
Whether this account is accurate is open to debate. However, since that fateful night, there have been many reported sightings of a phantom chicken in the area.
Sightings
The spectral apparition of the chicken was reportedly seen one night in 1943 by Airman Terence Long,, as he was walking across the square. He said he heard the sound of hooves and turning wheels, followed by a screeching noise. Expecting to see a horse-drawn carriage, he turned - only to be shocked by the sight of a half-plucked chicken flapping its wings and spinning in a circle before vanishing.
There were further sightings by air raid wardens, who claimed to witness the fowl spectre vanish into a wall.
In 1969, a large white, half-plucked bird was seen by a motorist stranded in Pond Square. Concerned that the creature might be injured, he approached it - only for it to disappear.
In the 1970s, a young couple who were canoodling in the haunted street claimed that a headless, frozen chicken landed beside them, ran in two circles, and vanished.
I hope these tales of avian horror have not put you off your dinner, my friend.
My new book Threads of Shadow is due for release on 1st July 2025. However, Amazon have decided to make it available early on Kindle - so if you fancy early access to a ghoulish treat, click the link below and start reading today.
Until next week - stay spooky.
Ghostly Irish Tales – The Phantom Jester
The Spooky Jester walks…
To the north of Dublin in Ireland can be found the village of Malahide, located on the south side of the Broadmeadow Estuary. A place known for its restaurants and pubs, it is also the site of a wonderful coastal walk. But perhaps one of Malahide’s most popular attractions is its grand, imposing castle.
Malahide Castle is set within a 260-acre parkland estate, with the oldest part dating back to the 12th century. The estate was originally granted to Richard Talbot, a knight who accompanied Henry II to Ireland in the year 1174. With such a long history, it is no surprise that the place has a reputation as one of Ireland’s most haunted castles, with a list of at least five spectral inhabitants.
Puck the Jester
Puck was a dwarf and court jester in the service of the Talbot family. He also worked as a watchman and made his home in one of the towers. His is a tragic tale. During the reign of Henry VIII, Lady Eleanora Fitzgerald was confined in Malahide Castle due to her rebellious tendencies. It was during this confinement that the little jester fell hopelessly in love with the beautiful noblewoman, and either hanged himself in misery after being rejected by her, or was stabbed to death one snowy December night just outside the castle walls - murdered by agents of the Talbot family who were horrified to learn of his infatuation.
Puck is one of the castle’s more beloved phantoms. He is mischievous and is known to enjoy photobombing selfies (sadly, I was unable to find any examples of these photos, but allegedly, they do exist).
The last confirmed sighting of this diminutive spectre was in 1976, when a staff member reported seeing him climbing some stairs, dressed in his jester’s outfit.
Miles Corbett
Miles Corbett ruled from Malahide Castle during the Cromwellian era. A much-hated and cruel man, he was one of the regicides - those responsible for the execution of King Charles I. Eventually, when the monarchy was restored following Cromwell’s death, he was captured and executed for his crimes, being hung, drawn, and quartered.
His ghost is usually sighted in the great hall, where he appears as a spectral knight in full armour that gradually falls to pieces before the terrified witness.
Lady Maud Plunkett
Lady Maud Plunkett was a beautiful and strong-willed woman, believed to have been the wife of Richard Talbot, the 1st Baron of Malahide. She was married three times - each marriage fraught with turmoil or tragedy. Her spirit is said to haunt the castle’s corridors, where witnesses claim to have seen her chasing her first husband, the unfortunate Chief Justice, whom she is said to have bullied terribly in life.
The Ghostly Prisoner
Deep within the older part of the castle, there was once a dungeon used in troubled times to hold political prisoners suspected of treason. Rumours speak of torture, execution, or folk simply abandoned and left to starve to death. One such prisoner was a Catholic sympathiser during a Protestant regime. Castle visitors believe they have heard his moaning or weeping; others say they hear him cry for mercy in the dead of night.
Lord Galtrim
The final phantom in this list is that of Sir Walter Hussey, Lord Galtrim. His tale is a sad one. He died violently in 1429 on the very day he was due to wed his beautiful young bride. He was ambushed and killed by a spear thrust to the side. His ghost is seen in the castle chapel, clutching miserably at his wound.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. I hope it was not too scary and that you are able to sleep well tonight. If you do enjoy terrifying tales, my new book Threads of Shadow is currently available to read in advance on Kindle (link below). The hardback and paperback versions of the book are set for release in early July 2025. Please consider supporting me by purchasing a copy and leaving a review.
Until next time—stay spooky.
Book Update - ‘Threads of Shadow’ Early Release.
Threads of Shadow
Hello, my friends. Just a short update on the release of my next book in the Wendlelow Mysteries, entitled Threads of Shadow. I had planned to release the book in early July (around the 1st), with the Kindle version being made available for pre-order today.
However…
Amazon have made the Kindle edition available for purchase today. I’m not entirely sure how this happened - perhaps I did something wrong - or it may also be a mistake on Amazon’s part. But, it’s not a problem; it just means Kindle readers will have access to the book a few weeks early.
The softback and hardback editions will be available to purchase on 1st July, for anyone who would like to own a physical copy of the book.
A big request to anyone who purchases a copy of any of my books: please consider leaving a review on Amazon and/or Goodreads. It really helps us authors a lot.
I hope you have as much joy reading Threads as I did writing it. I enclose a link to the book on Amazon.
Stay spooky, friends..
Highland Folklore - The Monstorous Fachan
He is hopping mad…
The Highlands lie in the north of Scotland – a vast, sparsely populated area dominated by mountainous regions and large tracts of moorland. It is a stunning but harsh landscape, inhabited by hardy men and women.
In the Highland regions, Scots banded together in kinship groups called clans, from the Scottish Gaelic clann, literally meaning 'children', but more broadly 'kindred'. You did not need to have direct family connections to the clan chief in order to adopt his name. Many clansmen took the clan surname as a show of solidarity, or to obtain a degree of protection and resources.
It is easy to imagine these family groups gathered together after a hard day's work, drawn close to their peat fire, sharing stories – tales of love, tales of adventure, tales of terror.
High in the peaks surrounding Rannoch Moor lies the source of the River Etive. It carves a sinuous path through the landscape, eventually emptying into the sea loch, Loch Etive. On its journey to the ocean, it passes through Glen Etive—a wild region, home to the Dwarf of Glen Etive also known as The Fachan.
The Fachan, is described as either a dwarf or sometimes as a giant, a ferocious being, possessing a single eye in the middle of its face, a single hand protruding from its chest in place of arms, and a single leg emerging from its central axis. It has a solitary tuft of hair on the top of its head. It was believed to hop about with great agility. Given the strong historical ties between Scotland and Ireland, it is possible that the name Fachan derives from the Irish word for giant, fathach.
The Fachan was a terrifying presence. It was said to be a solitary creature, hostile to any who wandered into his glen. In battle, he would carry a large club, which he wielded with great effect against intruders. Any disappearances in Glen Etive or the surrounding area would be blamed on this vile monster.
Some believe the Fachan to be an imperfect folk memory of a druid in the corriugneacht (crane position), in which the ancient priest would stand on one leg, with one eye closed and one hand extended before him. Other theories suggest his origins lie in tales of the Scottish wild man.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. If you enjoy stories of ghosts, monsters, and the uncanny, please consider supporting me by purchasing a copy of my book Fireside Horror—a novel told in short stories. It is currently available from Audible, narrated by the wonderfully talented Aubrey Parsons, who does a marvellous job of bringing the stories and characters to life. Visit my shop for more information.
Until next time, stay spooky.
Book Update - Hurrahhh
Lilly celebrates her freedom.
Hurrah – splendid news! The advanced copies of my new book Threads of Shadow are winging their way to readers as we speak, and the release date is officially set: 1st July 2025.
Meanwhile, now that book two is out of my hands, my long-suffering dog Lily is finally off footstool duty and back where she belongs – curled up on my lap, thoroughly content. Time at last for a well-earned breather and a few days of glorious loafing!
And there's more good news – the Kindle edition of Threads of Shadow will be available to pre-order from 5th June 2025.
In the meantime, you can enjoy my first book Fireside Horror, available on Audible, and in paperback, hardback, and Kindle. Links can be found in the shop tab on my website.
Stay spooky, friends.
Ghostly Folklore - The Herlathingi. Army of the Dead.
The army of the dead rides forth…
The Welsh Marches are an area in the United Kingdom between England and Wales, particularly the counties of Shropshire and Herefordshire. In medieval Europe, the term Marches or Mark was used to describe any borderland. It could be a dangerous place to live, as raids and skirmishes were not uncommon.
In England, the King appointed Marcher Lords to guard the borders between the two countries. These men were given a greater degree of independence and had very specific rights, allowing them to better handle the dangers they faced.
The following tale ends in this oft-troubled region. It is a tale of a strange goblin lord, and an army of the dead.
King Herla was a mythical ruler of Britain. One day, he met a red-bearded dwarf with hooves for feet, mounted on a goat. The little fellow told King Herla that he too is a king, and the two make a pact: the dwarf will attend King Herla’s wedding, if he in turn will then visit the kingdom of the dwarf and be present for his.
The dwarf king is true to his word and attends Herla’s marriage, bringing with him a great host and many fine gifts.
One year later, the dwarf king dispatches a messenger requesting that King Herla be present for his nuptials. So, gathering his entourage about him, the King rides forth. He comes to a cave and, upon entering, finds himself in an underground realm illuminated with strange lamps.
The fairy wedding lasts for three whole days, and when finally King Herla prepares to ride forth, his diminutive host approaches him and offers him a gift: a small hound, which sits on King Herla’s lap.
Twelfth-century Latin author Walter Map delivers the remainder of this tragic tale in the book De Nugis Curialium:
When Herla and his band return to the human realm, they encounter an elderly shepherd, whom Herla asks for news of his queen. The old man, astonished, replies, “I can barely understand your speech, for I am a Saxon and you are a Briton.” The elderly shepherd describes a legend of a very ancient queen of the Britons bearing that name mentioned - she was the wife of King Herla who was said to have disappeared with a dwarf king into that very cliff and was never seen again. The shepherd also adds that the Saxons had been in possession of the kingdom for the last two hundred years and had driven out the native Britons.
Herla, who thought he had been away for just three days, is so amazed he can barely stay in the saddle. Some of his men jump down from their horses, only to crumble quickly into dust. Herla warned his remaining companions not to dismount, so they ride on, eventually becoming a ghostly host called The Herlathingi, doomed to ride for all eternity. It is believed by some that this spectral war band eventually rode into the River Wye in Hereford during the reign of King Henry II, never to be seen again.
You are forced to imagine the horror that must have gripped the minds of the poor local medieval peasantry at the idea that a sombre host of undead warriors might make its silent way past them, as they wandered England’s byways on some nocturnal errand.
The Herlathingi have also been linked with The Wild Hunt, which is usually associated with the god Woden in his guise as leader of the Germanic Wild Hunt. The name Herlathingi is thought to be related to the French Harlequin (a variant form of Harlequin, Hellequin), the leader of the Wild Hunt in Old French tradition.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. I hope you are keeping well.
Until next time, stay spooky.
Book Update – Nearly Done
Wait is that the beating of wings I hear on the night breeze…..
After many hours of writing, reading, editing, then re-reading and editing , then re-reading and editing again and then once more for good luck, I have finally completed Threads of Shadow. A huge thanks must go out to Carson Buckingham, who worked tirelessly editing the book and suggesting changes to make the overall story clearer. Carson is an American journalist and author, and a real godsend.
So what next?
Even after all that editing, reading, and eyestrain, there is still one last thing that needs doing: I must send out copies of my book to advance readers to look for any final typo goblins lurking within the sinister depths of the text, and to make sure that the story is clear and understandable to fresh eyes.
So, the advance readers’ copies have been requested. They usually take a week or two to arrive. Then they will be dispatched to my willing victims… sorry, volunteers, to read. Once this is done, the book should be ready for release.
I await the arrival of the review copies, as they wing their sinister way to me.
Stay Spooky my friends.
Devon Folklore - Wistman’s Wood.
The Wisht Hounds…
In the southern English county of Devon lies the mysterious Wistman’s Wood. It is a rare example of a stunted oak forest. With their twisted, moss-covered branches, the trees look like something out of a grim fairy tale. It is thought to date back to the prehistoric era.
Wistman’s Wood lies deep within Dartmoor, a place simply teeming with strange and fearful tales. It is believed that once the woodland spread all over Dartmoor, making it a substantial forest. But the years have seen it greatly reduced in size, and now it covers just over 8 acres of land.
There are a few possible origins for the name Wistman’s Wood. Because of its supposed links to the ancient Druids, its name could come from the Saxon word Witan, which means “wise man” – so it would be “Wise Man’s Wood”. Alternatively, it may derive from the dialect word wisht, meaning eerie/uncanny or pixie-led/haunted.
The Wisht Hounds
Though a lovely place to visit during the hours of daylight, much of the wood’s charm vanishes with the coming of darkness, for it is said that the trees conceal the kennels of the diabolic Wisht Hounds – the very spectral hounds that can be heard running with the Wild Hunt over the lonely moors. Exactly who leads this hunt cannot be agreed upon: some say it is the Devil himself, chasing down lost souls, while others claim it is a spirit of the land called ‘Old Crockern’, who lives nearby on Crockern Tor. Even today, nocturnal travellers report the sounds of baying hounds running through the mist.
Druids
As previously mentioned, Wistman’s Wood has long been associated with the ancient Druids – a class of prehistoric priests who held much sway in ancient Britain. It is thought that they once held their rituals beneath the wood’s moss-covered trees. In a central grove is a large boulder called the Buller Stone (named after 19th-century botanist Wentworth Buller). It is also known as the Druid’s Stone, and folk claim it is where the old-time priests held their most important rituals. Indeed, ghostly figures seen walking amongst the trees are thought to be the restless spirits of Druids – or their sacrificial victims.
Ghosts
Near to the northern side of the wood is the ancient Lych Way, or ‘Way of the Dead’ – a track that was used to carry corpses for burial at Lydford. There have been reports of a ghostly procession of monastic-looking men, dressed in habits, slowly walking past the trees in sombre silence. There is also said to be the ghost of a little dog called ‘Jumbo’ that died when it was bitten by a nesting adder. He has been seen and heard scurrying about the in valley.
Normally, I would encourage people to visit such a beautiful area, but sadly an increase in tourists has seen much damage done to the woodland. It is now advised that people admire the trees from afar and not risk venturing beneath their venerable boughs.
If you have not already done so, now is a great time for a scary treat - so pick up a copy of my book Fireside Horror to immerse yourself in the first part of The Wendlelow Mysteries. It is available on Audible and Amazon - click on the Shop in the menu above for more information.
Stay Spooky my friend.
Book Update –Unpicking the Shadowy Knot.
Its alive……….
As my new book - Threads of Shadow - approaches its release date I continue with what has been the fairly large task of editing the all-important final story. This is the one that will bring all the other tales together and change the book from a collection of short stories into something more akin to a novel. It’s certainly been a hard slog.
As with my first book, Fireside Horror, that last chapter is the tricky one – making sure all the plot threads come together in a logical, understandable way is not as easy s it sounds.
However, today, I finally unpicked the final knot. Now I just have to review the manuscript for errors (again), and then prepare it for publishing. when that is done I can dispatch the ARCs (Advanced Reader Copies) to a few willing victims to get their feedback and make sure everything is clear. Then I can release the blummin’ thing and start all over again with the third and final book.
If you have not already done so, now is a great time for a scary treat - so pick up a copy of my book Fireside Horror to immerse yourself in the first part of The Wendlelow Mysteries. It is available on Audible and Amazon - click on the Shop in the menu above for more information.
Thanks for taking the time to read this blog. Stay spooky, my friends.
Welsh Folklore - Corpse Candles.
The Corpse Candle…
Corpse roads, also known as Lych Ways and bier roads – along with many other regional names – can be found throughout Great Britain. They provided a route to transport the dead from remote villages to places of burial. They could be very long tracks, often winding their way through remote areas and over difficult terrain.
Long corpse roads would frequently have coffin-rests on them. These were stones on which coffins could be placed while the bearers took a much-needed break. Because the coffin did not touch the ground, it is believed that the spirit could not escape from it and infect the land.
The entrances to British churchyards frequently had lychgates – a lych is the old Saxon word for corpse, so it literally means corpse gate. They consisted of a four-pillared, roofed, porch-like structure over a gate. Inside these small constructions, there were often benches on which you could put a coffin, enabling them to function like the stone coffin-rests.
There are many stories of the Canwyll Corff (pron. can-noo-will cor-f), or corpse candles, in Welsh tradition – today ghost hunters would probably call them orbs – and they are directly connected to Lych Ways. Witnesses describe them as small balls of yellow or blue light that follow the trail of these old roads, passing across moors, through forests, and over streams, vanishing when they arrive at their destination.
They were seen as omens of death, so to witness one was considered very unfortunate, as it meant that a friend or member of the family would soon pass away. In the shadowed corners of chapels, parishioners would whisper, “Where the corpse candle passeth, soon shall a coffin follow.”
Even Shakespeare refers to these odd entities. In A Midsummer Night's Dream, Puck says:
Now it is the time of night,
That the graves all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the church-way paths to glide.
Accounts
There is the tale of a farmer who lived near Llanrwst and was witness to a dim light moving across his field. Intrigued, he followed it until it vanished before the local churchyard. Three nights later, his wife passed in her sleep, and the funeral bore her coffin along the very path the candle had traced.
Writer James Motley encountered this phenomenon in 1848. He wrote that they:
“seem to be of electrical origin, when the ears of the traveller's horse, the extremity of his whip, his spurs or any other projecting points appear tipped with pencils of light… the toes of the rider's boots, and even the tufts of hair at the fetlocks of his horse, appeared to burn with a steady blue light, and on the hand being extended, every finger immediately became tipped with fire.”
James seems to have survived his encounter and does not report the loss of any friends or relatives immediately following the event.
Corpse candles were often a feature of phantom funerals – mysterious processions that followed the old corpse roads, foretelling a funeral was soon to take place in the village. Such processions were often accompanied by the noise of muffled sobbing and the shuffling of spectral feet.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend.
Until next time, stay spooky.
Book Update - Return of the Shadow
Look out behind you….
Great news, my friends. My editor, Carson Buckingham, returned Threads of Shadow to me last week. I’m currently hard at work slogging through the edits, but the end is in sight. A huge thank you to Carson for all her hard work and patience. Hopefully, everything should be ready to send to review readers in a couple of weeks, and I can have the book ready for its audio reading at the same time. Until then, it’s going to be a few late nights and early mornings for me whilst I get everything ready.
If you have not already done so, now is a great time for a scary treat - so pick up a copy of my book Fireside Horror to immerse yourself in the first part of The Wendlelow Mysteries. It is available on Audible and Amazon - click on the Shop in the menu above for more information.
More updates to follow.
Until then, stay spooky.
Irish Folklore - The Werewolves of Ossory.
And ‘Little Red Riding Hood’ thought she had it bad.
The medieval kingdom of Osraige, anglicised as Ossory, was located in the south-east of Ireland, in what is now part of County Kilkenny and western County Laois. It was controlled by the Osraige tribe, whose name means ‘people of the deer’. The kingdom declined during the Norman invasion in the 12th century.
Despite their name, the Osraige had more of a wolf-like reputation. Their warriors were tough, brave men who were known to go wolfing (raiding) in neighbouring lands. The stories tell of the raiders adopting lupine hairstyles and wearing wolfskin clothes during such excursions, further adding to their victims’ terror, and perhaps creating the bedrock for a famous Irish myth: the Werewolves of Ossory.
Though now extinct, wolves were once a real threat in Ireland. There is even a story of a wolf pack attacking the town of Coleraine in the 17th century. The Irish bred wolfhounds - huge dogs that could reach a man’s shoulder - in order to hunt these beasts, and there are even stories of some Irish warriors taking wolves to war with them. In short, the wolf had a reputation for violence and savagery.
The medieval Irish work Cóir Anmann (Fitness of Names) gave details of a terrifying warrior-werewolf called Laignech Fáelad. He was said to be the ancestor of a tribe of werewolves who were descended from the kings of Ossory. The text says:
He was a man that used to go wolfing, i.e. into wolf-shapes, i.e. into shapes of wolves he used to go, and his offspring used to go after him and they used to kill the herds after the fashion of wolves, so that it is for that that he used to be called Laignech Fáelad, for he was the first of them who went into a wolf-shape.
The Book of Ballymote, written in the 14th century, speaks of this tradition, claiming that "the descendants of the wolf" in Ossory had the power to change themselves and go forth to devour people. It is possible to imagine the fear of those who lived in the realms bordering Ossory, huddled round their fire in their small homes. They might hear a howl on the night wind - was it wolves? Would your wooden door be able to hold them back? Or just perhaps, was it something even worse - something more diabolic and warlike?
Finally, one famous tale is told by Gerald of Wales. In it, a young priest is wandering in southern Ireland when he encounters a dying wolf - who is actually an old woman. She claims that she and her husband came from the kingdom of Ossory, and had been cursed to spend seven years in the form of wolves. Feeling pity for the woman, and at the requested of her distraught husband, he agrees to offer her the last rights.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. If you enjoy stories of ghosts, monsters, and the uncanny, please consider supporting me by purchasing a copy of my book Fireside Horror - a novel told in short stories, each one certain to send a shiver down your spine. Available on Amazon and Audible. Link below.
Until next time, stay spooky.
Ghostly Folklore – The Ghostly Piper of Duntrune Castle.
The Piper plays his sad Dirge.
There can be few more stirring images than that of the lonely phantom piper, his haunting tunes drifting over a foggy Scottish loch on a cold winter’s evening.
Duntrune Castle is located in the West of Scotland. Originally built in the 13th century by the MacDougall clan, it was eventually taken by Clan Campbell and remained their seat until the 18th century. Sitting on the northern banks of Loch Crinan, it is a romantic site – the perfect setting for a ghostly tale.
There are a couple of variations regarding the origins its ghost, but the one told to me runs thus:
In 1644, Duntrune was captured by Clan Campbell while the leader of the MacDonald clan, Alasdair MacColla, was away with the majority of his warband. Alasdair was a shrewd man and had dispatched his piper to the castle to act as a spy. Unfortunately, he was discovered. Now, bagpipers were privileged members of a clan, being educated and widely travelled. As such, they were protected from harm during times of war. Thus, MacColla’s piper was not killed, but instead imprisoned.
When MacColla returned to Duntrune, he sailed up the loch, determined to reclaim his home from his bitter enemy. The piper, realising his master was outnumbered, played a tune called Piobaireachd-dhomh-naomhadh, or in English, The Piper’s Warning to His Master. Upon hearing the haunting notes drifting over the loch’s dark waters, Alasdair MacColla sadly turned his ship away.
Angered by the piper’s actions, the Campbells enacted a cruel punishment: they cut off the brave man’s hands so he would never play the bagpipes again. Unable to stop the flow of blood, the piper soon died.
Over the years, many people have claimed to encounter unusual phenomena within Duntrune’s ancient walls – strange shadows passing through empty hallways, objects moving without cause. But still, there were unbelievers – people who thought the tale nothing more than a colourful myth.
Then, in 1888, repairs were made to the castle, and incredibly, workers unearthed a skull beneath the first floor. Digging further, they found the skeletal remains of a man. With great care, they removed the skull, torso, legs, feet, and arms – and made a remarkable discovery: there were no hands. The piper’s remains were given a Christian burial in an unmarked grave in Kilmartin churchyard, where they remain to this day.
And so, you might stand on the banks of Loch Crinan as night casts its veil over the land and look out over its waters towards Duntrune. There, standing upon one of the parapets, you may see a lonely figure facing the sea, playing on his bagpipes. And if you listen very carefully, you may just hear the notes of Piobaireachd-dhomh-naomhadh carried on the breeze.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friends. I’ve attached a YouTube link to a video of the talented Faye Henderson playing The Piper’s Warning to His Master. So grab a whisky, settle down, and enjoy. Until next time – stay spooky.
Folklore - The Yorkshire Revenant.
A Revenant stalks the land…
A revenant is a very particular kind of undead and can be imagined as a kind of medieval zombie. They are usually associated with remote, out-of-the-way villages, where they would terrorise the local population. The name revenant comes from the Old French word revenant, meaning “returning.”
A revenant would often possess a set of characteristic features, which included corporeal (physical) bodies - very often bloated or rotting. They were harbingers of plague; like modern zombies, revenants were thought to spread disease. They were believed to have been sinners during their lives or to possess unshriven souls. In most cases, it was thought that the only way to lay these fiends to rest was to exhume the body and either burn or behead it.
William of Newburgh was a 12th-century historian and chronicler, and one of our best sources for medieval revenant stories. He came from Bridlington in Yorkshire, in England’s northeast.
William told the story of a “man of evil conduct” who fled York to avoid justice. He later married, but being a distrustful fellow, he concealed himself in the rafters of his home, hoping to catch his wife in the act of infidelity. However, he accidentally fell from his perch and died of his injuries a few days later. William goes on to say:
A Christian burial, indeed, he received, though unworthy of it; but it did not much benefit him: for issuing, by the handiwork of Satan, from his grave at night-time, and pursued by a pack of dogs with horrible barkings, he wandered through the courts and around the houses while all men made fast their doors, and did not dare to go abroad on any errand whatever from the beginning of the night until the sunrise, for fear of meeting and being beaten black and blue by this vagrant monster.
It seems this ghastly being was held responsible for the deaths of some local people, and so a group of stout hearted young men:
Snatching up a spade of but indifferent sharpness of edge, and hastening to the cemetery, began to dig; and whilst they were thinking that they would have to dig to a greater depth, they suddenly, before much of the earth had been removed, laid bare the corpse, swollen to an enormous corpulence, with its countenance beyond measure turgid and suffused with blood; while the napkin in which it had been wrapped appeared nearly torn to pieces. The young men, however, spurred on by wrath, feared not, and inflicted a wound upon the senseless carcass, out of which incontinently flowed such a stream of blood, that it might have been taken for a leech filled with the blood of many persons. Then, dragging it beyond the village, they speedily constructed a funeral pile; and upon one of them saying that the pestilential body would not burn unless its heart were torn out, the other laid open its side by repeated blows of the blunted spade, and, thrusting in his hand, dragged out the accursed heart. This being torn piecemeal, and the body now consigned to the flames...
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. If you enjoy stories of ghosts, monsters, and the uncanny, please consider supporting me by purchasing a copy of my book Fireside Horror - a novel told in short stories, each one certain to send a shiver down your spine. Available on Amazon and Audible. Link below.
Until next time, stay spooky