The Nightmare Nuckelavee
The Nuckelavee, a terrifying Orcadian Myth.
The Orkney Isles, is an archipelago that lies on the North Coast of Scotland. There are seventy islands in all, of which twenty are occupied. The local residents are called Orcadians, and they have many rich traditions and stories.
There is some wonderful archaeology to be discovered on these isles, from the Neolithic settlement of Skara Brae, to Maeshowe passage grave, and The Ring of Brodgar standing stones, all of which are simply dripping with tales and lore. But today we are going to deal with the tale of what one Folklorist, Katharine Briggs, called ‘The Nastiest’ of all the Demons of the Scottish Isles, The Nuckelavee.
The term nuckelavee derives from the Orcadian knoggelvi, which translates to ‘Devil of the Sea.’ This horrible being is a malevolent Sea Demon, with sadly nothing good to redeem it. A entity called ‘The Mither of the Sea’ is said to keep it confined to the ocean during the summer months, but outside this all to brief window, it is free to roam where it pleases.
What form it takes whilst in its dark, salty realm is not clear. But we do have a description of the creature on land, given by a witness called Tammas. This unfortunate islander was walking home one moonlit night when his path drew close to the beach. He became aware of something ahead moving towards him. at first he believed it to be a rider on horseback, but the closer it got, the larger it became, and soon he realised that it was far too big to be a mere man mounted on a steed.
Brave Tammas said he stood his ground, and uttered a prayer. Then the moonlight finally revealed the terrible nature of the thing before him. A horrific melding of man and horse. The beast was skinless, every sinew of muscle and pulsing vein visible. The body of the rider was legless and seemed to grow from the back of his mount. Its arms were long and ended in massive hands. The equine head had an enormous gaping mouth that exuded a pungent, toxic vapour, and a single giant eye, that burned like a flame.
Tammas made the sensible decision and fled. The creature gave chase, but our hero was able to ford a small stream, and so the beast, who could not abide fresh water, was unable to continue pursuit.
Folklorists believe that this bizarre being was used to explain mysterious vanishings and incidents that occurred on those storm battered islands. Orcadian tales are strongly influence by their Celtic and Scandinavian roots, so it is possible the thing has it origins in the story of a mythic creature bought in by Norse settlers, and combined with native tales of the Water Horse.
With such a terrible thing roaming about, it cannot be a surprise to learn that the poor folk of the Orkney Isles, keep themselves locked in doors at night during the dark months.
Here is a song about the Nuckelavee for you to enjoy dear friends, click the link below to listen on youtube.
Ghostly Folklore for Bonfire Night. The Spirit of Holbeche House.
A Bonfire, on which burns the effigy of Guy Fawkes.
The Gunpowder Plot, was an attempt to blow up the Houses of Parliament on the 5th November 1605, when the protestant King James I was in residence, it failed when the gunpowder and the man guarding it, Guy Fawkes, was discovered. Now throughout England, on the anniversary of the event, fire works are detonated, and effigies of Fawkes are burned on bonfires to celebrate the foiling of the attack.
When their actions were discovered the men behind the plot, a small group of provincial English Catholics, took shelter in the West Midlands in the home of Stephen Lyttleton, located close to the village of Kingswinford (originally named, Kings Swine Ford.) The Property was called Holbeche House.
They were in turn discovered when a barrel of gun powder they were attempting to dry out by the fire, caught a spark, and exploded - health and safety gentlemen, please. Drawing the local sheriff and his men to the property, a musket battle ensued, the scars of which can still be found on the walls of the house.
Naturally, the place (now a care home) has a reputation for being haunted, I remember being told, as a boy, that you could hear the ghostly sounds of that final fight yearly on its autumnal anniversary. But the chief spectre of the place is a phantom horseman, said to be the unfortunate servant of Stephen Lyttleton, a man who went by the name Gideon Grove.
When the sheriff arrived to apprehend the plotters. Poor Gideon, innocent of any knowledge of the conspiracy, attempted to flee on horseback, he was chased by some of the sheriffs men, and could well have made good his escape, had he not become bogged down in some marshy woodland close to Himley Hall. It was here that his pursuers caught up with him, and despite pleading his innocence, they shot him dead.
His ghost is said to have terrified many a local cyclist and driver as they make their way along the Bridgnorth Road. Silently galloping past them before, turning towards Himley Hall and vanishing into the woods.
With the 5th November upon us, I have little doubt that he will ride again, galloping those roads and lanes, following that fateful route from house to swamp before disappearing for another year.
I hope you enjoyed this horrific little tale, I will leave you with the famous, Bonfire night poem.
Remember, remember, the 5th of November,
Gunpowder, treason and plot.
I see no reason
Why gunpowder treason
Should ever be forgot.
Guy Fawkes, Guy Fawkes, 'twas his intent
To blow up the King and the Parliament
Three score barrels of powder below
Poor old England to overthrow
By God's providence he was catch'd
With a dark lantern and burning match
Holler boys, holler boys, let the bells ring
Holler boys, holler boys
God save the King!
A Ghostly Folk tale for Halloween - The Haunting of Gibbet Lane.
A Gibbeted Man!
Gibbett lane runs from the small town of Stourbridge in the West Midlands, England, to the village of Kinver. This lonely path did not always bear this name.
Many years ago in 1812 a wealthy farmer from Dunsley Bank, who went by the name of Benjamin Robbins, had been visiting the local market at Stourbridge. He had tarried at an Ale House, The Nags Head, to enjoy its hospitality, whilst there he foolishly boasted about what a profitable day it had been for him. Unfortunately, he was overheard by William Howe, a local joiner who was down on his luck, and who fancied himself the highwayman.
When Ben finally left the public house, it was noted that William followed him shortly afterwards. Benjamin made his way down Fir Tree Lane, when he got about half a mile from his home, he was approached by William, who shot him in the back with a pistol, then stole a fine silver pocket watch and 21 shillings (a decent amount in those days.)
The Farmer must have been a hardy man for he was able to crawl home, where he was tended to by two locals doctors, sadly he lost his battle for life 10 days later.
The gentleman farmers of Kinver and Stourbridge were outraged by this crime and pressured the local magistrate to do something. He called in two Bow Street Runners to investigate the case, eventually they tracked down William Howe and he was imprisoned at Stafford.
There were two main pieces of evidence that saw him convicted of murder. Firstly William was identified by a pawnbroker, as the man who had pawned Bens expensive watch. Secondly it was discovered he owned two pistols.
He was sentenced and hung for his crimes, and then gibbeted from a tree close to the sight of the murder. When someone is gibbeted their dead body is hung in a cage for all too see, a terrifying sight for local travellers. A source of grim mythology for local boys. Ever afterwards the path was known as Gibbet Lane.
Eventually a year later his body was pulled down and his remains supposedly buried beneath the tree on which he hung.
Now Gibbet Lane is a haunted place, travellers report hearing strange noises, or of seeing odd shadows moving behind hedgerows. It was local sport amongst young men in the nearby public houses to dare each other to walk to the Gibbet tree, and see how long they could stand there in the dark. Many a brave fellow returned to the pub, shaking and unwilling to speak of what he had seen.
Here are two of the best reported encounters with this horrific spirit. Firstly, whilst he was gibbeted, two school children came along to have a look at the gruesome remains, one of them shouted up to ask William how he felt. He recieved the eerie response, “cold and clammy”.
Secondly, in the 1940’s a lady was walking along Gibbet Lane on a moonlit evening when she became aware of someone following her. It was, she said, the phantom, his neck stretched, swaying from side to side as if broken . This terrifying spirit only vanished upon reaching the spot were William Howe’s corpse had hung in chains.
Thank you for joining me for these spooky Halloween folkstories, I do hope you have enjoyed them as much as I have enjoyed writing them. Next week is Bonfire night and I have found a particularly chilling tale connected to that ill fated evening which I will share. Until then, stay spooky friend.
Free Audio Ghost Story
Fireside Horror has been made into an audio book, narrated by the very talented Aubrey Parsons.
As part of the promotion I have made one of the horror stories, ‘The Gribblies,’ available as a free download. please go to the DOWNLOADS section of my website, you will find it there, a creepy story to listen to and enjoy over the Halloween period.
If you would like a copy of the full audio book please click on the link below it will take you to the Amazon webpage, or visit Audible or ITunes.
Fireside Horror - The Audio Book.
Many weeks ago I registered on ACX and auditioned for a narrator for my book ‘Fireside Horror.’ I was extremely fortunate to find Aubrey Parsons, a very talented voice actor, who has done a wonderful job bringing the book and characters to life.
Finally his efforts and hard work are available for people to enjoy, ‘Fireside Horror’ the Audio Book can be found on Amazon, Audible and ITunes.
Ghostly Folklore for Halloween - The Headless Horseman of Butterton.
The Headless Horseman.
Deep in the bleak moorlands of Northern Staffordshire, in the United Kingdom, is the small village of Butterton.
This charming little Hamlet, and the surrounding countryside, is said to be the haunt of a frightful spectre, know locally as ‘The Headless Horseman of Butterton.’
He is said to ride from Onecote across the moors passing Butterton before finishing his journey at Warslow. Thus spreading his haunting activities between three villages in a very even handed way.
His legend is well known in the local area, with many people claiming to have seen him (we will get into that latter.) In fact, in the early 1930’s a hunt for this phantom was organised by a group of ramblers, many people learned of this expedition and they were joined in the search by lots of local folk, despite their best efforts the hunt was not a success and the devilish rider eluded them.
The origins of this terrifying folktale are a little hard to trace, but it is suggested that he is either the phantom of a knight killed in battle with the Scots, whose horse bought his master’s headless body home. Or, it is the shade of a peddler, murdered by robbers who, for a practical joke, severed his head, tide him to his horse and sent him galloping off.
There are many people who claim to have seen this terrifying entity, here are just a few of the accounts given.
'A man returning from Leek, perhaps somewhat market fresh sees before him, a little beyond Leek Edge, a neighbour on horseback, whom he hails for a request for a ‘lift’ homewards. No sooner, however, has he mounted behind him than to his horror finds that his companion is the goblin horseman. The discovery comes too late for away springs the horse, covering at a bound, fields, trees, hedges and ditches…the luckless wight at one moment feeling his feet brushing through the topmost twigs, and the next borne with whirlwind swiftness over the heath. In the upshot, he is found deposited at his own door, helpless and groaning, and so maimed and bruised that death in a few days puts an end to his sufferings.'
A Mrs Wood of Back Lane in Butterton also gave details of her encounter, when returning home one evening from the May Fair. She was walking down a lane towards her cottage when she became aware of something drawing near, she jumped over a wall and crouching down, was horrified to spy the headless horseman approaching. He turned his steed and rode through the wall of a local building, vanishing.
One local man, who saw the ghost in the 1930’s described it as, ‘a man on a horse without a yed on, an awful gory sight.’
Some have suggested that the story might be linked to that of ‘Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.’ as apparently the tale was written in the dialect of the region, and so could hint at possible connections that have been lost to history.
Thank you for joining me on this scary Halloween journey, I will return next week with more ghostly folktales, until then, stay safe, and stay spooky my friend.
Ghoslty Folklore for Halloween - The Spectre of the Flying Monk
Eilmer prepares for lift off... Chocks away!
My ghostly Halloween journey continues, today I will be looking at the spectre of Malmesbury Abbey.
Malmesbury Abbey is located in Wiltshire, in England. It was a former Benedictine Monastery first built in the 7th Century, it was finally closed at the dissolution of the monasteries in the 16th Century. It is home to the ghost of Eilmer. The monk who flew.
Eilmer’s story is an unusual one, he is said to be one of the first people to fly-or glide. His story was recorded in, The Chronicle of the Kings of England, by William of Malmesbury, a medieval historian, in about 1125 AD. Here is what he writes of Eilmer’s exploits.
He was a man learned for those times, of ripe old age, and in his early youth had hazarded a deed of remarkable boldness. He had by some means, I scarcely know what, fastened wings to his hands and feet so that, mistaking fable for truth, he might fly like Daedalus, and, collecting the breeze upon the summit of a tower, flew for more than a furlong [201 metres]. But agitated by the violence of the wind and the swirling of air, as well as by the awareness of his rash attempt, he fell, broke both his legs and was lame ever after. He used to relate as the cause of his failure, his forgetting to provide himself a tail.
If the story is true then brave (or foolish, depending on how you look at it) Eilmer glided about 201 meters, meaning he would have been in flight for approximately 15 seconds. But it is possible he is not the first person to fly!
It is said in 559 A.D, Emperor Wenxuan of Northern Qi province, China, forced his prisoners to attach themselves to kites, then throw themselves from a tower, most died. Later, in the 9th century, the Andalusian Abbas, Ibn Firnas attempted the feat with wings covered with feathers, launching himself from the Tower of Cordoba, he too was injured.
However, this is Eilmer’s story, and it is his ghost we are interested in. Witnesses who claim to have seen his spectre, talk of a hooded, ghostly monk drifting amongst the tomb stones in the Abbey graveyard, at twilight. He seems to be searching for something, and after a while he stops, throws back his head and raises his arms high-in what could be a eureka moment. Then slowly he sinks into ground, leaving a light mist behind him, which gradually dissipates. There are other reports of his spirit being seen climbing the stairs in one of the Abbey towers.
The Smithsonian channel did a short video on our man Eilmer, it is worth watching. The link is given below.
I hope you enjoyed this little bit of spooky history, I will be back with another creepy Halloween tale next week, till then, stay safe, stay spooky.
Happy Halloween - Free Book Download.
Booo....
As promised I have finally managed to figure out how to make downloadable files available on my website. So finally my short story ‘The Gribblies’ is available to download and read in .ebup and PDF format. Just click on the ‘Downloads’ section on the top menu. Please enjoy this free Halloween gift. Stay Spooky.
The DeGribblification of Fireside Horror
The Gribblies emerge from dining on some poor unsuspecting traveller, to discover they have been evicted... (they don't really resemble what I describe in the story, but this is the best picture I could come up with)
I have recently had the good fortune to work with horror writer Carson Buckingham (currently nominated for The Face of Horror Award) who kindly acted as an editor on ‘Fireside Horror.’ This editing process resulted in a few changes in the book, nothing major, but interesting changes never-the-less.
Firstly she felt the short story ‘Fireside Horror’ need tying in to the overall book more, the villain of the book does appear in this story but it is quite subtle, so I added Elspeth to the tale to link it more clearly with the rest of the book.
Secondly, it was felt that in ‘The Witchbrands of Wendlelow,’ the encounter between Dafyd Ellis and the three guardians should be explored in more detail, so it has been.
Perhaps the biggest, and saddest change is the removal of the story ‘The Gribblies.’ It’s a tale I love and one written with my Dad in mind. But I have long suspected it has no place in ‘Fireside Horror.’ It is neither part of Elspeth and Nolan’s story, or Crom Cruach’s Tale. It was there because I loved it, but it stuck out like a sore thumb. So it has gone.
The result of removing the story from the book is a reduction in production costs, and this I have passed on to the reader, the book is roughly about £1 cheaper to buy now. The Audio book had already gone into production when these edits were made and the Narrator ‘Aubrey Parsons’ has done a wonderful job bringing the stories and characters to life, as such ‘The Gribblies.’ will still appear in the audio book as a bonus story.
I am horribly aware that new readers will be missing out on this chilling little tale, and so I intend to include it on my website, where it can be enjoyed by everyone for free. I just have to put on my tech head and figure out the best way to do it. Hopefully it will be sometime this month. Eventually it will feature in a collection of Wendllow short stories that are already written and should be released next year.
Finally a special thanks to Carson for all her hard work and I enclose a link to her book below, be sure to pick up a copy for the spooky season.
Ghostly Folklore for Halloween - The Okehampton Ghost Coach
Lady Howard in her ghostly coach.
The month is October, officially the spookiest month of the year, the nights are drawing in and Halloween is approaching. It is the time for Pumpkin Spice lattes, Russet leaves and mists and mellow fruitfulness. It is also a time for ghost stories. And so, each week this month I will talk about a different ghostly folktale. I will begin this creepy journey with The Okehampton Ghost Coach.
Okehmpton is a town on the northern edge of Dartmoor, in the English county of Devon. Now Dartmoor is atmospheric place, simply dripping with strange old tales, it was also the setting of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s famous story ‘The Hound of the Baskervilles. Okehampton is a charming town and well worth a visit, nearby are the Ruins of Okehampton Castle.
The little town has an unusual ghost, that of Lady Howard, who is said to travel each night from her old family home, Fitzford House, to Okehampton castle, in a spectral coach made from the bones of her four dead husbands!
Its is a tale that has been told around winter fires in Devon for centuries. There really was a Lady Howard, she lived in the 17th century and was the daughter of John Fitz, who owned, Fitzford House, near Tavistock. He had a reputation as a bit of a bad’un. Eventually it is said he went insane and committed suicide. The Family fortune was left to his daughter Mary.
Mary managed to outlive all four of her husbands and sadly also her son. After her death she acquired a poor reputation that earned her the name ‘The Wicked Lady.’ Some what unfairly as at no time during her life was she considered wicked.
As punishment for her supposedly terrible deeds it is said that Lady Howard must nightly ride from Fitzford House to Okehampton castle, there pluck a single blade of grass from the mound and return again to Fitzford House. When all the grass is plucked from the mound her punishment will be over.
Those unlucky few who have seen her ghostly coach when walking the roads around Okehampton on dark evenings, report the sound of rattling bones as it approaches, when the coach finally appear it is pulled by four headless horses and driven by a headless rider. Each corner of the coach is adorned with the skull of one of her husbands, it is just possible to see the pale, eyeless face of Lady Howard peering from out the window. Close by the coach runs a black dog with flaming eyes.
There are an unusual amount of hauntings in the counties of Devon and neighbouring Cornwall. Various reasons have been given for this, I list some below:
The rock beneath these counties is of a kind that can trap spiritual energies which become active under the right conditions, i.e. wet and stormy.
Smuggling was rife in these areas and the scary stories were created by criminal gangs to keep people off the roads at night-so they could move their contraband undisturbed.
The unusually strong scrumpy cider brewed in this part of the country.
So there we have the tale of Lady Howard and her phantom coach. The story was also immortalised in a song collected by Reverand Sabine Baring-Gould in 1891, given below. I also provide a link to the song as performed by the band ‘Secret Sky.’
My ladye hath a sable coach,
And horses two and four;
My ladye hath a black blood-hound
That runneth on before.
My ladye’s coach hath nodding plumes,
The driver hath no head;
My ladye is an ashen white,
As one that long is dead.
“Now pray step in!” my ladye saith,
“Now pray step in and ride.”
I thank thee, I had rather walk
Than gather to thy side.
The wheels go round without a sound,
Or tramp or turn of wheels;
As cloud at night, in pale moonlight,
Along the carriage steals.
“Now pray step in!” my ladye saith,
“Now prithee come to me.”
She takes the baby from the crib,
She sits it on her knee.
“Now pray step in!” my ladye saith,
“Now pray step in and ride.”
Then deadly pale, in waving veil,
She takes to her the bride.
“Now pray step in!” my ladye saith,
“There’s room I wot for you.”
She wav’d her hand, the coach did stand,
The Squire within she drew.
“Now pray step in!” my ladye saith,
“Why shouldst thou trudge afoot?”
She took the gaffer in by her,
His crutches in the boot.
I’d rather walk a hundred miles,
And run by night and day,
Than have that carriage halt for me
And hear my ladye say-
“Now pray step in, and make no din,
Step in with me to ride ;
There’s room, I trow, by me for you,
And all the world beside.”
The Sussex Knucker
The Knucker of Lyminster.
In the south of England lies Sussex. The name Sussex comes from the Old English Sūþsēaxe; lit. ‘South Saxons.’ It was once the Kingdom of Sussex, eventually becoming a county. It is an area containing many legends and lore, but today we will focus on the tale of the Knucker.
The name Knucker seems to have a few possible origins, one source could be the old Norse word Nikyr, which meant water monster. Another possible origin for the word is ‘Old Nick.’ slang for the devil.
There are a few different locations around Sussex where the Knucker could be located, and all the locations shared a similar feature, the presence of a ‘Knucker Hole.’ These were deep pools of water, said to be the home of the beastie, and also said to be bottomless. But what on earth is a Knucker? What did it look like? And what on earth did it get up to?
The Knucker was a water dragon, it was said to resemble a great sea serpent with wings and a blood chilling hiss. Unlike other dragons he was less interested in collecting hoards of gold and hassling Hobbits and Dwarves, and much more interested in devouring maidens (poor maidens, they always seem to get the worse end of the stick.)
Perhaps the best known Knucker lived in a Knucker hole close to the village of Lyminster. There are a few variations on his tale but an atypical version ran something like this:
Near the village of Lyminster there was a Knucker Hole said to be bottomless, and home to a dragon, the monster had terrorised the area for years and had devoured all the maidens, leaving only the Kings daughter. In desperation the King offer her hand in marriage to the person who could slay the beast. A local lad called ‘Jim Puttock’ fed The Knucker a giant poisoned pie, so large it had to be bought to the Knucker’s Hole by a horse and cart. The Dragon did not just eat the pie but devoured the horse and cart too (Now that is just greedy and unnecessary, poor horse.) Shortly afterwards it died of the effects of the poison. Unfortunately our young medieval pest controller never got to claim the King’s daughter’s hand, he himself accidentally ingested some of the poison in the pie and died the next day.
In another version of the tale it is a young knight who tries for the hand of the Princess, with similar results.
I hope you enjoyed this little foray into Dragonlore, next month is Halloween (the spooky season) and each week I will focus my blog on a different chilling tale, finishing with a very scary piece of folkore for Halloween.
Britains Weirdest Monster - The Highclere Grampus
The Highclere Grampus - in its Yew Tree home.
Highclere is a village located in England, in the northern area of the district of Hampshire. The village sits in the Wessex downs, an area of natural outstanding beauty, now there does seem to be something about monsters living in areas of natural beauty, but I suppose if I were a monster I would like to live somewhere nice too.
Highclere is perhaps most famous for Highclere Castle, the estate that was used as the location for Televisions ‘Downton Abbey.’ But Highclere also has the dubious honour of being home to one of the strangest monsters on this ancient Isle, ‘The High Clere Grampus.’
The Highclere Grampus (Not to be confused with Krampus, an Alpine Christmas Devil), made its home in an old Yew tree, in a churchyard, in the Highclere Estate Chapel. Now a Grampus is an old name for an Orca or Killer Whale, but is seldom used in this day and age.
Some people believe this tale dates back to around 1700s, maybe even before. The Highclere Grampus was said to resemble a Porpoise or maybe even a Dolphin, quite why such a creature would make a home in an Old Yew Tree is beyond me, I would have thought a lake would have been a better choice.
It was said that if locals were foolish enough to wander to close to the beasts arboreal home it would make disturbing grunting noises, causing them to flee in terror. Worse still, it was known to chase after young women, how it did this is not clear, I can only imagine it dragged itself along by its pectoral fins. Though quite how it managed to climb in and out of its Yew tree home is beyond my imagination. To be fair to this beastie there are no stories of it actually hurting anyone.
Naturally this made attending chapel on a Sunday a nightmare, girls being chased about, everyone else fleeing in terror from the beasts hideous noises. Total chaos.
The poor locals came to believed it was a denizen of Hell, sent by Old Nick himself to trouble them. They decided to approach the local Priest and asked him to deal with the problem. He agreed, and performed an exorcism. To everyone’s great relief it was banished to the Red Sea, some say for one hundred years, some say for a thousand. I personally believe it was a thousand, or else it would be back by now, terrifying modern day residents of the village.
If you enjoyed this little bit of obscure folklore, you may very well enjoy my book ‘Fireside Horror.’ It’s full of terrifying monsters, demons, cults, mysteries and ghosts. It is availsble from Waterstones online, and Amazon in the U.K. and U.S.A. Links below:
The Horror of the Hounds of Annwn
The Wild Hunt-featuring the Cŵn Annwn (Definitely not dogs you want to pet.)
In Welsh folklore, Annwn is the other world, it’s ruler is Arawn. In its earliest form it was a place of wonder, providing an afterlife of eternal youth with plenty of food and wine thrown in for good measure. But in the medieval period it started to feature in Arthurian legends, and its ruler was changed to Gwyn ap Nudd. He was a hunter and a Psychopomp-a Psycopomp is an entity that escorts or drives spirits to the afterlife.
And this is where things took a darker turn.
The first written mention of Arawn and Annwn is in The Mabinogion-an early book about Welsh mythology-in this he is portrayed in a positive way, befriending the Welsh hero Pwyll. Later with the arrival Christianity, Arawn became Nudd and took on a darker role, and Annwn, far from being a land of plenty, became Hell…
Christian tradition has Nudd being banished to Glastonbury Tor by Saint Collen, for various misdeeds. It is now that he he becomes The Wild Hunter, leading the Cŵn Annwn, hounds of Annwn-singular Ci Annwn. Christians dubbed these creatures the Hounds of Hell, believing they were owned by Satan.
The Cŵn Annwn, are said to be most active in the autumn and winter-time, the sound of their mournful baying on the cold wind was said to be an omen of death. They favourite prey was believed to be wrong doers, who they would chase down remorselessly. According to myth, the louder their growling the further away they are said to be, when they are close at hand their barking is faint, so it is then you really have to worry.
Being a hunting hound a Ci Annwn was a fairly decent sized pup. They are often portrayed as being a spectral white colour, with distinct red ears, the Celts associated the colour red with death. Some have suggested that the sound of migrating geese may have inspired legends of the Cwm Annwn. Others think that Nudd may be a Welsh personification of winter.
If you enjoy folklore and stories of the supernatural, why not try my book ‘Fireside Horror.’ It features boggarts, ghosts, prehistoric demons and cults, all inspired by folklore. It is available from Amazon and Waterstones online, links below.
The Skeletal Scarecrow of the Cotswolds
The Skeletal Scarecrow
The Area known as the Cotswolds contains many Legends and superstitions, but today I will focus primarily on the little known tale of the Skeletal Scarecrow said to haunt a field outside a idyllic little village called Broadway.
The Cotswolds is a region that can be found in the southwest of England, it is largely rural with a few pretty villages and towns dotted around. Most of the houses are made from the famous local, golden-coloured Cotswold Stone. It has been designated an ‘Area of Outstanding Natural Beauty,’ and if you ever get a chance to visit, and see the rolling hills and meandering rivers you will understand why.
Ephraim Rolfe was a simple-minded young boy, he worked as a ‘Bird Scarer.’ Bird Scarers where like human scarecrows, the job involved standing in a field often with a device called a clapper which they used to frighten away birds so they did not eat all the crops and seed. The job was usually given to young boys, (in my day youngsters got a paper round) who would be out from dawn till dusk whatever the weather, spooking the local fowl. by all accounts the pay was meager (so in that sense very similar to a paper round.)
Ephraim Rolfe may have a been a simple youngster, but he was well loved in Broadway village for his kindness to youngsters and his affinity to animals. At dusk one evening the local squire was out patrolling his land looking for hated poachers, he saw a suspicious figure lingering in one of his fields, and being a man of action he took the decision to shoot first, ask questions later. Sadly the person he shot was not a poacher, as you have probably guessed it was young Ephraim Rolfe, about his business scaring the local wildlife. It begs the question how was stupid was the squire? It was his field, and he had hired Ephrim to scare in it, so why shoot…. (sigh) never mind.
Ever since then villagers walking past that field on wild nights, when the moon emits its spectral glow through the clouds, have claimed to see the ghost of young Ephraim - a skeletal scarecrow, standing a silent lonely vigil. Legend does not identify exactly which field this phantom guards, but it is said to be next to the road leading towards Evesham. So if you feel brave enough and you find yourself in Broadway, and at lose end, why not have a evenings ramble over the fields, who knows what you may encounter.
If you enjoy folklore, ghost stories, and tales of weird monsters why not check out my book ‘Fireside Horror.’ Link below -
Yr Hen Wrach - The Crone of the Bog.
Yr Hen Wrach - The Crone
Yr Hen Wrach (roughly pronounced - Err Hen rack) is a being from Welsh folklore, her name means means Crone. She was an elderly lady, now elderly ladies in folklore get a lot of bad press, usually they are portrayed as witches or Hags (a bit harsh, believe it or not my Nan is an elderly lady and she is lovely, more than willing to share her last Hobnob Biscuit with anyone.) But I digress, Yr Hen Wrach was most certainly not an old charmer. She lived in a place called Cors Fochno (Borth Bog), one of the largest unspoilt, raised mires in Britain. The Village of Borth lay nearby.
Yr Hen Wrach was a terrible Hag-like being, believed to stand nearly seven feet tall, and terrifying to behold. She haunted the treacherous wastes, appearing from the mist shrouded bogs to lure unwary travellers to their doom, definitely not the sort of person to share her last Hobnob.
When she was in a particularly bad mood, and when the mist spread from the marshland to envelope the village of Borth she would rise from the peaty depths to wander amongst the cottages, should she discover any unfortunate person out and about, she would breath on them, this would cause the poor soul to sicken, and in some cases even die! Naturally when the people of Borth saw the mists drifting in from the mire they would lock their doors and shutter their windows.
Borth Bog holds many other tales, it is believed to be the home of a Toad, said to be the second oldest creature on Earth. Alien Big cats are regulalry seen by local folk, there is also a submerged forest which can be seen at nearby Borth bay, with tree stumps dating back to 1500BC. It is said the ancient stumps are all that remain of the lost Kingdom of Cantre’r Gwaelod, a fertile land that was drowned beneath Cardigan Bay.
I hope you enjoyed this little exploration of Welsh Folklore. If you did you may like my book ‘Fireside Horror.’ The links are below, if you feel brave enough to purchase a copy.
#Folklore #Folkhorror #paulsheldon #Horror #welshmythology #welshlegends #horror #book #horrorbook #folkhorrorbook #myths #legends
The Curse of Tiddy Mun
A picture of the Tiddy Mun (though personally I think he looks a little on the tall side, and seems to lack a beard.)
The Tiddy Mun is a character from Lincolnshire Folklore. For those outside the United Kingdom, Lincolnshire is a county in the East Midlands, it is a relatively rural area made up of rivers, fens and rolling countryside.
Years ago Lincolnshire had a lot more wetland, but it was decided that this should be drained and turned into fields for farming. This is where The Tiddy Mun comes in. The Tiddy Mun meaning ‘The Small Man’ in the local dialect, was a sort of gnome-like entity with white hair and a long white beard that would have put Gandalf to shame. He was described as being three to four spans high (A span is the distance measured by a human hand, from the tip of the thumb to the tip of the little finger) I’m not certain how accurate a form of measurement this is so please don’t use it for any DIY, unless you like wonky shelves.
As his name would suggest the Tiddy Mun was small, he was the King of the Tiddy Folk (Fairy Folk.) If ever there was flooding the local folk would go about the district chanting -
Tiddy Mun wi’out a name
Tha watter’s thruff
Which means ‘Small Man without a name, the water’s through!’ The folk would then listen for the cry of a Peewit, if they heard the birds call they would know The Tiddy Mun had taken pity on them, and the waters would soon recede. So in this respect he was quite a helpful little chap. But he also had a dark side, if people in the area drowned or disappeared, it was said The Tiddy Mun was to blame.
When King Charles I, bought in Dutch engineers to drain the fens the old Tiddy Mun was a tad annoyed, and demonstrated his displeasure by causing houses to collapse, walls to crumble and disease to spread amongst the people and their livestock. (Strangely most of these unfortunate things could have been bought about by the dramatic change in the landscape.)
Facing these horrible disasters the folk went out and poured water into the local ditches chanting -
Tiddy Mun, wi’out a name,
Here’s watter for thee,
Tak tha spell undone!
The people continued this tradition for many years, until eventually it was supposed that the Tiddy Mun had vanished from the Fens forever.
So that is the story of the amusingly named ‘Tiddy Mun,’ if you enjoy Folklore why not try my book ‘Fireside Horror’ it has had very positive reviews, the links are below.
The Afanc
The terrible Afanc
The terrible Afanc is a water monster from Welsh mythology. He has many different descriptions, sometimes being described as a Nessie-like creature, while other times he is said to have a crocodilian form, others say he resembles a great beaver, and there are even descriptions of him looking like a gnome or goblin.
It was considered very unfortunate to have such a creature living close to your community, quite apart from its fearsome appearance (well maybe not the giant beaver one, which I can’t help but see as being rather sweet) its chief danger was believed to be the flooding it caused when it was angered, ruining peoples homes and damaging their valuable crops.
So if your community found itself close to a lake, river or pond, that was said to be home to one of these supernatural nuisances, the likelihood is that they would want to get rid of it. But that was easier said than done. Firstly anything described as a ‘monster’ has usually earned that name for a good reason, because it is unpleasant and probably rather dangerous. Secondly it was believed that feats of arms could not slay the beast, as its hide was immune to swords, spears or arrows.
Betws-y-Coed is a Welsh village in the county of Conwy, and many years ago they had a problem with an Afanc that dwelt in the local Conwy river, He was said to resemble a giant beaver (Now I have already spoken about my felling’s on the beaver versions, in short, I would probably have given the cute ‘furry fella’ a pass, but to be fair it is not my home he is flooding.)
The villagers designed a plan, if they could not slay the water monster they would lure it away. They got a rather brave, local maiden to sing sweetly by the river, luring the beast out of the water, and such was the power of the girl’s voice that the creature fell asleep at her feet. Quickly it was bound with great chains and then the pulled away by the villagers, it was taken to a lake under the summit of Yr Widdfa the highest mountain in Wales.
Its new home was Llyn Glaslyn - which means ‘lake of the blue spring’ and being high up in the mountains, and alone, with no one to hassle it, I imagine it lives quite a peacefully now.
So in the end everyone was happy.
A less pleasant version of an Afanc appears in my book ‘Fireside Horror,’ if you like folklore or enjoy creepy tales why not get a copy, links below.
The Erlking
The Erlking is an entity from European folklore, the word ‘Erlking’ comes from the German: Erlkönig literaly meaning alder-king. He is/was/maybe a lord of the forest and King of the Faeries. He was believed to lurk in ancient woodland, there he would stalk any unfortunate children who linger too long beneath the boughs of his realm, it was said he could kill mortals with a single touch.
The Name was first used in the poem ‘Erlkönigs Tochter’ (1778) by German romanticist Johann Gottfried Herder. The poem tells the tale of a boy being carried on horseback by his father through the night, the purpose of their journey isn’t explained, I can only imagine that it was an urgent one. As they travel the boy becomes fearful, complaining that they are being followed by an unnatural being. The father, clearly a sympathetic man, totally dismisses his sons complaints, putting down the odd sights and sounds to nocturnal shadows, and the wind in the trees. I don’t know about you but I have a feeling this ‘father of the year’ will come to regret this!
As they continue their journey, The Erlking tries to lure the boy using riches, clothes and his daughters, I have no idea whether the poor daughters agreed to be bait, and if they didn’t I can only hope they fully expressed their disproval when they next get together for a family dinner. Finally a little bit annoyed, the Erl-King declares his intention to take the boy by force (I suppose at this stage his thinking ran something like this; If I’m going to have an ear-bending at the hands of my irate daughters, I might as well have something to show for it.)
When the father finally arrives at his destination he finds that his beloved son is dead!
So a bit of a grim poem really, but an entertaining one never-the-less, The ‘new Oxford American Dictionary describes the Erl-king in the following way: a bearded giant or goblin who lures little children to the land of death.
Anyway here is a translation of the poem from German, by Edgar Alfred Bowering. Hope you enjoy it, stay spooky.
Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear?
The father it is, with his infant so dear;
He holdeth the boy tightly clasp'd in his arm,
He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.
My son, wherefore seek'st thou thy face thus to hide?
Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side!
Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?
My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain.
"Oh, come, thou dear infant! oh come thou with me!
For many a game, I will play there with thee;
On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold,
My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold."
My father, my father, and dost thou not hear
The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?
Be calm, dearest child, 'tis thy fancy deceives;
'Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves.
"Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there?
My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care;
My daughters by night their glad festival keep,
They'll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep."
My father, my father, and dost thou not see,
How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?
My darling, my darling, I see it aright,
'Tis the aged grey willows deceiving thy sight.
"I love thee, I'm charm'd by thy beauty, dear boy!
And if thou'rt unwilling, then force I'll employ."
My father, my father, he seizes me fast,
For sorely, the Erl-King has hurt me at last.
The father now gallops, with terror half wild,
He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child;
He reaches his courtyard with toil and with dread,
The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.
Ratmen in Folklore
In ‘Fireside Horror,’ the English City of Birmingham, one of the centres of British production during the industrial revolution, has a problem, and from the title of this particular blog, I imagine you can take a healthy guess at what kind of problem that is.
But are there really any Ratmen to be found in British Folklore, well actually yes, albeit a relatively modern piece of folklore. So I present to you dear reader: The South-end-on-Sea Ratman.
The story goes that an old tramp took shelter in an underpass one wintery night. unfortunately for this rambling hobo, he was discovered by the town drunks, who gave him a beating, and stole his blanket. (I have to say, the beating is bad enough, but to steal the poor chaps blanket too, well I’m lost for words…..) Anyway it was a cold night, and the chill, combined with his injuries was enough to finish this poor drifter off. However, before the body was discovered the rats had taken to gnawing his remains. From then on the underpass became haunted, but it was not merely the ghost of an old man that troubled this place, Oh no, it was the ghost of rat, walking on two legs like a man, squealing and scuttling in the dark!
Ratmen also appear in Dungeons & Dragons, where they are called Wererats, as the name suggests these beings are akin to werewolves, transforming from men and women, into human-rat hybrids. though whether this change is induced by the full moon or simply the sight of a full wheel of cheese I cannot say for certain.
Games Workshop also created a wonderful race of Ratmen for their miniature wargames system, they are marvellously fun models, I actually own an army of the ratty ne’er-do-wells, photos of my army can be seen below, they fight in mighty hoards, over-whelming their opponents.
Interview on ‘Novel Kicks’
A few weeks ago I was kindly asked by Laura if I wanted to be interviewed for her Blog ‘Novel Kicks’, I was a little nervous but Laura was very friendly and guided me through the whole process. The interview has now been put up on her website, here is the link NK Chats To… P. A. Sheldon | Novel Kicks
#booklover #bookstagrammer #book #bookworm #books #wendlelow #FiresideHorror #pasheldon #blog #horrorbooks #horrorblog
