Halloween Folklore – The Terrifying Black Tailless Sow
The Tailless black sow - a very effect way to enforce curfew rules…
In Wales, the first day of winter is called Calan Gaeaf — the 1st of November. It is a grey day, marking the beginning of a long, cold struggle through the frozen season, with the dim light of spring but a distant dream.
Nos Calan Gaeaf is the name the Welsh give to the 31st of October - Halloween. Along with all the usual connections to witches, devils, and boggarts, it was considered a Ysbrydnos (spirit night). Traditionally, people would avoid stiles, churchyards, and crossroads on this night, as it was thought that all manner of ghosts would gather in these lonely places.
Nos Calan Gaeaf was also a time when rural communities came together. The night would be filled with feasts, apple bobbing, and large village bonfires. It was a harvest festival, and one popular game in rural communities was called Caseg Fedi – The Harvest Mare. The last bit of corn was not harvested but tied up in the middle of the field. This was the Caseg Fedi, and the menfolk would take turns to throw their sickles at it; the one to cut it down was the winner. Great sport was made with it, throwing it into neighbours’ fields or trying to sneak it into people’s homes.
But there was a black legend associated with this the most shadowed night of the year - that of Hwch Ddu Gwta, the Black Tailless Sow.
She is described as a huge, terrifying black pig - tailless and with glowing red eyes. Sometimes she was accompanied by Y Ladi Wen heb ddim pen, the White Headless Lady. They haunted the lanes and fields about Welsh villages, and children were warned not to stray too far from home and to be back indoors well before dusk, for should they encounter the Black Pig, it would chase them down and attempt to gobble them up.
There was a fearful chant associated with this demonic porker; it went like this:
“Adref, adref, am y cyntaf,
Hwch ddu gwta a gipio’r ola’.”
“Home, home, at once,
The tailless black sow shall snatch the last one.”
As the village bonfire died down, there was a tradition in some parts of Wales that children would gather around it, chanting this dreadful verse. Then a villager, wearing a pigskin, would take on the role of the Black Sow, leaping through the fire’s dying flames to chase the children home.
So, should you ever find yourself wandering the Welsh countryside on the 31st of October, and hear a distant snuffling and grunting carried on the autumn wind – turn about and hurry home. It might just be a regular Pig… but it might be something far more sinister and threatening.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this little piece of Halloween folklore set you trembling with a pleasurable fear. If you enjoy what I do, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow — link below.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Until next week — stay spooky.
Halloween Folklore – The Devil’s Cradle
Auld Nick about his business…
Welcome back, friends. As promised, today I bring you another piece of strange Halloween folklore - this time featuring that international mischief-maker, Auld Nick (the Devil).
The village of Dollar can be found in the county of Clackmannanshire, in central Scotland, about twelve miles east of the city of Stirling. Despite its name, Dollar has no connection with the currency. It is thought the name may originate from Scots Gaelic, meaning “dark” or “gloomy”, or possibly have Pictish roots and mean “a water meadow”.
Not far from this little village lies Burngrens Glen, a wooded area with a stream that bubbles pleasantly beneath its shady boughs. Within this lonely glen can be found a stone shaped like a cradle - it is a place with a grim reputation, and rightly so, for it is believed to be where witches and warlocks gather to perform sinister rituals on dark nights. But the glen is also believed to have a worse visitor than even these dark-hearted magicians, for every Halloween it is said to be visited by the Devil himself.
People are advised to stay away from the area on the night of 31st of October. For it is then that the stone cradle is said to swing back and forth in mid-air with nothing holding it up. Seated snugly within it is “Old Sandy” - a local nickname for the Devil - enjoying being rocked by his followers from the witch cult. They spend all night with “Old Sandy” until sunrise sends them on their way, not to be seen again until the next Halloween night.
It would be a foolish person indeed who ventured there on that particular night of the year - and yet, according to local legend, someone once did. Here is his story:
One Halloween night, a young man who had been drinking with his friends and boasted in front of them that he would visit the stone alone. Taking a bottle of whisky to give him some Dutch courage, he soon set out.
The stone was not far away, so he reached his destination quickly. After a good gulp of whisky, he sat down on the cradle-shaped stone, determined to dispute its rightful ownership should the Devil appear and claim it as his seat.
Every rustle of a leaf, as the wind whistled through the glen, seemed to the young man to herald the Devil’s approach, so he took a few more gulps of John Barleycorn. However, due to the amount he drank, he soon fell asleep upon the stone.
His friends, who had followed him, approached the sleeping man. Shouting and making loud noises, they grabbed him and carried him, half-awake, to the burn. They dipped him in repeatedly, and every time he was immersed in the water, they yelled loudly. The young man, in his drunken and sleepy state - thinking a whole legion of devils surrounded him - was frightened almost to death. He screamed for mercy so pitifully that his friends soon stopped their mischief.
No sooner had the young man got to his feet than he rushed off up the glen and ran home, resolving never to drink again or attempt to toy with the Devil. For a long time, he did not know it had been his friends who had tormented him.
I wonder if anyone today would be brave enough to venture down into the glen on that night of black repute — and if they did, what might they see?
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. As a token of my gratitude for your support, I have a few free scary stories for you to enjoy over this dark season - please visit the download section.
If you favour something more substantial, click the link below and pick up a copy of my latest book, Threads of Shadow. But fair warning - if you do, prepare to be horrified.
Until next week — stay spooky.
Sources
The Ochils: Placenames, History, Tradition – Angus Watson (1995)
Wikipedia
clackmannanshire.scot (accessed 10th December 2023)
Halloween Folklore – Stingy Jack & The Jack O’Lantern
Stingy Jack & his Jack O’Lantern...
The month of October is upon us; it is the season of mists and mellow fruitfulness. The cold wind nips the leaves on the trees, turning them scarlet, brown and orange, and Halloween bears down upon us like a spectral freight train. Sorry - getting a bit carried away - but I do love the autumn. The spooky festival is an old favourite of mine.
Anyway, I digress. As a nod to Halloween, throughout this dark month I’ll turn my blog towards some seasonal folklore. Let us begin with the legend of Stingy Jack.
There can be few things more closely linked to Halloween than the Jack O’Lantern. These carved pumpkins are to this celebration what decorated pine trees are to Christmas - except that they are scarier, and have a much darker origin story. To learn about it, we must travel back in time to the mist-shrouded hills and woods of Ireland.
Stingy Jack, also known as Jack the Smith, Drunk Jack, Jack-o'-lantern and Pumpkin Jack, is an old tale told beside winter fires in Irish cottages, or muttered about in warm taverns to scare locals on their journey home. It goes something like this:
Jack was a drunken blacksmith, and what we in business might call a bit of a wrong ’un. One day he uncharacteristically decided to help an old man, who turned out to be an angel. As a reward, the angel offered Jack three wishes.
This was a mistake.
Rather than use the wishes to better his lot - or better still to perform acts of charity, which would no doubt have been the angel’s chosen preference - Jack decided to use his wishes to punish anyone who sat in his chair, took wood from his tree, or tried to take his tools.
The angel, naturally disappointed, punished Jack by preventing him from entering Heaven.
Enter the Devil.
Jack was drunk and wandering through the countryside at night when he came upon a body on the cobblestone path. It had an eerie grimace on its face and turned out to be the Devil himself. Jack realised this was his end, so he made a final request: to have one last drink of ale before being dragged to Hell.
Satan took Jack to the local pub. Upon quenching his thirst, Jack asked the Devil to pay for the ale. Jack convinced him to turn himself into a silver coin to pay the bartender, and to change back once no one was looking. Satan did so - possibly impressed by Jack’s unyielding cunning.
Shrewdly, Jack slipped the now-transformed Devil (in coin form) into his pocket, which also contained a crucifix. The crucifix’s presence kept the Devil trapped, unable to escape. To win his freedom, Satan was forced to agree to Jack’s demand: in exchange for his release, he must spare Jack’s soul for ten years.
Ten years passed, and the Devil once more appeared. As Satan once more prepared to take him to Hell, Jack asked if he could have one last apple, as he was hungry. Satan - who clearly had not learnt his lesson the first time - climbed up the branches of a nearby apple tree. Quickly, Jack surrounded the tree with crucifixes. Frustrated at being entrapped yet again, the Devil demanded his release. This time, Jack demanded that Satan should never take his soul to Hell. Reluctantly, the Devil agreed and was set free.
When Jack finally died, he found that he was barred from both Heaven and Hell, and was forced to wander the earth as a spirit, with only a glowing ember in a carved turnip to light his way.
It has been suggested that this is the origin of the Jack O’Lantern, though scholars have also proposed that such carvings could be connected to ancient Celtic head cults.
Much like Jack, the people of Ireland created their Jack O’Lanterns from turnips and other root vegetables. I made one from a turnip when I was a boy and it was bluming hard work to carve the thing!
Fortunately, America had the answer: pumpkins - much easier to hollow out and carve, whilst also providing a pleasing orange glow.
A Jack O’Lantern is also another name for a will-o’-the-wisp, those mischievous spirits seen around bogs and marshy lands. It’s easy to imagine a lonely traveller on a dark Halloween road seeing such a light dancing about, imagining it to be Jack and his turnip lantern roaming the countryside.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog, my friend. I want to give a huge thank you to my wonderful wife, who takes the time to read and edit my posts - without her hard work, the whole thing would be total gobbledygook.
FINALLY – FREE BOOK ALERT
From now until 8th October, my new book Threads of Shadow will be available free on Kindle - so don’t delay, download your copy today. Then curl up by the fire and prepare for some pleasing chills. It’s the perfect Halloween read.
Links below.
Stay Spooky.
Sources
www.carnegiemnh.org
The Very First Halloween Jack-O’-Lantern, Bill Russo, 2017
Wikipedia
Black Shuck – The Grim English Devil Dog.
Black Shuck - Scratching to get in.
East Anglia is an area of south-east England which includes the counties of Norfolk, Suffolk and Cambridgeshire; some parts of Essex are also considered to belong to the region. Its name comes from the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of the East Angles, whose people originally came from northern Germany, from an area called Angeln — a peninsula on the coast of Jutland.
East Anglia is claimed to be home to a ghostly black dog that haunts the coastline and countryside of the region. Referred to by the local folk as Black Shuck, Old Shuck, or simply Shuck, he is described as a huge beast, often the size of a pony or even a fully grown horse. The name “Shuck” likely comes from the Old English scucca or sceocca, meaning “demon” or “devil”, though some have suggested it could also derive from shucky, meaning shaggy.
A printed account of the beast appears in 1850, when Reverend E. S. Taylor described him in the journal Notes and Queries:
“Shuck the Dog-fiend: this phantom I have heard many persons in East Norfolk, and even Cambridgeshire, describe as having seen as a black shaggy dog, with fiery eyes and of immense size, and who visits churchyards at midnight.”
Perhaps the best-known description, however, comes from Highways & Byways in East Anglia by W. A. Dutt (1901):
“He takes the form of a huge black dog, and prowls along dark lanes and lonesome field footpaths, where, although his howling makes the hearer’s blood run cold, his footfalls make no sound. You may know him at once, should you see him, by his fiery eye; he has but one, and that, like the Cyclops’, is in the middle of his head. But such an encounter might bring you the worst of luck: it is even said that to meet him is to be warned that your death will occur before the end of the year. So you will do well to shut your eyes if you hear him howling; shut them even if you are uncertain whether it is the dog-fiend or the voice of the wind you hear. Should you never set eyes on our Norfolk Snarleyow you may perhaps doubt his existence, and, like other learned folks, tell us that his story is nothing but the old Scandinavian myth of the black hound of Odin, brought to us by the Vikings who long ago settled down on the Norfolk coast.”
Witnesses who have encountered Old Shuck often describe an aura of dread. He is said to appear silently, padding up behind travellers on dark lanes or waiting in the shadows at crossroads, his single eye blazing like an infernal lantern. As A. W. Dutt points out he is usually considered a death omen, and so the thought of meeting him filled the local people with fear. However, on rare occasions, he is described as escorting the witness - perhaps even protecting them from some unseen threat.
The most notable of his appearances was said to have occurred on 4th August 1577, recorded that same year by Abraham Fleming in A Straunge and Terrible Wunder.
Fleming describes how Black Shuck burst through the doors of Holy Trinity Church at Blythburgh. His arrival was marked by a clap of thunder; he ran up the nave past the terrified congregation, killing a man and a boy as he did so and causing the steeple to collapse. As the dog departed, he left scorch marks on the north door, which can still be seen at the church today. (See photos.)
On the same day, the beast is said to have appeared again - this time at St Mary’s Church in Bungay. Once more, he broke into the church during a religious service, running among the kneeling worshippers, biting heads and breaking necks before vanishing again.
Other accounts attribute these events to the Devil himself, and the scorch marks on the door are still referred to by local people as the Devil’s fingerprints, commemorated in the following verse:
All down the church in midst of fire,
The hellish monster flew,
And passing onward to the quire,
He many people slew.
Black dogs are common in English folklore; nearly every county has its own dark hound said to stalk the land, and very few of them are friendly. Indeed, it would seem that evening rambles down lonely country lanes are a rather hazardous occupation in this country. Perhaps in the future I will blog about a few more of these beasts — let me know if you would like me to.
FREE KINDLE BOOK – UNTIL 8th OCTOBER
THREADS OF SHADOW
Greetings, friends of the uncanny. my new book Threads of Shadow is free to claim on Kindle, but only until 8th October. Do not linger too long; the offer fades with the turning of the moon. It’s the perfect companion for these darkening nights and the chill approach of Halloween.
link Amazon - UK - www.amazon.co.uk/Threads-Shadow-Wendlelow-Mysteries-Sheldon-ebook/dp/B0FBL8MB21
link Amazon US - www.amazon.com/Threads-Shadow-Wendlelow-Mysteries-Sheldon-ebook/dp/B0FBL8MB21
Until next week, stay spooky.
Sources
Highways & Byways in East Anglia by W. A. Dutt (1901)
A Straunge and Terrible Wunder by Abraham Fleming (1577)
Notes and Queries: by Reverend E. S. Taylor (1850)
Wikipedia
Irish Ghost Lore – Corney the Dublin Poltergeist
Corney the Poltergeist…
Before I begin today’s spooky blog, I want to say a big thank you to all the people who take the time to come here to read my witterings on the strange and unnatural.
As Hallowe’en is slowly emerging from the mists and lurching uncontrollably towards us, I thought it might be nice to provide a special spooky gift: a free copy of my story The Postman’s Tale. I have made it available in EPUB and PDF, so everyone should be able to enjoy it. I recommend reading it in the evening, preferably when wild winds are rattling the windowpanes and making ghostly groans through the trees, whilst you are curled up by the fire with a warm drink. Links to the story will appear at the end of the blog.
Now, on with this week’s tale.
Dublin’s fair city is the capital of Ireland and the largest in the country. It is situated south of the Dublin Mountains, which form part of the Wicklow range. The Irish name for Dublin is Baile Átha Cliath. The settlement was established by the Gaels in the 7th century.
Many years ago, there was a mansion in the city, described as a pretty one, and it was bought by a family with much wealth, who lived there with their servants. Though its precise location seems to have been lost to time, it was believed to have been close to a place called St Stephen’s Green.
Now, this mansion housed more than just the family and its retainers. It was also home to something else – something darker and more terrifying – an entity, a poltergeist who went by the name of Corney.
For a short while the family lived in the house undisturbed, until one day the father of the household injured himself and was forced to get about with the aid of a stick. Whenever he moved about the house he made a thumping noise upon the floorboards.
That very night the stick disappeared.
And everything changed.
The family and servants searched all about the property, looking for the missing item. The feel of the house became more oppressive, and eventually they gave up and returned to bed. The next morning, as they prepared for breakfast, a strange voice was heard calling up from the cellar. The witnesses described it as sounding as if it were speaking through an empty barrel.
The voice introduced itself as Corney, though oddly it denied that this was really its name. All members of the household heard the booming voice.
“A fine morning to you!” it said. “Close the door above, for it is cold where I am.”
A brave servant was sent into the cellar to see who was hiding there, when he returned he was quite shaken, and reported not a living soul in that darkened space.
The thing in the basement became quite active. It moved items about the house, cheekily pinched servants as they worked. It loved imitating the sound of the master’s walking stick thumping against the floor.
The voice often spoke, always from the grim darkness of the cellar. As the days went by it became more of a nuisance, hiding cutlery and hanging vegetables from the store about the house like Christmas decorations. Corney laid claim to one particular cupboard in the kitchen. Nothing was allowed in there – any item placed inside was promptly tossed out.
He would regularly interrupt conversations that occurred in the kitchen. One man was left un-harrassed by this spectral nuisance, and that was the uncle of the family. Unlike everybody else he had no fear of the entity, openly mocking it and calling it “Four Eyes”, one time going as far as to bang on the cellar door with a poker and demand Corney speak to him, but he was only greeted with silence.
The next morning the poker was found broken in two.
He also was silent in the company of priests, claiming he would never speak whilst “those good men were in the house.” When a courageous individual asked for details about the ghost Corney reply, “I was a bad man, and I died the death.” He even named the room in the house in which he had passed.
When asked where he was now he said, “The Great God would not permit me to tell you.”
This troublesome tomb-dodger seemed to have a dislike of being locked up, for he would, with great regularity, destroy any number of locks and keys within the mansion.
As time went on, Corney grew bolder, and the lady of the house found it harder to retain servants. They slept in the kitchen and complained of being terrorised at night by the wicked poltergeist. She tried moving them into the attic, but Corney simply followed them there, announcing: “Haha, here I am! I’m not limited to just one place in the house.”
Only one person ever claimed to have seen him – a young boy of about seven years old, who ran into his parents’ bedroom at night terrified. He described seeing a naked old man “with a curl on his forehead, and skin like a clothes-horse!” (meaning very thin and pale).
One Hallowe’en things took a darker turn when Corney announced that he would be having guests that evening. As that night wore on, many different voices were heard about the house, and come the next morning the water in the house was as black as ink, and the bread and butter in the pantry were streaked with sooty finger marks.
Eventually the family were forced to sell the mansion at a greatly reduced price. It was supposed the house was bought by a widow, though whether she was disturbed in any way by Corney is not known.
It has been suggested that Corney may have been the spectre of an old servant called Cornelius, who died in the property with unfinished business. But the full truth of his origins will – I suppose – never be known.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog. I do hope it gave you a pleasing shudder. Below is the link to my free story. If you enjoy it please consider supporting me by buying a copy of one of my books from the shop.
Until next week, stay spooky.
Sources
True Irish Ghost Stories – St John D. Seymour (1914)
Wikipedia
yourirish.com
Ghostlore – Greyfriars Bobby and the Horror of the Kirkyard
Bobby. A waggy tail, a wet nose and a devoted heart… From beyond the grave…
In the heart of Scotland’s capital city lies a place of grim reputation: Greyfriars Kirkyard, sometimes called Greyfriars Cemetery. It is a site steeped in history, brimming with tales of terror - yet also home to a story of spectral devotion.
Greyfriars is a kirk, or church, located at the southern edge of Edinburgh’s Old Town. Burials have taken place there since the 16th century, with many notable figures finding their final resting place within its grounds. The name Greyfriars comes from the Franciscan friary that once stood at the location until its dissolution in 1562. The friars were known for their grey habits, which gave rise to the title.
The story of Greyfriars Bobby is one of the city’s most famous. Bobby was a Skye Terrier who belonged to a night watchman named John Gray. He was often seen loyally walking at the man’s side as he patrolled Edinburgh’s dark streets of an evening. Sadly, John died in 1858 and was buried in Greyfriars Kirkyard.
Yet this was not the end of Bobby’s tale. The little dog, devastated by the loss of his master, remained faithfully by his grave, braving Scotland’s winds, rains, and winters for 14 years. He survived thanks to the kindness of townsfolk who fed him. Bobby became a local celebrity, so beloved that even the Lord Provost of Edinburgh paid for his dog licence when the law demanded he have one. When Bobby himself died in 1872, he was buried just inside Greyfriars, near the gates. His story is immortalised in books, films, and by the statue that still stands at the Kirkyard’s entrance.
Even today, witnesses claim to see this hirsute little spectre, roaming amongst the graves or sitting faithfully at his master’s resting place. Visitors and night-watchmen have reported the faint patter of paws on cobblestones or the soft bark of a terrier -though no living dog is in the area.
But Greyfriars is also home to darker phenomena.
George “Bluidy” Mackenzie was Lord Advocate, the principal legal advisor to the Scottish government. He was held responsible for the deaths of hundreds of Presbyterian Covenanters. After they were defeated at the Battle of Bothwell Bridge in 1679. Some of the men were imprisoned within Greyfriars Kirkyard itself - herded like cattle into an enclosure and left to suffer in appalling conditions.
When Mackenzie died, he was laid to rest in a grand baroque mausoleum. For centuries, his spirit lay quiet, but in the 1990s a tramp - or perhaps a group of schools boys playing truant - broke into his tomb. From that moment, reports of violent disturbances began. By 2006, records documented over 400 poltergeist attacks linked to the mausoleum, including one death: that of a medium who suffered a fatal heart attack after a supposed encounter with the spirit.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. I hope you found it enjoyable. If you like folktales or scary stories, why not try my audiobook Fireside Horror? It is wonderfully narrated by the talented voice actor Aubrey Parsons, and is the perfect thing to listen to as the cold, dark nights draw in. Link below:
Stay Spooky.
Sources
Jan-Andrew Henderson - The Ghost That Haunted Itself: The Story of the Mackenzie Poltergeist (2001 Random House)
Wikipedia
“The Grim, Ghostly History of Scotland’s ‘Most Haunted Graveyard’” from Mental Floss.com
Jan Bondeson, Greyfriars Bobby: The Most Faithful Dog in the World (Amberley Publishing, 2011)
Ghostlore – The Skirrid Inn, Wales’ Most Haunted Pub
The Skirrid Inn. Definitely not a place to hang about at nightfall…
In the south-east of Wales lies the county of Monmouthshire. Its southern border rests against the great Severn Estuary, whilst its northern and eastern edges are next to England. It is considered a predominantly rural area, with its largest town being Abergavenny, sometimes referred to as the gateway to Wales, due to its close proximity to the English border.
Not far from Abergavenny you will find the village of Llanvihangel Crucorney, home to Wales’ oldest and, very probably, most troubled public house. Documents date the place back to the 12th century, but it could be even older. The name of this haunted establishment: The Skirrid Inn.
The Skirrid Inn takes its name from the impressive Skirrid Mountain, an easterly outlier of the Black Mountains in Wales, and part of the Brecon Beacons National Park. The Skirrid was once a traditional pilgrimage site, as it was believed the mountain was struck by lightning and split in two at the moment Jesus died on the cross.
There are plenty of historical sources for the many ghostly disturbances a visitor might experience. According to legend, the inn was used as a meeting place for supporters of the Welsh revolt against the reign of Henry VI. Later, it was used by the notorious Judge Jeffreys, nicknamed The Hanging Judge. He is said to have ordered over 180 men to be hanged from the oak beam above the stairwell. The marks of the executioner’s noose can still be seen to this day.
The Hauntings
The ghost of the wicked Hanging Judge is said to roam the upper levels of the building, and is considered a very unpleasant entity to encounter. Witnesses describe his spirit as a sinister black mass, large and foreboding, which wanders the dark halls before finally fading from the terrified onlookers’ view.
Some people staying at the inn have reported a choking sensation, along with the feel of rough hemp being drawn about their throats, as though a noose had been dropped over them. It is a horrendous suffocating feeling that can causes panic even in the hardiest soul.
A great many strange noises are reported throughout the inn: heavy boots pacing rooms known to be empty, whispered voices in the shadows, the thud of something dropped from the upper floors. Given the number of deaths that have occurred at The Skirrid Inn, knowing exactly who or what is responsible for all these sounds is nearly impossible.
A landlady from the 17th century is said to have died of consumption in one of the bedrooms. Her name was Fanny Price. She has been seen wandering the public house on cold, dark evenings. Another member of the Price family, Henry - possibly either Fanny’s husband or perhaps her father - has been spotted marching up and down the cobbles by moonlight, stepping in time to the squeaking of the Skirrid Inn’s sign in the night wind. Sometimes his phantom wanders inside to scare guests by banging on the chimney.
Not far from the inn is a stretch of woodland called The White Lady Woods. Here can be found the ghost of a sad young woman wandering amongst the trees with a lonely tread. She is thought to have been the lover of one of the inn’s former owners. The Inn keepers wife stumble upon the pair in the middle of a fruity cuddle and chased the naked girl out into the night, where she eventually froze to death in the woods.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. I hope you found it enjoyable. If you like folktales or scary stories, why not try out my audiobook Fireside Horror? It is wonderfully narrated by the talented voice actor Aubrey Parsons, and is the perfect thing to listen to as the cold, dark nights draw in. Link below:
Stay Spooky.
Sources
Spirits Behind Bars: The Haunting of Shepton Mallet Prison and the Skirrid Inn – Richard Estep
Abergavenny Chronicle
Amyscrypt.com
thelittlehousofhorrors.com
Wikipedia
Folklore – Tizzie Whizie – England’s Cutest Cryptid
The Tizzie Whize. Only dangerous if it drops out of a tree onto your head.
In Cumbria, in the north of England, lies a mountainous region of national parkland known as the Lake District. It is undoubtedly a beautiful place, and many writers and poets have called it home, including children’s author and illustrator Beatrix Potter.
Lake Windermere is the largest lake in England, and a popular spot for tourists to visit during the summer months. It is a place shrouded in myth and legend, and home to perhaps the most child-friendly of all the British cryptids: the diminutive Tizzie Whizie.
An awful lot of legendary beasts that are said to occupy the United Kingdom should probably come with a public health warning, for they are either extremely dangerous or truly terrifying to behold – and very often both. But not the Tizzie Whizie. It is described as having the body of a hedgehog, the wings of a bumblebee, the bushy tail of a squirrel, and the antennae of a butterfly.
The story of the Tizzie Whizie began around 1900, when one evening a boatman from the town of Bowness-on-Windermere entered The Stag’s Head, ordered a drink, and proceeded to regale both locals and tourists with his amazing sighting of the animal. A small group of visitors were so captivated by the story that they offered to pay the boatman to sail them to the location where the little beastie had been spotted – and the first Tizzie Whizie hunt was born.
Then the incredible occurred: the little cryptid was captured and photographed.
One day in 1906, according to legend, the boatman’s grandson managed to capture the creature. It was taken to Louis Herbert’s photography studio opposite St Martin’s Church in Bowness, but it was in a great state of distress and had to be calmed down with ginger biscuits and warm milk. Eventually, when it had settled enough, its photograph was taken, and it was then released back into the wild.
Proof. If ever proof was needed.
That photograph was turned into a postcard, which tourists could purchase and send to friends and relatives, thus spreading news of the little bushy-tailed beast throughout the country.
More tourists came to the area, and more boatmen began offering tours to Belle Isle, the location of the majority of the sightings. These Tizzie Whizie hunts became something of a local industry, and often ended with an unlucky individual being pushed into the water.
Occasionally a tourist would complain about not being able to see the shy creature flying about the lake, and even dare to suggest that it might not exist. Fortunately, the boatmen were able to reassure them that the creatures were hard to spot because “it was a very good underwater swimmer.”
On Reddit, one user shared the following information:
“This cryptid is said to live in the Lake District’s Bowness Bay. First spotted by a fisherman on a boat back in the 1900s... many still pay locals to take them on Tizzie Whizie hunts. What a cutie... I’ve lived near Bowness for 20 years and been many times but never heard of him!”
For those who are a little nervous of boats and do not enjoy trips on the water, it has been said that the best way to see a Tizzie Whizie is late at night, staggering down the lanes around Windermere after enjoying a great many drinks in the local pub.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog. Although not quite as scary as my usual posts, I do think the Tizzie Whizie is deserving of our scrutiny – and I’m told the little fellow appreciates the attention.
I will finish with a special shout-out to my niece and nephew, Annie and Alfie, who I hope enjoyed this blog, which I dedicate to them.
Finally, if you enjoyed this piece, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow, currently available on Amazon. If you’re kind enough to give it a read, I’d be hugely grateful if you could leave a review – it really does help.
Link below:
Sources
Wikipedia
TheLakeDistrict.org (local tourism blog)
News and Star, Cumbrian news, 26th July 2025
Irish Folklore – The Merrow: Love and Death in the Ocean.
A male Merrow, the harsh environment has not been kind to his complexion…
Ireland’s misty, storm-drenched coastlines stretch for approximately 3,172 kilometres (about 1,970 miles). They consist of towering cliffs, sea-lapped coves, and long stretches of soft, sandy beaches, with many settlements ranging from quaint fishing villages to the larger, bustling port cities of Belfast, Dublin, and Cork.
These ancient coastal areas are home to a very unusual kind of mermaid and merman, known as the Merrow. Now, mermaid stories are told throughout the world - from Cornwall to Jamaica, all the way to Australia. They can be thought of as something of a global phenomenon. So what is it that makes these legendary Irish sea folk different?
At first glance, a Merrow maiden is very typical of the kind of Mermaid found elsewhere: a beautiful woman with long, flowing green locks, which she is often witnessed combing with great care. She has delicate fingers with a slight webbing said to resemble the fine skin between an egg and its shell; and the scaled lower body of a fish, complete with a large, powerful tail that allows her to swim at great speed. Merrows differ from other merfolk because of their magical hat called a cohuleen druith, which allows them to dive beneath the waves. If they lose this cap, they lose the power to return to the water.
Much like the sirens of Greek mythology, the song of a Merrow maiden is said to lure men to her. If she finds a man comely, she might take him as a lover beneath the waves. In some cases, they come ashore, discarding their magic caps and becoming the wives of mortal men. There is a very good reason why a Merrow maid might seek the company of a human male - and that lies in the monstrous nature of the Merrow men.
Male Merrows are described as grotesque: green-skinned, with sharp green teeth and a red, pig-like nose. It is thought to be dangerous to encounter a male Merrow, as they are far more aggressive than the females, and it is believed they embody the malevolent nature of the sea.
The Soul Cages is a story published in Croker’s Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland (1825–28). In it, a merman captures the souls of drowned sailors and locks them in lobster-pot-like cages at the bottom of the ocean. Though this tale turned out to be an invented piece of fiction, Thomas Keightley, who wrote it, claimed similar folktales were circulated in the counties of Cork and Wicklow.
In 1936, two fishermen - Martin Heanue and Thomas Regan - reported a sighting of a male Merrow. Whilst fishing in a cove in County Galway, they were approached by the hideous creature, whom they described as bearded. He allegedly attempted to seize their currach (a wooden-framed boat covered with canvas or animal hide). No doubt the men thought themselves lucky to have survived the experience.
There was also an allegation that a group of female Merrows were reported in the 1960s in the waters off Kinconly Point, a cape in County Kerry, in the province of Munster in the south-west of Ireland.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I do hope you enjoyed this journey into Irish folklore, you can be sure that there will be more strange tales next week. If you enjoy stories of monstrous entities, baleful ghosts and dark magic, please consider purchasing a copy of my new book Threads of Shadow—the perfect companion as the evenings slowly begin to draw in and the darker seasons comes ever nearer.
Stay Spooky.
Sources
Beachcombing online magazine
Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland (1825–28), T. C. Croker
Wikipedia
Scottish Folklore – Terror at the Haunted Bothy
The Haunted Bothy
Bothies are located throughout the United Kingdom, often in out-of-the-way wild places, but they are most commonly found in the Scottish Highlands. A bothy is a basic shelter, without gas or electricity. They are left open to the public and are intended to be used free of charge as a refuge for ramblers.
Most bothies are old cottages of either one or two storeys that have been repurposed to serve their new role. Because they are freely available to all, their continued existence relies on users helping to maintain them. Over the years, the Mountain Bothies Association has developed a code that sets out the main points users should respect. This includes leaving dry wood and kindling for future visitors and reporting any damage to the bothy’s owners.
As can be imagined, bothies are remote and lonely places, ripe for tales of mystery and the supernatural. There are probably as many of these strange stories as there are bothies, but today we will focus on one particular shelter – perhaps the loneliest of them all – Ben Alder Cottage.
Ben Alder Cottage is located in the heart of Scotland, on the edge of Loch Ericht. The closest village is Dalwhinnie, to the north-east of the loch.
The Tales
Undiscovered Scotland by W. H. Murray recounts several of the eerie tales associated with Ben Alder Cottage. In the first, a former officer of the Great War was walking from Rannoch to Dalwhinnie and decided to rest at Ben Alder Cottage for the night. At the time, the property was inhabited by a gamekeeper and his wife. As he tried to sleep, the walker reported hearing the sound of footsteps in the unoccupied adjoining room. When he mentioned this to the gamekeeper’s wife the next morning, she told him that a stag was in the habit of banging its antlers against the outer walls. However, she gave this explanation so unconvincingly, and “with such a look of guilt upon her face”, that the visitor was sure she was hiding the real truth.
The Scottish Mountaineering Club Journal tells another strange tale. A Second World War veteran, blinded in that terrible conflict, was out hill-walking with a companion. They unwisely decided to rest for the evening at the troubled bothy, where they reported tapping noises, low groans, and the sound of footsteps during the night. The following morning, the companion witnessed a packet of biscuits being flung across the room - without the aid of a human hand.
Two stories have been put forward to explain the origins of Ben Alder Cottage’s supernatural resident. The first claims that it was the spirit of a ghillie (the outdoor servant of a landowner) who hanged himself from the back of the front door.
The second is even more disturbing.
In this account, the ghost is said to be that of a woman who was forced to take shelter at the bothy with her baby during a storm. Trapped there for days, she gradually began to starve. Driven mad by hunger, she committed a terrible crime: she devoured her own child. She was last seen wandering Rannoch Moor, “so wild-eyed with despair that no one dared cross her path”, until finally she was “lost in the morasses of the place”.
Both stories are grim and raise the unsettling question: how desperate would a rambler have to be to rest within Ben Alder Cottage’s cold stone walls?
Many thanks for taking the time out of your day to read this blog. As ever, I hope you are able to sleep well tonight.
Finally, my new book, Threads of Shadow, is now available to claim for free on Booksprout in eBook form.
Booksprout is a place where readers may uncover hidden tomes and strange tales from their favourite authors. Best of all, it is free for reviewers - all that is asked in return is your honest reflection upon the stories you have read. My free books can be accessed on booksprout, link below.
Stay Spooky.
Sources:
Undiscovered Scotland by W. H. Murray 1951
Wikipedia
Booksprout Reviews for Threads of Shadow.
A book and a Sproutling…
Greetings, my friends. My new book, Threads of Shadow, is now available to claim for free on Booksprout in eBook form.
Booksprout is a place where readers may uncover hidden tomes and strange tales from their favourite authors. Best of all, it is free for reviewers - all that is asked in return is your honest reflection upon the stories you have read.
But beware - there are only 25 free copies waiting in the dark, so act swiftly before they vanish. A link lies below. Dare to join the review team, and help breathe life into these shadows…
Stay Spooky.
Ghostly Folklore – The Two-Headed Ghost of Abersychan
The two-headed phantom.
Abersychan is a town in the south-east of Wales. It is located in the northern part of the Afon Lwyd valley. Originally, it was a fairly isolated agricultural community, but all this changed in the 19th century with the discovery of iron ore. Industry quickly thrived in the area, and saw the creation of the Abersychan Limestone Railway, built in 1830 to carry limestone from Cwm Lascarn quarry to the ironworks.
Abersychan is also the home of a very unusual spectre. There are a great many headless ghosts throughout the British Isles, but this little town’s most famous incorporeal resident is described as possessing two heads and having a most ‘hideous appearance’ that has left a great many local people terrified. It is to be imagined that in life, the ghost may have been something of a drinker, or else connected to the pub trade, as his favourite haunt was around the Blue Boar public house.
A newspaper report claimed that there were many witnesses to this fearful phantom, who could ‘minutely describe him.’ And such was his reputation that people started to avoid nightly rambles, lest they encounter this beer-supping spook. Sadly, labourer Dan Hartley was compelled to brave Abersychan’s dark lanes one evening, and was unfortunate enough to encounter the monstrous entity:
Being delayed from returning home until a late hour, he had no alternative but to pass the haunted spot, or to have a nights parade in the chilly air. Not liking the later, he determined to proceed despite his dread. He went on courageously until within a few yards of his lodging house, when he fancied he could see something - he paused, and a lo! It was no less than the dreaded phantom. He could not speak, neither could he move backwards nor forwards – He remained transfixed to the spot for several seconds, but as soon as he thought the spectre was disappearing, he made a desperate effort, and reached the house wherein he repeated undefinable prayers to his preserver. His feelings for the remainder of the night can be imagined rather described.
But Dan was a resilient fellow and recovered from his shock; however, he remained convinced of what he had encountered on that benighted street.
When he is spoken to now, he says, very seriously, that he never was afraid, nor never will be afraid of all the ghosts of the earth or of the spirits of the air; but that such a two-headed monster was enough to put the dread on any man, and no man could help it, and ‘Bejabers. I hope it may be the last I see of the lad.’
One local person put forward a theory to a journalist, explaining why he felt the being might possess this second head. He said:
It is the ghost of an old man who suddenly met his death by falling downstairs and splitting his skull. The old man, when living, was an apostate from the Roman Catholic faith, therefore, could not have rest in the other world; consequently, he is a wanderer upon the face of this one. The cause assigned for his appearing with two heads, that is his head being split, when dying, could not again be reunited; therefore, they are not really two heads, but two separate halves of the once whole!
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. I do hope you sleep well tonight. This wonderful tale was collected by Mark Rees in his fantastic book Ghosts of Wales - a worthy read for all lovers of the strange. I have enclosed a link below for anyone interested in purchasing a copy from Amazon. You can also support Mark by listening to his excellent podcast, Ghosts and Folklore of Wales.
Until next time — Stay Spooky.
Yorkshire Folklore - Jack-in-Irons
Jack-in-Irons
In the ceremonial county of South Yorkshire, in England’s northwest, can be found the market town of Barnsley. It is located in the valley of the River Dearne, near the eastern foothills of the Pennines, with the uplands of the Peak District to the west. It was once a centre for coal mining, with a great many collieries in the area, though these have now closed.
Most of the mining settlements have since been redeveloped; however, the culture and communal memory of the mining industry remains strong. Barnsley and its surrounding coalmines were connected by a series of lanes and tracks that cut their way through the local moorland. It has long been said that these paths are walked by a dark entity known as Jack-in-Irons.
Jack-in-Irons, stands somewhere between 7ft and 13ft tall, he is a very eerie figure, believed to be the ghost of a giant or ogre who once dwelt in the more isolated areas of the region. Witnesses describe him as a huge spectre bound in chains, who wanders the paths in search of victims. He is said to carry a spiked club upon which are impaled the heads of those he has slain - though sometimes these heads are described as hanging from his belt.
Much of the Jack-in-Irons lore has been lost to history. It is possible he is a folk memory of some old pre-Christian god, an ancient guardian spirit, or even the shade of a giant from the days when such beings were said to walk the island. It is unclear why Jack finds himself wrapped in chains - some suggest it is a form of punishment for the terrible deeds committed during his life; others say they are trophies taken from his fallen victims.
His gruesome collection of heads could, in some way, be connected to the Celtic head cults of the Iron Age. These cults involved the ritualistic veneration of the human head, which the ancient Celts believed held the soul, power, or spirit of a person - even after death.
Having walked the remote moorland roads, it is easy to see why the people of the area would fear them at night. As dusk settles into evening, and the inferior glow of the moon replaces the clearer radiance of the sun, the atmosphere becomes more unsettling. Travellers speak of hearing the rattle of chains and seeing odd figures moving in the fog. If the individual is lucky, Jack will wander on into the night, ignoring them. But if they are unlucky and draw his attention, he might challenge them, demanding tribute. The truly unfortunate will never be seen alive again - their heads added to Jack’s collection.
Thank you for taking the time to read this blog, my friend. I do hope you didn’t find it too horrifying. My new book, Threads of Shadow, is currently available, so 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.
Ghostly Folklore – The Haunted Lighthouse of Dunbar Head
The Headless Lady.
On the eastern coast of Ireland, you will find the county of Wicklow - a place of waterfalls and mountains. The county is named after Wicklow town, located some 31 miles south of Ireland’s capital city, Dublin. The name Wicklow is believed to derive from the town’s former Norse settlers and may have meant either Viking Meadow or Lough of Ships.
Wicklow Head, also referred to as Dunbar Head (Irish: Ceann Chill Mhantáin), lies approximately two miles to the south-east of Wicklow town. Its lighthouse, constructed around 1781, remained in use until 1836, when a fire destroyed the lamp house. Today, the structure possesses a domed roof—added in 1866 - as it was considered an important and useful landmark. The building has an octagonal shape and gradually tapers as it rises 95 feet from the ground.
One might expect the spectral inhabitant of such a building to be a former lighthouse keeper, or perhaps the shade of a sailor drowned at sea—but it is not. The ghost of Wicklow Head Lighthouse is that of a headless woman.
The Tale
During the mid-nineteenth century, a young woman became engaged to her suitor. Much enamoured with her handsome new love, she looked forward to settling down with him. Sadly, a former admirer became aware of the engagement. He still carried a candle for the pretty young woman, the thought of her taking up with another man drove him into a rare and violent rage. Seizing a scythe from a barn, he stalked the headland in search of her. He discovered her near the lighthouse on the Wicklow headland.
Perhaps she tried to flee - or maybe she was taken unawares - but either way, the enraged man decapitated her with the razor-sharp farming tool.
Now, her ghost lingers in the lighthouse, often seen on the staircase - a headless silhouette.
It is reported that in 2003, a travel writer visiting the lighthouse was casually flicking through its visitor book when he was surprised to find a collection of unusual entries: tourists reporting strange encounters with the headless woman. In one entry from 2000, six guests described seeing her slowly walking down the stairs towards them, before vanishing before their eyes.
Many thanks for taking the time out of your day to read this blog. As ever, I hope you are able to sleep well tonight.
Until next week—stay spooky.
Finally, if you enjoyed this blog, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow, currently available on Amazon. If you're kind enough to give it a read, I’d be hugely grateful if you could leave a review - it really does help.
Link below.
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?