“Luella Miller” by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman, published in 1902, is a haunting exploration of a woman whose parasitic influence leads to the demise of those around her. Set in a small New England village, the story revolves around Luella Miller, a seemingly helpless and beautiful woman who relies on the care and devotion of others. As friends and family members succumb to mysterious illnesses and die after tending to her, it becomes apparent that Luella’s neediness and helplessness are lethally draining their life force.
Luella Miller by Mary E. Wilkins Freeman (1902)
Close to the village street stood the one-story house in which Luella Miller, who had an evil name in the village, had dwelt. She had been dead for years, yet there were those in the village who, in spite of the clearer light which comes on a vantage-point from a long-past danger, half believed in the tale which they had heard from their childhood. In their hearts, although they scarcely would have owned it, was a survival of the wild horror and frenzied fear of their ancestors who had dwelt in the same age with Luella Miller. Young people even would stare with a shudder at the old house as they passed, and children never played around it as was their wont around an untenanted building. Not a window in the old Miller house was broken: the panes reflected the morning sunlight in patches of emerald and blue, and the latch of the sagging front door was never lifted, although no bolt secured it. Since Luella Miller had been carried out of it, the house had had no tenant except one friendless old soul who had no choice between that and the far-off shelter of the open sky. This old woman, who had survived her kindred and friends, lived in the house one week, then one morning no smoke came out of the chimney, and a body of neighbours, a score strong, entered and found her dead in her bed. There were dark whispers as to the cause of her death, and there were those who testified to an expression of fear so exalted that it showed forth the state of the departing soul upon the dead face. The old woman had been hale and hearty when she entered the house, and in seven days she was dead; it seemed that she had fallen a victim to some uncanny power. The minister talked in the pulpit with covert severity against the sin of superstition; still the belief prevailed. Not a soul in the village but would have chosen the almshouse rather than that dwelling. No vagrant, if he heard the tale, would seek shelter beneath that old roof, unhallowed by nearly half a century of superstitious fear.
There was only one person in the village who had actually known Luella Miller. That person was a woman well over eighty, but a marvel of vitality and unextinct youth. Straight as an arrow, with the spring of one recently let loose from the bow of life, she moved about the streets, and she always went to church, rain or shine. She had never married, and had lived alone for years in a house across the road from Luella Miller’s.
This woman had none of the garrulousness of age, but never in all her life had she ever held her tongue for any will save her own, and she never spared the truth when she essayed to present it. She it was who bore testimony to the life, evil, though possibly wittingly or designedly so, of Luella Miller, and to her personal appearance. When this old woman spoke—and she had the gift of description, although her thoughts were clothed in the rude vernacular of her native village—one could seem to see Luella Miller as she had really looked. According to this woman, Lydia Anderson by name, Luella Miller had been a beauty of a type rather unusual in New England. She had been a slight, pliant sort of creature, as ready with a strong yielding to fate and as unbreakable as a willow. She had glimmering lengths of straight, fair hair, which she wore softly looped round a long, lovely face. She had blue eyes full of soft pleading, little slender, clinging hands, and a wonderful grace of motion and attitude.
“Luella Miller used to sit in a way nobody else could if they sat up and studied a week of Sundays,” said Lydia Anderson, “and it was a sight to see her walk. If one of them willows over there on the edge of the brook could start up and get its roots free of the ground, and move off, it would go just the way Luella Miller used to. She had a green shot silk she used to wear, too, and a hat with green ribbon streamers, and a lace veil blowing across her face and out sideways, and a green ribbon flyin’ from her waist. That was what she came out bride in when she married Erastus Miller. Her name before she was married was Hill. There was always a sight of “l’s” in her name, married or single. Erastus Miller was good lookin’, too, better lookin’ than Luella. Sometimes I used to think that Luella wa’n’t so handsome after all. Erastus just about worshiped her. I used to know him pretty well. He lived next door to me, and we went to school together. Folks used to say he was waitin’ on me, but he wa’n’t. I never thought he was except once or twice when he said things that some girls might have suspected meant somethin’. That was before Luella came here to teach the district school. It was funny how she came to get it, for folks said she hadn’t any education, and that one of the big girls, Lottie Henderson, used to do all the teachin’ for her, while she sat back and did embroidery work on a cambric pocket-handkerchief. Lottie Henderson was a real smart girl, a splendid scholar, and she just set her eyes by Luella, as all the girls did. Lottie would have made a real smart woman, but she died when Luella had been here about a year—just faded away and died: nobody knew what ailed her. She dragged herself to that schoolhouse and helped Luella teach till the very last minute. The committee all knew how Luella didn’t do much of the work herself, but they winked at it. It wa’n’t long after Lottie died that Erastus married her. I always thought he hurried it up because she wa’n’t fit to teach. One of the big boys used to help her after Lottie died, but he hadn’t much government, and the school didn’t do very well, and Luella might have had to give it up, for the committee couldn’t have shut their eyes to things much longer. The boy that helped her was a real honest, innocent sort of fellow, and he was a good scholar, too. Folks said he overstudied, and that was the reason he was took crazy the year after Luella married, but I don’t know. And I don’t know what made Erastus Miller go into consumption of the blood the year after he was married: consumption wa’n’t in his family. He just grew weaker and weaker, and went almost bent double when he tried to wait on Luella, and he spoke feeble, like an old man. He worked terrible hard till the last trying to save up a little to leave Luella. I’ve seen him out in the worst storms on a wood-sled—he used to cut and sell wood—and he was hunched up on top lookin’ more dead than alive. Once I couldn’t stand it: I went over and helped him pitch some wood on the cart—I was always strong in my arms. I wouldn’t stop for all he told me to, and I guess he was glad enough for the help. That was only a week before he died. He fell on the kitchen floor while he was gettin’ breakfast. He always got the breakfast and let Luella lay abed. He did all the sweepin’ and the washin’ and the ironin’ and most of the cookin’. He couldn’t bear to have Luella lift her finger, and she let him do for her. She lived like a queen for all the work she did. She didn’t even do her sewin’. She said it made her shoulder ache to sew, and poor Erastus’s sister Lily used to do all her sewin’. She wa’n’t able to, either; she was never strong in her back, but she did it beautifully. She had to, to suit Luella, she was so dreadful particular. I never saw anythin’ like the fagottin’ and hemstitchin’ that Lily Miller did for Luella. She made all Luella’s weddin’ outfit, and that green silk dress, after Maria Babbit cut it. Maria she cut it for nothin’, and she did a lot more cuttin’ and fittin’ for nothin’ for Luella, too. Lily Miller went to live with Luella after Erastus died. She gave up her home, though she was real attached to it and wa’n’t a mite afraid to stay alone. She rented it and she went to live with Luella right away after the funeral.”
Then this old woman, Lydia Anderson, who remembered Luella Miller, would go on to relate the story of Lily Miller. It seemed that on the removal of Lily Miller to the house of her dead brother, to live with his widow, the village people first began to talk. This Lily Miller had been hardly past her first youth, and a most robust and blooming woman, rosy-cheeked, with curls of strong, black hair overshadowing round, candid temples and bright dark eyes. It was not six months after she had taken up her residence with her sister-in-law that her rosy colour faded and her pretty curves became wan hollows. White shadows began to show in the black rings of her hair, and the light died out of her eyes, her features sharpened, and there were pathetic lines at her mouth, which yet wore always an expression of utter sweetness and even happiness. She was devoted to her sister; there was no doubt that she loved her with her whole heart, and was perfectly content in her service. It was her sole anxiety lest she should die and leave her alone.
“The way Lily Miller used to talk about Luella was enough to make you mad and enough to make you cry,” said Lydia Anderson. “I’ve been in there sometimes toward the last when she was too feeble to cook and carried her some blanc-mange or custard—somethin’ I thought she might relish, and she’d thank me, and when I asked her how she was, say she felt better than she did yesterday, and asked me if I didn’t think she looked better, dreadful pitiful, and say poor Luella had an awful time takin’ care of her and doin’ the work—she wa’n’t strong enough to do anythin’—when all the time Luella wa’n’t liftin’ her finger and poor Lily didn’t get any care except what the neighbours gave her, and Luella eat up everythin’ that was carried in for Lily. I had it real straight that she did. Luella used to just sit and cry and do nothin’. She did act real fond of Lily, and she pined away considerable, too. There was those that thought she’d go into a decline herself. But after Lily died, her Aunt Abby Mixter came, and then Luella picked up and grew as fat and rosy as ever. But poor Aunt Abby begun to droop just the way Lily had, and I guess somebody wrote to her married daughter, Mrs. Sam Abbot, who lived in Barre, for she wrote her mother that she must leave right away and come and make her a visit, but Aunt Abby wouldn’t go. I can see her now. She was a real good-lookin’ woman, tall and large, with a big, square face and a high forehead that looked of itself kind of benevolent and good. She just tended out on Luella as if she had been a baby, and when her married daughter sent for her she wouldn’t stir one inch. She’d always thought a lot of her daughter, too, but she said Luella needed her and her married daughter didn’t. Her daughter kept writin’ and writin’, but it didn’t do any good. Finally she came, and when she saw how bad her mother looked, she broke down and cried and all but went on her knees to have her come away. She spoke her mind out to Luella, too. She told her that she’d killed her husband and everybody that had anythin’ to do with her, and she’d thank her to leave her mother alone. Luella went into hysterics, and Aunt Abby was so frightened that she called me after her daughter went. Mrs. Sam Abbot she went away fairly cryin’ out loud in the buggy, the neighbours heard her, and well she might, for she never saw her mother again alive. I went in that night when Aunt Abby called for me, standin’ in the door with her little green-checked shawl over her head. I can see her now. ‘Do come over here, Miss Anderson,’ she sung out, kind of gasping for breath. I didn’t stop for anythin’. I put over as fast as I could, and when I got there, there was Luella laughin’ and cryin’ all together, and Aunt Abby trying to hush her, and all the time she herself was white as a sheet and shakin’ so she could hardly stand. ‘For the land sakes, Mrs. Mixter,’ says I, ‘you look worse than she does. You ain’t fit to be up out of your bed.’
“‘Oh, there ain’t anythin’ the matter with me,’ says she. Then she went on talkin’ to Luella. ‘There, there, don’t, don’t, poor little lamb,’ says she. ‘Aunt Abby is here. She ain’t goin’ away and leave you. Don’t, poor little lamb.’
“‘Do leave her with me, Mrs. Mixter, and you get back to bed,’ says I, for Aunt Abby had been layin’ down considerable lately, though somehow she contrived to do the work.
“‘I’m well enough,’ says she. ‘Don’t you think she had better have the doctor, Miss Anderson?’
“‘The doctor,’ says I, ‘I think YOU had better have the doctor. I think you need him much worse than some folks I could mention.’ And I looked right straight at Luella Miller laughin’ and cryin’ and goin’ on as if she was the centre of all creation. All the time she was actin’ so—seemed as if she was too sick to sense anythin’—she was keepin’ a sharp lookout as to how we took it out of the corner of one eye. I see her. You could never cheat me about Luella Miller. Finally I got real mad and I run home and I got a bottle of valerian I had, and I poured some boilin’ hot water on a handful of catnip, and I mixed up that catnip tea with most half a wineglass of valerian, and I went with it over to Luella’s. I marched right up to Luella, a-holdin’ out of that cup, all smokin’. ‘Now,’ says I, ‘Luella Miller, ‘YOU SWALLER THIS!’
“‘What is—what is it, oh, what is it?’ she sort of screeches out. Then she goes off a-laughin’ enough to kill.
“‘Poor lamb, poor little lamb,’ says Aunt Abby, standin’ over her, all kind of tottery, and tryin’ to bathe her head with camphor.
“‘YOU SWALLER THIS RIGHT DOWN,’ says I. And I didn’t waste any ceremony. I just took hold of Luella Miller’s chin and I tipped her head back, and I caught her mouth open with laughin’, and I clapped that cup to her lips, and I fairly hollered at her: ‘Swaller, swaller, swaller!’ and she gulped it right down. She had to, and I guess it did her good. Anyhow, she stopped cryin’ and laughin’ and let me put her to bed, and she went to sleep like a baby inside of half an hour. That was more than poor Aunt Abby did. She lay awake all that night and I stayed with her, though she tried not to have me; said she wa’n’t sick enough for watchers. But I stayed, and I made some good cornmeal gruel and I fed her a teaspoon every little while all night long. It seemed to me as if she was jest dyin’ from bein’ all wore out. In the mornin’ as soon as it was light I run over to the Bisbees and sent Johnny Bisbee for the doctor. I told him to tell the doctor to hurry, and he come pretty quick. Poor Aunt Abby didn’t seem to know much of anythin’ when he got there. You couldn’t hardly tell she breathed, she was so used up. When the doctor had gone, Luella came into the room lookin’ like a baby in her ruffled nightgown. I can see her now. Her eyes were as blue and her face all pink and white like a blossom, and she looked at Aunt Abby in the bed sort of innocent and surprised. ‘Why,’ says she, ‘Aunt Abby ain’t got up yet?’
“‘No, she ain’t,’ says I, pretty short.
“‘I thought I didn’t smell the coffee,’ says Luella.
“‘Coffee,’ says I. ‘I guess if you have coffee this mornin’ you’ll make it yourself.’
“‘I never made the coffee in all my life,’ says she, dreadful astonished. ‘Erastus always made the coffee as long as he lived, and then Lily she made it, and then Aunt Abby made it. I don’t believe I CAN make the coffee, Miss Anderson.’
“‘You can make it or go without, jest as you please,’ says I.
“‘Ain’t Aunt Abby goin’ to get up?’ says she.
“‘I guess she won’t get up,’ says I, ‘sick as she is.’ I was gettin’ madder and madder. There was somethin’ about that little pink-and-white thing standin’ there and talkin’ about coffee, when she had killed so many better folks than she was, and had jest killed another, that made me feel ‘most as if I wished somebody would up and kill her before she had a chance to do any more harm.
“‘Is Aunt Abby sick?’ says Luella, as if she was sort of aggrieved and injured.
“‘Yes,’ says I, ‘she’s sick, and she’s goin’ to die, and then you’ll be left alone, and you’ll have to do for yourself and wait on yourself, or do without things.’ I don’t know but I was sort of hard, but it was the truth, and if I was any harder than Luella Miller had been I’ll give up. I ain’t never been sorry that I said it. Well, Luella, she up and had hysterics again at that, and I jest let her have ’em. All I did was to bundle her into the room on the other side of the entry where Aunt Abby couldn’t hear her, if she wa’n’t past it—I don’t know but she was—and set her down hard in a chair and told her not to come back into the other room, and she minded. She had her hysterics in there till she got tired. When she found out that nobody was comin’ to coddle her and do for her she stopped. At least I suppose she did. I had all I could do with poor Aunt Abby tryin’ to keep the breath of life in her. The doctor had told me that she was dreadful low, and give me some very strong medicine to give to her in drops real often, and told me real particular about the nourishment. Well, I did as he told me real faithful till she wa’n’t able to swaller any longer. Then I had her daughter sent for. I had begun to realize that she wouldn’t last any time at all. I hadn’t realized it before, though I spoke to Luella the way I did. The doctor he came, and Mrs. Sam Abbot, but when she got there it was too late; her mother was dead. Aunt Abby’s daughter just give one look at her mother layin’ there, then she turned sort of sharp and sudden and looked at me.
“‘Where is she?’ says she, and I knew she meant Luella.
“‘She’s out in the kitchen,’ says I. ‘She’s too nervous to see folks die. She’s afraid it will make her sick.’
“The Doctor he speaks up then. He was a young man. Old Doctor Park had died the year before, and this was a young fellow just out of college. ‘Mrs. Miller is not strong,’ says he, kind of severe, ‘and she is quite right in not agitating herself.’
“‘You are another, young man; she’s got her pretty claw on you,’ thinks I, but I didn’t say anythin’ to him. I just said over to Mrs. Sam Abbot that Luella was in the kitchen, and Mrs. Sam Abbot she went out there, and I went, too, and I never heard anythin’ like the way she talked to Luella Miller. I felt pretty hard to Luella myself, but this was more than I ever would have dared to say. Luella she was too scared to go into hysterics. She jest flopped. She seemed to jest shrink away to nothin’ in that kitchen chair, with Mrs. Sam Abbot standin’ over her and talkin’ and tellin’ her the truth. I guess the truth was most too much for her and no mistake, because Luella presently actually did faint away, and there wa’n’t any sham about it, the way I always suspected there was about them hysterics. She fainted dead away and we had to lay her flat on the floor, and the Doctor he came runnin’ out and he said somethin’ about a weak heart dreadful fierce to Mrs. Sam Abbot, but she wa’n’t a mite scared. She faced him jest as white as even Luella was layin’ there lookin’ like death and the Doctor feelin’ of her pulse.
“‘Weak heart,’ says she, ‘weak heart; weak fiddlesticks! There ain’t nothin’ weak about that woman. She’s got strength enough to hang onto other folks till she kills ’em. Weak? It was my poor mother that was weak: this woman killed her as sure as if she had taken a knife to her.’
“But the Doctor he didn’t pay much attention. He was bendin’ over Luella layin’ there with her yellow hair all streamin’ and her pretty pink-and-white face all pale, and her blue eyes like stars gone out, and he was holdin’ onto her hand and smoothin’ her forehead, and tellin’ me to get the brandy in Aunt Abby’s room, and I was sure as I wanted to be that Luella had got somebody else to hang onto, now Aunt Abby was gone, and I thought of poor Erastus Miller, and I sort of pitied the poor young Doctor, led away by a pretty face, and I made up my mind I’d see what I could do.
“I waited till Aunt Abby had been dead and buried about a month, and the Doctor was goin’ to see Luella steady and folks were beginnin’ to talk; then one evenin’, when I knew the Doctor had been called out of town and wouldn’t be round, I went over to Luella’s. I found her all dressed up in a blue muslin with white polka dots on it, and her hair curled jest as pretty, and there wa’n’t a young girl in the place could compare with her. There was somethin’ about Luella Miller seemed to draw the heart right out of you, but she didn’t draw it out of ME. She was settin’ rocking in the chair by her sittin’-room window, and Maria Brown had gone home. Maria Brown had been in to help her, or rather to do the work, for Luella wa’n’t helped when she didn’t do anythin’. Maria Brown was real capable and she didn’t have any ties; she wa’n’t married, and lived alone, so she’d offered. I couldn’t see why she should do the work any more than Luella; she wa’n’t any too strong; but she seemed to think she could and Luella seemed to think so, too, so she went over and did all the work—washed, and ironed, and baked, while Luella sat and rocked. Maria didn’t live long afterward. She began to fade away just the same fashion the others had. Well, she was warned, but she acted real mad when folks said anythin’: said Luella was a poor, abused woman, too delicate to help herself, and they’d ought to be ashamed, and if she died helpin’ them that couldn’t help themselves she would—and she did.
“‘I s’pose Maria has gone home,’ says I to Luella, when I had gone in and sat down opposite her.
“‘Yes, Maria went half an hour ago, after she had got supper and washed the dishes,’ says Luella, in her pretty way.
“‘I suppose she has got a lot of work to do in her own house to-night,’ says I, kind of bitter, but that was all thrown away on Luella Miller. It seemed to her right that other folks that wa’n’t any better able than she was herself should wait on her, and she couldn’t get it through her head that anybody should think it WA’N’T right.
“‘Yes,’ says Luella, real sweet and pretty, ‘yes, she said she had to do her washin’ to-night. She has let it go for a fortnight along of comin’ over here.’
“‘Why don’t she stay home and do her washin’ instead of comin’ over here and doin’ YOUR work, when you are just as well able, and enough sight more so, than she is to do it?’ says I.
“Then Luella she looked at me like a baby who has a rattle shook at it. She sort of laughed as innocent as you please. ‘Oh, I can’t do the work myself, Miss Anderson,’ says she. ‘I never did. Maria HAS to do it.’
“Then I spoke out: ‘Has to do it I’ says I. ‘Has to do it!’ She don’t have to do it, either. Maria Brown has her own home and enough to live on. She ain’t beholden to you to come over here and slave for you and kill herself.’
“Luella she jest set and stared at me for all the world like a doll-baby that was so abused that it was comin’ to life.
“‘Yes,’ says I, ‘she’s killin’ herself. She’s goin’ to die just the way Erastus did, and Lily, and your Aunt Abby. You’re killin’ her jest as you did them. I don’t know what there is about you, but you seem to bring a curse,’ says I. ‘You kill everybody that is fool enough to care anythin’ about you and do for you.’
“She stared at me and she was pretty pale.
“‘And Maria ain’t the only one you’re goin’ to kill,’ says I. ‘You’re goin’ to kill Doctor Malcom before you’re done with him.’
“Then a red colour came flamin’ all over her face. ‘I ain’t goin’ to kill him, either,’ says she, and she begun to cry.
“‘Yes, you BE!’ says I. Then I spoke as I had never spoke before. You see, I felt it on account of Erastus. I told her that she hadn’t any business to think of another man after she’d been married to one that had died for her: that she was a dreadful woman; and she was, that’s true enough, but sometimes I have wondered lately if she knew it—if she wa’n’t like a baby with scissors in its hand cuttin’ everybody without knowin’ what it was doin’.
“Luella she kept gettin’ paler and paler, and she never took her eyes off my face. There was somethin’ awful about the way she looked at me and never spoke one word. After awhile I quit talkin’ and I went home. I watched that night, but her lamp went out before nine o’clock, and when Doctor Malcom came drivin’ past and sort of slowed up he see there wa’n’t any light and he drove along. I saw her sort of shy out of meetin’ the next Sunday, too, so he shouldn’t go home with her, and I begun to think mebbe she did have some conscience after all. It was only a week after that that Maria Brown died—sort of sudden at the last, though everybody had seen it was comin’. Well, then there was a good deal of feelin’ and pretty dark whispers. Folks said the days of witchcraft had come again, and they were pretty shy of Luella. She acted sort of offish to the Doctor and he didn’t go there, and there wa’n’t anybody to do anythin’ for her. I don’t know how she DID get along. I wouldn’t go in there and offer to help her—not because I was afraid of dyin’ like the rest, but I thought she was just as well able to do her own work as I was to do it for her, and I thought it was about time that she did it and stopped killin’ other folks. But it wa’n’t very long before folks began to say that Luella herself was goin’ into a decline jest the way her husband, and Lily, and Aunt Abby and the others had, and I saw myself that she looked pretty bad. I used to see her goin’ past from the store with a bundle as if she could hardly crawl, but I remembered how Erastus used to wait and ‘tend when he couldn’t hardly put one foot before the other, and I didn’t go out to help her.
“But at last one afternoon I saw the Doctor come drivin’ up like mad with his medicine chest, and Mrs. Babbit came in after supper and said that Luella was real sick.
“‘I’d offer to go in and nurse her,’ says she, ‘but I’ve got my children to consider, and mebbe it ain’t true what they say, but it’s queer how many folks that have done for her have died.’
“I didn’t say anythin’, but I considered how she had been Erastus’s wife and how he had set his eyes by her, and I made up my mind to go in the next mornin’, unless she was better, and see what I could do; but the next mornin’ I see her at the window, and pretty soon she came steppin’ out as spry as you please, and a little while afterward Mrs. Babbit came in and told me that the Doctor had got a girl from out of town, a Sarah Jones, to come there, and she said she was pretty sure that the Doctor was goin’ to marry Luella.
“I saw him kiss her in the door that night myself, and I knew it was true. The woman came that afternoon, and the way she flew around was a caution. I don’t believe Luella had swept since Maria died. She swept and dusted, and washed and ironed; wet clothes and dusters and carpets were flyin’ over there all day, and every time Luella set her foot out when the Doctor wa’n’t there there was that Sarah Jones helpin’ of her up and down the steps, as if she hadn’t learned to walk.
“Well, everybody knew that Luella and the Doctor were goin’ to be married, but it wa’n’t long before they began to talk about his lookin’ so poorly, jest as they had about the others; and they talked about Sarah Jones, too.
“Well, the Doctor did die, and he wanted to be married first, so as to leave what little he had to Luella, but he died before the minister could get there, and Sarah Jones died a week afterward.
“Well, that wound up everything for Luella Miller. Not another soul in the whole town would lift a finger for her. There got to be a sort of panic. Then she began to droop in good earnest. She used to have to go to the store herself, for Mrs. Babbit was afraid to let Tommy go for her, and I’ve seen her goin’ past and stoppin’ every two or three steps to rest. Well, I stood it as long as I could, but one day I see her comin’ with her arms full and stoppin’ to lean against the Babbit fence, and I run out and took her bundles and carried them to her house. Then I went home and never spoke one word to her though she called after me dreadful kind of pitiful. Well, that night I was taken sick with a chill, and I was sick as I wanted to be for two weeks. Mrs. Babbit had seen me run out to help Luella and she came in and told me I was goin’ to die on account of it. I didn’t know whether I was or not, but I considered I had done right by Erastus’s wife.
“That last two weeks Luella she had a dreadful hard time, I guess. She was pretty sick, and as near as I could make out nobody dared go near her. I don’t know as she was really needin’ anythin’ very much, for there was enough to eat in her house and it was warm weather, and she made out to cook a little flour gruel every day, I know, but I guess she had a hard time, she that had been so petted and done for all her life.
“When I got so I could go out, I went over there one morning. Mrs. Babbit had just come in to say she hadn’t seen any smoke and she didn’t know but it was somebody’s duty to go in, but she couldn’t help thinkin’ of her children, and I got right up, though I hadn’t been out of the house for two weeks, and I went in there, and Luella she was layin’ on the bed, and she was dyin’.
“She lasted all that day and into the night. But I sat there after the new doctor had gone away. Nobody else dared to go there. It was about midnight that I left her for a minute to run home and get some medicine I had been takin’, for I begun to feel rather bad.
“It was a full moon that night, and just as I started out of my door to cross the street back to Luella’s, I stopped short, for I saw something.”
Lydia Anderson at this juncture always said with a certain defiance that she did not expect to be believed, and then proceeded in a hushed voice:
“I saw what I saw, and I know I saw it, and I will swear on my death bed that I saw it. I saw Luella Miller and Erastus Miller, and Lily, and Aunt Abby, and Maria, and the Doctor, and Sarah, all goin’ out of her door, and all but Luella shone white in the moonlight, and they were all helpin’ her along till she seemed to fairly fly in the midst of them. Then it all disappeared. I stood a minute with my heart poundin’, then I went over there. I thought of goin’ for Mrs. Babbit, but I thought she’d be afraid. So I went alone, though I knew what had happened. Luella was layin’ real peaceful, dead on her bed.”
This was the story that the old woman, Lydia Anderson, told, but the sequel was told by the people who survived her, and this is the tale which has become folklore in the village.
Lydia Anderson died when she was eighty-seven. She had continued wonderfully hale and hearty for one of her years until about two weeks before her death.
One bright moonlight evening she was sitting beside a window in her parlour when she made a sudden exclamation, and was out of the house and across the street before the neighbour who was taking care of her could stop her. She followed as fast as possible and found Lydia Anderson stretched on the ground before the door of Luella Miller’s deserted house, and she was quite dead.
The next night there was a red gleam of fire athwart the moonlight and the old house of Luella Miller was burned to the ground. Nothing is now left of it except a few old cellar stones and a lilac bush, and in summer a helpless trail of morning glories among the weeds, which might be considered emblematic of Luella herself.
A maid who once worked at the hotel allegedly took her own life at the old Visnes Hotel, deep in the Norwegian fjords. Now it is said she is lingering in the afterlife in the old rooms she once worked in.
An ancient ghost coming from the depths of graves across the nordic countries, the Haugbúi Draugr could be both dangerous and even deadly. Not merely a specter, but the rotten flesh of the dead, the ghosts are remembered as The Walking Dead of the North.
In the dark Hendrick Street in Dublin, there once were two houses said to be some of the most haunted ones in town. Occupied by at least six ghosts, some say they still linger in their old street.
In the pre civil war Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond, Virginia, the mausoleum of W.W Pool is said to be the grave of The Richmond Vampire. A more recent urban legend is now also connected with The Church Hill Tunnel collapse.
Old cities carry old ghost stories, and Bern in Switzerland is no exception. From the old buildings filled with history to the depth of the Aare river, here are some of the most haunted places in Bern.
Centuries after the vampire panic starting with the death of Petar Blagojević, another vampire was said to haunt the Serbian village, Kisiljevo. Who was Ruža Vlajna and what happened to her?
Said to be the mass burial place for the dead Irish Independence rebels from 1798, the Croppie’s Acre in Dublin is said to be haunted by their lingering souls.
Once a green paradise, the legend says the fairies protected the people of Val Gerina valley in the Swiss alps. Driven by greed to impress a woman however, the son meant to continue the tradition and friendship with the fairies, brought it all down.
Haunted by its former Fellows, Trinity College in Dublin is said to be filled with eerie spirits where even the bell tolls after dark when the shadows take over campus.
Spain’s first recorded serial killer was caught killing people up in the Galician mountains. His crimes were horrible in itself, but his defense was even more gruesome. According to him he was cursed to be a werewolf without his human will, and was remembered as The Werewolf of Allariz.
For centuries, the mythical creature of the werewolf has been the subject of countless tales, striking fear into the hearts of villagers and captivating the imaginations of storytellers alike. But how much of this terrifying legend is rooted in truth?
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From the dark forests of Galicia, Spain, to the eerie moonlit nights where the beast is said to roam, this hair-raising journey will leave you questioning what lies beyond our realm of understanding and has since been known as The Werewolf of Allariz.
The Werewolf of Allariz Legend
At the cusp of the 19th century, Allariz, a small town in Orense, experienced a series of horrible crimes. The Galician forest seemed especially dark when 13 people disappeared and were found brutally murdered inside of it.
They found the man that confessed to the murders, but what was especially strange about this was his reasoning for the murderers.
Manuel Blanco Romasanta, the murderer, told a story that no one really wanted to believe. He said when he was a teenager when someone put a curse on his family and he was turned into a werewolf every full moon. During these full moon turns, he lost all human consciousness and because of the beast in him, he killed and devoured the flesh of his victims.
Werewolves: There have been told stories about werewolves since ancient times. Some have even made it into trial. From The Book of Werewolves: Being an Account of a Terrible Superstition. — London: Smith, Elder & Co., 1865.
Romasanta is Spain’s first documented serial killer. His case was a sensation, not only because of the brutality of his crimes but also because of the werewolf claims. The legend of the Werewolf of Allariz had come to life, blurring the lines between myth and reality. Romasanta’s trial shed light on the dark underbelly of human nature and the fascination with the supernatural.
Romasanta Unusual Background
Romasanta, also known as the Tallow Man was born in 1809 in Regueiro in Ourense Province in Spain to a rather wealthy family that provided their children with education. He was one of five children in the family and at first he was thought to have been female. That is why he spent his first sex years being raised as a girl with the name Manuela. When he was six there was a doctor that rearranged his sex to male.
So we might have a case of an intersex person, as the birth certificate said girl, but this was the 1800s, and there was not a science or wording that can confirm it as we know of it today. We do know he lived most of his life as a male though, working as a tailor and married to a woman that passed away. There is no indication of him being involved in her death.
After her death, he left his job and started to travel, mainly to Portugal, and soon started to work as a guide through the mountain passes and deep woodlands among other things.
In the 1840s at the time of a great famine and mass hysteria where the world was seen as a dangerous place, a man named Antonio Gomes showed up in a small village called Rebordechao. He helped with the harvest, worked as a cook, made yarn and worked as a guide to follow people safely over the thesaurus mountains.
He was a short man with feminine features and became very friendly with the women in the town. But then strange things started to happen the next few years as women and children that had hired this man as their guide and trusted him, started to disappear.
In reality, Antoni Gomez was actually Blanco Romasanta that lived under a disguise and was on the run for killing a man that tried to collect a depth.
Although Romasanta kept delivering letters to the families to the disappeared, something was strange. Especially when he started selling the clothes of the disappeared in town. And a rumor started about him selling soap that was made from human fat, hence the nickname, The Tallow Man.
He was brought to trial in 1852 and taken to Allariz where he had the strangest defense. At the time he was arrested he was carrying a lunar calendar.
The Trial of Manuel Blanco Romasanta
The trial of Manuel Blanco Romasanta captivated the nation and brought the Werewolf of Allariz into the spotlight. As the evidence against him mounted, Romasanta’s story of being cursed by a witch and transformed into a werewolf became more and more difficult to believe.
The Werewolf of Allariz confessed to 13 murders and had this to say about his time as a werewolf:“The first time I transformed, was in the mountains of Couso. I came across two ferocious-looking wolves. I suddenly fell to the ground and began to feel convulsions, I rolled over three times, and a few seconds later I was a wolf. I was out marauding with the other two for five days, until I returned to my own body, the one you see before you today, Your Honour. The other two wolves came with me, who I thought were also wolves, changed into human form. They were from Valencia. One was called Antonio and the other Don Genaro. They too were cursed… we attacked and ate a number of people because we were hungry.” — Manuel Blanco Romasanta
The court asked The Werewolf of Allariz to transform in court, but he said that the curse had been broken as it only lasted for 13 years.
The Werewolf of Allariz: Manuel Blanco Romasanta were tried tin 1852 after killing people in the Galican mountains. His defence was that he was in fact a werewolf.
Some experts suggested that Romasanta may have been suffering from a psychological disorder, such as clinical lycanthropy, which caused him to believe he was a werewolf. Others argued that he was simply a cold-blooded killer using the werewolf myth as a cover for his crimes.
The Werewolf of Allariz ended up being acquitted for four of the murders he had confessed to as forensic science indicated that it was actually wolf attacks and not the butchering by a human as the other nine.
He escaped the death penalty as there were people that wanted to study him and observe his claim as a werewolf and clinical lycanthropy as a psychological illness and even the Queen of Spain intervened so that they could study him. He died in prison though under mysterious circumstances only months after arriving. Some say that it was an illness, some say he was shot by a guard that wanted to see him transform.
The legend of the Werewolf of Allariz continues to captivate audiences to this day, serving as a reminder of our fascination with the supernatural and the unknown. Werewolves have long been a staple of folklore and mythology, appearing in stories from cultures around the world.
The Myth of the Galician Werewolf
But where did the murderer take all of the werewolf lore from? The concept of a shapeshifting human was not a foreign concept in Galician folklore at all, and there were many tales and certain rules for a werewolf.
In Galician folklore, it is a belief that the seventh son of a family can become a werewolf, or lobishome. If the child is born normal, it will be born with the image of a cross inside of his mouth. If not, he will become a werewolf.
There are different variations to the myth, but most of them claim that during a full moon, they can’t help themselves to transform and roll in mud before starting to attack people.Every Friday the werewolf will shed his clothes and run off, visiting seven villages and taking another skin from that village. The Enduring Fascination with Werewolves
The Lobishomen: The Galician mythology have told stories about shape shifting people long before the Werewolf of Allariz were caught.
But what is it about these creatures that continues to capture our imaginations? Perhaps it is the idea of transformation, of a human turning into a beast under the light of the full moon. Or maybe it is the duality of their nature, the struggle between the human and the animal within.
Whatever the reason, werewolves have become an enduring part of popular culture, appearing in books, movies, and television shows. From the classic horror films of the early 20th century to the modern-day werewolf romances, these creatures continue to fascinate and terrify us.
So the next time you find yourself walking through a dark forest on a moonlit night, remember the legend of the Werewolf of Allariz and the power that stories have to both terrify and captivate. And who knows, you may just catch a glimpse of something lurking in the shadows, a creature caught between the worlds of man and beast.
Some of the busiest railway stations can also be the most dangerous. Dombivli Railway Station is said to be haunted by the people that tried to make it home, but never got off the tracks.
Dombivli Railway Station stands as both a vital transport hub and a chilling portal to the unknown according to the local legends. It is an old station and was built in 1886. Amidst the hustle and bustle of commuters and trains, whispers of paranormal activity linger like a haunting melody from the platforms.
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Dombivli itself is a suburban city by the Ulhas river in Maharashtra outside of Mumbai where a lot of people are passing by. The station is also the busiest railway station on the Central line of the Mumbai Suburban Railway with five platforms and over 300 thousands of commuters daily.
Death By Crossing the Tracks
Close by the bigger station in Dombivli you will find Kopar Rail Crossing—a seemingly innocuous intersection that belies its sinister reputation. According to local lore, this crossing has claimed the lives of many unfortunate souls. Before they built a bridge over the crossings, trespassing over the tracks claimed over hundreds of lives each year around the surrounding stations.
Kopar Station is another stop in Dombivli city and the locals claim there is another paranormal reason for all of these deaths. According to some, there is an evil spirit around this place that lures people on the tracks. They say that they lose their consciousness and walk to the middle of the tracks without a reason to wait for the oncoming train.
Some say that the ghost is from one of these crossing incidents. Other variations say that she is waiting for the trail to arrive at the station.
Deadly Crossing: The crossing over this train station is said to be very dangerous. Some say that the victims that were hit crossing the tracks are haunting the place. Some say that the place itself has a weird energy that draws people out on the tracks. // Source
The Crying Woman on the Platform
But back to the Dombivli Railway Station itself that are haunted by more than one ghost. There is one ghost story from this stop that are told more than the others:
One chilling account tells of a man on the trains late at night, who encountered a mysterious woman at the platform or crossing, depending on the different sources telling the story. Appearing to be in her forties or fifties in an office outfit, the woman was seen weeping inconsolably. When questioned about why she was crying and if she needed any help, she said she wanted to go home, but couldn’t.
The man returned to Dombivli Railway Station the next day with a friend, and saw the same woman crying. He tried to discuss it with his friend, but to his utter bewilderment, the friend couldn’t see the woman at all.
The Haunting at Dombivli Railway Station
Commuters talk about not only the story about the crying woman on the platform at Dombivli Railway Station, but a sense of a strange energy seeming to stay on the overcrowded station.
There are also said to be heard some strange and scary wailing that are echoing through the haunted station. When the haunted rumors really started circulating about Dombivli Railway Station is hard to pinpoint. The earliest sources online at least come from 2014 (at least the earlier English sources.)
According to this Barcelonian legend, there is the ghost of Comte Arnau that is cursed to roam the world in his afterlife because of his sins as a cruel ruler and stealing the dead body of a nun that he had seduced.
Spain, known for its rich folklore and legends, is home to many tales of ghostly apparitions and haunted locations. Among these stories, one of the most enduring and spine-chilling is that of Comte Arnau’s ghost. According to local lore, Comte Arnau was a feudal lord in the 14th century, known for his dark deeds and sinister reputation.
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The legend of Comte Arnau has been passed down through generations in Catalan mythology and is the subject of a classic Catalan ballad from the 16th century Cançó del comte l’Arnau. According to the legend, he was a nobleman from Ripolles and only known for his cruelty.
Those who claimed to have encountered his spectral presence describe a feeling of unease and dread, as if they are being watched by an otherworldly force. But who was Comte Arnau, and what led to his eternal damnation?
The Remains of the Mataplana Castle
There are different theories about where the story about the Comte Arnau came from and where he resided and was a lord of. One of the theories is from the Mataplana Castle.
Mataplana Castle: The ruins of the castle were Comte Arnau was thought to live. // Source: Enric/wikimedia
Located in the heart of the Catalan Pyrenees, this medieval fortress served as the seat of power for the Arnau family according to the legends, as it was for a long time lost.
They have found remains of a castle built in the 12th century that seems like there really was a real Romanesque castle attached to the legend. Nowadays only the chapel and the remains of the castle can be see by the naked eye but next to it underground there is a whole neighbourhood just waiting for a full excavation.
If there really was a lord like Comte Arnau there though is highly speculative. We know that in the 14th century it became the residence of Count Artau of Pallars. He was for a long time thought to be the mythic character of Count Arnau.
Castell de Mataplana: There is only a chapel and pieces of the old wall left today. //Source: Àlex/Wikimedia
History of the Virgin Chapel and the Montgrony Sanctuary
In the heart of the Pyrenees, nestled among the rugged mountains, lies the Montgrony Sanctuary. This sacred site has been a place of pilgrimage for centuries, drawing devout worshippers and curious visitors alike. At the heart of the sanctuary stands the Virgin Chapel, a small stone building that holds a deep spiritual significance.
He was not a reliable lord and he abused his power whenever he could. For example he had promised his workers that they would get a bag of wheat for every step they built up to the Virgin Chapel and the Montgrony Sanctuary. The workers completed the steps, but the count didn’t hold his promise and didn’t pay them.
The Dark Deeds of Comte Arnau
Comte Arnau was a man of wealth and power, ruling over his lands with an iron fist. But beneath his noble facade lay a twisted and depraved nature, driven by his insatiable desires.He was set up for an arranged marriage with a 15 year old girl he didn’t find attractive. Twice her age, he sought other women.
One of Comte Arnau’s most notorious acts was his seduction of the abbess of the Sant Joan de les Abadesses Monastery. The young abbess, innocent and naive, fell under his spell, unable to resist his advances. Their illicit affair continued in secret, until tragedy struck and she died.
It is said that during a violent storm, Comte Arnau decided to steal the body of the abbess and ride off into the night. As he galloped through the treacherous terrain, his horse lost its footing, sending both rider and corpse hurtling over the edge of a cliff. The fall was fatal, but Comte Arnau’s spirit was not released to the afterlife. Instead, he was condemned to roam the earth as a restless ghost, forever haunted by his dark deeds.
Because of his sins, his soul was damned and he was cursed to ride his horse on stormy nights for all eternity. You can see him followed by a pack of wild dogs, more like hell dogs as they spit fire through their mouths, ears and eyes.
The Fiery Horse: The count has been known for riding on his fiery horse on stormy nights after he was condemned to wander the earth for all eternity for his crimes.
In the song the count visits his wife and daughters, riding a fiery horse after he is condemned and haunts them. He appears at the foot of a grate where she is embroidering and tries to grab her, in order to burn her and make her follow to hell. It is said that the count visited his wife every night for seven whole years. Seven years that was the time that the mourning lasted.
The Ghosts of the Lord
The story of Comte Arnau’s downfall serves as a cautionary tale, a reminder of the consequences that await those who give in to their darkest impulses. His ghostly presence in Barcelona is a constant reminder of the sins he committed and the eternal punishment he now endures.
The sound of anklets is heard throughout the old building of Calcutta High Court, thought to be the ghost of a woman who is still seeking justice in her afterlife.
In Kolkata, lies the imposing edifice of Calcutta High Court in its red colored colonial architecture. While by day it’s suppose to serve as a symbol of justice and legal proceedings, by night, whispers abound of spectral apparitions and eerie phenomena that haunt its corridors.
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The building was built in 1872, ten years after the court itself was established. Calcutta High Court is the oldest high court in India. Among the most chilling tales is that of the ghosts of convicts, their restless spirits lingering within the court’s walls, the story about the ghost of the woman wearing anklets is looming larger than the rest.
Calcutta High Court: With its recognizable red building, the Calcutta High Court is thought to be haunted and is said to house more than one ghost. //Source: Wikimedia
The Headless Woman Haunting Calcutta High Court
Among these tormented spirits, none are more feared than the ghost of a convict who met her fate at the gallows. Legend has it that her execution was a spectacle witnessed by scores of onlookers. In death, her presence lingers, her restless spirit haunting the very courtroom where his fate was sealed.
Witnesses who venture into Calcutta High Court after dark speak of chilling encounters with the convict’s ghost. Most stories come from those that have worked at the court for years. Some claim to have heard his disembodied cries echoing through the empty corridors, while others swear they’ve seen his phantom form lurking in the shadows.
Perhaps most notably is the sound of her steps, as you can hear the sound of her ankle bracelets as she walks down the corridors. When they see her though, they see that she is missing her head.
There is one story told from two people that worked at the court, Manamohan and Vajahari Paitandi. It was a winter night and they were working later than the rest. Manamohan went to the toilet that was at the end of a long and dark corridor. That is when he heard the sound of the ankle bracelets.
When Vajahari went to find his college, he found him lying on the floor. A woman was sitting beside him, trying to wake him by splashing water in his face. It was the headless ghost and she just disappeared when Vajahari came closer. He managed to wake him and together they ran out of the place.
The Prostitute Seeking Justice
Haunted Hallways: Several of the staff members claim to have seen the ghost of the headless woman haunting the halls. //Source: Wikimedia
But who was this woman who was haunting the halls without her head? If we are to believe the stories, she was a prostitute named Nistar Raut. She wanted to start fresh and remove her name from the registered sex workers.
She had fallen in love with Shalikhram, a businessman dealing with diamonds and wanted to marry him. The judges of the court didn’t like this though, as she was a beautiful woman. They didn’t want to lose access to her and the men tried to talk her out of it. She refused though and they turned their eye on Shalikhram.
He too refused to listen to them and one of her former clients, a very influential man, accused the couple for a robbery and he was arrested in 1881.
What really happened after this is a bit of a mystery. The police found Nistar’s body after a few days in the garden of her lover with her head cut off. She wore nothing except for her ankle bracelets.
After this, it is said that her ghost is still roaming the court that denied her the life that she wanted for herself.
The Ghost Looking for Water
But the headless woman is not the only ghost said to haunt Calcutta High Court. From the eerie sound of rattling chains to inexplicable cold drafts that chill the air, countless reports of paranormal activity have fueled the court’s reputation as a hotbed of supernatural phenomena.
Another ghost said to roam is the 19th century poet Tapis. He had protested against the British East India Company and the oppression the Indian people faced under colonial rule. He was imprisoned and denied water and food for a long time.
He was eventually executed after a long time without anything to drink. After his death, the rumor about him haunting the court started to spread where they said that the ghost of Tapis was searching for water.
The Haunted Room No. 11 at Calcutta High Court
The haunting is said to happen around the whole court, but is especially concentrated inside of a particular room. Room No. 11 has over the years seen many convicts receiving the death sentence.
Both notorious criminals and Indian revolutionaries are said to have been walked through a secret tunnel below the room to court and there are many people that claim that something paranormal is happening both inside as well as outside of the room.
Policemen on duty don’t want to be put on guard outside of Room 11, some claiming to have seen the ghosts of prisoners sitting on the benches outside and walking in the corridors.
So, the next time you find yourself near Calcutta High Court after dusk falls and the city sleeps, tread carefully and listen closely—for you may just hear the whispers of the convicts’ ghosts, their tales of sorrow and despair echoing through the hallowed halls of justice.
At the old marketplace in Barcelona Mercat de Santa Caterina there are stories about the devil that made an appearance after witches used to congregate on this place for black masses.
Barcelona, a city steeped in history and rich in culture, has its fair share of haunted tales. Among the many haunted locations, Santa Caterina Haunted Market stands out as one of the most intriguing.
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The city’s turbulent past, marked by wars, plagues, and religious conflicts, has left an indelible imprint on its architecture and folklore. Barcelona’s ancient buildings and narrow streets seem to hold the secrets of a bygone era, and whispers of the past still echo through its cobblestone alleyways. From the Gothic Quarter to the Montjuïc Castle, stories of ghostly encounters and unexplained phenomena abound. This is also the case with the Santa Caterina Haunted Market that truly captures the imagination, drawing in thrill-seekers and history enthusiasts alike.
Mercat de Santa Caterina: The old traditional marked in Barcelona was once thought to be the place were witches met to hold black masses and where the devil himself made an appearance. //Source:Enric/Wikimedia
Santa Caterina Market, located in the heart of Barcelona, has a history that dates back over eight centuries. Let’s explore the significance of this market and how it became entwined with the supernatural.
The History and Significance of Mercat de Santa Caterina
This old market of Mercat de Santa Caterina dates back to 1845, but its history is even longer. It was built on top of the Convent of Santa Caterina from 1243. The Spanish government confiscated all of the church property in 1836, and the church itself was demolished only a year after.
Mercat de Santa Caterina was the first market in Barcelona with a roof over its head. Before it got the new colorful roof it is known for today, it was a rattling one, that made violent sounds, scared children and it happened that the tile or ceramic flew off during the worst storms. People started to talk about that it was something else than the wind that made the sounds and rattling, and in these stories, even the devil himself made an appearance.
The Roof: The Santa Caterina Market is clearly visible now with its colored roof. //Source: Fred Romero/Wikimedia
Local folklore and beliefs surrounding the haunted market
The Santa Caterina Haunted Market has long been shrouded in local folklore and beliefs. Barcelona’s residents have passed down tales of supernatural occurrences and strange happenings for generations, creating a rich tapestry of ghost stories and legends. The market’s proximity to the ancient Convent of Santa Caterina only adds to its mystique, as many believe that the spirits of the nuns who once resided there still roam the halls.
Among the many haunting legends and ghost stories associated with the Santa Caterina Haunted Market, one tale stands out as particularly spine-chilling. According to local lore, the market was once the site of a black mass for witches, with the devil himself making an appearance according to numerous witnesses.
Local lore claimed that whenever the Devil passed through Barcelona, he would make a visit to this place at midnight. It is said that during these dark ceremonies, the witches would invoke supernatural forces and perform rituals to harness their power.
The ancient Halloween celebration of Hop-tu-Naa on the Isle of Man has a lot of the old celtic traditions. They also sing about Jinny the Witch, a woman tried for witchcraft centuries ago.
Around the world there are many versions of celebrating the day of the dead and on the British Isles you’ll find many versions stemming from the Celtic Samhain celebrations that turned into the modern Halloween. One the remote Isle of Man, one of them is the Hop-tu-Naa.
Hop-tu-Naa is the traditional Celtic festival celebrated on the Isle of Man every October 31st, marking the beginning of winter and believed to be the oldest unbroken tradition on the island. Rooted in the ancient Gaelic festival of Samhain, Hop-tu-Naa was originally a time when people believed the veil between the living and the dead was thinnest, allowing spirits to roam.
Hop-tu-naa turnip: Intricate designs of carved turnips have become an essential part of the celebration. //Source: Wikimedia
The Celtic Legacy on the Isle of Man
The Manx name for the holiday is Oie Houney. The Manx people is the Gaelic ethnic group from the Isle of Man that once ruled the Norse-Gaelic The Kingdom of the Isles and the Gaelic Dál Riata on the western seaboard of Scotland and north-eastern Ireland and Isle of Man is considered one of the six Celtic Kingdoms.
The term Hop-tu-naa is from one of the songs they sing during the festival. The term is pure nonsense, and just meant to rhyme.
Traditions of the Hop-tu-naa
As mentioned, this celebration is singing central, coming from the tradition when waist or mummers went from house to house to perform for gifts, much like the modern Trick or Treating. There is also a traditional Manx Hop-tu-Naa dance, a sort of simple processional dance.
One of the traditional songs that children sing references Jinny the Witch, a local figure in Manx folklore, adding a unique touch of spooky folklore to the festival. According to Hampton Creer, Jinny’s real name was Joney Lowney from Braddan. She was a poor woman who used to beg her neighbors for food. According to the locals, bad luck followed those who refused her because of her proficiency in black magic.
She was tried at Bishop’s Court for witchcraft in 1715 and 1716 where her “crime” was stopping the Ballaughton Corn Mill because she was furious about the poor quality of the grain and told the miller. After she had yelled at him, it is said that his machinery mysteriously stopped working.
The locals thought she had cursed the mill and she was put on trial for witchcraft. She was sentenced to 14 days’ imprisonment, fined £3 and made to stand at the four market crosses dressed in sackcloth.
In Scotland she may very well have been burn at the stake, but here she lived on for years. One of the many variations of her song goes like this:
Hop-tu-Naa My mother’s gone away And she won’t be back until the morning Jinnie the Witch flew over the house To fetch the stick to lather the mouse Hop-tu-Naa My mother’s gone away And she won’t be back until the morning Hop-tu-Naa, Traa-la-laa
Turnip Lanterns
You also had the jack-o-lanterns, or moots, a tradition of putting light inside of carved turnips for the performers and to ward off evil spirits. Although much of the tradition dates back centuries, it seems this tradition dates back to the early 1900s.
The modern version of Hop-tu-Naa has children dressing up, carrying these lanterns and going from house to house for sweets. Now the focus is on how they carve the turnips, but in the past the children would bring the stumps and batter the doors of those who didn’t want to give them money or sweets.
There’s also a strong focus on seasonal foods, with dishes like “mrastyr,” a mixture of potatoes, parsnips, and fish, traditionally prepared for the night. Any remaining left overs were left outside for the fairies as offerings. They would also set fire to gorse to ward off bad faeries
Power of Divination on Hollantide
As with many of the first day of winter festivals from the British Isles, another central part of the celebration is divination and predicting the future for the coming year. This was because the veil between the worlds was thinnest this night. One tradition involved smoothing out fireplace ashes before bed to see the imprint of a foot in the morning—if the footprint pointed outward, it foretold death, but if inward, it indicated a birth.
Another ritual involved making a “Dumb Cake” (Soddag Valloo) in silence, with young women participating. They would bake the cake on the hearth, eat it quietly, and go to bed walking backwards, hoping to dream of their future husband, who would offer them water in the vision.
Other forms of divination included stealing and roasting a salt herring in silence or holding water and salt while listening to a neighbor’s conversation to divine a future spouse’s name. Some also thought stealing the neighbors herring would tell the future.
Today, Hop-tu-Naa is still celebrated on the Isle of Man with a mixture of ancient customs, turnip carving, and an eerie blend of folklore, continuing to connect modern Manx culture to its deep Celtic roots. The festival’s mysterious and supernatural elements, combined with its long-standing traditions, make it a hauntingly unique way to mark the arrival of winter.
“The Stone Chamber” by H. B. Marriott Watson, published in 1899, is a gothic tale that delves into the supernatural with an air of creeping dread. The story centers on an old, secluded mansion that houses a mysterious stone chamber, long sealed and shrouded in dark legends. The protagonist, drawn by curiosity and a sense of adventure, decides to uncover the secrets of the chamber, only to unleash a malevolent presence that had been trapped for centuries.
The Stone Chamber by H. B. Marriott Watson (1899)
It was not until early summer that Warrington took possession of Marvyn Abbey. He had bought the property in the preceding autumn, but the place had so fallen into decay through the disorders of time that more than six months elapsed ere it was inhabitable. The delay, however, fell out conveniently for Warrington; for the Bosanquets spent the winter abroad, and nothing must suit but he must spend it with them. There was never a man who pursued his passion with such ardour. He was ever at Miss Bosanquet’s skirts, and bade fair to make her as steadfast a husband as he was attached a lover. Thus it was not until after his return from that prolonged exile that he had the opportunity of inspecting the repairs discharged by his architect. He was nothing out of the common in character, but was full of kindly impulses and a fellow of impetuous blood. When he called upon me in my chambers he spoke with some excitement of his Abbey, as also of his approaching marriage; and finally, breaking into an exhibition of genuine affection, declared that we had been so long and so continuously intimate that I, and none other, must help him warm his house and marry his bride. It had indeed been always understood between us that I should serve him at the ceremony, but now it appeared that I must start my duties even earlier. The prospect of a summer holiday in Utterbourne pleased me. It was a charming village, set upon the slope of a wooded hill and within call of the sea. I had a slight knowledge of the district from a riding excursion taken through that part of Devonshire; and years before, and ere Warrington had come into his money, had viewed the Abbey ruins from a distance with the polite curiosity of a passing tourist.
I examined them now with new eyes as we drove up the avenue. The face which the ancient building presented to the valley was of magnificent design, but now much worn and battered.
Part of it, the right wing, I judged to be long past the uses of a dwelling, for the walls had crumbled away, huge gaps opened in the foundations, and the roof was quite dismantled.
Warrington had very wisely left this portion to its own sinister decay; it was the left wing which had been restored, and which we were to inhabit. The entrance, I will confess, was a little mean, for the large doorway had been bricked up and an ordinary modern door gave upon the spacious terrace and the winding gardens. But apart from this, the work of restoration had been undertaken with skill and piety, and the interior had retained its native dignity, while resuming an air of proper comfort. The old oak had been repaired congruous with the original designs, and the great rooms had been as little altered as was requisite to adapt them for daily use.
Warrington passed quickly from chamber to chamber in evident delight, directing my attention upon this and upon that, and eagerly requiring my congratulations and approval. My comments must have satisfied him, for the place attracted me vastly. The only criticism I ventured was to remark upon the size of the rooms and to question if they might dwarf the insignificant human figures they were to entertain.
He laughed. “Not a bit,” said he. “Roaring fires in winter in those fine old fireplaces; and as for summer, the more space the better. We shall be jolly.”
I followed him along the noble hall, and we stopped before a small door of very black oak.
“The bedrooms,” he explained, as he turned the key, “are all upstairs, but mine is not ready yet.
“And besides, I am reserving it; I won’t sleep in it till–you understand,” he concluded, with a smiling suggestion of embarrassment.
I understood very well. He threw the door open.
“I am going to use this in the meantime,” he continued. “Queer little room, isn’t it? It used to be a sort of library. How do you think it looks?”
We had entered as he spoke, and stood, distributing our glances in that vague and general way in which a room is surveyed. It was a chamber of much smaller proportions than the rest, and was dimly lighted by two long narrow windows sunk in the great walls. The bed and the modern fittings looked strangely out of keeping with its ancient privacy. The walls were rudely distempered with barbaric frescos, dating, I conjectured, from the fourteenth century; and the floor was of stone, worn into grooves and hollows with the feet of many generations. As I was taking in these facts, there came over me a sudden curiosity as to those dead Marvyns who had held the Abbey for so long. This silent chamber seemed to suggest questions of their history; it spoke eloquently of past ages and past deeds, fallen now into oblivion. Here, within these thick walls, no echo from the outer world might carry, no sound would ring within its solitary seclusion. Even the silence seemed to confer with one upon the ancient transactions of that extinct House.
Warrington stirred, and turned suddenly to me. “I hope it’s not damp,” said he, with a slight shiver. “It looks rather solemn. I thought furniture would brighten it up.”
“I should think it would be very comfortable,” said I. “You will never be disturbed by any sounds at any rate.”
“No,” he answered, hesitatingly; and then, quickly, on one of his impulses: “Hang it, Heywood, there’s too much silence here for me.” Then he laughed. “Oh, I shall do very well for a month or two.” And with that appeared to return to his former placid cheerfulness.
The train of thought started in that sombre chamber served to entertain me several times that day. I questioned Warrington at dinner, which we took in one of the smaller rooms, commanding a lovely prospect of dale and sea. He shook his head. Archæological lore, as indeed anything else out of the borders of actual life, held very little interest for him.
“The Marvyns died out in 1714, I believe,” he said, indifferently; “someone told me that–the man I bought it from, I think. They might just as well have kept the place up since; but I think it has been only occupied twice between then and now, and the last time was forty years ago. It would have rotted to pieces if I hadn’t taken it. Perhaps Mrs Batty could tell you. She’s lived in these parts almost all her life.”
To humour me, and affected, I doubt not, by a certain pride in his new possession, he put the query to his housekeeper upon her appearance subsequently; but it seemed that her knowledge was little fuller than his own, though she had gathered some vague traditions of the countryside.
The Marvyns had not left a reputable name, if rumour spoke truly; theirs was a family to which black deeds had been credited. They were ill-starred also in their fortunes, and had become extinct suddenly; but for the rest, the events had fallen too many generations ago to be current now between the memories of the village.
Warrington, who was more eager to discuss the future than to recall the past, was vastly excited by his anticipations. St Pharamond, Sir William Bosanquet’s house, lay across the valley, barely five miles away; and as the family had now returned, it was easy to forgive Warrington’s elation.
“What do you think?” he said, late that evening; and clapping me upon the shoulder, “You have seen Marion; here is the house. Am I not lucky? Damn it, Heywood, I’m not pious, but I am disposed to thank God! I’m not a bad fellow, but I’m no saint; it’s fortunate that it’s not only the virtuous that are rewarded. In fact, it’s usually contrariwise. I owe this to–Lord, I don’t know what I owe it to. Is it my money? Of course, Marion doesn’t care a rap for that; but then, you see, I mightn’t have known her without it. Of course, there’s the house, too. I’m thankful I have money. At any rate, here’s my new life. Just look about and take it in, old fellow. If you knew how a man may be ashamed of himself! But there, I’ve done. You know I’m decent at heart—you must count my life from today.” And with this outbreak he lifted the glass between fingers that trembled with the warmth of his emotions, and tossed off his wine.
He did himself but justice when he claimed to be a good fellow; and, in truth, I was myself somewhat moved by his obvious feeling. I remember that we shook hands very affectionately, and my sympathy was the prelude to a long and confidential talk, which lasted until quite a late hour.
At the foot of the staircase, where we parted, he detained me.
“This is the last of my wayward days,” he said, with a smile. “Late hours–liquor–all go. You shall see. Goodnight. You know your room. I shall be up long before you.” And with that he vanished briskly into the darkness that hung about the lower parts of the passage.
I watched him go, and it struck me quite vaguely what a slight impression his candle made upon that channel of opaque gloom. It seemed merely as a thread of light that illumined nothing.
Warrington himself was rapt into the prevalent blackness; but long afterwards, and even when his footsteps had died away upon the heavy carpet, the tiny beam was visible, advancing and flickering in the distance.
My window, which was modern, opened upon a little balcony, where, as the night was warm and I was indisposed for sleep, I spent half an hour enjoying the air. I was in a sentimental mood, and my thoughts turned upon the suggestions which Warrington’s conversation had induced. It was not until I was in bed, and had blown out the light, that they settled upon the square, dark chamber in which my host was to pass the night. As I have said, I was wakeful, owing, no doubt, to the high pitch of the emotions which we had encouraged; but presently my fancies became inarticulate and incoherent, and then I was overtaken by profound sleep.
Warrington was up before me, as he had predicted, and met me in the breakfast-room.
“What a beggar you are to sleep!” he said, with a smile. “I’ve hammered at your door for half an hour.”
I apologized for myself, alleging the rich country air in my defence, and mentioned that I had had some difficulty in getting to sleep.
“So had I,” he remarked, as we sat down to the table. “We got very excited, I suppose. Just see what you have there, Heywood. Eggs? Oh, damn it, one can have too much of eggs!” He frowned, and lifted a third cover. “Why in the name of common sense can’t Mrs Batty give us more variety?” he asked, impatiently.
I deprecated his displeasure, suggesting that we should do very well; indeed, his discontent seemed to me quite unnecessary. But I supposed Warrington had been rather spoiled by many years of club life.
He settled himself without replying, and began to pick over his plate in a gingerly manner.
“There’s one thing I will have here, Heywood,” he observed. “I will have things well appointed.”
“I’m not going to let life in the country mean an uncomfortable life. A man can’t change the habits of a lifetime.”
In contrast with his exhilarated professions of the previous evening, this struck me with a sense of amusement at the moment; and the incongruity may have occurred to him, for he went on:
“Marion’s not over strong, you know, and must have things comme il faut. She shan’t decline upon a lower level. The worst of these rustics is that they have no imagination.” He held up a piece of bacon on his fork, and surveyed it with disgust. “Now, look at that! Why the devil don’t they take tips from civilized people like the French?”
It was so unlike him to exhibit this petulance that I put it down to a bad night, and without discovering the connection of my thoughts, asked him how he liked his bedroom.
“Oh, pretty well, pretty well,” he said, indifferently. “It’s not so cold as I thought. But I slept badly. I always do in a strange bed;” and pushing aside his plate, he lit a cigarette. “When you’ve finished that garbage, Heywood, we’ll have a stroll round the Abbey,” he said.
His good temper returned during our walk, and he indicated to me various improvements which he contemplated, with something of his old ardour. The left wing of the house, as I have said, was entire, but a little apart were the ruins of a chapel. Surrounded by a low moss-grown wall, it was full of picturesque charm; the roofless chancel was spread with ivy, but the aisles were intact. Grass grew between the stones and the floor, and many creepers had strayed through chinks in the wall into those sacred precincts. The solemn quietude of the ruin, maintained under the spell of death, awed me a little, but upon Warrington apparently it made no impression. He was only zealous that I should properly appreciate the distinction of such a property. I stooped and drew the weeds away from one of the slabs in the aisle, and was able to trace upon it the relics of lettering, well-nigh obliterated under the corrosion of time.
“There are tombs,” said I.
“Oh, yes,” he answered, with a certain relish. “I understand the Marvyns used it as a mausoleum. They are all buried here. Some good brasses, I am told.”
The associations of the place engaged me; the aspect of the Abbey faced the past; it seemed to refuse communion with the present; and somehow the thought of those two decent humdrum lives which should be spent within its shelter savoured of the incongruous. The white-capped maids and the emblazoned butlers that should tread these halls offered a ridiculous appearance beside my fancies of the ancient building. For all that, I envied Warrington his home, and so I told him, with a humorous hint that I was fitter to appreciate its glories than himself.
He laughed. “Oh, I don’t know,” said he. “I like the old-world look as much as you do. I have always had a notion of something venerable. It seems to serve you for ancestors.” And he was undoubtedly delighted with my enthusiasm.
But at lunch again he chopped round to his previous irritation, only now quite another matter provoked his anger. He had received a letter by the second post from Miss Bosanquet, which, if I may judge from his perplexity, must have been unusually confused. He read and re-read it, his brow lowering.
“What the deuce does she mean?” he asked, testily. “She first makes an arrangement for us to ride over today, and now I can’t make out whether we are to go to St Pharamond, or they are coming to us. Just look at it, will you, Heywood?”
I glanced through the note, but could offer no final solution, whereupon he broke out again:
“That’s just like women–they never can say anything straightforwardly. Why, in the name of goodness, couldn’t she leave things as they were? You see,” he observed, rather in answer, as I fancied, to my silence, “we don’t know what to do now; if we stay here they mayn’t come, and if we go probably we shall cross them.” And he snapped his fingers in annoyance.
I was cheerful enough, perhaps because the responsibility was not mine, and ventured to suggest that we might ride over, and return if we missed them. But he dismissed the subject sharply by saying:
“No, I’ll stay. I’m not going on a fool’s errand,” and drew my attention to some point in the decoration of the room.
The Bosanquets did not arrive during the afternoon, and Warrington’s ill-humour increased.
His love-sick state pleaded in excuse of him, but he was certainly not a pleasant companion. He was sour and snappish, and one could introduce no statement to which he would not find a contradiction. So unamiable did he grow that at last I discovered a pretext to leave him, and rambled to the back of the Abbey into the precincts of the old chapel. The day was falling, and the summer sun flared through the western windows upon the bare aisle. The creepers rustled upon the gaping walls, and the tall grasses waved in shadows over the bodies of the forgotten dead. As I stood contemplating the effect, and meditating greatly upon the anterior fortunes of the Abbey, my attention fell upon a huge slab of marble, upon which the yellow light struck sharply. The faded lettering rose into greater definition before my eyes and I read slowly:
“Here lyeth the body of Sir Rupert Marvyn.”
Beyond a date, very difficult to decipher, there was nothing more; of eulogy, of style, of record, of pious considerations such as were usual to the period, not a word. I read the numerals variously as 1723 and 1745; but however they ran it was probable that the stone covered the resting-place of the last Marvyn. The history of this futile house interested me not a little, partly for Warrington’s sake, and in part from a natural bent towards ancient records; and I made a mental note of the name and date.
When I returned Warrington’s surliness had entirely vanished, and had given place to an effusion of boisterous spirits. He apologized jovially for his bad temper.
“It was the disappointment of not seeing Marion,” he said. “You will understand that some day, old fellow. But, anyhow, we’ll go over tomorrow,” and forthwith proceeded to enliven the dinner with an ostentation of good-fellowship I had seldom witnessed in him. I began to suspect that he had heard again from St Pharamond, though he chose to conceal the fact from me. The wine was admirable; though Warrington himself was no great judge, he had entrusted the selection to a good palate. We had a merry meal, drank a little more than was prudent, and smoked our cigars upon the terrace in the fresh air. Warrington was restless. He pushed his glass from him. “I’ll tell you what, old chap,” he broke out, “I’ll give you a game of billiards. I’ve got a decent table.”
I demurred. The air was too delicious, and I was in no humour for a sharp use of my wits. He laughed, though he seemed rather disappointed.
“It’s almost sacrilege to play billiards in an Abbey,” I said, whimsically. “What would the ghosts of the old Marvyns think?”
“Oh, hang the Marvyns!” he rejoined, crossly. “You’re always talking of them.”
He rose and entered the house, returning presently with a flagon of whisky and some glasses.
“Try this,” he said. “We’ve had no liqueurs,” and pouring out some spirit he swallowed it raw.
I stared, for Warrington rarely took spirits, being more of a wine drinker; moreover, he must have taken nearly the quarter of a tumbler. But he did not notice my surprise, and, seating himself, lit another cigar.
“I don’t mean to have things quiet here,” he observed, reflectively. “I don’t believe in your stagnant rustic life. What I intend to do is to keep the place warm–plenty of house parties, things going on all the year. I shall expect you down for the shooting, Ned. The coverts promise well this year.”
I assented willingly enough, and he rambled on again.
“I don’t know that I shall use the Abbey so much. I think I’ll live in town a good deal. It’s brighter there. I don’t know though. I like the place. Hang it, it’s a rattling good shop, there’s no mistake about it. Look here,” he broke off, abruptly, “bring your glass in, and I’ll show you something.”
I was little inclined to move, but he was so peremptory that I followed him with a sigh. We entered one of the smaller rooms which overlooked the terrace, and had been diverted into a comfortable library. He flung back the windows.
“There’s air for you,” he cried. “Now, sit down,” and walking to a cupboard produced a second flagon of whisky. “Irish!” he ejaculated, clumping it on the table. “Take your choice,” and turning again to the cupboard, presently sat down with his hands under the table. “Now, then, Ned,” he said, with a short laugh. “Fill up, and we’ll have some fun,” with which he suddenly threw a pack of cards upon the board.
I opened my eyes, for I do not suppose Warrington had touched cards since his college days; but, interpreting my look in his own way, he cried:
“Oh, I’m not married yet. Warrington’s his own man still. Poker? Eh?”
“Anything you like,” said I, with resignation.
A peculiar expression of delight gleamed in his eyes, and he shuffled the cards feverishly.
“Cut,” said he, and helped himself to more whisky.
It was shameful to be playing there with that beautiful night without, but there seemed no help for it. Warrington had a run of luck, though he played with little skill; and his excitement grew as he won.
“Let us make it ten shillings,” he suggested.
I shook my head. “You forget I’m not a millionaire,” I replied. “Bah!” he cried. “I like a game worth the victory. Well, fire away.” His eyes gloated upon the cards, and he fingered them with unctuous affection. The behaviour of the man amazed me. I began to win.
Warrington’s face slowly assumed a dull, lowering expression; he played eagerly, avariciously; he disputed my points, and was querulous.
“Oh, we’ve had enough!” I cried in distaste.
“By Jove, you don’t!” he exclaimed, jumping to his feet. “You’re the winner, Heywood, and I’ll see you damned before I let you off my revenge!”
The words startled me no less than the fury which rang in his accents. I gazed at him in stupefaction. The whites of his eyes showed wildly, and a sullen, angry look determined his face.
Suddenly I was arrested by the suspicion of something upon his neck.
“What’s that?” I asked. “You’ve cut yourself.”
He put his hand to his face. “Nonsense,” he replied, in a surly fashion.
I looked closer, and then I saw my mistake. It was a round, faint red mark, the size of a florin, upon the column of his throat, and I set it down to the accidental pressure of some button.
“Come on!” he insisted, impatiently.
“Bah! Warrington,” I said, for I imagined that he had been overexcited by the whisky he had taken. “It’s only a matter of a few pounds. Why make a fuss? Tomorrow will serve.”
After a moment his eyes fell, and he gave an awkward laugh. “Oh, well, that’ll do,” said he.
“But I got so infernally excited.”
“Whisky,” said I, sententiously.
He glanced at the bottle. “How many glasses have I had?” and he whistled. “By Jove, Ned, this won’t do! I must turn over a new leaf. Come on; let’s look at the night.”
I was only too glad to get away from the table, and we were soon upon the terrace again.
Warrington was silent, and his gaze went constantly across the valley, where the moon was rising, and in the direction in which, as he had indicated to me, St Pharamond lay. When he said goodnight he was still pre-occupied.
“I hope you will sleep better,” he said.
“And you, too,” I added.
He smiled. “I don’t suppose I shall wake the whole night through,” he said; and then, as I was turning to go, he caught me quickly by the arm.
“Ned,” he said, impulsively and very earnestly, “don’t let me make a fool of myself again. I know it’s the excitement of everything. But I want to be as good as I can for her.”
I pressed his hand. “All right, old fellow,” I said; and we parted.
I think I have never enjoyed sounder slumber than that night. The first thing I was aware of was the singing of thrushes outside my window. I rose and looked forth, and the sun was hanging high in the eastern sky, the grass and the young green of the trees were shining with dew. With an uncomfortable feeling that I was very late I hastily dressed and went downstairs. Warrington was waiting for me in the breakfast-room, as upon the previous morning, and when he turned from the window at my approach, the sight of his face startled me. It was drawn and haggard, and his eyes were shot with blood; it was a face broken and savage with dissipation. He made no answer to my questioning, but seated himself with a morose air.
“Now you have come,” he said, sullenly, “we may as well begin. But it’s not my fault if the coffee’s cold.”
I examined him critically, and passed some comment upon his appearance.
“You don’t look up to much,” I said. “Another bad night?”
“No; I slept well enough,” he responded, ungraciously; and then, after a pause: “I’ll tell you what, Heywood. You shall give me my revenge after breakfast.”
“Nonsense,” I said, after a momentary silence. “You’re going over to St Pharamond.”
“Hang it!” was his retort, “one can’t be always bothering about women. You seem mightily indisposed to meet me again.”
“I certainly won’t this morning,” I answered, rather sharply, for the man’s manner grated upon me. “This evening, if you like; and then the silly business shall end.”
He said something in an undertone of grumble, and the rest of the meal passed in silence. But I entertained an uneasy suspicion of him, and after all he was my friend, with whom I was under obligations not to quarrel; and so when we rose, I approached him.
“Look here, Warrington,” I said. “What’s the matter with you? Have you been drinking?
“Remember what you asked me last night.”
“Hold your damned row!” was all the answer he vouchsafed, as he whirled away from me, but with an embarrassed display of shame.
But I was not to be put off in that way, and I spoke somewhat more sharply.
“We’re going to have this out, Warrington,” I said. “If you are ill, let us understand that; but I’m not going to stay here with you in this cantankerous spirit.”
“I’m not ill,” he replied testily.
“Look at yourself,” I cried, and turned him about to the mirror over the mantelpiece.
He started a little, and a frown of perplexity gathered on his forehead.
“Good Lord! I’m not like that, Ned,” he said, in a different voice. “I must have been drunk last night.” And with a sort of groan, he directed a piteous look at me.
“Come,” I was constrained to answer, “pull yourself together. The ride will do you good. And no more whisky.”
“No, by Heaven, no!” he cried vehemently, and seemed to shiver; but then, suddenly taking my arm, he walked out of the room.
The morning lay still and golden. Warrington’s eyes went forth across the valley.
“Come round to the stables, Ned,” he said, impulsively. “You shall choose you own nag.”
I shook my head. “I’ll choose yours,” said I, “but I am not going with you.” He looked surprised.
“No, ride by yourself. You don’t want a companion on such an errand. I’ll stay here, and pursue my investigations into the Marvyns.”
A scowl crossed his face, but only for an instant, and then he answered: “All right, old chap; do as you like. Anyway, I’m off at once.” And presently, when his horse was brought, he was laughing merrily.
“You’ll have a dull day, Ned; but it’s your own fault, you duffer. You’ll have to lunch by yourself, as I shan’t be back till late.” And, gaily flourishing his whip, he trotted down the drive.
It was some relief to me to be rid of him, for, in truth, his moods had worn my nerves, and I had not looked for a holiday of this disquieting nature. When he returned, I had no doubt it would be with quite another face, and meanwhile I was excellent company for myself. After lunch I amused myself for half an hour with idle tricks upon the billiard-table, and, tiring of my pastime, fell upon the housekeeper as I returned along the corridor. She was a woman nearer to sixty than fifty, with a comfortable, portly figure, and an amiable expression. Her eyes invited me ever so respectfully to conversation, and stopping, I entered into talk. She inquired if I liked my room and how I slept.
“‘Tis a nice look-out you have, Sir,” said she. “That was where old Lady Martin slept.”
It appeared that she had served as kitchen-maid to the previous tenants of the Abbey, nearly fifty years before.
“Oh, I know the old house in and out,” she asserted; “and I arranged the rooms with Mr Warrington.”
We were standing opposite the low doorway which gave entrance to Warrington’s bedroom, and my eyes unconsciously shot in that direction. Mrs Batty followed my glance.
“I didn’t want him to have that,” she said; “but he was set upon it. It’s smallish for a bedroom, and in my opinion isn’t fit for more than a lumber-room. That’s what Sir William used it for.”
I pushed open the door and stepped over the threshold, and the housekeeper followed me.
“No,” she said, glancing round; “and it’s in my mind that it’s damp, Sir.”
Again I had a curious feeling that the silence was speaking in my ear; the atmosphere was thick and heavy, and a musty smell, as of faded draperies, penetrated my nostrils. The whole room looked indescribably dingy, despite the new hangings. I went over to the narrow window and peered through the diamond panes. Outside, but seen dimly through that ancient and discoloured glass, the ruins of the chapel confronted me, bare and stark, in the yellow sunlight. I turned.
“There are no ghosts in the Abbey, I suppose, Mrs Batty?” I asked, whimsically.
But she took my inquiry very gravely. “I have never heard tell of one, Sir,” she protested; “and if there was such a thing I should have known it.”
As I was rejoining her a strange low whirring was audible, and looking up I saw in a corner of the high-arched roof a horrible face watching me out of black narrow eyes. I confess that I was very much startled at the apparition, but the next moment realized what it was. The creature hung with its ugly fleshy wings extended over a grotesque stone head that leered down upon me, its evil-looking snout projecting into the room; it lay perfectly still, returning me glance for glance, until moved by the repulsion of its presence I clapped my hands, and cried loudly; then, slowly flitting in a circle round the roof, it vanished with a flapping of wings into some darker corner of the rafters. Mrs Batty was astounded, and expressed surprise that it had managed to conceal itself for so long.
“Oh, bats live in holes,” I answered. “Probably there is some small access through the masonry.” But the incident had sent an uncomfortable shiver through me all the same.
Later that day I began to recognize that, short of an abrupt return to town, my time was not likely to be spent very pleasantly. But it was the personal problem so far as it concerned Warrington himself that distressed me even more. He came back from St Pharamond in a morose and ugly temper, quite alien to his kindly nature. It seems that he had quarrelled bitterly with Miss Bosanquet, but upon what I could not determine, nor did I press him for an explanation. But the fumes of his anger were still rising when we met, and our dinner was a most depressing meal.
He was in a degree of irritation which rendered it impossible to address him, and I soon withdrew into my thoughts. I saw, however, that he was drinking far too much, as, indeed, was plain subsequently when he invited me into the library. Once more he produced the hateful cards, and I was compelled to play, as he reminded me somewhat churlishly that I had promised him his revenge.
“Understand, Warrington,” I said, firmly, “I play tonight, but never again, whatever the result In fact, I am in half the mind to return to town tomorrow.”
He gave me a look as he sat down, but said nothing, and the game began. He lost heavily from the first, and as nothing would content him but we must constantly raise the stakes, in a shore time I had won several hundred pounds. He bore the reverses very ill, breaking out from time to time into some angry exclamation, now petulantly questioning my playing, and muttering oaths under his breath. But I was resolved that he should have no cause of complaint against me for this one night, and disregarding his insane fits of temper, I played steadily and silently. As the tally of my gains mounted he changed colour slowly, his face assuming a ghastly expression, and his eyes suspiciously denoting my actions. At length he rose, and throwing himself quickly across the table, seized my hand ferociously as I dealt a couple of cards.
“Damn you! I see your tricks,” he cried, in frenzied passion. “Drop that hand, do you hear?”
“Drop that hand, or by–“
But he got no further, for, rising myself, I wrenched my hand from his grasp, and turned upon him, in almost as great a passion as himself. But suddenly, and even as I opened my mouth to speak, I stopped short with a cry of horror. His face was livid to the lips, his eyes were cast with blood, and upon the dirty white of his flesh, right in the centre of his throat, the round red scar, flaming and ugly as a wound, stared upon me.
“Warrington” I cried, “what is this? What have you?–” And I pointed in alarm to the spot.
“Mind your own business,” he said, with a sneer. “It is well to try and draw off attention from your knavery. But that trick won’t answer with me.”
Without another word I flung the IOU’s upon the table, and turning on my heel, left the room. I was furious with him, and fully resolved to leave the Abbey in the morning. I made my way upstairs to my room, and then, seating myself upon the balcony, endeavoured to recover my self-possession.
The more I considered, the more unaccountable was Warrington’s behaviour. He had always been a perfectly courteous man, with a great lump of kindness in his nature; whereas these last few days he had been nothing other than a savage. It seemed certain that he must be ill or going mad; and as I reflected upon this the conjecture struck me with a sense of pity. If it was that he was losing his senses, how horrible was the tragedy in face of the new and lovely prospects opening in his life. Stimulated by this growing conviction, I resolved to go down and see him, more particularly as I now recalled his pleading voice that I should help him, on the previous evening. Was it not possible that this pathetic appeal derived from the instinct of the insane to protect themselves?
I found him still in the library; his head had fallen upon the table, and the state of the whisky bottle by his arm showed only too clearly his condition. I shook him vigorously, and he opened his eyes.
“Warrington, you must go to bed,” I said.
He smiled, and greeted me quite affectionately. Obviously he was not so drunk as I had supposed.
“What is the time, Ned?” he asked.
I told him it was one o’clock, at which he rose briskly.
“Lord, I’ve been asleep,” he said. “Help me, Ned. I don’t think I’m sober. Where have you been?”
I assisted him to his room, and he undressed slowly, and with an effort. Somehow, as I stood watching him, I yielded to an unknown impulse and said, suddenly:
“Warrington, don’t sleep here. Come and share my room.”
“My dear fellow,” he replied, with a foolish laugh, “yours is not the only room in the house. I can use half-a-dozen if I like.”
“Well, use one of them,” I answered.
He shook his head. “I’m going to sleep here,” he returned, obstinately.
I made no further effort to influence him, for, after all, now that the words were out, I had absolutely no reason to give him or myself for my proposition. And so I left him. When I had closed the door, and was turning to go along the passage, I heard very clearly, as it seemed to me, a plaintive cry, muffled and faint, but very disturbing, which sounded from the room.
Instantly I opened the door again. Warrington was in bed, and the heavy sound of his breathing told me that he was asleep. It was impossible that he could have uttered the cry. A night-light was burning by his bedside, shedding a strong illumination over the immediate vicinity, and throwing antic shadows on the walls. As I turned to go, there was a whirring of wings, a brief flap behind me, and the room was plunged in darkness. The obscene creature that lived in the recesses of the roof must have knocked out the tiny light with its wings. Then Warrington’s breathing ceased, and there was no sound at all. And then once more the silence seemed to gather round me slowly and heavily, and whisper to me. I had a vague sense of being prevailed upon, of being enticed and lured by something in the surrounding air; a sort of horror circumscribed me, and I broke from the invisible ring and rushed from the room. The door clanged behind me, and as I hastened along the hail, once more there seemed to ring in my ears the faint and melancholy cry.
I awoke, in the sombre twilight that precedes the dawn, from a sleep troubled and encumbered with evil dreams. The birds had not yet begun their day, and a vast silence brooded over the Abbey gardens. Looking out of my window, I caught sight of a dark figure stealing cautiously round the corner of the ruined chapel. The furtive gait, as well as the appearance of a man at that early hour, struck me with surprise; and hastily throwing on some clothes, I ran downstairs, and, opening the hall-door, went out. When I reached the porch which gave entrance to the aisle I stopped suddenly, for there before me, with his head to the ground, and peering among the tall grasses, was the object of my pursuit. Then I stepped quickly forward and laid a hand upon his shoulder. It was Warrington.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
He turned and looked at me in bewilderment. His eyes wore a dazed expression, and he blinked in perplexity before he replied.
“It’s you, is it?” he said weakly. “I thought–” and then paused. “What is it?” he asked.
“I followed you here,” I explained. “I only saw your figure, and thought it might be some intruder.”
He avoided my eyes. “I thought I heard a cry out here,” he answered.
“Warrington,” I said, with some earnestness, “come back to bed.”
He made no answer, and slipping my arm in his, I led him away. On the doorstep he stopped, and lifted his face to me.
“Do you think it’s possible–” he began, as if to inquire of me, and then again paused. With a slight shiver he proceeded to his room, while I followed him. He sat down upon his bed, and his eyes strayed to the barred window absently. The black shadow of the chapel was visible through the panes.
“Don’t say anything about this,” he said, suddenly. “Don’t let Marion know.”
I laughed, but it was an awkward laugh.
“Why, that you were alarmed by a cry for help, and went in search like a gentleman?” I asked, jestingly.
“You heard it, then?” he said, eagerly.
I shook my head, for I was not going to encourage his fancies. “You had better go to sleep,” I replied, “and get rid of these nightmares.”
He sighed and lay back upon his pillow, dressed as he was. Ere I left him he had fallen into a profound slumber.
If I had expected a surly mood in him at breakfast I was much mistaken. There was not a trace of his nocturnal dissipations; he did not seem even to remember them, and he made no allusion whatever to our adventure in the dawn. He perused a letter carefully, and threw it over to me with a grin.
“Lor, what queer sheep women are!” he exclaimed, with rather a coarse laugh.
I glanced at the letter without thinking, but ere I had read half of it I put it aside. It was certainly not meant for my eyes, and I marvelled at Warrington’s indelicacy in making public, as it were, that very private matter. The note was from Miss Bosanquet, and was clearly designed for his own heart, couched as it was in the terms of warm and fond affection. No man should see such letters save he for whom they are written.
“You see, they’re coming over to dine,” he remarked, carelessly. “Trust a girl to make it up if you let her alone long enough.”
I made no answer; but though Warrington’s grossness irritated me, I reflected with satisfaction upon his return to good humour, which I attributed to the reconciliation.
When I moved out upon the terrace the maid had entered to remove the breakfast things. I was conscious of a slight exclamation behind me, and Warrington joined me presently, with a loud guffaw.
“That’s a damned pretty girl!” he said, with unction. “I’m glad Mrs Batty got her. I like to have good-looking servants.”
I suddenly interpreted the incident, and shrugged my shoulders.
“You’re a perfect boor this morning, Warrington,” I exclaimed, irritably.
He only laughed. “You’re a dull dog of a saint, Heywood,” he retorted. “Come along,” and dragged me out in no amiable spirit.
I had forgotten how perfect a host Warrington could be, but that evening he was displayed at his best. The Bosanquets arrived early. Sir William was an easy-going man, fond of books and of wine, and I now guessed at the taste which had decided Warrington’s cellar. Miss Bosanquet was as charming as I remembered her to be; and if any objection might be taken to Warrington himself by my anxious eyes it was merely that he seemed a trifle excited, a fault which, in the circumstances, I was able to condone. Sir William hung about the table, sipping his wine.
Warrington, who had been very abstemious, grew restless, and, finally apologizing in his graceful way, left me to keep the baronet company. I was the less disinclined to do so as I was anxious not to intrude upon the lovers, and Sir William was discussing the history of the Abbey.
He had an old volume somewhere in his library which related to it, and, seeing that I was interested, invited me to look it up.
We sat long, and it was not until later that the horrible affair which I must narrate occurred.
The evening was close and oppressive, owing to the thunder, which already rumbled far away in the south. When we rose we found that Warrington and Miss Bosanquet were in the garden, and thither we followed. As at first we did not find them, Sir William, who had noted the approaching storm with some uneasiness, left me to make arrangements for his return; and I strolled along the paths by myself, enjoying a cigarette. I had reached the shrubbery upon the further side of the chapel, when I heard the sound of voices–a man’s rough and rasping, a woman’s pleading and informed with fear. A sharp cry ensued, and without hesitation I plunged through the thicket in the direction of the speakers. The sight that met me appalled me for the moment. Darkness was falling, lit with ominous flashes; and the two figures stood out distinctly in the bushes, in an attitude of struggle. I could not mistake the voices now. I heard Warrington’s, brusque with anger, and almost savage in its tones, crying, “You shall!” and there followed a murmur from the girl, a little sob, and then a piercing cry. I sprang forward and seized Warrington by the arm; when, to my horror, I perceived that he had taken her wrist in both hands and was roughly twisting it, after the cruel habit of schoolboys. The malevolent cruelty of the action so astounded me that for an instant I remained motionless; I almost heard the bones in the frail wrist cracking; and then, in a second, I had seized Warrington’s hands in a grip of iron, and flung him violently to the ground. The girl fell with him, and as I picked her up he rose too, and, clenching his fists, made as though to come at me, but instead turned and went sullenly, and with a ferocious look of hate upon his face, out of the thicket.
Miss Bosanquet came to very shortly, and though the agony of the pain must have been considerable to a delicate girl, I believe it was rather the incredible horror of the act under which she swooned. For my part I had nothing to say: not one word relative to the incident dared pass my lips. I inquired if she was better, and then, putting her arm in mine, led her gently towards the house. Her heart beat hard against me, and she breathed heavily, leaning on me for support. At the chapel I stopped, feeling suddenly that I dare not let her be seen in this condition, and bewildered greatly by the whole atrocious business.
“Come and rest in here,” I suggested, and we entered the chapel.
I set her on a slab of marble, and stood waiting by her side. I talked fluently about anything; for lack of a subject, upon the state of the chapel and the curious tomb I had discovered. Recovering a little, she joined presently in my remarks. It was plain that she was putting a severe restraint upon herself. I moved aside the grasses, and read aloud the inscription on Sir Rupert’s grave-piece, and turning to the next, which was rankly overgrown, feigned to search further. As I was bending there, suddenly, and by what thread of thought I know not, I identified the spot with that upon which I had found Warrington stooping that morning. With a sweep of my hand I brushed back the weeds, uprooting some with my fingers, and kneeling in the twilight, pored over the monument. Suddenly a wild flare of light streamed down the sky, and a great crash of thunder followed. Miss Bosanquet started to her feet and I to mine. The heaven was lit up, as it were, with sunlight, and, as I turned, my eyes fell upon the now uncovered stone. Plainly the lettering flashed in my eyes:
“Priscilla, Lady Marvyn.”
Then the clouds opened, and the rain fell in spouts, shouting and dancing upon the ancient roof overhead.
We were under a very precarious shelter, and I was uneasy that Miss Bosanquet should run the risk of that flimsy, ravaged edifice; and so in a momentary lull I managed to get her to the house.
I found Sir William in a restless state of nerves. He was a timorous man, and the thunder had upset him, more particularly as he and his daughter were now storm-bound for some time. There was no possibility of venturing into those rude elements for an hour or more. Warrington was not inside, and no one had seen him. In the light Miss Bosanquet’s face frightened me; her eyes were large and scared, and her colour very dead white. Clearly she was very near a breakdown. I found Mrs Batty, and told her that the young lady had been severely shaken by the storm, suggesting that she had better lie down for a little. Returning with me, the housekeeper led off the unfortunate girl, and Sir William and I were left together. He paced the room impatiently, and constantly inquired if there were any signs of improvement in the weather. He also asked for Warrington, irritably. The burden of the whole dreadful night seemed fallen upon me. Passing through the hall I met Mrs Batty again. Her usually placid features were disturbed and aghast.
“What is the matter?” I asked. “Is Miss Bosanquet–“
“No, Sir; I think she’s sleeping,” she replied. “She’s in–she is in Mr Warrington’s room.”
I started. “Are there no other rooms?” I asked, abruptly.
“There are none ready, Sir, except yours,” she answered, “and I thought–“
“You should have taken her there,” I said, sharply. The woman looked at me and opened her mouth. “Good heavens!” I said, irritably, “what is the matter? Everyone is mad tonight.”
“Alice is gone, Sir,” she blurted forth.
Alice, I remembered, was the name of one of her maids.
“What do you mean?” I asked, for her air of panic betokened something graver than her words.
The thunder broke over the house and drowned her voice.
“She can’t be out in this storm–she must have taken refuge somewhere,” I said.
At that the strings of her tongue loosened, and she burst forth with her tale. It was an abominable narrative.
“Where is Mr Warrington?” I asked; but she shook her head.
There was a moment’s silence between us, and we eyed each other aghast. “She will be all right,” I said at last, as if dismissing the subject.
The housekeeper wrung her hands. “I never would have thought it!” she repeated, dismally. “I never would have thought it!”
“There is some mistake,” I said; but, somehow, I knew better. Indeed, I felt now that I had almost been prepared for it.
“She ran towards the village,” whispered Mrs Batty. “God knows where she was going! The river lies that way.”
“Pooh!” I exclaimed. “Don’t talk nonsense. It is all a mistake. Come, have you any brandy?” Brought back to the material round of her duties she bustled away with a sort of briskness, and returned with a flagon and glasses. I took a strong nip, and went back to Sir William. He was feverish, and declaimed against the weather unceasingly. I had to listen to the string of misfortunes which he recounted in the season’s crops. It seemed all so futile, with his daughter involved in her horrid tragedy in a neighbouring room. He was better after some brandy, and grew more cheerful, but assiduously wondered about Warrington.
“Oh, he’s been caught in the storm and taken refuge somewhere,” I explained, vainly. I wondered if the next day would ever dawn.
By degrees that thunder rolled slowly into the northern parts of the sky, and only fitful flashes seamed the heavens. It had lasted now more than two hours. Sir William declared his intention of starting, and asked for his daughter. I rang for Mrs Batty, and sent her to rouse Miss Bosanquet.
Almost immediately there was a knock upon the door, and the housekeeper was in the doorway, with an agitated expression, demanding to see me. Sir William was looking out of the window, and fortunately did not see her.
“Please come to Miss Bosanquet, Sir,” she cried, very scared. “Please come at once.”
In alarm I hastily ran down the corridor and entered Warrington’s room. The girl was lying upon the bed, her hair flowing upon the pillow; her eyes, wide open and filled with terror, stared at the ceiling, and her hands clutched and twined in the coverlet as if in an agony of pain. A gasping sound issued from her, as though she were struggling for breath under suffocation. Her whole appearance was as of one in the murderous grasp of an assailant.
I bent over. “Throw the light, quick,” I called to Mrs Batty; and as I put my hand on her shoulder to lift her, the creature that lived in the chamber rose suddenly from the shadow upon the further side of the bed, and sailed with a flapping noise up to the cornice. With an exclamation of horror I pulled the girl’s head forward, and the candle-light glowed on her pallid face. Upon the soft flesh of the slender throat was a round red mark, the size of a florin.
At the sight I almost let her fall upon the pillow again; but, commanding my nerves, I put my arms round her, and, lifting her bodily from the bed, carried her from the room. Mrs Batty followed.
“What shall we do?” she asked, in a low voice.
“Take her away from this damned chamber!” I cried. “Anywhere–the hall, the kitchen rather.”
I laid my burden upon a sofa in the dining-room, and despatching Mrs Batty for the brandy, gave Miss Bosanquet a draught. Slowly the horror faded from her eyes; they closed, and then she looked at me.
“What have you?–where am I?” she asked.
“You have been unwell,” I said. “Pray don’t disturb yourself yet.”
She shuddered, and closed her eyes again.
Very little more was said. Sir William pressed for his horses, and as the sky was clearing I made no attempt to detain him, more particularly as the sooner Miss Bosanquet left the Abbey the better for herself. In half an hour she recovered sufficiently to go, and I helped her into the carriage. She never referred to her seizure, but thanked me for my kindness. That was all. No one asked after Warrington–not even Sir William. He had forgotten everything, save his anxiety to get back. As the carriage turned from the steps I saw the mark upon the girl’s throat, now grown fainter.
I waited up till late into the morning, but there was no sign of Warrington when I went to bed.
Nor had he made his appearance when I descended to breakfast. A letter in his handwriting, however, and with the London postmark, awaited me. It was a pitiful scrawl, in the very penmanship of which one might trace the desperate emotions by which he was torn. He implored my forgiveness. “Am I a devil?” he asked. “Am I mad? It was not I! It was not I!” he repeated, underlining the sentence with impetuous dashes. “You know,” he wrote; “and you know, therefore, that everything is at an end for me. I am going abroad today. I shall never see the Abbey again.”
It was well that he had gone, as I hardly think that I could have faced him; and yet I was loth myself to leave the matter in this horrible tangle. I felt that it was enjoined upon me to meet the problems, and I endeavoured to do so as best I might. Mrs Batty gave me news of the girl Alice.
It was bad enough, though not so bad as both of us had feared. I was able to make arrangements on the instant, which I hoped might bury that lamentable affair for the time. There remained Miss Bosanquet; but that difficulty seemed beyond me. I could see no avenue out of the tragedy. I heard nothing save that she was ill–an illness attributed upon all hands to the shock of exposure to the thunderstorm. Only I knew better, and a vague disinclination to fly from the responsibilities of the position kept me hanging on at Utterbourne.
It was in those days before my visit to St Pharamond that I turned my attention more particularly to the thing which had forced itself relentlessly upon me. I was never a superstitious man; the gossip of old wives interested me merely as a curious and unsympathetic observer. And yet I was vaguely discomfited by the transaction in the Abbey, and it was with some reluctance that I decided to make a further test of Warrington’s bedroom. Mrs Batty received my determination to change my room easily enough, but with a protest as to the dampness of the Stone Chamber. It was plain that her suspicions had not marched with mine. On the second night after Warrington’s departure I occupied the room for the first time.
I lay awake for a couple of hours, with a reading lamp by my bed, and a volume of travels in my hand, and then, feeling very tired, put out the light and went to sleep. Nothing distracted me that night; indeed, I slept more soundly and peaceably than before in that house. I rose, too, experiencing quite an exhilaration, and it was not until I was dressing before the glass that I remembered the circumstances of my mission; but then I was at once pulled up, startled swiftly out of my cheerful temper. Faintly visible upon my throat was the same round mark which I had already seen stamped upon Warrington and Miss Bosanquet. With that, all my former doubts returned in force, augmented and militant. My mind recurred to the bat, and tales of bloodsucking by those evil creatures revived in my memory. But when I had remembered that these were of foreign beasts, and that I was in England, I dismissed them lightly enough. Still, the impress of that mark remained, and alarmed me. It could not come by accident; to suppose so manifold a coincidence was absurd. The puzzle dwelt with me, unsolved, and the fingers of dread slowly crept over me.
Yet I slept again in the room. Having but myself for company, and being somewhat bored and dull, I fear I took more spirit than was my custom, and the result was that I again slept profoundly. I awoke about three in the morning, and was surprised to find the lamp still burning.
I had forgotten it in my stupid state of somnolence. As I turned to put it out, the bat swept by me and circled for an instant above my head. So overpowered with torpor was I that I scarcely noticed it, and my head was no sooner at rest than I was once more unconscious. The red mark was stronger next morning, though, as on the previous day, it wore off with the fall of evening.
But I merely observed the fact without any concern; indeed, now the matter of my investigation seemed to have drawn very remote. I was growing indifferent, I supposed, through familiarity.
But the solitude was palling upon me, and I spent a very restless day. A sharp ride I took in the afternoon was the one agreeable experience of the day. I reflected that if this burden were to continue I must hasten up to town. I had no desire to tie myself to Warrington’s apron, in his interest. So dreary was the evening, that after I had strolled round the grounds and into the chapel by moonlight, I returned to the library and endeavoured to pass the time with Warrington’s cards.
But it was poor fun with no antagonist to pit myself against; and I was throwing down the pack in disgust when one of the manservants entered with the whisky.
It was not until long afterwards that I fully realized the course of my action; but even at the time I was aware of a curious sub-feeling of shamefacedness. I am sure that the thing fell naturally, and that there was no awkwardness in my approaching him. Nor, after the first surprise, did he offer any objection. Later he was hardly expected to do so, seeing that he was winning very quickly. The reason of that I guessed afterwards, but during the play I was amazed to note at intervals how strangely my irritation was aroused. Finally, I swept the cards to the floor, and rose, the man, with a smile in which triumph blended with uneasiness, rose also.
“Damn you, get away!” I said, angrily.
True to his traditions to the close, he answered me with respect, and obeyed; and I sat staring at the table. With a sudden flush, the grotesque folly of the night’s business came to me, and my eyes fell on the whisky bottle. It was nearly empty. Then I went to bed.
Voices cried all night in that chamber–soft, pleading voices. There was nothing to alarm in them; they seemed in a manner to coo me to sleep. But presently a sharper cry roused me from my semi-slumber; and getting up, I flung open the window. The wind rushed round the Abbey, sweeping with noises against the corners and gables. The black chapel lay still in the moonlight, and drew my eyes. But, resisting a strange, unaccountable impulse to go further, I went back to bed.
The events of the following day are better related without comment.
At breakfast I found a letter from Sir William Bosanquet, inviting me to come over to St Pharamond. I was at once conscious of an eager desire to do so: it seemed somehow as though I had been waiting for this. The visit assumed preposterous proportions, and I was impatient for the afternoon.
Sir William was polite, but not, as I thought, cordial. He never alluded to Warrington, from which I guessed that he had been informed of the breach, and I conjectured also that the invitation extended to me was rather an act of courtesy to a solitary stranger than due to a desire for my company. Nevertheless, when he presently suggested that I should stay to dinner, I accepted promptly. For, to say the truth, I had not yet seen Miss Bosanquet, and I experienced a strange curiosity to do so. When at last she made her appearance, I was struck, almost for the first time, by her beauty. She was certainly a handsome girl, though she had a delicate air of ill-health.
After dinner Sir William remembered by accident the book on the Abbey which he had promised to show me, and after a brief hunt in the library we found it. Shortly afterwards he was called away, and with an apology left me. With a curious eagerness I turned the pages of the volume and settled down to read.
It was published early in the century, and purported to relate the history of the Abbey and its owners. But it was one chapter which specially drew my interest–that which recounted the fate of the last Marvyn. The family had become extinct through a bloody tragedy; that fact held me.
The bare narrative, long since passed from the memory of tradition, was here set forth in the baldest statements. The names of Sir Rupert Marvyn and Priscilla, Lady Marvyn, shook me strangely, but particularly the latter. Some links of connection with those gravestones lying in the Abbey chapel constrained me intimately. The history of that evil race was stained and discoloured with blood, and the end was in fitting harmony–a lurid holocaust of crime. There had been two brothers, but it was hard to choose between the foulness of their lives. If either, the younger, William, was the worse; so at least the narrative would have it. The details of his excesses had not survived, but it was abundantly plain that they were both notorious gamblers.
The story of their deaths was wrapt in doubt, the theme of conjecture only, and probability; for none was by to observe save the three veritable actors–who were at once involved together in a bloody dissolution. Priscilla, the wife of Sir Rupert, was suspected of an intrigue with her brother-in-law. She would seem to have been tainted with the corruption of the family into which she had married. But according to a second rumour, chronicled by the author, there was some doubt if the woman were not the worst of the three. Nothing was known of her parentage; she had returned with the passionate Sir Rupert to the Abbey after one of his prolonged absences, and was accepted as his legal wife. This was the woman whose infamous beauty had brought a terrible sin between the brothers.
Upon the night which witnessed the extinction of this miserable family, the two brothers had been gambling together. It was known from the high voices that they had quarrelled, and it is supposed that, heated with wine and with the lust of play, the younger had thrown some taunt at Sir Rupert in respect to his wife. Whereupon–but this is all conjecture–the elder stabbed him to death. At least, it was understood that at this point the sounds of a struggle were heard, and a bitter cry. The report of the servants ran that upon this noise Lady Marvyn rushed into the room and locked the door behind her. Fright was busy with those servants, long used to the savage manners of the house. According to witnesses, no further sound was heard subsequently to Lady Marvyn’s entrance; yet when the doors were at last broken open by the authorities, the three bodies were discovered upon the floor.
How Sir Rupert and his wife met their deaths there was no record. “This tragedy,” proceeded the scribe, “took place in the Stone Chamber underneath the stairway.”
I had got so far when the entrance of Miss Bosanquet disturbed me. I remember rising in a dazed condition–the room swung about me. A conviction, hitherto resisted and stealthily entertained upon compulsion, now overpowered me.
“I thought my father was here,” explained Miss Bosanquet, with a quick glance round the room.
I explained the circumstances, and she hesitated in my neighbourhood with a slight air of embarrassment.
“I have not thanked you properly, Mr Heywood,” she said presently, in a low voice, scarcely articulate. “You have been very considerate and kind. Let me thank you now.” And ended with a tiny spasmodic sob.
Somehow, an impulse overmastered my tongue. Fresh from the perusal of that chapter, queer possibilities crowded in my mind, odd considerations urged me.
“Miss Bosanquet,” said I, abruptly, “let me speak of that a little. I will not touch on details.”
“Please,” she cried, with a shrinking notion as of one that would retreat in very alarm.
“Nay,” said I, eagerly; “hear me. It is no wantonness that would press the memory upon you.”
“You have been a witness to distressful acts; you have seen a man under the influence of temporary madness. Nay, even yourself, you have been a victim to the same unaccountable phenomena.”
“What do you mean?” she cried, tensely.
“I will say no more,” said I. “I should incur your laughter. No, you would not laugh, but my dim suspicions would leave you still incredulous. But if this were so, and if these were the phenomena of a brief madness, surely you would make your memory a grave to bury the past.”
“I cannot do that,” said she, in low tones.
“What!” I asked. “Would you turn from your lover, aye, even from a friend, because he was smitten with disease? Consider; if your dearest upon earth tossed in a fever upon his bed, and denied you in his ravings, using you despitefully, it would not be he that entreated you so. When he was quit of his madness and returned to his proper person, would you not forget–would you not rather recall his insanity with the pity of affection?”
“I do not understand you,” she whispered.
“You read your Bible,” said I. “You have wondered at the evil spirits that possessed poor victims. Why should you decide that these things have ceased? We are too dogmatic in our modern world. Who can say under what malign influence a soul may pass, and out of its own custody?”
She looked at me earnestly, searching my eyes.
“You hint at strange things,” said she, very low.
But somehow, even as I met her eyes, the spirit of my mission failed me. My gaze, I felt, devoured her ruthlessly. The light shone on her pale and comely features; they burned me with an irresistible attraction. I put forth my hand and took hers gently. It was passive to my touch, as though in acknowledgment of my kindly offices. All the while I experienced a sense of fierce elation. In my blood ran, as it had been fire, a horrible incentive, and I knew that I was holding her hand very tightly. She herself seemed to grow conscious of this, for she made an effort to withdraw her fingers, at which, the passion rushing through my body, I clutched them closer, laughing aloud. I saw a wondering look dawn in her eyes, and her bosom thinly veiled, heaved with a tiny tremor. I was aware that I was drawing her steadily to me. Suddenly her bewildered eyes, dropping from my face, lit with a flare of terror, and, wrenching her hand away, she fell back with a cry, her gaze riveted upon my throat.
“That accursed mark! What is it? What is it?–” she cried, shivering from head to foot.
In an instant, the wild blood singing in my head, I sprang towards her. What would have followed I know not, but at that moment the door opened and Sir William returned. He regarded us with consternation; but Miss Bosanquet had fainted, and the next moment he was at her side. I stood near, watching her come to with a certain nameless fury, as of a beast cheated of its prey.
Sir William turned to me, and in his most courteous manner begged me to excuse the untoward scene. His daughter, he said, was not at all strong, and he ended by suggesting that I should leave them for a time.
Reluctantly I obeyed, but when I was out of the house, I took a sudden panic. The demoniac possession lifted, and in a craven state of trembling I saddled my horse, and rode for the Abbey as if my life depended upon my speed.
I arrived at about ten o’clock, and immediately gave orders to have my bed prepared in my old room. In my shaken condition the sinister influences of that stone chamber terrified me; and it was not until I had drunk deeply that I regained my composure.
But I was destined to get little sleep. I had steadily resolved to keep my thoughts off the matter until the morning, but the spell of the chamber was strong upon me. I awoke after midnight with an irresistible feeling drawing me to the room. I was conscious of the impulse, and combated it, but in the end succumbed; and throwing on my clothes, took a light and went downstairs. I flung wide the door of the room and peered in, listening, as though for some voice of welcome. It was as silent as a sepulchre; but directly I crossed the threshold voices seemed to surround and coax me. I stood wavering, with a curious fascination upon me. I knew I could not return to my own room, and I now had no desire to do so. As I stood, my candle flaring solemnly against the darkness, I noticed upon the floor in an alcove bare of carpet, a large black mark, which appeared to be a stain. Bending down, I examined it, passing my fingers over the stone. It moved to my touch. Setting the candle upon the floor, I put my fingertips to the edges, and pulled hard. As I did so the sounds that were ringing in my ears died instantaneously; the next moment the slab turned with a crash, and discovered a gaping hole of impenetrable blackness.
The patch of chasm thus opened to my eyes was near a yard square. The candle held to it shed a dim light upon a stone step a foot or two below, and it was clear to me that a stairway communicated with the depths. Whether it had been used as a cellar in times gone by I could not divine, but I was soon to determine this doubt; for, stirred by a strange eagerness, I slipped my legs through the hole, and let myself cautiously down with the light in my hand. There were a dozen steps to descend ere I reached the floor and what turned out to be a narrow passage. The vault ran forward straight as an arrow before my eyes, and slowly I moved on. Dank and chill was the air in those close confines, and the sound of my feet returned from those walls dull and sullen. But I kept on, and, with infinite care, must have penetrated quite a hundred yards along that musty corridor ere I came out upon an ampler chamber. Here the air was freer, and I could perceive with the aid of my light that the dimensions of the place were lofty. Above, a solitary ray of moonlight, sliding through a crack, informed me that I was not far from the level of the earth. It fell upon a block of stone, which rose in the middle of the vault, and which I now inspected with interest. As the candle threw its flickering beams upon this I realized where I was.
I scarcely needed the rude lettering upon the coffins to acquaint me that here was the family vault of the Marvyns. And now I began to perceive upon all sides whereon my feeble light fell the crumbling relics of the forgotten dead–coffins fallen into decay, bones and grinning skulls resting in corners, disposed by the hand of chance and time. This formidable array of the mortal remains of that poor family moved me to a shudder. I turned from those ugly memorials once more to the central altar where the two coffins rested in this sombre silence. The lid had fallen from the one, disclosing to my sight the grisly skeleton of a man, that mocked and leered at me.
It seemed in a manner to my fascinated eyes to challenge my mortality, inviting me too to the rude and grotesque sleep of death. I knew, as by an instinct, that I was standing by the bones of Sir Rupert Marvyn, the protagonist in that terrible crime which had locked three souls in eternal ruin. The consideration of this miserable spectacle held me motionless for some moments, and then I moved a step closer and cast my light upon the second coffin.
As I did so I was aware of a change within myself. The grave and melancholy thoughts which I had entertained, the sober bent of my solemn reflections, gave place instantly to a strange exultation, an unholy sense of elation. My pulse swung feverishly, and, while my eyes were riveted upon the tarnished silver of the plate, I stretched forth a tremulously eager hand and touched the lid. It rattled gently under my fingers. Disturbed by the noise, I hastily withdrew them; but whether it was the impetus offered by my touch, or through some horrible and nameless circumstance–God knows–slowly and softly a gap opened between the lid and the body of the coffin! Before my startled eyes the awful thing happened, and yet I was conscious of no terror, merely of surprise and–it seems terrible to admit–of a feeling of eager expectancy.
The lid rose slowly on the one side, and as it lifted the dark space between it and the coffin grew gently charged with light. At that moment my feeble candle, which had been gradually diminishing, guttered and flickered. I seemed to catch a glimpse of something, as it were, of white and shining raiment inside the coffin; and then came a rush of wings and a whirring sound within the vault. I gave a cry, and stepping back missed my foothold; the guttering candle was jerked from my grasp, and I fell prone to the floor in darkness. The next moment a sheet of flame flashed in the chamber and lit up the grotesque skeletons about me; and at the same time a piercing cry rang forth. Jumping to my feet, I gave a dazed glance at the conflagration. The whole vault was in flames. Dazed and horror-struck, I rushed blindly to the entrance; but as I did so the horrible cry pierced my ears again, and I saw the bat swoop round and circle swiftly into the flames. Then, finding the exit, I dashed with all the speed of terror down the passage, groping my way along the walls, and striking myself a dozen times in my terrified flight.
Arrived in my room, I pushed over the stone and listened. Not a sound was audible. With a white face and a body torn and bleeding I rushed from the room, and locking the door behind me, made my way upstairs to my bedroom. Here I poured myself out a stiff glass of brandy.
It was six months later ere Warrington returned. In the meantime he had sold the Abbey. It was inevitable that he should do so; and yet the new owner, I believe, has found no drawback in his property, and the Stone Chamber is still used for a bedroom upon occasions, being considered very old-fashioned. But there are some facts against which no appeal is possible, and so it was in his case. In my relation of the tragedy I have made no attempt at explanation, hardly even to myself; and it appears now for the first time in print, of course with suppositious names.
A maid who once worked at the hotel allegedly took her own life at the old Visnes Hotel, deep in the Norwegian fjords. Now it is said she is lingering in the afterlife in the old rooms she once worked in.
An ancient ghost coming from the depths of graves across the nordic countries, the Haugbúi Draugr could be both dangerous and even deadly. Not merely a specter, but the rotten flesh of the dead, the ghosts are remembered as The Walking Dead of the North.
In the dark Hendrick Street in Dublin, there once were two houses said to be some of the most haunted ones in town. Occupied by at least six ghosts, some say they still linger in their old street.
In the pre civil war Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond, Virginia, the mausoleum of W.W Pool is said to be the grave of The Richmond Vampire. A more recent urban legend is now also connected with The Church Hill Tunnel collapse.
Old cities carry old ghost stories, and Bern in Switzerland is no exception. From the old buildings filled with history to the depth of the Aare river, here are some of the most haunted places in Bern.
Centuries after the vampire panic starting with the death of Petar Blagojević, another vampire was said to haunt the Serbian village, Kisiljevo. Who was Ruža Vlajna and what happened to her?
Said to be the mass burial place for the dead Irish Independence rebels from 1798, the Croppie’s Acre in Dublin is said to be haunted by their lingering souls.
Once a green paradise, the legend says the fairies protected the people of Val Gerina valley in the Swiss alps. Driven by greed to impress a woman however, the son meant to continue the tradition and friendship with the fairies, brought it all down.
Haunted by its former Fellows, Trinity College in Dublin is said to be filled with eerie spirits where even the bell tolls after dark when the shadows take over campus.
A heinous murder sent shockwaves in the small village known as Barna in Ireland. Ever since then Spiorad na mBarna or Moll O’Shaughnessy as the murderer was named, has said to be haunting the place.
Every corner of Ireland holds its own ghostly secrets, and within the rural landscape outside Newcastle West in Co. Limerick lies one of the nation’s most chilling tales—the legend of Spiorad na mBarna, which means the Spirit of Barna in Irish or Old Barna.
Read More: Check out all of the ghost stories from Ireland
This haunting story traces its origins back to the late 1800s, with a woman named Moll O’Shaughnessy being the real woman behind the legend of the ghost that is said to still linger in Barna.
Moll O’Shaughnessy the Murderer
Barna, even in modern times, remains a small community where everyone knows everyone, but in the late 1800s, it was even more so. Thus, the shocking and brutal murders committed by Moll O’Shaughnessy sent shockwaves through the area.
Moll was seen as a good natured, calm and nice mother and wife and well liked in the community. This was until she mercilessly murdered her husband and their young child in a fit of uncontrollable rage. Showing that we might never truly know a person and what they are capable of. There was no answer as to why she did it, and the villagers certainly didn’t give her much time to explain her actions.
The villagers were shocked and the community’s response to her heinous acts was equally gruesome—they sentenced her to a gruesome death, rolling her in a barrel lined with sharp and rusted nails down a hill according to some legends.
Another version says she was caught in the act and hanged. The third version of the legend claims that she died of natural causes and she was doomed to walk the grounds for eternity as penance for her crimes.
The Restless Spirits of Spiorad na mBarna
Over the years following her execution, residents of Barna claimed to have encountered Spiorad na mBarna spirit in various forms. Sometimes, she appeared as a weeping woman, while other times, she manifested as a rabid greyhound, spreading terror throughout the surrounding areas.
It is said that when the Spiorad na mBarna haunted the village as a hound, she would torment the farmers during harvest. When she showed up in her human form, it was said she would try to get on the horses of men passing the area after dark.
Her reign of fear culminated in yet another murder when an unfortunate rider passed under the Old Barna Bridge and emerged lifeless on the other side—victimized by the bloodthirsty Spiorad na mBarna.
Seeking Redemption:
With their community terrorized, the distressed locals called upon a holy man from the nearby Parish of Athea to exorcize the malevolent spirit that wouldn’t let the locals alive.
According to legend, he imposed a penance on Moll’s restless soul and it is said she had to “emptying the Red Sea with a thimble full of holes”, whatever that means.
While this act seemed to quell her murderous rage, the memory of Spiorad na mBarna still lingers in the West Limerick region. Many claim to have encountered her spirit, and the eerie details of her haunting continue to captivate and perplex.
Perhaps the most chilling detail of this ghostly legend is etched in stone—literally. The Old Barna Bridge, still standing today, bears the image of a face—a face forever captured in a scream of terror.
What’s more, numerous witnesses attest that this eerie visage moves within the bridge’s stones. It may appear in the top right-hand stone, lower down, or even on the opposite side of the bridge. Passersby often stop to count the stones and point out the spectral face they say is the Spiorad na mBarna etched into it.
As you pass beneath the shadow of the Old Barna Bridge, the feeling of being watched may send shivers down your spine, making this chilling tale of a restless spirit one that will stay with you long after the daylight fades.
During one of the biggest witch trials in Spain, there was one place that was thought to be more filled with witchcraft than others. In the so-called Witch Caves of Zugarramurdi in the Basque country, it was said that witches gathered for sabbaths and akellares.
The witch hunt hit Europe hard, and Spain was no different. The Inquisition in Spain was brutal and perhaps one of the darkest chapters in the history of the country. The church and its helpers took everyone that the catholic deemed inappropriate, witches, heretics alike.
In Navarre, north in the country close to the French border, the forest of the Pyrenees grew thick and legends, strange rites and rumors of witches were especially strong there.
Read more: Check out all of our ghost stories from Spain
Especially in the deep darkness of the caves of Zugarramurdi the haunted legends from the past echoes throughout the walls of the cave. You can find them just 400 meters from the village through the woods.
The Witch Caves of Zugarramurdi: These caves in Zugarramurdi in northern, Spain were long thought to be a popular place for witches to meet and conduct witchcraft and demonic sabbaths.
Inside of the 120 meters long cave that towers over 10 meters is the stream called Oblabidea that runs through it. The stream was also known as Infernuko Erreka, or the stream of hell and was a perfect place for the witches to hold their sabbats.
The Magical and Mysterious Basque Country
Already in the 1100s, the Basque country was described as barbaric and mysterious from southern Spain’s perspective. The place was also a misty and heavily wooded terrain with few people that spoke a foreign and as they describe it, harsh sounding language.
Belief in witches were actually quite low compared to the rest of Europe at that time, and the educated Spaniards saw witchcraft as a protestant superstition as well as something only the “uneducated” northerners believed in. Still, being accused as a witch was a very deadly thing as the people of Zugarramurdi would soon find out.
The Tribunal of the Spanish Inquisition in Logrono received intel that there were witches and wizards in Zugarramurdi and became involved in one of the most brutal and biggest witch hunts in Spanish history with over 7000 investigated for witchcraft.
In 1610 take came to Zugarramurdi that means the hill of elm trees to investigate the suspicions. The people of Zugarramurdi had long traditions of making creams and herbal medicine that were unknown to the rest of the country. There were also more women as the men were at sea for months on whaling boats, something that the authorities saw as unfortunate and suspicious with villagers filled with women going on about their days with the men away.
There were also the strange things that the number of stillborns were abnormally higher than the rest of Spain. This has turned out to be because the Basques have a very high percentage of Rhesus Negative blood. Although we today have a scientific explanation on it, they used to think they were cursed.
The Witch Trials of Zugarramurdi
It all started when a 20-year old girl came back to the town after living many years in France. For some reason she started to tell everyone that she had been one of those participating in Akelarres, or the witch sabbaths.
Then she started to involve more people and claimed that a woman named Maria de Jureteguis had been involved as well. This is when things escalated and more and more of the locals started to accuse each other for witchcraft.
Over 300 became involved in the investigation, almost the whole village. The witch hunters rounded up over 40 women and men that the neighbors had accused and brought them back to Logorno to await trial.
Many of them repented and were let go in the end, but some of them were tortured for months and five died in prison. There were 7 that were burned at the stake.
When the trial had ended all of them were dragged through the streets with no hair and big wax candles in their hands. A lot of them were wearing a tunic called sanbenitos to show people that they had sinned. Some had a rope around their necks to show they were about to be flogged. The remains of those that died were carried to the pyre and four women and two men were burned as they kept denying they were witches.
Their names were Domingo de Subildegui, María de Echachute, Graciana Xarra, Maria Baztan de Borda, Maria de Arburu and Petri de Joangorena. Not all of them were from Zugarramurdi town, but were all condemned for participating in the witch sabbath there.
It was the notorious Inquisitor Valle-Alvardo who came to town and rounded up everyone they thought looked and seemed out of sorts as a last effort to root out evil from Navarre in what became known as the Basque Witch Trials.
A madness and witch fever because of what happened were getting out of hand and thousands upon thousands were accused of witchcraft all across the country. A man went back to Zugarramurdi and spent 18 months talking with them. It turned out that most of the accusations were false, but alas, for many it was already too late.
Akelarre – the Spanish Witch Sabbath
Akelarre literally means the pasture of the he-goat in Basque, and according to the tribunal it was where the witches met up with Satan. Today the word is synonymous with Witch Sabbath in Spain.
The Akelarre and the witch sabbath lore seems to have been the pagan remains of the rituals from before christianity. This type of female worship in groups has been done since the classical Greece times when worshiping Dionysus, perhaps even before.
Witch Sabbaths: The painting Akelarre from 1798, by Francisco Goya.
People over Europe were accused of these types of gatherings, but if there was actually anyone doing it is highly uncertain, even though pagan remains of the past have lasted for a much longer time in remote places than the church would have liked it to.
Read more: Check out all of our ghost stories about: Witches
Some of the things the accused witches of Zugarramurdi werre thought to do was demonic possession, vampirism, celebrating black masses and causing storms, as well as cursing the fields and animals among other things.
The Witches in the Caves
Why was it that there were so many accused of witchcraft right here in this quaint little village? Some of it had to do with the rumors of the caves nearby where people claimed to have seen big bonfires and pagan festivities by the locals, the witches.
According to legend, the rest of the witches of Zugarramurdi went into hiding in some caves outside of the town after their time on trial. To get away from the town that wanted them dead and gone. Perhaps it was to practice their rites and witchcraft in peace, far from the deadly hands of the inquisition?
The story goes that you can still hear the echoes of their magical chanting and dancing around the fires.
Inside of it they have a throne room, where the devil himself would join the witches during the sabbath.
The Witch Caves of Zugarramurdi Today
Today it is still an important place for the modern-day witches in Spain and they honor the reputation and the magical place of Zugarramurdi and the caves people once thought were a place for devil worship. The town of Zugarramurdi also established the witch museum to remember the town’s dark past and holds yearly fests in the famous cave.
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Said to appear in the mirror of his favorite place for a pint in Dublin, the ghost of James Joyce is rumored to still linger in Davy Byrne’s Pub.
A maid who once worked at the hotel allegedly took her own life at the old Visnes Hotel, deep in the Norwegian fjords. Now it is said she is lingering in the afterlife in the old rooms she once worked in.
A church with the sinister name The Black Church in Dublin has a legend that claims if you follow the ritual, you will be able to summon the devil.
An ancient ghost coming from the depths of graves across the nordic countries, the Haugbúi Draugr could be both dangerous and even deadly. Not merely a specter, but the rotten flesh of the dead, the ghosts are remembered as The Walking Dead of the North.
In the dark Hendrick Street in Dublin, there once were two houses said to be some of the most haunted ones in town. Occupied by at least six ghosts, some say they still linger in their old street.
In the pre civil war Hollywood Cemetery in Richmond, Virginia, the mausoleum of W.W Pool is said to be the grave of The Richmond Vampire. A more recent urban legend is now also connected with The Church Hill Tunnel collapse.
Said to be haunted by headless prisoners who tried to capture Dublin Castle, this storied building has shadows lingering in the corners.
Old cities carry old ghost stories, and Bern in Switzerland is no exception. From the old buildings filled with history to the depth of the Aare river, here are some of the most haunted places in Bern.
Centuries after the vampire panic starting with the death of Petar Blagojević, another vampire was said to haunt the Serbian village, Kisiljevo. Who was Ruža Vlajna and what happened to her?
Said to be the mass burial place for the dead Irish Independence rebels from 1798, the Croppie’s Acre in Dublin is said to be haunted by their lingering souls.
Once a green paradise, the legend says the fairies protected the people of Val Gerina valley in the Swiss alps. Driven by greed to impress a woman however, the son meant to continue the tradition and friendship with the fairies, brought it all down.
Haunted by its former Fellows, Trinity College in Dublin is said to be filled with eerie spirits where even the bell tolls after dark when the shadows take over campus.
