Know Your Goblins – The Trow
The Dreaded Trow. Fiddle players beware…
Once more a voice calls out, ‘Know your goblins.’ I cannot see the individual who cried these words, but I suspect they are a very sensible person, with a good head on their shoulders. As I have previously stated, goblin awareness is a vital life skill, and so I pull out my dusty books, settle down in a dim corner of the room, and prepare to research and deliver this essential information.
Today we head to the far north of Scotland, to the Orkney and Shetland Islands, to trace that most dangerous of goblinkind: the Trow.
Life on the Scottish isles can be harsh. Stormy winds batter the small settlements that cling there, and wind-tossed seas make journeys to the mainland a challenge. The folk of these islands are a hardy breed; the goblins that haunt them, even more so.
A Trow (also referred to as trowe, drow, or dtrow) is a malignant fairy or goblin. They are usually described as short, stunted, and ugly, though there are occasional tales of giant, multi-headed trows terrorising whole communities.
A large number of the ancient mounds located on the islands are thought to be ‘trowie knowes’ (earthen mound dwellings), where they hide from the light of day, venturing out only after dusk. Indeed, if caught in sunlight, they cannot return home until the following evening.
Local folk would avoid these old monuments, particularly after dark, for fear of a nocturnal encounter. Trows are known to have a fondness for music, particularly the fiddle, and are notorious for abducting musicians in the night and imprisoning them within their mounds, so those of you who are musically gifted and can play a violin beware…
The name Trow (or Drow) is thought to derive from an Old Norse dialect, as these isles were once occupied by Norse settlers before the Scots drove them out. The word may stem from draugr, meaning revenant, devil, or troll.
It was considered unfortunate to speak of Trows, and even more unlucky to lay eyes upon one of the blighters - particularly if you happen to play an instrument requiring a bow. There were believed to be two distinct kinds of Trow: the hill-trows and the sea-trows, said to be mortal enemies. We have already spoken of the hill-trow; now let us turn our attention to its ocean-loving cousin.
Descriptions of sea-trows vary, but they are often said to resemble a colt with matted hair. However, the Orkney variety is thought to be among the most unpleasant imaginable: a scaly creature with matted hair, a monkey-like face, and a sloping head. It was said to be frail-bodied, yet possessed disproportionately large limbs, with disc-shaped feet - “round as a millstone” - and webbed hands and feet, giving it a slow, lumbering, almost “wabbling” gait.
Finally, and with great regret, we must speak of the Kunal Trow, or King Trow - perhaps the worst of the lot - said to dwell on the island of Unst in Shetland. They are a race without females, wandering the darkness and weeping with loneliness. They take human wives, but tragically these women never survive the birth of Trow–human offspring, forcing the Kunal Trow to abduct unwilling women to act as wet nurses for their young.
Some of the traditional tunes of the Shetland Islands are believed to have come from the Trows. A wandering musician might hear one of these troublesome beings playing a strange melody and later reproduce it. Such alleged Trowie tunes include “Da Trowie Burn”, “Da Trow’s Reel”, and “Da Peerie Hoose in Under Da Hill” (“The Little House Under the Hill”).
I hope this blog has been useful, particularly to any of my violin-playing readers. Remember, these goblins are out there - and they are a blooming nuisance.
If you enjoy what I do, please consider picking up a copy of either of my books, Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror, terrifying folk-horror collections told through short stories — available on all Amazon stores, I have enclosed link to the UK & US versions below.
Until next week,
Stay spooky.
BOOK UPDATE : A CROW’S SCREAM - THE FINAL CHAPTER OF THE WENDLELOW MYSTERIES
A book cover and a noisy bird…
Hello dear friends,
After much hard graft and quite a few ups and downs, it is with nervous excitement that I can announce the upcoming release of Book Three of The Wendlelow Mysteries. The final book in this trilogy - told through 27 short stories - will explore the origins of the haunted Shropshire town, and the ultimate fate of the residents you have grown to know so well. Julie, Elspeth, Nolan and Roger will return, joined by a host of new characters, as we weave our way towards the witch-haunted settlement’s final destiny.
I want to thank you all for bravely taking this journey with me. As these novels are made up of short stories, I always envisioned readers returning to them, to dip into a few favourite tales now and again, perhaps around Halloween or Christmas, giving the books an extended life in the reader’s mind.
The Wendlelow Mysteries marks the conclusion of over twenty years’ work. It was only a couple of years ago, during a bout of illness, that I decided to do something with these stories, producing my first book, Fireside Horror. This was followed by the audiobook, a couple of anthologies, and finally Book Two, Threads of Shadow.
A Crow’s Scream will soon make its way to my editor, who will work her magic and make it fit for human consumption. Once it is returned, I will implement the necessary edits and prepare it for release, so, hopefully, it will be out within the next two months.
And after that. Well, I have begun making notes on a sequel to the series, a novel set after the Wendlelow events, and I am also planning to release a book of unconnected stories set within the same area and time frame. Finally, I hope to compile a folklore volume based on my Fireside Folklore blog.
And thank you, dear reader, for taking this journey with me. I hope you have had as much joy reading these books as I have had writing them.
Stay spooky,
Your friend,
Paul
Jenny Greenteeth: The Terrifying Water Hag of English Folklore
Jenny Greenteeth. Traveller Beware…
Travel – if you dare – to the north-west of England, and you will find yourself in the county of Lancashire, an area dissected by three rivers: the Lune, the Wyre, and the Ribble, all of which wend their way westward before flowing into the storm-tossed Irish Sea. Naturally, these rivers branch into smaller tributaries and streams, until the whole region is veined with waterways.
These waters can be calming to behold, and a traveller might be tempted to rest upon their banks, listening to their gentle murmur. However, any rambler who chooses to do so should beware, for something sinister is said to lurk within their murky depths - a water-dwelling hag known as Jenny Greenteeth.
Jenny Greenteeth, also known as Wicked Jenny, Ginny Greenteeth, or Grinteeth, is a figure of English folklore. Tales of her are fairly widespread; she is also whispered of in North Staffordshire, as well as in Cheshire and Shropshire (Wendlelow country ;-)). Here, she is known by similar names, including Wicked Jenny, Ginny Greenteeth, and Jeannie Greenteeth.
She is described as green-skinned, her teeth and gums caked in algae, with long, sharp teeth and fingers ending in cruel, claw-like nails - more akin to the talons of a raptor than the hands of a woman. No one is entirely safe from her predations, but the young and the elderly are said to be particularly at risk, as she favours easy prey.
In some accounts, she is believed to lurk in the branches of trees at night, watching her victims and preparing to drop upon the unsuspecting. If they are fortunate, they may receive a warning, as fetid droplets of water fall from above. Some historians suggest this image may have been confused by folklorists with the northern English Jinny-hewlet, an old folk name for an owl.
Folklorist Roy Palmer, in Folklore of Herefordshire and the Welsh Border (2009), records the following Staffordshire saying:
“Jenny wi’ green teeth lives i’ th’ pool-
she’ll have thee if tha leans too far.”
In their excellent book The Lore of the Land (2005), Jennifer Westwood and Jacqueline Simpson record the following northern oral tradition:
“Tha’d best keep away fro’ th’ cut, or Jenny Greenteeth’ll get thee-
she sits under th’ weeds, waitin’, an’ she’ll grip thi ankles an’ drag thee down.”
It seems Jenny Greenteeth serves as a cautionary tale - much like the Scottish Blue Men of the Minch or the Slavic Rusalka - used to warn children of the dangers of water, particularly ponds covered in duckweed, which may conceal hidden depths and hazards.
Indeed, the idea of a frightening being dwelling in water is found worldwide and is almost always used to deter adventurous youngsters from venturing where they ought not. In Australia, there is the Bunyip; in Jamaican folklore, the River Mumma (River Mother). In American folklore, we encounter the Storm Hag of Lake Erie in Pennsylvania, a creature said to lurk beneath the waters and blamed for shipwrecks in the region. Like Jenny Greenteeth, the Storm Hag is often described as a green-skinned woman with sharp, unnatural teeth and piercing eyes.
The similarities between Old Jenny Greenteeth and the Storm Hag are striking, and one is left to wonder, brave reader, whether they might be one and the same - an old English tradition carried across the Atlantic by immigrants, finding a new home and continuing to terrorise distant shores.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you have enjoyed this piece of English folklore.
If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror - folkloric horror collections told through short stories set in the troubled Shropshire town of Wendlelow, available on Amazon stores worldwide. Links to the UK and US editions are below.
Until next week -
Stay spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
The Lore of the Land (2005) – Jennifer Westwood and Jacqueline Simpson
Folklore of Herefordshire and the Welsh Border (2009) – Roy Palmer
Know Your Goblins – The Coblynau
A Coblyn approaches, but is he friend or foe?
A voice calls out: “Know your goblins.” Words of wisdom that ought to be engraved in every public space in the country. There are many different kinds of goblin, not just in Britain but throughout the world - but which are friendly, and which are devious little miscreants? Being able to identify them correctly might save you a great deal of trouble in the long run. Indeed, goblin education should be compulsory in every school throughout the land.
Today, I will speak of a type of goblin from Wales: the mine-dwelling coblyn.
The name coblyn (plural coblynau) has two possible meanings: one is “knocker” or “thumper”, whilst the other is “sprite”. They stand at around a foot and a half tall and are generally considered rather ugly; however, they are also thought to be friendly and good-natured. Like their Cornish cousins, the Knockers, they inhabit mines and caverns. In dress, they mimic a miner’s garb, wearing functional work clothes and a small hard hat. They carry miniature hammers and picks, and can be found pushing tiny wheel barrows busily about or else industriously working away at a seam of precious metal. - bless them.
They are more often heard than seen, and workers in the dark depths report the sound of them pounding away in distant, abandoned tunnels. Generally, they are considered to bring good luck, but be wary: if you speak ill of them, they may grow moody and begin throwing stones.
Coblynau were regarded as protectors of the mine, and any peculiar occurrences - such as strange noises or missing equipment - were often attributed to them. They were also believed to lead workers to rich veins of ore, and in some cases hidden treasure, by knocking or rapping in a particular area.
Occasionally, people have reported encountering these miniature miners outside of caverns, often in mountainous regions, much to the surprise of unsuspecting ramblers. The Rev. Edmund Jones, in his book A Relation of Apparitions of Spirits in the County of Monmouth and the Principality of Wales (printed 1813), recounts the following encounter:
Egbert Williams, “a pious young gentleman of Denbighshire, then at school,” was one day playing in a field with three girls, one of whom was his sister. Near the stile beyond Lanelwyd House, they saw a company of fifteen coblynau dancing in the middle of the field. They danced in a manner somewhat akin to Morris dancers, but with a wildness and swiftness in their movements. They were clothed in red like British soldiers and wore red handkerchiefs spotted with yellow, wound around their heads. A strange circumstance was that although they were almost as tall as ordinary men, they retained the unmistakable appearance of dwarfs.
Presently, one of them left the group and ran towards the children near the stile, who were terribly frightened and scrambled to escape. Barbara Jones got over first, then her sister, and as Egbert Williams helped his sister across, they saw the coblyn close upon them. They barely made it over before its hairy hand grasped the stile. It stood there, leaning upon it, gazing after them as they fled, with a grim, copper-coloured countenance and a fierce expression. The young people ran to Lanelwyd House and called the elders out, but though they hurried quickly to the field, the dwarfs had already vanished.
Rev. Edmund Jones also recounts a less alarming encounter, experienced by one William Evans of Hafodafel:
While crossing the Beacon Mountain very early in the morning, he passed what appeared to be a fairy coal mine, where fairies were busily at work. Some were cutting coal, others carrying it to fill sacks, and some lifting the loads onto horses’ backs - all in complete silence. He considered it “a most extraordinary, supernatural sight” and was greatly impressed, for he knew there was no coal mine in that place. He was described as a man of unquestionable honesty, “a great man in the world - above telling an untruth.”
Remember my friends being able to correctly identify a goblin is an essential life skill so stay informed, stay vigilant and most importantly Stay Spooky.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog, my friend. I hope you found it enjoyable - perhaps even useful. Please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow - chock-full of phantoms and monsters, the stories entwining into a novel guaranteed to send a shiver down your spine - available worldwide on Amazon. Simply search P. A. Sheldon, or click the link below.
Alternatively, you will find plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, in the download section of this website.
Until next week.
Link to Amazon UK - Threads of Shadow
Link to Amazon US - Threads of Shadow
Sources
Wikipedia
'A Relation of Apparitions of Spirits in the County of Monmouth and the Principality of Wales' Rev. Edmund Jones (1813)
monstropedia.org
britishfairies.wordpress.com
The Dullahan - Ireland’s Headless Horseman
The Dulllahan rides forth…
When the wild wind blows and the mists weave their way across the hills and into Ireland’s sunken lanes, both humble and lofty folk alike bolt their doors, throw more fuel upon the fire, and pray for the rays of the early morning sun to bless the land. For these conditions are ripe for one of the Emerald Isle’s most terrifying entities - The Dullahan.
Tales of the Dullahan, or Dulachan (Irish: Dubhlachanreach), do not seem confined to any one particular area of Ireland; his reach spreads throughout the land. He has a somewhat gruesome appearance, so steel your nerves dear reader, before proceeding. He is described as a ghostly rider upon a black horse, he has no head upon his shoulders, instead he carries it before him, gripping it by the hair. It bears a particularly revolting aspect, a wide toothy grin said to nearly split it in half. This dire trophy is further described by Thomas Crofton Croker in the 18th century, a collector of strange Irish tales:
...such a head no mortal ever saw before. It looked like a large cream cheese hung round with black puddings: no speck of colour enlivened the ashy paleness of the depressed features; the skin lay stretched over the unearthly surface almost like the parchment head of a drum. Two fiery eyes of prodigious circumference, with a strange and irregular motion, flashed like meteors.
As might be expected of any self-respecting dark entity, he dresses in black. More unsettling still, he is sometimes described as carrying a whip made from a human spine, which he uses to viciously thrash his unfortunate spectral mount.
There are also tales of a “Headless Coach” (also called the Cóiste Bodhar, or “Soundless Coach”), driven by the Dullahan down lonely roads. Irish writer Robert Lynd recounts the testimony of a witness from Connemara, who spoke of walking the lanes one night when he encountered the silent shadow of a coach passing by him in utter stillness.
The fear of encountering this terrifying equestrian was very real, for it was believed that he could strike a person blind in one eye, or use eldritch powers - which as we all know are surely the very worst kind of powers - to draw out a victim’s soul, killing them on the spot. He was often seen atop a hill, holding his head aloft, scanning the countryside for lonely travellers to terrorise. Some tales even speak of him riding from village to village, knocking upon cottage doors; should anyone be foolish enough to answer, well…
The Dullahan was said to be repelled by gold, and so nocturnal travellers were advised to carry some with them to ward off any potential encounter. Of course, carrying precious metals through the countryside at night might well draw the attention of a far more mortal danger. So one must decide what is to be feared more: a headless phantom, or a band of robbers.
In a blog on Irish customs, Bridget Haggerty relates the following tale of an encounter with this unfriendly spectre:
One story from Galway tells of a man walking home late at night when he heard the sound of horse’s hooves pounding along the road behind him. In dread, he turned and saw the Dullahan. He ran, but nothing can outrun the angel of death. Then, remembering the old lore, he dropped a gold coin upon the road. A terrible roar sounded in the air above him, and when he dared to look again, the Dullahan had vanished.
Our old friend Croker also provides a tale in his book Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland (1828):
A peasant named Larry Dodd, a resident of the “White Knight’s Country” at the foot of the Galtee Mountains, travels to Cashel, where he purchases a nag, intending to sell it at Kildorrery fair that very evening. Along the way, he offers a ride to a cloaked woman. When he attempts to claim a kiss as payment, he discovers - to his horror - that she is a Dullahan. Losing consciousness, he later awakens within the ruins of a church, where he beholds a dreadful sight: a wheel of torture adorned with severed heads, surrounded by headless Dullahans - men and women, nobles and commoners alike. He is offered a drink, but as he begins to praise it, his head is struck from his body mid-sentence. When he regains his senses, his head is restored, though his horse is lost to the Dullahans forever.
My best advice to visitors to Ireland is therefore this: remain indoors of an evening, sit comfortably beside a roaring fire, and if you do venture out to a local pub, do so in the company of good friends. And when at last you wend your drunken way home, be certain to carry a piece of gold upon your person - for you never know what may come riding up behind you.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this strange tale has not put you off visiting the emerald isle, which is a beautiful place. If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of my book, Fireside Horror - a terrifying folk-horror novel told through short stories, available on all Amazon stores. I have enclosed links to the UK and US versions below. It are also available to order from Waterstones.
Until next week,
Stay spooky.
HORROR REVIEW
★★★★★
‘A gem of a book’
Sources
Wikipedia
Fairy Legends and Traditions of the South of Ireland T C Croker (1828)
Book Update - Character Dive - Lady Hildegard Penderson.
Lady Penderson
Hello friends, slowly, ever so slowly, my final book in the Wendlelow mysteries draws closer, in preparation for its release I will tease you with a few of the characters to be found with its grim pages.
To the outside world, Lady Hildegard Penderson presents herself as the model of aristocratic propriety: poised, controlled, and unwavering in her expectations of those around her. She has just one eccentricity, her pet, Nox, a crow that accompanies her where ever she goes.
Within Crowsmere Hall, Lady Penderson rules with absolute authority. Conversation is measured and behaviour is scrutinised. Her presence alone is enough to silence a room, her disapproval felt without the need to raise her voice.
Lady Hildegard Penderson is not merely a figure of authority - she is a woman with purpose. And whatever that purpose may be, it is pursued with chilling certainty.
As A Crows Scream nears its publication date, now is a great time to delve into the mysteries and horrors of Wendlelow by picking up the first book in the sequence: Fireside Horror.
If you enjoy stories of ghosts, monsters, witchcraft, and prehistoric devils, I’m sure you’ll get a kick out of it.
Kelpie - Scotlands Grim Water Spirit.
A Kelpie rises from the loch. Beware…
Scotland is a land of rivers, lochs and streams. From the rolling green hills of the southern Lowlands, dissected with dry - stone walls, to the high, craggy peaks of the Highlands, these waterways form constant blue ribbons threading their way through the landscape.
There is another constant - one connected to the waterways of both north and south: a legend. A story of a monster. A grim shapeshifter that lures men and women alike to their doom, drowning them before devouring their remains. I speak, of course, of the much-feared Kelpie.
The Kelpie - Scottish Gaelic: each-uisge - usually appears as a beautiful black horse. Its coat is described as unnaturally glossy or perpetually dripping wet. As mentioned, the Kelpie is a shape-shifter, capable of changing into human form - most often a handsome young man with dark hair. Winsome lasses should beware, for he seeks to charm and lead them to a watery grave.
Fortunately, there are ways to see through the disguise. It is said that water weeds can be seen tangled in his thick hair, and sometimes he betrays himself by revealing hooves instead of feet.
The Kelpie’s favoured trick, when in horse form, is to lure travellers - especially children - onto its back. Anyone foolish enough to attempt to ride the beast will find their hands stuck fast to the creature’s hide, or their fingers hopelessly tangled in its wet mane. The Kelpie then gallops into the water, drowning its rider before devouring them, leaving only a few grisly remains to wash ashore the following day.
In his Address to the Devil (1786), Scottish poet Robert Burns gives the creature a satanic heritage:
When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord
An' float the jinglin icy boord
Then, water-kelpies haunt the foord
By your direction,
An' nighted trav'llers are allur'd
To their destruction.
Fear not, dear reader - there are ways to thwart these aquatic equines. Folklore tells us that if you can place a bridle upon a Kelpie, you will gain mastery over it. Additionally, much like the werewolf of legend, it is said that if the creature is shot with silver, it will die, dissolving away to leave only “turf and a soft mass like jellyfish”.
The Nine Children of the Water Horse
One of the most disturbing Kelpie tales comes from Loch Garve in the Highlands. A magnificent black horse appeared by the lochside, drawing the attention of local children. One by one, they climbed onto its back. Each child who touched the creature became stuck fast to its hide. Nine children had mounted the horse when the last realised something was terribly wrong. In a desperate act, the child cut off his own fingers to escape the Kelpie’s grip. Tragically, he was too late to save the others. The creature plunged into the loch, drowning the remaining children beneath its dark waters.
The 1879 Highland Fishermen’s Story
Late 19th-century folklore collectors recorded a tale from a group of fishermen working on the banks of Loch Ness. One night, they saw what appeared to be a horse standing upon the water itself. As they approached, the creature slid silently beneath the surface and vanished. The men later claimed it was a Kelpie, waiting patiently for a lone victim.
Today, the safest way to encounter a Kelpie is far from the treacherous waters it once haunted. Between Falkirk and Grangemouth, in a parkland known as The Helix, stand The Kelpies. These colossal horse-head sculptures rise nearly 30 metres into the sky, each weighing around 300 tonnes. They are truly an awe-inspiring sight - larger-than-life monuments to the dark legend.
I do hope you have enjoyed today’s blog, my friend. Please consider picking up a copy of Threads of Shadow - a folkloric horror novel told through short stories, available on Amazon stores worldwide. Links to the UK and US editions are below. Or search P A Sheldon.
Until next week -
Stay spooky.
Link to Amazon UK - Threads of Shadow
Link to Amazon US - Threads of Shadow
Sources
Wikipedia
folklorescotland.com/kelpies/
www.historic-uk.com/CultureUK/The-Kelpie/
#kelpie #darkfolklore
Owlman of Mawnan – The Winged Humanoid
The Owlman…
The village of Mawnan can be found in the south-west of England, on that mysterious leg of land called Cornwall - a storied place with strong Celtic connections. Mawnan is a charming rural village close to the coastline, and a wonderful place for adventurous souls to visit. But travellers should beware, as it is said to be home to a weird creature who delights in terrorising the unsuspecting - a creature known as the Owlman.
The first noted sighting of this creepy cryptid dates back to 1926, when a local newspaper, The Cornish Echo, printed a story concerning two boys who had been playing when they were pursued by what they described as a very large and demonic looking bird. The boys were able to escape the avian horror by taking cover behind an iron grating.
It is claimed that in 1937 two surrealist painters, Leonora Carrington and Max Ernst, learned about the boys’ supposed encounter. Intrigued by the tale, they travelled to Cornwall, where they are thought to have performed secret rituals in order to summon the creature. Given its vicious nature, this may not have been wise. Whether or not they succeeded in this bold venture is uncertain, but much of their later artwork featured our fiendish feathered friend.
The story of the Owlman gained wider notice in the national press in 1976, when Tony 'Doc' Shiels, an English writer, magician, and artist, claimed to have investigated reports from two young girls who said they had witnessed a large winged being hovering near the church tower of St Mawnan and St Stephen Church. The encounter with this flying bird-man so shocked the girls that their father immediately cut their holiday short. The girls later provided ‘Doc’ Shiels with a drawing of what they had seen, a copy of which appears in the gallery of this blog.
Shiels claimed that the Owlman was sighted again later that same year by two fourteen-year-old girls. According to the story, the two terrified campers were confronted by “a big owl with pointed ears, as big as a man”, with glowing eyes and black, pincer-like claws.
Since that time there have been sporadic sightings of the Owlman throughout the 1970s, 1980s, and 1990s. As recently as around the year 2000, witnesses reported hearing “a loud, owl-like sound” at night near the churchyard.
The most recent encounter with this Bubo bubo man-beast reportedly occurred in 2021, when two men from Falmouth claimed not only to have spotted the creature but also to have been attacked by it.
Over the years, there have been suggestions that the Owlman is merely a misidentified owl; after all, church towers are known to be popular nesting places for them. It has also been suggested that the story was a hoax created by Doc Shiels himself, as he was - by all accounts - a man who enjoyed weaving a tall tale.
However, dear reader, before you become too comfortable with these explanations, perhaps you should consider the following: there is an alleged photograph of Mawnan’s Owlman, taken shortly before it supposedly attacked the two gentlemen in 2021. I have enclosed a copy of this photograph in the gallery. I do hope you do not find it too disturbing.
If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror - folkloric horror collections told through short stories, available on Amazon stores worldwide. Links to the UK and US editions are below. Or Search P A Sheldon.
Until next week -
Stay spooky.
Link to 'Fireside Horror' - Amazon UK
Link to 'Fireside Horror' - Amazon US
Sources
Wikipedia
thehorrorcollection.com/who-or-what-is-the-owlman-of-mawnan-church
cornishbirdblog.com/the-owlman-of-mawnan-smith/
The Leprechaun: The Mysterious Trickster of Irish Folklore
The Leprechaun - with his precious gold.
Ireland is an ancient land with many different legends. Tales of heroes, monsters and phantoms can be found throughout the Emerald Isle, but if there is one mysterious entity who captures the spirit of the place and has become most closely associated with it, then that is Leprechaun.
The Leprechaun is rarely mentioned in early Irish mythology and only becomes prominent in later medieval folklore. The name likely derives from the Irish “leipreachán”, meaning “a small-bodied fellow”. They are a mischievous kind of fairy, often depicted as shoemakers, and famously associated with a pot of gold - a later addition to the legend - usually said to be located at the end of a rainbow. Leprechauns were believed to hide their treasure where it could never be found; hence the rainbow, which has no true ‘end’.
They are said to lead solitary lives in remote rural areas, often dwelling in underground caves or hollow trees, preferring to remain hidden from humans. Modern depictions describe them as short - usually around two to three feet tall - with bright reddish-orange facial hair. They wear a green coat and a top hat, the later often perched at a jaunty angle, while their boots and belts are adorned with brightly polished metal buckles. They are believed to be cunning, possessed of a sparkling wit, and fond of tricks and riddles.
However, in older stories these diminutive troublemakers are described somewhat differently. According to D. R. McAnally, the leprechaun is the son of an “evil spirit” and a “degenerate fairy” and is “not wholly good nor wholly evil”. He goes on to describe a very dapper little chap:
He is about three feet high, and is dressed in a little red jacket or roundabout, with red breeches buckled at the knee, grey or black stockings, and a hat, cocked in the style of a century ago, over a little, old, withered face. Round his neck is an Elizabethan ruff, and frills of lace are at his wrists.
Older versions also provide him with a leather apron, as he was considered a master shoemaker.
There are few accounts of people claiming to have encountered these pint-sized pranksters, but one or two tales persist. Perhaps the most famous comes from County Kerry in the eighteenth century. A local fisherman claimed to have caught a leprechaun while fishing. The fairy promised to reveal the location of his treasure if released. This story reflects the common narrative surrounding leprechauns and their legendary gold.
A more modern sighting allegedly occurred in Dublin in 1989, when a family reported observing a small figure darting behind a tree in an urban park. They described it as wearing a green suit and hat and claimed that, upon approaching, it vanished into thin air - fuelling rumours of these strange beings in contemporary society.
Today, the Leprechaun is most likely to be encountered in cartoons, films and advertising, and is strongly associated with St Patrick’s Day, 17 March - the traditional death date of Saint Patrick, the foremost patron saint of Ireland.
I do hope you have enjoyed today’s blog, my friend. Please consider picking up a copy of Threads of Shadow - a folkloric horror novel told through short stories, available on Amazon stores worldwide. Links to the UK and US editions are below. Or search P A Sheldon.
Until next week -
Stay spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
aprilroane.com/post/leprechauns-legends-sightings-and-cultural-beliefs
yourirish.com/folklore/legend-of-leprechauns
#leprechaun #folklore #Irishmyth #stpatricksday
Folk Hero – Johnnie Armstrong & the Restless Spirits of Gilnockie Tower
Johnnie Armstrong, notorious villain or folk-hero?
Just north of the village of Canonbie, in Dumfriesshire in south-west Scotland, stands an old fortified tower. The present structure largely dates from the early seventeenth century, although an earlier tower is believed to have stood on the site. Originally known as Hollows Tower, it is today called Gilnockie Tower.
The name Gilnockie is thought to derive from the Scottish Gaelic Geal Cnocan, meaning “little white hill”. The tower is traditionally associated with Johnnie Armstrong, a notorious Border reiver who later became a folk hero.
Armstrong was a clan leader followed by around one hundred and fifty men. He raided both English and Scottish lands, shifting his allegiance according to which crown held the upper hand. Operating with relative impunity from his base at Gilnockie, and under the protection of Lord Robert Maxwell, Armstrong even raided and burned the town of Netherby in Cumberland in 1527.
By 1530 the Borderlands had become so volatile that James V personally led a campaign to impose royal authority. The King offered to meet Armstrong, who, believing he would receive a royal safe conduct, agreed to meet him face to face at Carlenrig Chapel, accompanied by about thirty followers.
He was deceived.
Instead of receiving a pardon, Armstrong and his men were seized by the King’s much larger force and hanged without trial. The execution was intended as a stark warning to other reivers and an attempt to restore law and order to the Borders. It did not have the desired effect.
Because the King had effectively lured Armstrong under a supposed assurance of safety, many viewed the act as treacherous. In death, Armstrong’s reputation began to change. Whatever he may have been in life — arguably little more than a violent outlaw — he became something more in legend. A traditional ballad, Johnie Armstrang, commemorated his fate, and he later appeared in the writings of Walter Scott. In these and other accounts he is portrayed as well dressed and charismatic, loyal to his men, and unjustly executed. Some later interpretations even cast him as a defender of Scottish independence rather than a self-interested raider.
Modern historians tend to regard Armstrong as both a criminal and a casualty of shifting political authority in a lawless frontier society.
Gilnockie Tower itself fell into ruin for a time but has since been restored. It now stands as a monument to Border history and continues to attract visitors.
The tower remains open to the public and is well worth a visit. Local tradition attaches several curious tales to the place. Stories tell of the phantoms of a family of three and their loyal hunting dog, said to be heard moving about the building at night. There is also the mysterious “yin leggit” ghost — a one-legged apparition glimpsed on cold, foggy evenings. Visitors have reported footsteps on empty staircases, faint voices drifting through the tower, and the unsettling sensation of being watched.
Could any of those whispers belong to Johnnie Armstrong himself? Might the old reiver return to his former stronghold from time to time? And if he does, what would he make of it now?
Who can say?
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. If you enjoyed this piece of border folklore, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow - chock-full of phantoms and monsters, their stories entwined in a novel guaranteed to send a shiver down your spine - available worldwide on Amazon. Search P A Sheldon. or click the link below.
Alternatively, you’ll find plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Until next week — stay spooky.
Llamhigyn y Dŵr – The Dreaded Water Leaper
Llamhigyn y Dŵr – The Water leaper
Wales is a country famous for its mountains and deep valleys - a place of vivid beauty in which a person can truly lose themselves. Yet these mountains and valleys also contain lakes, rivers and ponds, and some of these waters were long regarded with suspicion. They were thought to be the domains of black-hearted devils, terrifying spectres and dangerous beasts.
Dangerous beasts such as the Llamhigyn y Dŵr.
In Welsh, Llamhigyn y Dŵr (pronounced Hlam-HIG-in uh DOOR) literally means “Water Leaper”. It is said to resemble a large and monstrous toad, limbless except for membranous, bat-like wings which it uses to glide when it springs from the water at its prey. It possesses a long tail tipped with a cruel, venomous-looking stinger.
It hunts by hiding in murky water, waiting for a victim to venture too close. Then it erupts from the depths and launches itself at the unsuspecting unfortunate. Shepherds are careful not to let their flocks or dogs stray too near lakes where these froggish fiends are believed to lurk. Anglers returning home with rod and tackle after an unsuccessful day at the water know precisely what is to blame for their empty creels.
The scholar of Welsh language and lore, Sir John Rhys (1840–1915), relates a tale in his book Celtic Folklore: Welsh and Manx (Clarendon Press, London, 1901), which he says was told to him by a fisherman named Old Ifan Owen. Ifan claimed that he himself had once run into this amphibious wrong ’un, and that his father had encountered the creature on many occasions. His recorded account is given below:
Once in particular, when he had been angling for hours towards the close of the day without catching anything, he found that something took the fly clean off the hook each time he cast it. After moving from one spot to another on the lake, he fished opposite the Benlan Wen, when something gave his line a frightful pull, “and, by the gallows, I gave another pull,” the fisherman used to say, “with all the force of my arm: out it came, and up it went off the hook, whilst I turned round to see, as it dashed so against the cliff of Benlan that it blazed like lightning.” He would add, “If that was not the Llamhigyn, it must have been the very devil himself.” That cliff must be two hundred yards at least from the shore.
As to his father, he had seen the Water Spirit many times, and had also been fishing in the Llyn Glâs or Ffynnon Lâs when he hooked a wonderful and fearful monster. It was not like a fish, but rather resembled a toad, except that it had a tail and wings instead of legs. He pulled it easily enough towards the shore, but as its head rose from the water it gave a terrible shriek - enough to split the fisherman’s bones to the marrow. Had there not been a friend standing by, he might have fallen headlong into the lake and been dragged under like a sheep; for there was a tradition that if a sheep entered the Llyn Glâs, it could never be recovered, as something would at once drag it to the bottom.
Rhys adds that this was the belief of the shepherds of Cwm Dyli within his memory, and that they acted upon it by never allowing their dogs to pursue sheep too close to the lake.
I could find no firm accounts of this bat-winged Batrachian attacking people outright. Nevertheless, owners of dogs and sheep might be wise to beware, lest a beloved pet or valuable livestock become its next meal.
So is this croaking menace real - an ever-present danger to Welsh dog walkers - or merely a tall tale, a convenient excuse offered by anglers in the warmth of the pub after a long day on the water, explaining why today’s catch slipped away?
I shall leave you, dear reader, to judge.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you have liked this monstrous Welsh legend.
If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror - folkloric horror collections told through short stories, available on Amazon stores worldwide. Links to the UK and US editions are below.
Until next week -
Stay spooky.
Sharon Joy Reads
“Exceptional folkloric horror”
★★★★★
Sources
Wikipedia
abookofcreatures.com
Celtic Folklore: Welsh and Manx (Sir John Rhys, 1901)
An Encyclopedia of Fairies (Katherine Briggs)
Robin Hood and Sherwood Forest: The Legend
Robin Hood & Maid Marian. The other merry men can be seen hiding in the trees.
Travel deep into England’s green heart and you will find the ceremonial county of Nottinghamshire. Here lies a nature reserve of more than a thousand acres - a remnant of something far older - a place known as Sherwood Forest.
Though greatly reduced today, this mighty woodland once covered a quarter of Nottinghamshire and cast its leafy shadow into neighbouring counties. In ages past it was known as Sciryuda - “the woodland belonging to the shire” - or, the shire (sher) wood of Nottinghamshire.
Within these ancient tracts of forest, beneath bough and birdsong, tradition tells of one of England’s greatest folk heroes: Robin Hood.
For more than six centuries, Robin has been bound to this landscape. An outlaw of the medieval world, he is said to have robbed the rich to give to the poor, outwitted corrupt officials, and stood against injustice with his longbow in hand. Yet whether he was a living man of flesh and blood, a composite of several wandering outlaws, or merely a figure woven from the songs of travelling minstrels remains a matter of debate.
Curiously, the name “Robin Hood” - or “Robin Hode” - appears in medieval legal records as a term for an unnamed criminal, much as “John Doe” is used today in America. Even then, the name had already begun to slip into myth.
The earliest surviving ballads date to the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, among them:
A Gest of Robyn Hode
Robin Hood and the Monk
Robin Hood and the Potter
In these early tales, Robin is a yeoman - a skilled commoner with a strong moral code, loyal to the “good old ways”, hostile to greedy churchmen and corrupt sheriffs, and fiercely protective of his band.
Around him gathered the Merry Men - companions as memorable as he himself:
Little John, towering and steadfast, his strength matched only by his loyalty.
Friar Tuck, boisterous and red-cheeked, fond of food and drink, yet not scared to a fight with is staff.
Maid Marian, a later addition to the legend, Robins true love, who has grown in modern tellings into a figure of courage and quiet resolve.
Will Scarlet, hot-blooded and quick to anger, clad in scarlet cloth as bright as autumn leaves.
Set against them stand the figures of authority: the Sheriff of Nottingham, the embodiment of corrupt rule; Sir Guy of Gisbourne, his ruthless right hand man; and, in later retellings, the grasping Prince John.
It was Sir Walter Scott’s 1819 novel Ivanhoe that reshaped Robin into a dispossessed nobleman - a Saxon lord driven into the greenwood by Norman oppression. This romantic vision took root, and from it grew the Robin many recognise today.
Across Britain, the legend has left its mark upon the landscape. Caves, wells and cliffs bear his name:
Robin Hood’s Stride in Derbyshire - twin rocks said to mark the place where the hero made a single impossible leap.
Robin Hood’s Bay on the Yorkshire coast - a village with a history of smuggling that later became entwined with the outlaw’s tale.
Robin Hood’s Well near Fountains Abbey in Yorkshire - some traditions place Robin’s origins in Loxley near Sheffield, and in these versions his adventures unfold in Barnsdale rather than Sherwood. The ballad Robin Hood and the Curtal Friar connects Robin with this fountain, which may explain the naming of the spring where the well was later constructed.
Robin Hood’s Grave is a monument in Kirklees Park Estate, West Yorkshire, near the ruins of Kirklees Priory. It is traditionally said to mark the burial place of the English folk hero, who, according to legend, was poisoned by the Prioress, whilst he was recovering from his wounds there. It is here that some claim to have glimpsed his ghost lingering in the surrounding woodland at twilight, bow in hand.
Perhaps the surest way to feel the spirit of the old legend is to visit the great Major Oak in Sherwood Forest. One of Britain’s most venerable trees, it is believed to be around a thousand years old, a truly ancient woodland king.
To stand beneath its summer canopy and hear the wind stir its leaves and the birds calling between its branches is, for a moment, to feel oneself drift from the modern world and become one with something ancient and wild.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you have enjoyed this old English legend.
If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror - folkloric horror collections told through short stories, available on Amazon stores worldwide. Links to the UK and US editions are below.
Until next week -
Stay spooky.
Sharon Joy Reads
“Exceptional folkloric horror”
★★★★★
Sources
Wikipedia
discoverbritain.com
mythencyclopedia.com
International Robin Hood Bibliography
visitsherwood.co.uk
The Hag of Beara: Ireland’s Ancient Winter Goddess
The Hag of Beara… patiently she waits.
If you go far enough south in Ireland you will come to County Cork, here the land eventually begins to break apart.
The coastline is torn and folded, bitten into by the Atlantic over countless ages. Long peninsulas reach out into the sea like skeletal fingers - Beara, Sheep’s Head, Mizen - places where the wind never quite rests and the land feels older than memory. It is on the Beara Peninsula, looking straight out into the western ocean, that you’ll find a rough, weathered stone with an unsettling name: the Hag of Beara.
In Irish, she is known as An Chailleach Bhéarra . She is sometimes called the Old Woman of Dingle, or simply the Cailleach (pronounced KAL-yukh VYAR-ra) . In Gaelic folklore, she is no ordinary figure but a divine hag - a being bound to winter, storms, and the shaping of the land itself.
But legend tells that she was not always old.
Once, long ago, she was young and radiant - a queen who ruled the land and took many lovers. But the world moves on, and so did she. The earth aged, and she aged with it. As the hills softened and the seas carved deeper into the coast, time wore her down as surely as salt and wind wear stone.
She is said to have lived through seven long lifetimes, outlasting everyone she ever loved.
The most enduring tale places her on the Beara Peninsula, standing at the edge of the land and staring out across the Atlantic. There she waits for her husband, Manannán mac Lir, the god of the sea, who sailed westward and never returned.
She never followed him.
Instead, she stayed - braced against the wind, eyes fixed on the horizon. Years passed. Centuries. Ages. At last, worn down by waiting and weather, she turned to stone, her face still set towards the ocean. That stone, grey and lichen-covered, is said to be all that remains of her now: the Hag of Beara, still watching the sea, still waiting.
Later Christian stories tell it differently.
In those versions, the Hag steals a holy book from Saint Caitiarán. When confronted, she refuses to give it back, and the saint curses her for her defiance, turning her to stone where she stands.
The Hag’s power is strongest in winter. At Samhain - Halloween, when the old year dies and the dark season begins - she is said to walk the land. Frost follows her footsteps. Storms rise at her bidding. People and cattle are driven indoors.
Her reign is assured until Imbolc, on the 1st of February. On that day tradition says if the weather is fine, the Cailleach is out gathering firewood, and winter will linger. If the weather is foul, she is asleep - and winter is nearly done.
This belief lingers on in St Brigid’s Day. This saint is young and beautiful, and when she takes over the land winter loosens its grip. In some stories, Brigid replaces the Cailleach entirely. In others, she is the Cailleach herself, a goddess, renewed and made young again.
The Hag of Beara was once one of the great figures of Irish mythology, and her presence is felt far beyond Cork. Across Ireland, stones, hills, and ancient monuments are linked to her. In County Meath, the Hag’s Chair at the Loughcrew passage tombs is said to be where she sat, looking out over the land she shaped.
So when winter draws in, and the storms batter the coast, remember the old stories. The Cailleach is abroad, freezing the ground and scouring the land - but she never stays forever. Even goddesses must move on in the end.
And when she does, she leaves spring behind her.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. If you enjoyed this piece, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow available worldwide on Amazon. Search P A Sheldon.
Alternatively, you’ll find plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Until next week — stay spooky.
★★★★★
‘Folklore horror at its best’
Amazon Reviewer
Steve Howard
Sources
Wikipedia
theirishplace.com
thegypsythread.org
The Grey Man of Ben Macdui: Scotland’s Most Terrifying Mountain Legend
The Big Grey man of Ben Macdui. Both a hairy and hair raising sight…
The Cairngorms are a mountain range found in the eastern reaches of the Scottish Highlands, characterised by an Arctic-like plateau. They are home to the second-highest mountain in Scotland - and in all of the British Isles. Ben Macdui, meaning “MacDuff’s mountain.” It is a popular destination for mountain walkers, despite being reputedly haunted by a large, wraith-like being.
This entity goes by the Gaelic name Am Fear Liath Mòr (“the Big Grey Man”), but is also known as the Big Grey Man of Ben Macdui, or simply the Grey man. He has been encountered by many people, some of them quite experienced mountaineers, and all of them agree on one thing: he is terrifying.
He is rarely seen. Instead, people report a sudden, overwhelming sense of being watched, accompanied by the steady sound of footsteps crunching behind them. This is often paired with an intense feeling of dread or panic, sometimes strong enough to send even experienced mountaineers fleeing downhill. Those unlucky few who claim to have laid eyes upon it describe an enormous shadow, far taller than any man, looming out of the fog towards them.
The first recorded account of the Grey man was given by J. Norman Collie in 1925. A respected professor and member of the Royal Geographical Society, Collie recounted a terrifying experience he had whilst hiking alone near the summit of Ben Macdui in 1891:
I was returning from the cairn on the summit in a mist when I began to think I heard something other than merely the noise of my own footsteps. Every few steps I took I heard a crunch, and then another crunch, as if someone was walking after me but taking steps three or four times the length of my own. I said to myself, this is all nonsense. I listened and heard it again, but could see nothing in the mist. As I walked on and the eerie crunch, crunch sounded behind me, I was seized with terror and took to my heels, staggering blindly among the boulders for four or five miles, nearly down to Rothiemurchus Forest. Whatever you make of it, I do not know, but there is something very queer about the top of Ben Macdui and I will not go back there again.
It was Collie’s account, reported in the local press, that opened the floodgates. Other climbers soon came forward with their own stories. One climber, Hugh D. Welsh, said that he and his brother hiked to the summit in 1904. Throughout the day and night, they heard “slurring footsteps, as if someone was walking through water-saturated gravel.” Both men felt “frequently conscious of something near us, and a horrible sense of apprehension.”
Peter Densham was part of a rescue team working in the Cairngorms during the Second World War. He said that one day, whilst on Ben Macdui, he heard strange noises as a thick mist rapidly closed in around him. He then felt an increasing pressure around his neck and fled in terror before witnessing anything more. Densham later told a friend and fellow mountaineer, Richard Frere, about the encounter. Frere himself had experienced strange events on that lonely mountain, and also recounted how another friend - who wished to remain anonymous - had once camped on Ben Macdui, only to be awakened during the night by an inescapable sense of dread. Summoning enough courage to look out of his tent, he was greeted by the sight of a large, dark-hairy figure silhouetted against the moonlight.
In 1958, The Scots Magazine published a piece by naturalist Alexander Tewnion, describing his own encounter with the thing in 1943:
I spent a ten-day leave climbing alone in the Cairngorms. One afternoon, just as I reached the summit cairn of Ben MacDhui, mist swirled across the Lairig Ghru and enveloped the mountain. The atmosphere became dark and oppressive; a fierce, bitter wind whisked among the boulders, and… an odd sound echoed through the mist – a loud footstep, it seemed. Then another, and another… A strange shape loomed up, receded, then came charging at me! Without hesitation I whipped out my revolver and fired three times at the figure. When it still came on, I turned and hared down the path, reaching Glen Derry in a time I have never bettered. You may ask: was it really the Fear Liath Mòr? Frankly, I think it was.
To date, no one has managed to photograph the Grey man. However, photographer John A. Rennie claimed to have discovered a series of strange footprints in the Spey Valley. These were far too large to be human. He is said to have photographed them and published the images in a book, though I have been unable to locate any copies of these photographs.
So what is it that haunts the peaks and passes of Ben Macdui? Some researchers have suggested that the region is home to a Yeti-like being - a sort of British Bigfoot - that wanders the wilderness and makes the Cairngorms its home. Others have hinted that it may be a ghost: the spectral remnants of one of humanity’s primitive ancestors, forever doomed to roam this wild place.
The sceptical explanation is the Brocken spectre - a natural optical phenomenon in which your own shadow is projected onto mist and appears gigantic, often ringed with a halo. Combined with exhaustion, isolation, and the eerie acoustics of the plateau, it could account for some sightings.
But… not all.
The footsteps.
The pacing.
The shared dread across multiple witnesses.
Those are harder to shrug off.
One thing is certain: it takes a brave soul to camp on Ben Macdui, particularly at dusk, as the mists begin to draw in.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this strange tale has not put you off visiting the Highlands, which are a truly stunning region. If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of my book, Fireside Horror - a terrifying folk-horror novel told through short stories, available on all Amazon stores. I have enclosed links to the UK and US versions below. It are also available to order from Waterstones.
Until next week,
Stay spooky.
HORROR REVIEW
★★★★★
‘A gem of a book’
Sources
Wikipedia
folklorescotland.com
scotclans.com/pages/the-fear-liath
The Black Nun of Llangrannog: A Ghost, a Tulpa, or a Shared myth?
The Black Nun of Llangrannog.
The little coastal village of Llangrannog, located in the Welsh county of Ceredigion, is a rather charming place. It lies at the end of the narrow valley of the River Hawen, whose waterfall cascades close to the settlement. On the beach stands a striking, sea-weathered rock stack pointing out towards the bay, known as Carreg Bica (Bica’s Rock).
Legend tells that this rock was once the tooth of the giant Bica, who dwelt in the county. One day, after suffering from a terrible toothache, he was forced to spit the offending tooth onto the beach, where it can still be seen today.
But Llangrannog is a village stained with a legend far darker and more unpleasant than that of a giant and his rotten gnashers. For it is home to a very modern myth - a Welsh campsite ghost story - a tale that has chilled youngsters for decades: The Black Nun.
Urdd Gobaith Cymru is an activity centre located close to Llangrannog. It has been active since 1922 and was founded by Sir Ifan ab Owen Edwards. Children travel there on school trips to take part in outdoor activities, drama classes, and team-building exercises, all conducted through the Welsh language. They sleep overnight at the residential centre, and for many children this is their first time away from home.
The legend of the Black Nun was possibly created by the children themselves to scare one another at night in their bunks, or perhaps even by members of the residential staff. The basic elements of the tale vary, but common details speak of a faceless or shadowy nun who roams the dormitories and corridors at night, punishing children who stay up after lights-out, or stealing the eyes or tongues of unsuspecting sleepers. Some versions even claim that she killed a girl and hid the body beneath a bunk bed — usually, unnervingly, in the very room the listeners were staying in.
A common memory - and complaint - among residential staff was having to sand away graffiti about the Black Nun, often scratched into the bunk beds themselves. One theory suggests the tale may have been influenced by a 1978 episode of the television series Armchair Thriller, which featured a similarly sinister nun. Today, ex-residents and former staff often recall teachers or older pupils playing pranks on the unwary to keep the legend alive.
However, some ex-residents have gone online to report what they describe as genuine encounters with the Nun on forums and chat rooms. One claims that he and his friends were looking out of a window at dusk when they saw the Nun sitting on a swing. The sight terrified them, leading to a troubled night’s sleep. Another commentator reported seeing a figure dressed in black rush past their dormitory window.
Despite my best efforts, I could find no evidence of a nunnery ever existing near this location. So what are we to make of these stories? They could, of course, be tall tales spread to frighten new arrivals - or perhaps something truly does walk the halls at night.
Tibetan Buddhist mysticism speaks of a phenomenon known as a Tulpa, a being created through sustained thought, belief, and repetition — an idea given shape until it behaves as if it were real. Could the shared fear and belief of thousands of children have created a shadowy entity where originally none existed? Tulpas are often described as vague, indistinct figures, which to the impressionable and over-excited mind of a child could easily be mistaken for a nun.
So what is the Black Nun of Llangrannog? A ghostly remnant of some long-lost and forgotten convent? A Tulpa given form through decades of belief? Or an intriguing example of a modern legend, told and retold by generation after generation of children, surviving on through internet chat rooms and memory?
I will let you, dear reader, decide for yourself.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this ghostly tale has left you trembling with a pleasurable fear. If you enjoy what I do, please consider picking up a copy of either of my books, Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror, terrifying folk-horror collections told through short stories — available on all Amazon stores, I have enclosed link to the UK & US versions below.
Until next week,
Stay spooky.
Sharon Joy Reads
‘Exceptional folkloric horror’
★★★★★
Sources
Wikipedia
Walesonline.co.uk
walescoastpath.gov.uk
nation.cymru/culture
Stories from Reddit
The Tiddy Mun: Lincolnshire Folklore Brought to Life by Wergulu Blue
Following on from my blog about our old friend Tiddy Mun, link here. I’m delighted to share a piece of music that captures the spirit of Lincolnshire’s folklore.
The band Wergulu Blue have written a song inspired by the legend of the Tiddy Mun - the ancient, dwarf-like being said to dwell in the fenland waterways, punishing those who disrespect the land. Their track is steeped in atmosphere, and feels like a natural companion to the folklore itself.
If you’re drawn to folk-horror, forgotten legends, and music that feels rooted in place and myth, I highly recommend giving this a listen.
Wergulu Blue in thier own words.
Wergulu Blue was started about 7 years ago. As a songwriter I am inspired by the natural world and our relationship to it. My songs are written from the imagined perspective of specific individuals or ancestors and contain a sense of place and time. I say the songs are written but really, the learning and the research in folklore and history directs the narrative and I find true stories more compelling and engaging than fiction. My aim is to help keep our folklore alive and strengthen the nourishing bond we have with our land. Our songs have been played regularly over the last two years on Rock Radio UK by Roger Nicholls on the excelllent Walrus and Carpenter Show.
🎶 Wergulu Blue – “Tiddy Mun”
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dvwmt3JDNx4
My thanks to Wergulu Blue for sharing their work - it’s wonderful to see old legends finding new voices.
Stay Spooky
A Reflection on my story 'Fallen Leaves'
I wanted to share an analysis sent to me by one of my readers on Fallen Leaves, the second - and perhaps one of the key - story in Threads of Shadow. A number of readers have now told me that this is the piece they return to once they’ve finished the whole book, revisiting it to gain a deeper understanding of how it connects to the novel as a whole. Anyway a really Big thanks to Sally Billingham for taking the time to read my book and write this analysis.
The Smiling Face of Evil: On Fallen Leaves
By Sally Billingham
Fallen Leaves is a quietly devastating piece of Gothic horror, one that relies not on shock or spectacle but on atmosphere, implication, and the slow erosion of safety. Set in Edwardian England and narrated by an eleven-year-old girl, the story uses a child’s voice to explore themes of innocence, authority, deception, and the persistence of ancient evil beneath civilised surfaces.
At its heart, the story is about absence. Almost every protection that should keep the narrator safe is removed, one by one. Her mother is dead. Her father is away on church business. Miss Preece, who has become a surrogate maternal figure, vanishes abruptly. Even Ned, the earthy, practical presence who understands the land and its dangers, is temporarily misled and sent away. What remains is a house that looks safe but is no longer so, and an adult who wears respectability like a costume.
The narrator’s voice is one of the story’s greatest strengths. She is observant, articulate, and emotionally intelligent, but still unmistakably a child. Her fear is not melodramatic; it is tentative, rationalised, and often suppressed. She repeatedly tells herself she is “a big girl,” that she should not be afraid, which only emphasises how frightened she truly is. Her attempts to understand events are shaped by limited experience, making moments of horror land more sharply. When she hesitates, when she fails to bang on the window or runs instead of helping Ned, the story does not judge her. It recognises fear for what it is: paralysing, especially in the young.
Uncle Roger is a deeply unsettling antagonist precisely because he is so plausible. He does not arrive as a monster, but as a well-dressed, smiling missionary uncle. His authority is rooted in confidence, religious language, and adult composure. He lies easily and convincingly, reframing reality until even the reader momentarily wonders whether the child might be mistaken. His attempt to present her as mentally unwell is particularly chilling, echoing real historical abuses of power, where children, especially girls, were silenced by claims of hysteria or delusion.
What makes him truly frightening is that he operates on two levels at once. He is both a human predator and a cultist serving something older and vastly more powerful than himself. His obsession with the oak tree reveals that he has not stumbled upon this evil accidentally; he has sought it out. The rituals beneath the tree parody Christian worship, twisting familiar gestures of prayer into acts of summoning and submission.
The oak tree itself is a potent symbol. Marked by ancient symbols, bound with copper wire, and surrounded by fallen leaves, it represents a pre-Christian, pre-human power that has never truly left the land. The vicarage, built nearby, feels less like a conquest of evil than a fragile attempt at stewardship. When that stewardship falters, the old forces reassert themselves. The leaf-entity - faceless, towering, and made of decay - is not just a monster but a manifestation of cyclical violence and forgotten history returning to claim the present.
Miss Preece’s fate is handled with restraint, which makes it all the more horrifying. Her disappearance is explained away with polite lies and social convention, yet the truth is revealed obliquely, in moonlight, among rags and fallen leaves. The image of her familiar face among the debris is one of the story’s most powerful moments, precisely because it is not lingered over.
Ned, meanwhile, embodies hard-won wisdom and moral clarity. He distrusts Uncle Roger instinctively, understands the danger of the land, and ultimately believes the child without hesitation. His failure is not moral but circumstantial - he trusts when he should not, delays when urgency is needed. His likely death is tragic not because it is graphic, but because it is inevitable once he chooses to protect her.
The ending of Fallen Leaves refuses comfort. There is no rescue, no revelation that arrives in time, no adult authority to intervene. Instead, the story closes with anticipation - a door opening, a child hiding beneath covers, clutching a doll that has listened to every fear without judgement. Molly, the rag doll, becomes the last refuge of innocence when all human protection has failed.
Ultimately, Fallen Leaves is not about defeating evil, but about how easily it enters when safeguards collapse - and how ancient, patient, and hungry it is. It is a story that understands that the most frightening horrors are not those that roar loudly, but those that smile, speak softly, and wait for the moment when no one is watching.
Herne the Hunter: The Ghostly Legend of Windsor Great Park
Herne the Hunter. Reader feel free to insert horn joke at your leisure.
The county of Berkshire, officially known as the Royal County of Berkshire, is located in the south-east of England, just west of the capital city of London. Beautiful chalk downland makes up parts of its western reaches, while along its southern border with the county of Surrey lies a place once known as Windsor Forest, now called Windsor Great Park. A place with a haunting mystery.
Windsor Great Park is a Royal Park and, for many centuries, served as the private hunting ground of Windsor Castle. Today, it is a gently undulating landscape of sweeping deer lawns, small woods, coverts, and areas dominated by ancient oak trees. In the past, however, it was more heavily forested, wilder, perhaps even more sinister - and said by some to be home to a legendary ghost.
Herne the Hunter is a terrifying sight. His spectral form is said to ride through the parkland on a phantom steed, antlers sprouting from his head like those of some prehistoric deity. He is believed to torment cattle, while the rattling of his chains can be heard echoing through the lush woodland.
The earliest literary reference to Herne comes from William Shakespeare’s The Merry Wives of Windsor, written in 1597. The Bard describes the woodland spectre as follows:
There is an old tale goes, that Herne the Hunter
(sometime a keeper here in Windsor Forest)
Doth all the winter-time, at still midnight
Walk round about an oak, with great ragg'd horns;
And there he blasts the tree, and takes the cattle,
And makes milch-kine yield blood, and shakes a chain
In a most hideous and dreadful manner.
You have heard of such a spirit, and well you know
The superstitious idle-headed eld
Receiv'd, and did deliver to our age
This tale of Herne the Hunter for a truth.
- William Shakespeare, The Merry Wives of Windsor, Act IV, Scene IV
It has been suggested that this passage implies Herne was already an established folk legend by Shakespeare’s time, as he is treated as a well-known ghost story familiar to the audience. Nearly two hundred years later, in 1792, Samuel Ireland expanded on the legend:
The story of this Herne, who was keeper in the forest in the time of Elizabeth, runs thus: — That having committed some great offence, for which he feared to lose his situation and fall into disgrace, he was induced to hang himself on this tree.
The idea of suicide aligns with the traditional belief that such a death would result in a restless spirit. Shakespeare’s reference to rattling chains is also a common ghostly motif.
The supposed location of Herne’s Oak, the tree where he is believed to have ended his life, was uncertain for many years and the subject of much speculation. An oak just north of Frogmore House in the Home Park was eventually named Herne’s Oak, but it was felled in 1796. In 1838, Queen Victoria had another tree planted and gave it the same name; however, this too was blown down in a storm nearly thirty years later. The current oak bearing the title was planted in 1906.
Herne’s horns are a much-discussed feature of the legend, as they are an unusual addition to a ghostly figure. Some have suggested they link him to ancient pagan horned gods of nature, such as Cernunnos, or to other folkloric figures like the Green Man, though some academics dispute this theory.
Another idea is that the horns were Shakespeare’s invention, added to better suit the forest setting or to evoke the humorous image of antlers resembling a cuckold’s horns - a visual joke that would have resonated with an Elizabethan audience. Later versions of the legend also claim that Herne leads the Wild Hunt on certain wild nights of the year.
Supposed Sightings
The most recent recorded sighting of Herne occurred in 1976, when a guard reported seeing what he initially believed to be a horned statue walking through the parkland. He was also supposedly seen by a group of Eton schoolboys in the woods in 1962. After discovering an old hunting horn, they unwisely blew upon it and were chased from the area by Herne himself, mounted upon his steed. Herne is also said to appear as an omen before a royal death.
Herne has featured in many books and television shows, such as The Box of Delights by John Masefield and an old favourite of mine, Robin of Sherwood, where he takes on the role of mentor and guide to Robin of Loxley.
Does the ghost of Herne the Hunter still ride through Windsor Great Park, his steed bounding across that ancient and noble parkland, terrifying unsuspecting ramblers? I cannot say - but I like to imagine that he does.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope you enjoyed this piece of folklore. If you did, please consider picking up a copy of either of my books, Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror - terrifying folk novels told through short stories. Available from all Amazon stores. A link can be found below.
‘Exceptional folkloric horror’
★★★★★
Sharon Joy Reads.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Stay Spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
Berkshirelive
The Merry Wives of Windsor by William Shakespeare (1597)
countryfile.com
Slua Sí Folklore: The Wind-Riding Host of the Dead
The Slua Sí - A Storm of the dead
The wind is something we all take for granted. A summer breeze cools our skin; a winter gale causes us to shut our windows and doors tight and stay within the warmth of our homes. We know the wind is there, but for the most part we give it little thought.
There are, however, some people and cultures who actively fear the wind and what it may bring with it.
Both Irish and Scottish folklore speak of an unsettling horde: a supernatural army that rides the skies at night, taking the form of a wild storm, particularly on the 31st of October - Halloween. It is a damned troupe, not mournful but predatory: the Slua Sí.
Slua Sí (pronounced sloo-ah shee), meaning Fairy Host, is the Irish name for this dreaded supernatural force. In Scottish Gaelic it is known as Sluagh na Marbh (pronounced SLOO-ah na MAR-uv), the Host of the Dead. The term Fairy Host is a confusing one, as the Slua Sí are not truly fairies. Rather, they are considered to be a terrifying host of the airborne spirits of the dead.
Perhaps a better rendering of the name - one that more accurately reflects how they are understood in legend - would be “The Host of the Unforgiven Dead.” For centuries it was believed that the evil souls of the restless departed were denied access to the Otherworld by the ancient gods. These malevolent entities found themselves trapped between the realms of the living and the dead, forever cursed, and only able to ride forth on those few occasions each year when the veil between worlds is thinnest.
The Slua Sí travel on the wind, sometimes in a crescent formation like a flock of dark birds, stark against the grey sky. At other times they appear as a violent storm or whirlwind, capable of carrying away any unfortunate soul wandering the Gaelic wilderness.
In bad weather, it is always wise to seek shelter - although where The Slua Sí are concerned even this offers no guarantee of protection. The terrible host was believed to steal gifted children from their beds, replacing them with sick or broken members of their own ranks who were no longer of any use. Those taken by this unnatural army were rarely, if ever, seen again, doomed to be trapped forever among the vicious horde.
There are ways to protect oneself from the Slua Sí. As is often the case with supernatural entities, they were said to be repelled by iron. Christian prayer and symbols, particularly the cross, were also believed to keep them at bay. Folk were advised to avoid lonely lanes and byways at night, and to secure all doors and windows when storms swept in - though, to be fair, most of us would do that anyway.
So as the wind rises and the trees shudder beneath the force of a gale, can you ever be truly certain that what you hear outside is merely a natural thing? Or could it be something far worse - something that might take not only your life, but your very soul?
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this piece of folklore has left you trembling with just the right amount of pleasurable fear. If you enjoy my work, please consider picking up a copy of my new book, Threads of Shadow - links below.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Until next week - stay spooky.
★★★★★
‘Folklore horror at it best’
Amazon Reviewer
Steve Howard.
Sources
Wikipedia
spookyisles.com/slua-sidhe-fairy-ireland
lairbhan.blogspot.com
The Baobhan Sith: The Vampire Fairy of Scottish Highland Folklore
The Baobhan Sith - Hunters beware.
Far to the north lies a wind-swept, rain-beaten region of the British Isles: sparsely populated, breathtakingly beautiful, and full of mountain peaks that seem to brush the clouds. Deep, shaded valleys cut through a landscape dotted with heather, where craggy rocks push stubbornly through the grass. It is a place long beloved of writers and artists - the Scottish Highlands.
Over the centuries, the people who have called this unforgiving land home have been hardy folk: crofters, small landowners, and tenant farmers who eked out a living by growing crops or raising cattle in the mountain pastures. Crofting was closely linked to Gaelic culture, with neighbouring crofting families supporting one another through difficult times. It is no surprise, then, that such a region - and such people - should possess a rich and intriguing body of folklore. One such tale speaks of a much-feared being, said to prey upon men as they travel the Highlands about their business: the Baobhan Sith.
The Baobhan Sith (pronounced BAA-van shee) translates from Scottish Gaelic as ‘fairy witch’ or ‘fairy hag’. She is a chilling entity, a member of the Fair Folk, but she is no benign, butterfly-winged creature of children’s fairy tales. She is described as lithe and beautiful, with rich red hair, and clad in a green or white dress. The glamour she casts about herself conceals her true appearance, however, it is not flawless, for she cannot fully conceal her deer hooves, which may be glimpsed beneath her gown.
She shares many similarities with a vampire or succubus, though she is neither undead nor demonic. Generally, she targets hunters, using her charms to put them at ease before draining their blood once they are enveloped in her warm embrace. In many stories, she appears after a hunter expresses a desire for female companionship. A typical tale is given below.
Four men went hunting and took shelter for the night in a lonely shieling. One of the men provided music while the others began to dance. Before long, the men expressed a wish for partners, and soon afterwards four women entered the hut. Three of the hunters danced and made merry with their lovely companions. One, however, was more canny than the rest. Noticing the hooves protruding from beneath one of the women’s dresses, he fled outside and sought refuge among the horses, knowing that fairy beings could not bear the presence of their iron horseshoes. When he returned at dawn, the women were gone, and his friends lay dead - their bodies red ruins.
In some accounts, when the Baobhan Sith begins to feed, her beauty fades and her true visage is revealed. Her skin pales to the hue of a corpse, and her eyes - once bright with the promise of love and affection - darken, becoming cruel and merciless. It would seem that she is bound to the wild places of the Highlands, for there are no accounts of her troubling settlements.
One is left to wonder whether this story was spread by shrewd wives seeking to deter their husbands from straying with wild local lasses while out hunting in the hills.
Thank you for taking the time to read my blog. I hope this little piece of Highland folklore set you trembling with a pleasurable fear. If you enjoy what I do, please consider picking up a copy of my either of my books, Threads of Shadow or Fireside Horror , terrifying folk novels told through short stories - link below.
‘Exceptional folkloric horror’
★★★★★
Sharon Joy Reads.
Alternatively, there are plenty of free stories, written by yours truly, available in the download section of this website.
Stay Spooky.
Sources
Wikipedia
folklorescotland.com
spookyscotland.net/baobhan-sith