For a long time, there have been tales about the Dearg Due, the bloodthirsty vampire of Ireland. But how true is the story about the female vampire though, and has it really been told since ancient times?
Hidden for centuries in the shadowed fields of County Waterford is the chilling legend of the Dearg Due, a ghostly figure born of beauty betrayed and a thirst for vengeance that would refuse to die. But the more you peel away from the legend, the more questions you are left with.
Read More: Check out all ghost stories from Ireland
The name Dearg Due is said to mean red bloodsucker or the red thirst according to those who tell about the legend. The entity has been described as a female vampiric demon who seduces men before draining and sucking their blood. And together with The Legend of Ireland’s Vampire King Abhartach and the Haunted Giant’s Grave, it’s one of Ireland’s most well known vampire legends.
The Legend of the Blood Thirsty Dearg Due
Once upon a time, a young woman known for her beauty lived in Ireland. When and where is a bit hazy though. Some say this happened closer to two thousand years ago in pre-christian times. It is said it happened around the area of what is now Waterford City in South-East Ireland. The ancient Celtic name for Waterford was “Cuan na Graí” or “The Harbor of the Sun.” This is the oldest city in Ireland, founded by vikings in the 9th century.
The County Waterford is based on the historic Gaelic territory of the Déise settled in the 4th and 8th century. But who lived there before that as we can see by the many megalithic tombs and ogham stones in the county? Around two thousand years ago when the story is said to have happened?
Waterford, Ireland
She fell in love with a humble farm labourer and dreamed of a simple life by his side. But her father, greedy and cold, bartered her to a cruel chieftain in exchange for land and wealth and she had no say or choice in the matter.
At her wedding, she was dressed in red and gold and it was a huge feast. Her marriage, though, was a tragedy and her husband was both cruel and abusive. Some say that she was locked away in her chambers or a tower. Ensnared in misery, she starved herself in despair to escape her cruel fate. Slowly, she just wasted away.
She was buried near what has been known as Strongbow’s Tree in Waterford, and said to only be visited by her true love who prayed for her return to him. Her husband married a new woman at once, and her father didn’t think about her much in his newfound riches. and in death her grief mutated into something darker.
When the first anniversary of her burial arrived, she rose from the grave, no longer the gentle maiden, but a crimson spectre who returned to the house of her father and the bed of her husband, touching their lips and stealing breath from their bodies as though it were blood.
From that hour onwards she haunted the land, drifting through night mists, luring young men with her sorrow-soft beauty only to drain them utterly of life. The stories differ in how long she roamed the land. Some say ten months to a year. Some say she’s still there, lurking in the dark.
The only safeguard, locals say, was to place heavy stones upon her grave or leave salt at the threshold to keep her from clawing her way out every night to hunt down men for her vengeance. In some versions of the legend, they used her former lover as bait who helped wrap her in blessed twigs to make her rest in her grave designed for her to stay.
The History Behind the Legend
Now, a powerful story that has made its rounds claiming to be ancient roots. But how old is this story, really? Where is Strongbow’s tree, said to be the place she is buried beneath, supposedly in the ruins of an old churchyard.
Strongbow landed in Ireland on 23 August 1170 and attacked Waterford with a force of some two hundred knights and one thousand other troops. There were rumours that Strongbow’s body was secretly taken from Dublin and re-interred in 1177 to the place where he married the Irish princess Aoife. This is said to have been where the Christ Church Cathedral, Waterford was built, and a tree was planted in his memory.
Strongbow: This was actually a nickname to Richard de Clare (c. 1130[1] – 20 April 1176), the second Earl of Pembroke as well as his father’s nickname. He is known for the Normann invasion of Ireland and is said to have died there after an infection.
Now, this version would mean that the tree was planted long after the story was said to have happened. Another version though, links the two legends better. This claims that Strongbow and Aoife were married on August 25 on the shore of the River Suir beneath a great oak tree that came to be known as “Strongbow’s Oak.” It would make sense that ruins of an old churchyard existed here, but why would a pre-christian woman be buried there?
Now, which oak tree could Strongbow’s Oak be? An interesting point is the Reginald’s Tower in Waterford, built by the Norman invaders. It is said that this was the actual place where they got married. The site is sometimes called Dundory (an Irish word which means “fort of oak”), and hence the tower is occasionally called the Dundory Tower. It is also known as the Ring Tower. It begs the question. Was it a stone tower they ended up building over her grave?
The Haunted Tower: As an article in the Tipperary Free Press from the 9th of April 1851 says, ‘some of those wiseacres who congregate about the tower, verily believe that it must be the old Dane himself come to visit his old castellated mansion …’ Did the haunted vampire legends actually start and evolve here?
That is of course, that it actually was a woman the locals feared was a vampire and buried under stones. But did she ever exist? It is interesting that this so-called ancient legend is first found in writing in 1924 when Dudley Wright wrote in his book Vampires and Vampirism:
At Waterford, in Ireland, there is a little graveyard under a ruined church near Strongbow’s Tower. Legend has it that underneath the ground at this spot there lies a beautiful female vampire still ready to kill those she can lure thither by her beauty.
However, when Montague Summers mentioned this vampire in his book The Vampire in Europe from 1928, he also mentioned that this was a legend the locals had never heard about and he spelled her name, dearg-due. Fast forwarding to Anthony Master’s book, The Natural History of the Vampire, he writes:
In old Ireland there was a traditionally-motivated vampire named the Dearg-due, which means the red blood-sucker. The only way to keep the Dearg-due in its grave was to build a cairn of stones over the top. Another legend claims that there is a female vampire lurking near Waterford. The actual spot is under a ruined church near Strongbow’s tree, and it is to this sinister place that the vampire lures, by her fatal beauty, men with good red blood running in the veins.
The name had suddenly changed and spelled differently. The Strongbow’s Tower was changed into Strongbow’s Tree. But the written foundation for the legend started to be repeated more rapidly. For a full walkthrough of the legend, check out the blog dedicated to debunk theories about the Irish language and history.
So was the legend about the vampiric woman a made up story after the popularity from Dracula published in 1897 and the Irish connection to Bram Stoker? Or was it perhaps something older, something bloodthirsty only held back by a pile of stones?
Crossing through the Jura Mountains in Switzerland, an urban legend about the ghost of a lady in white is said to have haunted the Belchen Tunnel and was widely known and written about in the 80s. Question is, is she still haunting the tunnel?
After falling to his death trying to escape the debtor’s prison, The Marshalsea Barracks in Dublin, it is said the ghost of Pat Doyle is haunting the remaining walls of the ruins.
Planted to mark the mass grave of plague victims, the Linden Tree in the Aargau valley in Switzerland has become a famous landmark. In the night though, it is said that the ghosts buried underneath it crawls from the ground to haunt as a warning for any oncoming tragedies.
A rebel and freedom fighter for Irish independence is said to haunt his favorite pub, The Brazen Head in Dublin, where it is said he plotted his fight against the English.
The black cat in European folklore is shrouded in mystery and magical lore. From the old parts of Bern, ghost stories of ghostly black cats linger in the shadows, reminding about the old fear the feline specter used to hold over people.
Mirroring the famous Dance Macabre mural that used to hang on the walls near the Predigerkirche in Basel, it is said that plague victims were buried in the patch of grass outside of the church. Legend has it that when the city needs it, the dead will rise from it in a macabre procession, as a warning of an oncoming disaster.
Where history whispers and shadows reign, the Rathaus in Bern is said to be haunted by a myriad of ghosts. Who are the ghosts lingering in the City Hall after dark?
The two adjoining cloisters by Basel Cathedral are said to be haunted by a couple of spectres entombed within the building. In the darkness of Basel’s Double Cloister, it is said you can hear the moaning of a man slowly suffocating and feel the unsuspected slap from a man, as mean in death as he was in life.
A lock keeper from the adjacent lock next The Portobello Bar in Dublin is said to be haunting it. Ever since his mistake cost the lives of someone crossing, he is said to be lingering in the area.
In an old sanatorium in Switzerland the ghost of Hermann is said to have been haunting for ages. But who was he when he was alive, and what was his true name before he died in the remote fortress up in the mountains? And is he still haunting the old halls where he never made his recovery?
After his master died at sea, the faithful dog was by his master’s grave, day in and day out. After dying of hunger and grief it is said that the Newfoundland dog is still seen, slipping between the graves at Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin.
A family cursed by a ghost called Sels-Móriwas said to be haunted for nine generations in 18th and 19th century Iceland. Targeting the women in the family, it is said that it was the ghost that drove them all mad.
What sticks out from Icelandic ghost stories, was that often, the ghost was not just a shadow or whisper, creaking in the walls or lurking in the corner of the eyes. The Icelandic ghosts were often like flesh and blood and dangerous. Not only could they hurt you, they could follow you and your family, plaguing them with misfortune, and like the ghost story of Sels-Móri or the ghost of Þorgarður, was behind madness that seemed to be passed down in the families.
Read More: Check out all ghost stories from Iceland
A ghost story spanning over generations as well as travelling over the entire country is the story of Móri of Sel, where the story was said to have started. The story features an Icelandic ghost called a fylgja from 19th century Iceland, that has roots back to the Viking age. And to understand the concept of this rather long family saga, it could be helpful to how the fylgja evolved and operated through time.
Fylgur/Fylgja: The Old Norse Ghost
There were many different types of ghosts in Norse mythology and that the vikings believed in. One of them was the Fylgjur or Fylgja ghost, or Attending Spirits that we can find traces back in Iceland since the 12th century. These were originally a ghost of a very physical substance that interacted with the real world as if they were a part of it still.
Read Also: Check out the Irish Fetch ghost, that has a huge resemblance to the norse Fylgja.
Fylgja attached themselves to people that they haunted. They could also attach themselves to buildings or even entire towns. Many stories also talk about it being a generational haunting where the ghost decides to haunt all of the descendants of the original person it cursed. Most often the female line of the family. Perhaps because of its origin as a female spirit.
Icelandic Ghosts and Ghouls: An illustration to the Icelandic legend of the Skeleton in Hólar Church (Beinagrindin í Hólakirkju). From Icelandic Legends : Collected by Jón Arnason, illustrated by Jules Worms.
In the Fylgjur stories from the middle ages, the spirits could be a beneficial one, almost like a messenger to help with the person’s path of life, some sort of totem animal or guiding spirit. But when the folklorist of Iceland started collecting old oral tales from farmers in the 17th century, the Fylgjur ghosts had drastically changed from its pagan old norse roots, throughout time, religious belief and superstition.
One thing that really changed was the Fylgjur’s purpose of haunting the living, and it was rarely to be of any help. Many stories talk about how they were wronged and it caused their death. They then came back to take revenge and were dangerous, even deadly.
Sels-Móri or Þorgarður
The story starts with a completely different family than the one that ended up being cursed. It starts with the life and death of the ghost itself. There once was a married couple that lived at a farm near the river Elliðá, not too far from Reykjavik.
The story was compiled by Jón Árnason from stories circulated in the southwest of Iceland). Valgerður Jónsdóttir (1771–1856) and Hólmfríður Þorvaldsdóttir (1812–1876) are also listed as sources. There are at least 18 people by name, and at least 15 are verified historical people.
The farm had a worker named Þorgarðurand it was rumored that the wife had an affair with him. The farmer often had to go out for trivial tasks while Þorgarður was back home alone with her and this got people talking.
One winter night there was a horrible storm when the farmer was out working and tending to his livestock. He didn’t come home the following night and a search party was put together. The next morning they went to look for him and found him dead in the river and it looked like a murder.
Elliðaá: The salmon river near Reykjavík from ca 1900 where the whole story about the Sels-Móri started.
Þorgarður was immediately suspected of this because of his reputation, and most believe that he actually did it. Even though he denied that he had killed his master, he was sentenced according to what the story says, either death by hanging or paying up with some fines and he should be allowed to redeem his life with a sheep fee. However, he didn’t have the money.
At that time there lived a man named Jón at Seli in Seltjarnarnes east of Reykjavik, known as a diplomatic statesman with a kind heart. Þorgarður went to Jón and begged him to save his life and get out of the sentence.
Jón was reluctant to do so at first, but Þorgarður vowed to serve him and his descendants as long as he had the strength and age. Jón, touched by the man’s plight, agreed to help and began to count the ransom on the table that Þorgarður needed to escape hanging.
When Jón counted the money, his wife Guðrún entered the living room and asked what he was doing with all the money. Jón said he was going to save the life of the man. She asked him not to do that foolish thing and swept up all the money in her apron with one hand.
Jón changed his mind and agreed with his wife. When she walked out of the room with the money in her apron she looked at Þorgard and said: “Let each one suffer for his actions.”
Þorgard answered: “There will be no parting with us here; therefore it is no more than for me to see that my farewell follows you and your family to the ninth point.”
Then Þorgarður went away and was captured by the authorities, either in Iceland or abroad. It is believed that he was hanged in Kópavogur and that after his death, he immediately went back and sought out the Selsjóns as a fylgja ghost.
The Hauntings for Nine Generations
As he had promised, he followed them wherever they went, especially the wife. Guðrúna was then both despondent and delirious and haunted for the rest of her life. Because this ghost was attached to Sel for a long time, he was called Sels-Móri.
A Móri is a male ghost in Iceland. When a male is raised from the dead for such a purpose like vengeance, he is not called a ghost, but a Móri. Often the term Fylgja ghost was used interchangeably with the Draug ghost. The female version of this vengeful ghost was called Skotta. Móri means rust brown in Icelandic and the ghosts were named so because of the color of their clothes.
The Selsjóns couple had one daughter named Þorgerður that would be the next victim of Sels-Móri’s haunting. She married Halldór Bjarnason, a prominent farmer in Skildinganes. As well as inheriting her parents’ estates, she also inherited Sels-Móri of her family they called ættarfylgja, meaning something like an ancestral ghost.
They had a son, Bjarni í Sviðholt, and it looks like the Sels-Móri skipped the male descendant of the family and he lived in peace. He was probably one of the members of the legal court whom the law speaker Magnús Ólafsson appointed later to the Alþing of Öxará, 1798.
He had many children and was known to be friendly and a good guy, thinking perhaps that they were free of the haunting. They still knew about the Sels-Móri, and he was in those days often called Sviðholt’s ghost, but very often he was still associated with the name Þorgarður. But the ghost returned to haunt the female descendants.
Bjarni’s second daughter, whose name was Úríður, married Benedikt Björnsson, a student from Hítardal, who has been a priest in Fagranes for a long time. She was the greatest clairvoyant, but such adversity came upon her that she became half-crazy and sometimes angry with everything and difficult to live with. Although the ghost of Sels-Móri was almost part of life in Icelandic folklore culture, her insanity was too much for her husband.
As a result, she divorced her husband and her sister Ragnheiður took her in who was married with a school teacher at Bessastaðir called Jón Jónsson. The teachers and families of Bessastaðaskóli often lived in or close to the school. Today this is residence of the President of Iceland and has always been important in the history of the nation and has always been the seat of chieftains and high officials.
Úríður died there after a time of unstable paranoia. She would claim that a viper was stinging her and that another woman called Ingibjörg was stabbing her with a cobbler’s needle. This was believed to refer to a woman who lived with her and her husband before they separated. This woman actually became his second wife after the divorce, so it begs to question what really happened before she was sent to her sister.
They all believed that their ancestral ghost Sels-Móri who was the one behind her insanity. Úriði is said to have said during her fits of insanity that she should have said: “My sister, it’s better to stab me,”
It looks like her sister, Ragnheiður, was mostly free of the haunting, although the Sels-Móri was blamed when he caused the destruction of a mail boat that was lost in 1817 because her first husband sailed with it. Sels-Móri was also the cause of the late Þórður Bjarnason’s death, in Sviðholt; it is still said that he had haunted the children of Ragnheiður, especially her son, Björn.
Ragnheiðar’s children, Especially Bjarna Rector
It should be mentioned here at the same time that Bjarni Halldórsson in Sviðholt had a sister named Jórunn who seems to have had almost a parallel haunting in addition to her ancestral one. She was very fair and beautiful and a man in Álftanes asked her to marry him. But she thought that he was beneath her and she rejected him. She would however never be rid of him.
He promised he would cling to her and her family, even if he was unable to get to her as a wife. She married one named Eyjólf, and had a baby girl. They hadn’t been together for long when it became apparent that Jórunn had mental issues, which only increased as time went by, and in the end, she went completely insane. This was believed to be because of the curse of the suitor she rejected as well as the curse their family already was struggling with.
Her daughter Þorgerðr grew up and married Eggert Bjarnason, who was at that time the priest at Snæfoksstaðir (Klausturhólum) in Grímsnes. She then went east with him and they had children together and it seemed to be fine. Perhaps they had escaped the curse by moving away?
Time passed until Jórunn, Þorgerðr’s mother, died. There was no evidence of that illness in Þorgerði during her mother’s lifetime, as she had never come south since she went east, and it is said that Reverend Eggert was warned not to let her go south and never come beyond Sog or Álfvattan and would not blame her then.
But when Jórunn á Skógtjörn died, it is said that Þorgerður begged her husband to go south with her to mourn her mother and he finally agreed. They had come south over Hellisheiði, south into Fóelluvötn above Helliskot when the curse hit her. According to the stories she was struck with a a dizzy spell and that she was never the same again. She had inherited Sels-Móri. They also believed that her mother’s ghost and fylgidraugur, had met her daughter there and followed her from then on as long as she lived
Breaking the Generational Curse and Haunting
She didn’t live very long however, and she died shortly after going south. The children of Reverends Eggerts and Þorgerður didn’t fare well with either, and two of their daughters were also said to have gone crazy, as so many of the women in their family line had done before them.
But Sels-Móri made a promise all those generations ago, and after the ninth generation, the curse was lifted and the family line, if there still is someone around, is said to be finally free from it.
Crossing through the Jura Mountains in Switzerland, an urban legend about the ghost of a lady in white is said to have haunted the Belchen Tunnel and was widely known and written about in the 80s. Question is, is she still haunting the tunnel?
After falling to his death trying to escape the debtor’s prison, The Marshalsea Barracks in Dublin, it is said the ghost of Pat Doyle is haunting the remaining walls of the ruins.
Planted to mark the mass grave of plague victims, the Linden Tree in the Aargau valley in Switzerland has become a famous landmark. In the night though, it is said that the ghosts buried underneath it crawls from the ground to haunt as a warning for any oncoming tragedies.
A rebel and freedom fighter for Irish independence is said to haunt his favorite pub, The Brazen Head in Dublin, where it is said he plotted his fight against the English.
The black cat in European folklore is shrouded in mystery and magical lore. From the old parts of Bern, ghost stories of ghostly black cats linger in the shadows, reminding about the old fear the feline specter used to hold over people.
Mirroring the famous Dance Macabre mural that used to hang on the walls near the Predigerkirche in Basel, it is said that plague victims were buried in the patch of grass outside of the church. Legend has it that when the city needs it, the dead will rise from it in a macabre procession, as a warning of an oncoming disaster.
Where history whispers and shadows reign, the Rathaus in Bern is said to be haunted by a myriad of ghosts. Who are the ghosts lingering in the City Hall after dark?
The two adjoining cloisters by Basel Cathedral are said to be haunted by a couple of spectres entombed within the building. In the darkness of Basel’s Double Cloister, it is said you can hear the moaning of a man slowly suffocating and feel the unsuspected slap from a man, as mean in death as he was in life.
A lock keeper from the adjacent lock next The Portobello Bar in Dublin is said to be haunting it. Ever since his mistake cost the lives of someone crossing, he is said to be lingering in the area.
In an old sanatorium in Switzerland the ghost of Hermann is said to have been haunting for ages. But who was he when he was alive, and what was his true name before he died in the remote fortress up in the mountains? And is he still haunting the old halls where he never made his recovery?
After his master died at sea, the faithful dog was by his master’s grave, day in and day out. After dying of hunger and grief it is said that the Newfoundland dog is still seen, slipping between the graves at Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin.
Is there a dragon nesting in Mount Pilatus by Lake Lucerne in Switzerland? For centuries the mountain has brought fear and fantastical tales from the locals living at the foot of the raging mountain. It was even forbidden to visit, as they believed disturbing the spirits would cause storms and flooding.
Above the shimmering waters of Lake Lucerne, shrouded in thick clouds and an aura of ancient mystery, Mount Pilatus looms over the Swiss landscape like a sentinel from another world. Feared for bringing bad weather, stories about ghosts and mythological creatures are said to reside there.
Read more: Check out all haunted stories from Switzerland
While today it is a beloved destination for hikers, skiers, and tourists, this formidable massif has long been known by a darker name: Dragon Mountain. With jagged peaks, hidden caves, and a history that weaves folklore into the very rock, Pilatus has earned its reputation as a place where legend and reality blur.
Mount Pilatus: Known as Dragon Mountain, towers majestically above Lake Lucerne, shrouded in mystery and steeped in folklore. Thought to be haunted as well as the location of a dragon’s lair.
A Mountain of Monsters and Dragons
The legend of dragons dwelling on Mount Pilatus dates back centuries, with tales so vivid and widespread that they were chronicled in early medieval records. Locals believed the dragons were no mere beasts but intelligent and mystical creatures, protectors of ancient knowledge, and wielders of supernatural power. Their winged forms were said to disappear into the cliffs, their cries echoing down into the valleys during violent storms.
A particularly famous account comes from the summer of 1421. According to the chronicle, a great dragon was seen flying through the skies from Rigi to Pilatus before it plummeted down near the base of the mountain. A nearby farmer named Stempflin from Neuenkirch witnessed the crash and fainted from the shock.
European Dragon; A dragon in a landscape, which, according to the Italian inscription, lived in the swamps outside Rome on December 1, 1691. On the left a bridge over a river.
When he awoke, the dragon had vanished, leaving behind a scorched earth, a thick pool of blood — and something strange: a smooth, shimmering object soon named the Drachenstein (Dragon Stone). Locals attributed healing properties to this strange relic, and for many years it was kept in a Lucerne church as a miraculous artifact. The surgeon Martin Schriber acquired the object from a descendant of Stämpfli and in 1523 had its miraculous powers confirmed in a document by the mayor and council of the city of Lucerne.
Dragon Mountain: An illustration depicting a dragon soaring through the sky, embodying the mythical tales surrounding Mount Pilatus. Discovery of the Lucerne Dragon Stone by the farmer Stämpfli. One of four illustrations from: Description of the famous Lucerne or 4th Waldstaetten Lake by Johann Leopold Cysat. Chapter 25: Of Dragons and Lindtwürms and of the Dragon Stone found in the city of Lucerne.
It was for a long time well documented over the years. after Schriber’s death in 1527, it came into the possession of Dorothea Moser , and in 1564 of the town clerk Johannes Kraft , then of the mayor Ludwig Schürf , then into the possession of the Cloos family, from whom it went to the Fleckenstein family and finally to the Meier von Schauenstein family. In 1929, the Canton of Lucerne acquired the stone from the latter for 400 francs. Since then, it has been state property and was displayed in the Natural History Museum in Lucerne.
When the stone was loaned in 1954 to the Pharmacy History Museum in Basel, the documentation was lacking. After some deaths, it was forgotten about and considered lost in Lucerne for years until a curator in 1960 happened upon it in a museum in Basel.
By 1978, it was back when the Natural History Museum in Lucerne reopened. For a long time, people assumed the stone was a meteorite. However, in 2006, they did some tests on it, showing it was burnt clay, although the origin and the cause of the stone and dragon legend remains a mystery.
Dragon on Pilatus: Illustrations from the 1661 book: Description of the famous Lucerne or 4. Waldstaetten Lake by Johann Leopold Cysat. Chapter 25: Of dragons and lindworms and of the dragon stone found in the city of Lucerne.
The Dragon in the Reuss River
The story about the farmer and the healing dragon stone is not the only dragon sighting from the 1400s. In 1499, a dragon was reportedly washed ashore in the Reuss River running through Luzern, at the foot of the Mount Pilatus mountain.
River Reuss: The iconic wooden Chapel Bridge at night, reflecting over Lake Lucerne, near the legendary Mount Pilatus.
Still to this day, reports about seeing something swim under the Reuss bridge, whether be a dragon sighting or something similar to the Loch Ness monster is still happening.
A Portal Between Worlds
Other tales claim that a secret cave system beneath the peak known as the Flue served as a nesting ground for the dragons, and that travelers who dared venture too close would be cursed or spirited away. In one version from a 1619 chronicle, a man witnessed dragons gliding between the great rock formations of Pilatus and vanishing into the very walls of the mountain. These were no mindless beasts but powerful guardians, perhaps even shape-shifters, tied to the elements.
There are also stories about people falling off the snowy mountain in the winter, but awaking warm inside of the dragon’s cave, with the dragon nursing them back until spring. This story about nice dragons nursing someone through winter, This story happened the same year as the Dragon Stone appeared, and that the young man was fed on moon milk from the cave walls and flown back to Lucerne by the two dragons living there after the winter was over.
The Ghost of Pontius Pilate
Because of these dark and unexplainable occurrences, the mountain was also considered cursed. In the Middle Ages, the city council of Lucerne forbade anyone from climbing Pilatus for fear of awakening the spirits and demons said to be imprisoned within. All farmers had to swear by God that they would never visit the lake either. In 1387, six priests were jailed for it. In 1564, two men made it to the lake without meeting a spirit, so they threw stones in the lake instead. This was said to cause a thunderstorm and they too were put in jail.
Before being called Mt Piilatus, it was called Fractus Mons or Fräkmünt until 1460. The ghost of Pontius Pilate, from whom the mountain may derive its name, was also rumored to be buried in the now dried up Pilatus lake closeby, his soul haunting the region in eternal unrest.
Pontius Pilatus: He was the fifth governor of the Roman province of Judaea, serving under Emperor Tiberius from 26/27 to 36/37 AD and most known for being the official who presided over the trial of Jesus and ordered his crucifixion. He was ordered to Rome by the Syrian legate to face Emperor Tiberius, but Tiberius died before Pilate arrived, and his fate thereafter remains unknown. The only sure outcome of Pilate’s return to Rome is that he was not reinstated as governor of Judaea, either because the hearing went badly, or because Pilate did not wish to return. Some say he retired, some say he committed suicide. // Image: Mihály Munkácsy: Christ before Pilate.
In the text Mors Pilati (perhaps originally 6th century, but recorded c. 1300 AD), Pilate was said to have been forced to commit suicide and his body thrown in the Tiber. However, the body is surrounded by demons and storms, so that it is removed from the Tiber and instead cast into the Rhone, where the same thing happens. Finally, the corpse is taken to Lausanne in modern Switzerland and buried in an isolated lake (perhaps Lake Lucerne), where demonic visitations continue to occur. according to another, Pilate took refuge in a mountain (now called Mount Pilatus) in modern Switzerland, before eventually committing suicide in a lake on its summit.
A remorseful Pilate prepares to kill himself. Engraving by G. Mochetti after B. Pinelli.
It was said that if he was disturbed, storms and bad weather would break loose from the mountain. The ghostly figure that is said to have appeared with gray hair and dressed in purple annually on Good Friday by the lake.
In 1585, the priest Johann Muller got together with the authorities to prove this was all superstition. He brought them out to the lake and threw rocks at the water, and no bad weather came. They were still not completely convinced and decided to drain the lake forever in 1594 when they abolished the no visitation policy, just to be sure.
How true is it that Pilatus died here though? There are several mountains claiming the same actually. Some say that the name was actually from the word Pila, meaning pilgrim.
Myth Meets Modernity
The many dragon stories are told in the canton of Luzern and many of them believe that dragon still roars in the sky. Athanasius Kircher relates: “When I was looking at the bright sky at night in 1649, I saw a shining dragon flying past from a hole in a very large rock cliff on Mount Pilatus. Its wings were moving rapidly, and as it flew it threw off sparks like glowing iron when it is being forged.
Though scientific understanding has long since overtaken belief in dragons, the legend of Mount Pilatus remains one of the most enduring pieces of Swiss folklore. Even today, Pilatus is affectionately referred to as Drachenberg — Dragon Mountain — and symbols of dragons can be found carved into signs, trail markers, and souvenir shops throughout the region.
Lake Lucerne: Mount Pilatus towers majestically over Lake Lucerne, embodying Swiss folklore with its snow-capped peaks and mysterious aura.
The Dragon Stone itself reportedly vanished during one of Lucerne’s many church restorations, though some say it was hidden away to protect its powers. Others believe the dragons are simply dormant, waiting beneath the rock for the right time to rise again.
Visitors hiking the slopes on misty days often report strange gusts of wind, echoing screeches, or fleeting shadows soaring across the mountain face. Whether these are tricks of the imagination or something far older and more powerful, one thing remains certain: Mount Pilatus will never stop watching — or hiding its secrets.
Crossing through the Jura Mountains in Switzerland, an urban legend about the ghost of a lady in white is said to have haunted the Belchen Tunnel and was widely known and written about in the 80s. Question is, is she still haunting the tunnel?
After falling to his death trying to escape the debtor’s prison, The Marshalsea Barracks in Dublin, it is said the ghost of Pat Doyle is haunting the remaining walls of the ruins.
Planted to mark the mass grave of plague victims, the Linden Tree in the Aargau valley in Switzerland has become a famous landmark. In the night though, it is said that the ghosts buried underneath it crawls from the ground to haunt as a warning for any oncoming tragedies.
A rebel and freedom fighter for Irish independence is said to haunt his favorite pub, The Brazen Head in Dublin, where it is said he plotted his fight against the English.
The black cat in European folklore is shrouded in mystery and magical lore. From the old parts of Bern, ghost stories of ghostly black cats linger in the shadows, reminding about the old fear the feline specter used to hold over people.
Mirroring the famous Dance Macabre mural that used to hang on the walls near the Predigerkirche in Basel, it is said that plague victims were buried in the patch of grass outside of the church. Legend has it that when the city needs it, the dead will rise from it in a macabre procession, as a warning of an oncoming disaster.
Where history whispers and shadows reign, the Rathaus in Bern is said to be haunted by a myriad of ghosts. Who are the ghosts lingering in the City Hall after dark?
The two adjoining cloisters by Basel Cathedral are said to be haunted by a couple of spectres entombed within the building. In the darkness of Basel’s Double Cloister, it is said you can hear the moaning of a man slowly suffocating and feel the unsuspected slap from a man, as mean in death as he was in life.
A lock keeper from the adjacent lock next The Portobello Bar in Dublin is said to be haunting it. Ever since his mistake cost the lives of someone crossing, he is said to be lingering in the area.
In an old sanatorium in Switzerland the ghost of Hermann is said to have been haunting for ages. But who was he when he was alive, and what was his true name before he died in the remote fortress up in the mountains? And is he still haunting the old halls where he never made his recovery?
After his master died at sea, the faithful dog was by his master’s grave, day in and day out. After dying of hunger and grief it is said that the Newfoundland dog is still seen, slipping between the graves at Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin.
The old stairs around the old town in Bern are most definitely haunted. Ascending from the Cathedral on Münsterplattform towards the Aare River, ghosts of the past are said to be the ones behind the creaks on the stairs.
The Mattentreppe may appear as a simple stone stairway leading from the dignified heights of Bern’s center to the working-class roots of the Matte district, known in centuries past for its bathhouses, its brothels, and even a visit from Casanova himself. This steep flight of steps, carved into the hillside and shadowed by the cathedral’s towering silhouette, is more than a picturesque shortcut. It is one of the city’s most haunted places, a corridor of shame, sorrow, and long-held secrets.
Read More: Check out all ghost stories from Switzerland
As the bells of the Bern Minster chime twelve on New Year’s Eve, and fireworks erupt over the Aare, there are those who claim they see more than celebration unfolding in the ancient quarter. Ghosts rise with the fog. Footsteps echo with no source.
The Nobleman and the Cripple haunting the Mattetreppe
The Mattentreppe is not only said to have been haunted by the ghosts appearing on New Years. It is also said to be haunted by the ghost of a nobleman from the olden times. He fell in love, or at least had an affair with a maid. When she became pregnant with his child, scandal loomed. The nobleman, unable to bear the disgrace and unwilling to face the consequences of his actions, hurled himself down the Mattentreppe in despair.
To this day, people have reported seeing the pale figure of a well-dressed man, pacing or rushing down the stairs, as if in torment. His cloak flutters even on windless nights.
In earlier years, a terribly crippled man was often seen on the matted steps where they had a landing. Hunched and crippled, he was sitting with two heavy baskets balancing impossibly from each finger. Passersby, moved by his suffering, would offer help. But whenever someone reached for a basket, the man would vanish in a puff of smoke, leaving only a mocking “Hahahaha!” echoing off the stone walls.
New Years Haunting of the Stairs
The eeriest of all tales tied to the Mattentreppe comes with the tolling of the New Year’s bell. When the bells in the cathedral begin to ring at the turn of the year, a poor soul rises from her grave: a young woman in a long, flowing gown, her face shaded beneath a wide-brimmed hat tied neatly with ribbons.
During the 20th century, the terrace by the Cathedral was changed from a graveyard to an open plaza by the Münsterplattform. We don’t know when she was buried as the location was built as a churchyard in 1334 and 1919 as this is when the ghost story was first published in print.
She ascends the stairs going from the cathedral down towards the river. She is aiming at one of the houses in the Schifflaube street between the cathedral and the Aare Riverbanks, where she lived and is now haunting. The Schifflaube/Schiffländte was a place for reloading the boats that were going up and down the river. It’s an old street with old buildings, although which number or if it’s still there is uncertain.
On the attic floor, she stands thoughtfully in the same spot, always silent. And when the last toll of the bell has faded away, she departs again, as silently as she came. She carefully closes the doors behind her. Without looking back, she walks past the houses, up the path toward the gardens, only to suddenly vanish like a mist.
In the place she keeps returning to, she once murdered her child, secretly, without anyone ever finding out.
Crossing through the Jura Mountains in Switzerland, an urban legend about the ghost of a lady in white is said to have haunted the Belchen Tunnel and was widely known and written about in the 80s. Question is, is she still haunting the tunnel?
After falling to his death trying to escape the debtor’s prison, The Marshalsea Barracks in Dublin, it is said the ghost of Pat Doyle is haunting the remaining walls of the ruins.
Planted to mark the mass grave of plague victims, the Linden Tree in the Aargau valley in Switzerland has become a famous landmark. In the night though, it is said that the ghosts buried underneath it crawls from the ground to haunt as a warning for any oncoming tragedies.
A rebel and freedom fighter for Irish independence is said to haunt his favorite pub, The Brazen Head in Dublin, where it is said he plotted his fight against the English.
The black cat in European folklore is shrouded in mystery and magical lore. From the old parts of Bern, ghost stories of ghostly black cats linger in the shadows, reminding about the old fear the feline specter used to hold over people.
Mirroring the famous Dance Macabre mural that used to hang on the walls near the Predigerkirche in Basel, it is said that plague victims were buried in the patch of grass outside of the church. Legend has it that when the city needs it, the dead will rise from it in a macabre procession, as a warning of an oncoming disaster.
Where history whispers and shadows reign, the Rathaus in Bern is said to be haunted by a myriad of ghosts. Who are the ghosts lingering in the City Hall after dark?
The two adjoining cloisters by Basel Cathedral are said to be haunted by a couple of spectres entombed within the building. In the darkness of Basel’s Double Cloister, it is said you can hear the moaning of a man slowly suffocating and feel the unsuspected slap from a man, as mean in death as he was in life.
A lock keeper from the adjacent lock next The Portobello Bar in Dublin is said to be haunting it. Ever since his mistake cost the lives of someone crossing, he is said to be lingering in the area.
In an old sanatorium in Switzerland the ghost of Hermann is said to have been haunting for ages. But who was he when he was alive, and what was his true name before he died in the remote fortress up in the mountains? And is he still haunting the old halls where he never made his recovery?
After his master died at sea, the faithful dog was by his master’s grave, day in and day out. After dying of hunger and grief it is said that the Newfoundland dog is still seen, slipping between the graves at Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin.
After a devastating fire in the old Iroquois Theater in Chicago around 600 people died trying to escape the flames. Even after the Oriental Theater was built in its place, some still believe the ghost from the fire is haunting the stage.
The Oriental Theater in the windy city of Chicago is a grand venue that has been entertaining audiences for over 90 years. But behind the grandeur and glitz lies a dark and eerie history, filled with ghostly legends and supernatural stories.
Many people believe that the Oriental Theater is one of the most haunted venues in Chicago, with a long list of ghostly sightings and unexplained phenomena. What sets this ghost story apart though is how the haunting origin story is more scary than the haunting itself. And the most deadly haunting happened as soon as this spot in the city was turned into a theater.
The Nederlander: The theater has had many names and is today called The Nederlander. Before this exact theater were built, another one who burnt is said to have caused the haunting said to go on inside of the building.
The Fire of the Iroquois Theater and Death Alley
The Oriental Theater, formerly known as the Iroquois Theater, opened its doors in 1903 at 24 W. Randolph Street. It was a grand venue, with a seating capacity of over 1,700, and was designed to be the most luxurious theater in the world. The newspaper also advertised with it being fireproof. But just as Titanic was unsinkable, the theater would catch fire as soon as it opened.
Just five weeks after its opening during a performance of a comedy-musical called Mr. Bluebeard starring Eddie Foy, tragedy struck when a fire broke. The show had been a success and the theatre were sold out with extra standing tickets being issued. Most of the spectators were women attending with their children.
A spark from the stage lights hit the very flammable muslin backdrop and it burst into flames quickly. First, they weren’t too panicked, as they all believed it when they said it would be safe from fire. But then the fire started to spread, and none of the fire prevention equipment seemed to be working.
When the spectators tried to flee the theater, they were unable to locate the exits as they were not labeled and doors were locked. In the staircase people were trampled, crushed or asphyxiated to death.
When the crew and actors escape in the backscene doors, the cold air caused a fireball that shot out from the stage onto the crowd. Those who managed to find a window or get to the roof jumped to their death.
There were no fire-alarm box in the building and when the fire department finally arrived, it was already too late. 602 people lost their lives in the 30 minutes blaze, making it one of the deadliest theater fires in history and was remembered as The Great Chicago Fire Disaster.
Hundreds of bodies were piled up in the theater of mostly women and children. It reportedly took over five hours to gather them all, the amount of bodies raging six feet above the ground. The next door space turned into a temporary morgue and hospital. Soon, the alley right next to the theater was called the Death Alley and was remembered as such for a long time.
Ever since there have been rumors about it being haunted and the spirit of the dead lingering in the alley now known as Couch Place. Whispers in the night as well as people feeling the ghostly touch on the shoulders.
So some say that the theater was cursed from the start, but it was certainly not the end though.
Couch Place: Commonly called the Alley of Death, was the place they place the bodies after the fire and many have experienced strange things in this backstage place of the Chicago theater district. // Source
The Start of Oriental Theater
After the fire, the theater was rebuilt and renamed the Oriental Theater in 1926. In 1988 the Oriental Theater closed down and fell into disrepair, but it was restored in 1998 and is now a popular venue once again.
However, the history of the Iroquois Theater fire has left a lasting impact on the theater, and many believe that it is responsible for the ghostly sightings and unexplained phenomena that occur there.
Ghostly Legends and Reports
There have been many reports of ghostly activity at the Oriental Theater over the years. The ghosts of those who perished in the fire is also said to haunt the newly built theater and people claim to have seen their spirit leaping out from the window onto the street as a death loop. There is also the smell of smoke coming from nowhere that people claim is a remnant lingering from the deadly fire.
When actors are on stage they report about seeing shadows moving on the balconies. In the fire, they perhaps had it worse, as they were the ones locked inside and were unable to open the doors leading down to the first floor.
The Wicked Incident
One of the stories told was during a production of the musical Wicked. Ana Gasteyer had the role of Elphaba. In the end of Act I, there is a scene where she learns to fly and smog and fog comes from the auditorium and filling the stage. She told in the writing Celebrity Ghost Stories that she looked to the sides in the wings. They were filled with people, more people than the stagehands of the production used to have there.
The people didn’t look like crew either, they looked like families, but when she landed and the smoke cleared, there was no one there.
She also claimed to have seen a woman in the hallways with a boy and a girl, all wearing period clothes. It was first when she asked her dresser about it that she thought they might have been ghosts, as Dec 30. was coming up.
Could this have been one of the performances she claimed to have seen the ghosts?
Spooky Events and Experiences at Oriental Theater
The Oriental Theater in Chicago is a grand venue that has entertained audiences for over ninety years. In 2018 it was renamed to the James M. Nederlander Theatre, after the founder of Broadway in Chicago.
But behind the glamour and glitz lies a dark and eerie history, filled with ghostly legends and supernatural stories and the danger of fire.
Once upon a time there used to live a Basilisk in a cave underneath where the Tanner’s Fountain (Gerberberglein) is today. Said to kill with its poisonous breath even, it has become the very symbol of Basel today.
In the very old city of Basel in Switzerland lies a quiet little street called Gerberberglein, near the banks of the Rhine and the bustling Marktplatz in the Swiss city filled with legends. You will also see a lot of depictions of a basilisk around the city. Painted on walls, statues on the fountains. Today, the area is surrounded by charming medieval architecture, cobbled alleys, and the hum of daily life, but could it also house a Basilisk?
Read more: Check out all legends and ghost stories from Switzerland
Although the name Basel and Basilisks seems to be a coincidence, there are a lot of stories about that once upon a time, a terrible basilisk was lurking underneath the medieval city. Its home was in a cave where the Gerber Brunnen, or the tanner’s fountain is found today.
Basilisk of Basel: Basilisk at the bridgehead of the Wettstein Bridge in Basel. The four basilisks were designed by Ferdinand Schlöth (1818–1891). The molds were made by Hans Baur. The sculpture does not depict a griffin and has nothing to do with the bird Gryff. // Source: EinDao/Wikimedia
What Is a Basilisk?
The basilisk is one of the oldest creatures in European folklore, first appearing in texts as early as the first century AD and Greek folklore. Medieval bestiaries described it as the “king of serpents” — hence the name basiliskos, Greek for “little king.” It was often associated with death, poison, and forbidden knowledge, a creature born from unnatural acts: a serpent hatched from a rooster’s egg, warmed by a toad or snake. Its uncanny power to kill with a look made it the embodiment of pestilence and unholy wrath.
Basilisk: The basilisk and the weasel, by Marcus Gheeraerts the Elder. The cockatrice (pictured) became seen as synonymous with the basilisk when the “basiliscus” in Bartholomeus Anglicus’s De proprietatibus rerum (ca 1260) was translated by John Trevisa as “cockatrice” (1397).
Basilisks were believed to be hatched from eggs that were laid by roosters (who had to be either 7 or 9 years old) on the dung pile of serpents. This combination produced a creature with the head of a rooster and the tail and wings of a large serpent.
A Monster Beneath Basel City
According to a legend that has haunted Basel since the Middle Ages, a basilisk is a monstrous hybrid said to be part rooster, part serpent, and part toad who once lived in a dark, damp cave underneath Gerberberglein. The cave, now sealed and lost to time, was once believed to be the domain of this deadly beast. It was said that one glance from the basilisk could kill a man outright, turning flesh to stone or burning life from the body. Even the breath of the creature was fatal.
Gerberbrunnen: Paul Siegfried (1878–1938) lawyer, historian, and writer. Gerberbrunnen, also known as Richtbrunnen , is located at Gerbergasse 48 in Basel-Stadt. Inscription: In this well’s dark depths once lived—legend tells us—the basilisk, a wild monster. Today, it bears Basel’s coat of arms. A court was then held here, and dancing and minnesong were also practiced; from the guild house that stood by the spring, it was called the Gerberbunnen (Gerber’s Well). After drying up for many years, it now flows again, full and clear. No dragon plots murder within it anymore, but another dragon lives on. O Basel, free yourself from it: break the head of discord! // Source: EinDao/Wikimedia
No one dared venture near the cave. Animals avoided the area, and plants withered as if poisoned by the very air. The townspeople lived in terror, avoiding the cave and whispering tales of brave fools who tried and failed to slay the beast.
The Tale of the Basilisk Egg
It is said that on a Thursday morning in 1474 before Laurentius, a black rooster, older than a decade, laid a big oblong egg in the middle of Gerbergasse. Usually in basilisk lore, the egg is laid by a rooster when it’s either seven or nine years old. Everyone knew that this had to be a basilisk egg and panic spread.
They sentenced the rooster to death before the egg could hatch. As soon as the egg would hatch, no sword or knight could kill it. To vanquish the monster you had to pull out a mirror so that the basilisk would see its own reflection and die of its own power.
They sliced the rooster open, finding three eggs. After killing it, they tossed it on the pyre, making sure that they would never again be bothered by the threat of a Basilisk again.
This account is found in the same chronicle from 1624 where they discussed the basilisk living in the cave underground.
The Basilisk as Basel’s Symbol
Though the monster was vanquished, the basilisk never left Basel’s story. In fact, it became one of the city’s most enduring symbols. The first known illustration of a basilisk in Basel dates from 1448, when it was shown holding the city’s coat of arms.
The Basilisk holding Basle’s coat of arms can be traced back in heraldry to a monument reminding of the fatal 1356 earthquake that destroyed the city almost to the ground: “Basilisk, you poisonous worm and fable, now you shall hold the shield of the dignified city of Basel”. This epigraph probably dates back to the early 15th century.
Basiliskbrunnen: The most common way to encounter a basilisk in Basel today is on one of the numerous “Basiliskenbrunnen” that can be found throughout the city. These fountains were first designed in 1884. Today , 28 basilisk fountains are still in operation in Basel. // Source: Wikimedia
To this day, basilisk statues can be seen throughout the city — perched on fountains, carved into bridges, and hidden in iron railings. The most famous are the Basilisk Fountains from the 19th century, designed to reflect the city’s medieval past and its victorious confrontation with the beast.
While today these statues may seem whimsical or decorative, their origins lie in something far darker — a time when people believed monsters slithered beneath their feet.
Crossing through the Jura Mountains in Switzerland, an urban legend about the ghost of a lady in white is said to have haunted the Belchen Tunnel and was widely known and written about in the 80s. Question is, is she still haunting the tunnel?
After falling to his death trying to escape the debtor’s prison, The Marshalsea Barracks in Dublin, it is said the ghost of Pat Doyle is haunting the remaining walls of the ruins.
Planted to mark the mass grave of plague victims, the Linden Tree in the Aargau valley in Switzerland has become a famous landmark. In the night though, it is said that the ghosts buried underneath it crawls from the ground to haunt as a warning for any oncoming tragedies.
A rebel and freedom fighter for Irish independence is said to haunt his favorite pub, The Brazen Head in Dublin, where it is said he plotted his fight against the English.
The black cat in European folklore is shrouded in mystery and magical lore. From the old parts of Bern, ghost stories of ghostly black cats linger in the shadows, reminding about the old fear the feline specter used to hold over people.
Mirroring the famous Dance Macabre mural that used to hang on the walls near the Predigerkirche in Basel, it is said that plague victims were buried in the patch of grass outside of the church. Legend has it that when the city needs it, the dead will rise from it in a macabre procession, as a warning of an oncoming disaster.
Where history whispers and shadows reign, the Rathaus in Bern is said to be haunted by a myriad of ghosts. Who are the ghosts lingering in the City Hall after dark?
The two adjoining cloisters by Basel Cathedral are said to be haunted by a couple of spectres entombed within the building. In the darkness of Basel’s Double Cloister, it is said you can hear the moaning of a man slowly suffocating and feel the unsuspected slap from a man, as mean in death as he was in life.
A lock keeper from the adjacent lock next The Portobello Bar in Dublin is said to be haunting it. Ever since his mistake cost the lives of someone crossing, he is said to be lingering in the area.
In an old sanatorium in Switzerland the ghost of Hermann is said to have been haunting for ages. But who was he when he was alive, and what was his true name before he died in the remote fortress up in the mountains? And is he still haunting the old halls where he never made his recovery?
After his master died at sea, the faithful dog was by his master’s grave, day in and day out. After dying of hunger and grief it is said that the Newfoundland dog is still seen, slipping between the graves at Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin.
After taking his regime of terror too far on a stormy winter night, the Bailiff of Brunegg committed a sin so huge on a hunt that would send him into a haunted afterlife.
High in the canton of Aargau, where the shadow of Brunegg Castle falls across the land, a legend as cold as the alpine wind lingers through generations. The castle was built on a hill at the edge of the Jura mountains in the 13th century, probably as part of the Habsburg border defences.
When dark clouds gather and the holy season approaches, those living near the castle in Brunegg village at the foot of Chäschtebärg mountain swear they hear a distant thundering, like hooves pounding across frozen earth, echoing from above. This is no storm. It is the Bailiff of Brunegg, rising once again for his eternal, damned hunt.
Read more: Check out all ghost stories from Switzerland
This grim tale, recorded in the 19th century by folklorist Ernst L. Rochholz in Swiss Legends from Aargau, paints a chilling portrait of cruelty, hubris, and supernatural justice. And even today, locals will tell you: when winter bites and silence settles heavy over the land, listen for the call of “Hop-Hop!” may come riding down the slopes.
The Tyrant of Brunegg Castle
The story begins in Brunegg Castle, an imposing stronghold nestled in the rural Swiss countryside. The castle, though quiet now, once housed a bailiff, or Landvogt as it is in German. During the medieval period in Switzerland, a bailiff, known in German as a “Vogt,” played a significant administrative and judicial role. The bailiff was typically a nobleman appointed by a higher authority, such as a king, duke, or lord.
He was a man of power, authority, and, according to legend, unrepentant cruelty. One fateful winter, as snow blanketed the land and bitter cold pierced even the stone walls of his keep, the bailiff resolved to go hunting.
Schloss Brunegg: The Brunegg Castle on the hill overlooking the village below. This is where the ghost hunt is said to start on stormy winter nights. // Source
With a black horse, a pack of snarling hounds, and a retinue of servants, he charged into the deepening snowdrifts. The cold was so fierce, the breath of man and beast froze in the air. As the storm worsened, their feet froze, their limbs stiffening with frostbite.
But the bailiff, obsessed with his hunt and blinded by ego, would not turn back.
Murder for Warmth
As his followers collapsed around him, the bailiff stumbled upon a lone woodcutter working in the forest, perhaps hoping to survive the winter with what little firewood he could gather. Rather than ask for aid or offer mercy, the bailiff murdered the man outright, slicing him open and warming his frozen feet in the steaming belly of the corpse.
This gruesome act was the last straw.
As if in divine retribution, the sky darkened and a furious snowstorm erupted over Brunegg. Blinding winds swept through the forest and fields. The bailiff, his dogs, and his remaining attendants were never seen again. All were buried in snow, swallowed whole by the wrath of the mountain. The castle, high on its hill, stood silent.
Each winter, the people at the foot of Brunegg Castle claim they hear phantom hooves galloping above. The hounds bark. The bailiff’s voice rings out with a sinister “Hop-Hop!” — urging his invisible dogs onward. But always, at the spot where the woodcutter died, the sound ceases.
It is said that the bailiff’s ghost is cursed to hunt eternally, never able to pass that spot, doomed to repeat the sins of his final ride through blizzard and blood.
A Tyrant Reborn: Gessler or Ghost?
Interestingly, well-read Swiss citizens have long drawn parallels between the Bailiff of Brunegg and another infamous tyrant of legend, Albrecht Gessler, the ruthless official from the tale of William Tell, the hero of Swiss independence. Albrecht Gessler, also known as Hermann, was a legendary 14th-century Habsburg bailiff at Altdorf, whose brutal rule led to the William Tell rebellion and the eventual independence of the Old Swiss Confederacy.
Gessler is the man who famously forced Tell to shoot an apple off his own son’s head — a story of oppression, defiance, and eventual retribution.
No sources that predate the earliest references to the Tell legend of the late 15th century refer to a bailiff Gessler in central Switzerland, and it is presumed that no such person existed. Some believe the Bailiff of Brunegg is Gessler, or at least a folkloric echo is another example of how abuse of power and cruelty earn not only rebellion but eternal punishment in Swiss legend.
Crossing through the Jura Mountains in Switzerland, an urban legend about the ghost of a lady in white is said to have haunted the Belchen Tunnel and was widely known and written about in the 80s. Question is, is she still haunting the tunnel?
After falling to his death trying to escape the debtor’s prison, The Marshalsea Barracks in Dublin, it is said the ghost of Pat Doyle is haunting the remaining walls of the ruins.
Planted to mark the mass grave of plague victims, the Linden Tree in the Aargau valley in Switzerland has become a famous landmark. In the night though, it is said that the ghosts buried underneath it crawls from the ground to haunt as a warning for any oncoming tragedies.
A rebel and freedom fighter for Irish independence is said to haunt his favorite pub, The Brazen Head in Dublin, where it is said he plotted his fight against the English.
The black cat in European folklore is shrouded in mystery and magical lore. From the old parts of Bern, ghost stories of ghostly black cats linger in the shadows, reminding about the old fear the feline specter used to hold over people.
Mirroring the famous Dance Macabre mural that used to hang on the walls near the Predigerkirche in Basel, it is said that plague victims were buried in the patch of grass outside of the church. Legend has it that when the city needs it, the dead will rise from it in a macabre procession, as a warning of an oncoming disaster.
Where history whispers and shadows reign, the Rathaus in Bern is said to be haunted by a myriad of ghosts. Who are the ghosts lingering in the City Hall after dark?
The two adjoining cloisters by Basel Cathedral are said to be haunted by a couple of spectres entombed within the building. In the darkness of Basel’s Double Cloister, it is said you can hear the moaning of a man slowly suffocating and feel the unsuspected slap from a man, as mean in death as he was in life.
A lock keeper from the adjacent lock next The Portobello Bar in Dublin is said to be haunting it. Ever since his mistake cost the lives of someone crossing, he is said to be lingering in the area.
In an old sanatorium in Switzerland the ghost of Hermann is said to have been haunting for ages. But who was he when he was alive, and what was his true name before he died in the remote fortress up in the mountains? And is he still haunting the old halls where he never made his recovery?
After his master died at sea, the faithful dog was by his master’s grave, day in and day out. After dying of hunger and grief it is said that the Newfoundland dog is still seen, slipping between the graves at Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin.
Why did we stop telling ghost stories for Christmas? In the olden days, it used to be a tradition to gather around and tell each other ghost stories in Victorian England. Often set in cold and dark castles or somewhere far remote in the cold icy night. Here are some perfect short stories you can read for free, perfect for Christmas time.
The tradition of telling ghost stories during Christmas times is an old one, especially during the Victorian era Big Britain and northern Europe. Big names like Charles Dickens with his famous “A Christmas Carol” is one example.
Today many of these classics have fallen into the public domain and are free to read and share for everyone. Here we have collected some horror or ghost stories that are set in Christmas times and perfect for the dark and snowy evenings.
First published in 1820 in Irving’s masterpiece, The Sketch Book, The Christmas Dinner is a charming tale by the great American writer behind such timeless classics as The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle. Painting the scene of a Christmas dinner spent at the table of Bracebridge Hall, a countryside manor, the merry songs and stories of the dinner table echo with jollity of Christmases long past. A charming yet melancholic tale where the narrator joins a traditional English Christmas dinner at an old country house, filled with merriment, ancient customs, and the bittersweet shadow of absent loved ones. A ghostly warmth rather than outright horror.
First published in 1820 in Irving’s masterpiece, The Sketch Book, The Christmas Dinner is a charming tale by the great American writer behind such timeless classics as The Legend of Sleepy Hollow and Rip Van Winkle. Painting the scene of a Christmas dinner spent at the table of Bracebridge Hall, a countryside manor, the merry…
One of James’s lesser-known but fascinating tales — set at Christmas, it’s presented as a series of letters about a disturbing Punch and Judy show, a mysterious disappearance, and a spectral visitation on Christmas Eve. It first appeared in print in the June 4, 1913 issue of the magazine Cambridge Review. It was published again in 1919 as part of the anthology A Thin Ghost and Others.
Christmas Re-union is a short story found in the collection NOT EXACTLY GHOSTS by Andrew Caldecott, upholding the old tradition of christmas ghost stories. This is a bit of a newer publication and were published in 1947. During a holiday gathering, old family secrets surface, leading to a sinister revelation about a long-dead relative — and a chilling presence that suggests some sins don’t stay buried.
Christmas Re-union is a short story found in the collection NOT EXACTLY GHOSTS by Andrew Caldecott, upholding the old tradition of christmas ghost stories. Published in 1947
In this chilling tale by J. S Le Fanu, the death of a corrupt church sexton on Christmas Eve unleashes supernatural events in his churchyard—as though his spirit lingers, disrupting the holy peace. First published in 1871.
A ghostly card game? During Christmas times? Yes! Charlotte Riddell was a well known writer of her Victorian times, at least, her stories was as she published them under a mans name. This one was published in 1863. Siblings inherit a haunted estate and, on Christmas Eve, witness the ghostly reenactment of a long-forgotten murder, finally revealing the truth behind a century-old disappearance.
A ghostly card game? During Christmas times? Yes! Charlotte Riddel was a well known writer of her Victorian times, at least, her stories was as she published them under a mans name. Published in 1863.
Set on Christmas Day, this Gothic moral thriller follows a man who murders his way into an antique shop, only to be visited by a mysterious figure—perhaps a devil, perhaps a savior—who challenges his soul’s darkest impulses.
Between the Lights is a short horror story published in 1912. Between the Lights is a part of a short story collection “The Room in the Tower and Other Stories” also published in 1912. At a Christmas house party, a man recounts a vivid vision he experienced during a game of hide-and-seek — of a formless, malevolent figure moving in the gathering gloom, blurring the line between memory and premonition.
Between the Lights is a short horror story published in 1912. Between the Lights is a part of a short story collection “The Room in the Tower and Other Stories” also published in 1912.
At a cozy inn on Christmas Eve, guests trade spooky stories—until a real, bloodstained intruder named “Jerry Bundler” appears, turning festive warmth into true fright.
The Kit-Bag by Author: Algernon Blackwood (1869-1951) This is from “Pall Mall Magazine”, December 1908. A legal clerk preparing for a holiday getaway finds himself tormented by the spectral presence of a hanged murderer whose belongings — including the titular kit-bag — may still carry his restless spirit.
Set in snowy Ukraine on Christmas Eve, this folkloric tale follows a trickster devil who wreaks havoc in a village while a young man seeks to win his beloved’s heart under supernatural influence.
The Haunted Man and the Ghost’s Bargain is a novella by Charles Dickens first published in 1848. It is the fifth and last of Dickens’s Christmas novellas. The story is more about the spirit of Christmas than about the holiday itself, harking back to the first in the series, A Christmas Carol. The tale centres on a Professor Redlaw and those close to him. A somber professor makes a Faustian bargain to forget his sorrows, but soon realizes erasing grief means erasing compassion, as a ghost teaches him that sorrow is essential to humanity.
The Haunted Man and the Ghost’s Bargain is a novella by Charles Dickens first published in 1848. It is the fifth and last of Dickens’s Christmas novellas. The story is more about the spirit of Christmas than about the holiday itself, harking back to the first in the series, A Christmas Carol. The tale centres on a Professor Redlaw and…
The Portent of the Shadow or just The Shadow is set during a Christmas gathering of friends, one guest tells of a terrifying, supernatural encounter involving an otherworldly shadow that leads to madness and death. Classic Edwardian Christmas ghostliness.
This is a christmas ghost story by feminist writer Elizabeth Gaskell. The main themes of this story are patriarchal power, aristocratic pride and the repression of women. It is a story of abuse,- physical violence and mental cruelty. As with all Gothic stories, the protagonist is taken out of mainstream culture into an isolated world which becomes terrifying .A nurse recounts a chilling memory from her youth when she and her young charge encountered the restless ghost of a banished child on a snowy Christmas Eve, doomed to roam the grounds of a crumbling mansion.
This is a christmas ghost story by feminist writer Elizabeth Gaskell. The main themes of this story are patriarchal power, aristocratic pride and the repression of women. It is a story of abuse,- physical violence and mental cruelty.
Horror: A True Tale is a short story written by John Berwick Harwood in 1861 for Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine and is a perfect example for a classic Christmas Ghost Story from Victorian times. A traveler spends a winter’s night in a desolate room where an unseen, oppressive horror presses close in the darkness — a disembodied presence that leaves both physical and mental scars.
Horror: A True Tale is a short story written by John Berwick Harwood in 1861 for Blackwood’s Edinburgh Magazine and is a perfect example for a classic Christmas Ghost Story from Victorian times.
During her short lifetime Buisson published one novel, Put to the Test (1865), Her second novel, A Terrible Wrong: A Novel (1867) and short stories were published after her early death. Various of her writings appeared in Belgravia, a magazine edited by her friend the novelist Mary Elizabeth Braddon. This is were the short story The Ghost’s Summons were published in 1868. A doctor receives a midnight summons to attend a dying man, only to discover his mysterious caller was already dead — a ghost ensuring justice is served from beyond the grave.
Ada Buisson (26 March 1839 – 27 December 1866) was an English author and novelist remembered today for her ghost stories.
During her short lifetime Buisson published one novel, Put to the Test (1865), Her second novel, A Terrible Wrong: A Novel (1867) and short stories were published after her early death. Various of her writings appeared in Belgravia, a…
A Christmas party game of hide-and-seek takes a sinister turn when one player unwittingly hides with a ghost — a pale, silent figure whose tragic story is revealed too late.
Smee is a short story by A.M. Burrage, telling the haunting ghost story of a group of people playing hide and seek in a house were a girl died playing the very same game.
How about having a look about the darker things that Christmas has to offer. It’s not all just ugly sweaters and sweet eggnog. Here are some of the Dark Christmas Legends from around the world, bringing the spooky tales and traditions we are missing during yule times.
When most think of Christmas, they imagine cozy fires, joyful carols, and the warm glow of twinkling lights. But behind the tinsel and cheer, many cultures hold age-old, dark traditions that paint a far grimmer picture of the holiday season. While figures like Santa Claus reward the good, these otherworldly beings ensured the wicked received their due — often in blood-curdling ways. From malevolent monsters to ghostly visitors, here are some of the creepiest Christmas legends that have lingered through centuries.
Krampus — The Christmas Devil (Austria, Germany, Alpine Europe)
Perhaps the most infamous of dark Christmas figures is Krampus, a horned, cloven-hoofed demon who punishes naughty children. While Saint Nicholas rewards the good, Krampus beats, chains, and even abducts the wicked, stuffing them into his sack to drag them to Hell. Traditionally, Krampuslauf (“Krampus Run”) sees locals donning terrifying masks and costumes, chasing people through icy streets.
Frau Perchta — The Belly-Slitter (Austria and Bavaria)
A witch-like figure from Alpine folklore, Frau Perchta rewards industrious children and punishes the lazy or disobedient. If she finds someone idle or disrespectful, legend says she’ll slit open their stomach, remove their entrails, and fill the cavity with straw and stones. Perchta roams during the Twelve Days of Christmas, especially on Twelfth Night.
Père Fouettard — The Christmas Butcher (France, Especially Lorraine)
In the Lorraine region of France, Père Fouettard, or “Father Whipper,” is a sinister companion of Saint Nicholas. According to legend, he was a butcher who, in medieval times, lured three lost children into his shop, murdered them, and salted their bodies in a barrel. When Saint Nicholas discovered the crime, he resurrected the children and condemned the butcher to spend eternity as his dark assistant.
Every year, on Saint Nicholas Day (December 6th), Père Fouettard travels with the saint, brandishing a whip or bundle of sticks. While Saint Nicholas rewards good children with sweets, Père Fouettard metes out beatings to the disobedient. Dressed in dark robes with a scraggly beard and soot-covered face, he embodies the vengeful side of the holiday season.
In Iceland, thirteen mischievous trolls known as the Yule Lads descend upon villages in the days leading up to Christmas. While modern versions have softened them into pranksters leaving small gifts, old tales painted them as malevolent figures who stole children or terrorized villagers. Their mother, Grýla, a fearsome ogress, is said to snatch up naughty children and boil them alive in a cauldron.
Mari Lwyd — The Gray Mare (Wales)
A haunting tradition sees groups parading through Welsh villages with a horse skull mounted on a pole, draped in white cloth and adorned with ribbons. Known as Mari Lwyd, the eerie figure travels from house to house, challenging residents to a battle of wits in rhyme. Though playful today, its ghostly, skeletal appearance still chills the unwary.
La Befana — The Christmas Witch (Italy)
In Italian folklore, La Befana is an old woman who visits homes on the eve of Epiphany, riding a broomstick. While she leaves sweets for good children, the bad ones may find lumps of coal — or worse. Some versions claim she abducts misbehaving children, spiriting them away into the night.
The Tomte/Nisse — Mischievous Christmas Spirits (Scandinavia)
While usually benevolent, the Tomte or Nisse of Scandinavian folklore are house spirits who protect farms and families — but they demand respect. During Yule, they must be appeased with offerings of porridge and butter. Forget to leave their meal, or offend them in any way, and they’ll turn vindictive, sabotaging livestock, breaking tools, or even harming inhabitants.
Though charming in appearance, their darker traits reveal how even seemingly kind spirits could turn dangerous in the old folk traditions of the Nordic Yule.
Hans Trapp — The Cannibal Christmas Scarecrow (France)
In the Alsace and Lorraine regions, Hans Trapp is a terrifying Christmas figure. Once a rich, cruel man obsessed with dark magic, he was excommunicated and lived in the forest disguised as a scarecrow. Legend says he would capture and eat children. After being struck down by lightning, his vengeful spirit is said to still stalk misbehaving youngsters at Christmastime.
According to Greek legend, from Christmas to Epiphany, the Kallikantzaroi, impish goblins, rise from the underworld to wreak havoc. They sneak into homes at night, spoiling food, breaking things, and causing mayhem. Only warded off by protective charms, blessed fires, or ritualistic practices, these creatures embody the darker, chaotic side of the holiday season.
The Legend of the Christmas Spider (Ukraine)
While less terrifying, Ukraine’s Christmas Spider story has eerie origins. Legend tells of a poor widow whose children decorated their Christmas tree with cobwebs because they couldn’t afford ornaments. On Christmas morning, the webs turned to silver and gold. Though now a symbol of good fortune, it harks back to Europe’s old belief in omens and restless spirits during the Yuletide.
A Season of Shadows
For much of history, Christmas was as much a time for ghost stories and ominous folklore as it was for joy and kindness. Before modern lights pushed back winter’s darkness, people huddled together, sharing chilling tales and respecting ancient, unseen forces. These darker traditions remind us that the festive season was once a precarious time, when spirits roamed and monsters lurked just beyond the snow-covered hills.
Crossing through the Jura Mountains in Switzerland, an urban legend about the ghost of a lady in white is said to have haunted the Belchen Tunnel and was widely known and written about in the 80s. Question is, is she still haunting the tunnel?
After falling to his death trying to escape the debtor’s prison, The Marshalsea Barracks in Dublin, it is said the ghost of Pat Doyle is haunting the remaining walls of the ruins.
Planted to mark the mass grave of plague victims, the Linden Tree in the Aargau valley in Switzerland has become a famous landmark. In the night though, it is said that the ghosts buried underneath it crawls from the ground to haunt as a warning for any oncoming tragedies.
A rebel and freedom fighter for Irish independence is said to haunt his favorite pub, The Brazen Head in Dublin, where it is said he plotted his fight against the English.
The black cat in European folklore is shrouded in mystery and magical lore. From the old parts of Bern, ghost stories of ghostly black cats linger in the shadows, reminding about the old fear the feline specter used to hold over people.
Mirroring the famous Dance Macabre mural that used to hang on the walls near the Predigerkirche in Basel, it is said that plague victims were buried in the patch of grass outside of the church. Legend has it that when the city needs it, the dead will rise from it in a macabre procession, as a warning of an oncoming disaster.
Where history whispers and shadows reign, the Rathaus in Bern is said to be haunted by a myriad of ghosts. Who are the ghosts lingering in the City Hall after dark?
The two adjoining cloisters by Basel Cathedral are said to be haunted by a couple of spectres entombed within the building. In the darkness of Basel’s Double Cloister, it is said you can hear the moaning of a man slowly suffocating and feel the unsuspected slap from a man, as mean in death as he was in life.
A lock keeper from the adjacent lock next The Portobello Bar in Dublin is said to be haunting it. Ever since his mistake cost the lives of someone crossing, he is said to be lingering in the area.
In an old sanatorium in Switzerland the ghost of Hermann is said to have been haunting for ages. But who was he when he was alive, and what was his true name before he died in the remote fortress up in the mountains? And is he still haunting the old halls where he never made his recovery?
After his master died at sea, the faithful dog was by his master’s grave, day in and day out. After dying of hunger and grief it is said that the Newfoundland dog is still seen, slipping between the graves at Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin.
The Portent of the Shadow or just The Shadow is set during a Christmas gathering of friends, one guest tells of a terrifying, supernatural encounter involving an otherworldly shadow that leads to madness and death. Classic Edwardian Christmas ghostliness.
The Portent of the Shadow By E. Nesbit (Mrs. Hubert Bland)
THIS is not an artistically rounded off ghost story and nothing is explained in it; and there seems to be no reason why any of it should have happened. But that is no reason why it should not be told. You must have noticed that all the real ghost stories you ever come close to are like this in these respects: no explanation, no logical coherence. Here is the story.
*****
There were three of us—and another. But she had fainted suddenly at the second extra of the Christmas Dance, and had been put to bed in the dressing-room next to the room which we three shared. It had been one of those jolly old-fashioned dances, where nearly everybody stays the night, and the big country house is stretched to its utmost containing power; guests harbouring on sofas, couches, cots, and even mattresses on the floor. Some of the young men, even, I believe, slept on the great dining table. We had talked of our partners, as girls will, and then the stillness of the Manor House, broken only by the whisper of the wind in the cedar branches, and the scraping of their lean fingers against our window panes, had pricked us to such a luxurious confidence in our surroundings of bright chintz and candle-flame and firelight, that we had dared to talk of ghosts—in which, said we all, we did not believe one bit. We had told the story of the phantom coach, and the horribly strange bed, and the lady in the sacque, and the house in Berkeley Square. Not one of us believed in ghosts, but my heart, at least, seemed to leap to my throat and choke me, when a tap came to our door—a tap faint, but not to be mistaken.
“Who’s there?” said the youngest of us, craning a lean neck towards the door. It opened slowly—and I give you my word the instant of suspense that followed is still reckoned among my life’s least confident moments. Almost at once the door opened fully, and Miss Eastwich, my aunt’s housekeeper, companion and general standby, looked in on us.
We all said “Come in,” but she stood there. She was, at all normal hours, the most silent woman I have ever known. She stood and looked at us, and shivered a little. So did we—for in those days corridors were not warmed by hot-water pipes, and the air from the door was keen.
“I saw your light,” she said at last, “and I thought it was late for you to be up—after all this gaiety. I thought perhaps—” her glance turned towards the door of the dressing-room.
“No,” I said, “she’s fast asleep.” I should have added a “goodnight,” but the youngest of us forestalled my speech. She did not know Miss Eastwich as we others did. Did not know how her persistent silence had built a wall round her, a wall that no one dared to break down with the commonplaces of talk or the littlenesses of mere human relationship. Miss Eastwich’s silence had taught us to treat her as a machine, and as other than a machine we never dreamed of treating her. But the youngest of us had seen Miss Eastwich for the first time that day. She was young and crude and ill-balanced, and the victim of blind calf-like impulse. She was also the heiress of a rich tallow-chandler, but that has nothing to do with this part of the story. She jumped up from the hearthrug, her unsuitably rich silk, lace-trimmed dressing gown falling back from her lean neck, and ran to the door, and put an arm round Miss Eastwich’s prim lisse-encircled neck. I gasped. I should as soon have dared embrace Cleopatra’s Needle.
“Come in,” said the youngest of use, “come in and get warm. There’s lots of cocoa left.” She drew Miss Eastwich in and shut the door.
The vivid light of pleasure in the housekeeper’s pale eyes went through my heart like a knife. It would have been so easy to put an arm round her neck if one had only thought she wanted it. But it was not I who had thought that, and, indeed, my arm might not have brought the light invoked by the lean arm of the youngest of us.
“Now,” the youngest went on eagerly, “you shall have the very biggest, nicest chair, and the cocoa pot’s here on the hob as hot as hot, and we’ve all been telling ghost stories, only we don’t believe in them a bit, and when you get warm you ought to tell one too.”
Miss Eastwich, that model of decorum and decently done duties, tell a ghost story! The child was mad!
“You’re sure I’m not in your way?” Miss Eastwich said, stretching her hands to the blaze. I wondered whether housekeepers have fires in their rooms even at Christmas time.
“Not a bit,” I said it and I hope I said it as warmly as I felt it. “I—Miss Eastwich—I’d have asked you to come in other times—only I didn’t think you’d care for girls’ chatter.”
The third girl, who was really of no account, and that’s why I have not said anything about her before, poured cocoa for our guest; I put my fleecy Madeira shawl round her shoulders. I could not think of anything else to do for her, and I suddenly found myself wishing desperately to do something. The smile she gave us was quite pretty. People can smile prettily at 40 or 50, or even later, though girls don’t realize this. It occurred to me, and this was another knife-thrust, that I had never seen Miss Eastwich smile—a real smile—before. The pale smiles of dutiful acquiescence were not of the same blood as this dimpling, happy transfiguring look.
“This is very pleasant,” she said, and it seemed to me that I had never before heard her real voice. It did not please me to think that at the cost of cocoa and fire and my arms round her neck I might have heard this new voice any time these six years.
“We’ve been telling ghost stories,” I said, “the worst of it is we don’t believe in ghosts. No one anyone knows has ever seen one.”
“It’s always what somebody told somebody who told somebody, you know,” said the youngest of us. “And you can’t believe that, can you?”
“What the soldier said is not evidence,” said Miss Eastwich. Will it be believed that the little Dickens quotation pierced me more keenly than the new smile or the new voice?
“And all ghost stories are so beautifully rounded off—a murder committed on the spot—or a hidden treasure or a warning—I think that makes them harder to believe. The most horrid ghost story I ever heard was one that was quite silly.”
“Tell it.”
“I can’t—it doesn’t sound anything to tell. Mrs Eastwich ought to tell one.”
“Oh, do!” said the youngest of us, and her salt-cellars loomed dark as she stretched her neck eagerly and laid an entreating arm on our guest’s knee.
“The only thing that I ever knew of was—was hearsay,” she said slowly, “at least half of it was.”
I knew she would tell her story, and I knew she had never before told it, and I knew she was only telling it now because she was proud, and this seemed the only way to pay for the fire and the cocoa and the laying of that thin arm round her neck.
“Don’t tell it,” I said suddenly, “I know you’d rather not.”
“I daresay it would bore you,” she said meekly, and the youngest of us, who after all, did not understand everything, glared resentfully at me.
“We should just love it,” she said, “do tell us. Never mind if it isn’t a real proper fixed-up story. I’m certain anything you think ghostly would be quite too beautifully horrid for anything.”
Miss Eastwich finished her cocoa and reached up to set the cup on the mantelpiece.
“It can’t do any harm,” she said to herself, “they don’t believe in ghosts, and it wasn’t exactly a ghost either. And they’re all over twenty—they’re not babies.” There was a breathing time of hush and expectancy. The fire crackled and the gas flared higher because the billiard lights had been put out. We heard the steps and voices of the men going along the corridors.
“It is really hardly worth telling,” Miss Eastwich said doubtfully, shading her faded face from the fire with her thin hand.
We all said, “Go on; oh, go on, do!”
“Well,” she said, “twenty years ago, and more than that, I had two friends, and I loved them more than anything in the world. And they married each other.”
She paused, and I knew just in what way she had loved each of them. The youngest of us said. “How awfully nice for you! Do go on.”
She patted the youngest’s shoulder, and I was glad that I had understood what the youngest of all hadn’t. She went on.
“Well, after they married I didn’t see much of them for a year or two, and then he wrote and asked me to come and stay, because his wife was ill, and I should cheer her up, and cheer him up as well, for it was a gloomy house, and he himself was growing gloomy too.”
I knew as she spoke that she had every line of that letter by heart.
“Well, I went. The address was in Lee, near London, and in those days there were streets and streets of new villa-houses growing up round old brick mansions standing in their own grounds, with red walls round, you know, and a sort of flavor of coaching days and post-chaises and Blackheath highwaymen about them. He had said the house was gloomy, and it was called ‘The Firs,’ and I imagined my cab going through a dark winding shrubbery and drawing up in front of one of those sedate old square houses. Instead, we drew up in front of a large, smart villa, with iron railings, gay, encaustic tiles leading from the iron gate to the stained-glass-panelled door, and for shrubbery, only a few stunted cypresses and acubas in the tiny front garden. But inside it was all warm and welcoming. He met me at the door.
She was gazing into the fire, and I knew she had forgotten us. But the youngest girl of all still thought that it was to us she was telling her story.
“He met me at the door,” she said again, “and thanked me for coming, and asked me to forgive the past.”
“What past?” asked that high priestess of the inapropos, the youngest of all.
“Oh, I suppose he meant because they hadn’t invited me before, or something,” said Miss Eastwich, worriedly. “But it’s a very dull story, I find, after all, and—”
“Do go on,” I said. Then I kicked the youngest of us and got up to re-arrange Miss Eastwich’s shawl, and said in blatant dumb show, over the shawled shoulders.
“Shut up, you little idiot!”
After another silence the housekeeper’s new voice went on:
“They were very glad to see me, and I was very glad to be there. You girls now have such troops of friends, but these two were all I had, all I had ever had. Mabel wasn’t exactly ill, only wreak and excitable. I thought he seemed more ill than she did. She went to bed early, and before she went, she asked me to keep him company through his last pipe, so we went into the dining room and sat in the two armchairs on each side of the fireplace. They were covered with green leather, I remember. There were bronze groups of horses and a black marble clock on the mantelpiece—all wedding presents. He poured out some whisky for himself, but he hardly touched it. He sat looking into the fire. At last I said:
“‘What’s wrong? Mabel looks as well as you could expect.’
“He said ‘Yes, but I don’t know from one day to another that she won’t begin to notice something wrong. That’s why I wanted you to come. You were always so sensible and strong-minded, and Mabel’s like a little bird, or a flower.’
“I said ‘Yes, of course,’ and waited for him to go on. I thought he must be in debt or in trouble of some sort. So I just waited. Presently he said:
“‘Margaret, this is a very peculiar house.’ He always called me Margaret; you see, we’d been such old friends. I told him I thought the house was very pretty, and fresh, and homelike, only a little too new, but that fault would mend with time. He said:
“‘It is new; that’s just it. We’re the first people who’ve ever lived in it. If it were an old house, Margaret, I should think it was haunted.’
“I asked if he had seen anything. ‘No,’ he said, ‘not yet.’
“‘Heard, then?’ said I.
“‘No, nor heard either,’ he said, ‘but there’s a sort of feeling, I can’t describe it. I’ve seen nothing and I’ve heard nothing, but I’ve been so near to seeing and hearing! Just not, that’s all. And something follows me about—only when I turn round there’s never anything but my shadow. And I always feel that I shall see the thing, or hear it, next minute; but I never do, not quite, it’s always just not visible.’
“I thought he’d been working rather hard, and I tried to cheer him up by making light of all this. ‘It was just nerves,’ I said. Then he said he had thought I could help him. and did I think anyone he had wronged could have laid a curse on him, and did I believe in curses? I said I didn’t, and the only person anyone could have said he had wronged forgave him freely, I knew, if there was anything to forgive. So I told him this too.”
It was I, not the youngest of us, who knew the name of that person wronged and forgiving.
“So then I said ‘He ought to take Mabel away from the house and have a complete change.’ But he said, ‘No, Mabel had got everything in order, and he could never manage to get her away just now without explaining everything, and above all,’ he said, ‘she mustn’t guess there’s anything wrong. I daresay I shall not feel quite such a lunatic now you’re here.’
“So we said ‘Good-night.'”
“Is that all the story?” said the third girl, striving to convey that even as it stood it was a good story.
“That is only the beginning,” said Miss Eastwich. “Whenever I was alone with him, he used to tell me the same thing over and over again, and at first when I began to notice things I tried to think that it was his talk that had upset my nerves. The odd thing was that it wasn’t only at night—but in broad daylight, and particularly on the stairs and passages. On the staircase the feeling used to be so awful that I have had to bite my lips till they bled, to keep myself from running up the stairs at full speed. Only I knew if I did I should go mad at the top. There was always, something behind me—exactly as he had said—something that one could just not see. And a sound that one could just not hear. There was a long corridor at the top of the house. I have sometimes almost seen something—you know how one sees things without looking—but if I turned round it seemed as if the thing dropped and melted into my shadow. There was a little window at the end of the corridor.
“Downstairs there was another corridor, something like it, with a cupboard at one end and the kitchen at the other. One night I went down into the kitchen to warm some milk for Mabel. The servants had gone to bed. As I stood by the fire waiting for the milk to boil I glanced through the open door and along the passage. I never could keep my eyes on what I was doing, in that house. The cupboard door was partly open; they used to keep empty bottles and things in it. And as I looked I knew that now it was not going to be ‘almost’ any more. Yet I said ‘Mabel?’ not because I thought it could be Mabel who was crouching down there, half in and half out of the cupboard. The thing was gray at first and then it was black. And when I whispered ‘Mabel,’ it seemed to sink down till it lay like a pool of ink on the floor, and then its edges drew in, and it seemed to flow, like ink, when you tilt up the paper you have spilt it on, and it flowed into the cupboard till it was all gathered into the shadow there. I saw it go quite plainly. The gas was full on in the kitchen. I screamed aloud, but even then I’m thankful to say I had enough sense to upset the boiling milk, so that when he came downstairs three steps at a time, I had the excuse for my scream of a scalded hand. The explanation was satisfactory to Mabel, but next night he said:
“‘Why didn’t you tell me? It was that cupboard. All the horror of the house comes out of that. Tell me, have you seen anything yet? Or is it only the nearly seeing and nearly hearing still?’
“I said. ‘You must tell me first what you’ve seen.’ He told me, and his eyes wandered as he spoke to the shadows by the curtains, and I turned up all three gaslights and lit the candles on the mantelpiece. Then we looked at each other and said we were both mad, and thanked God that Mabel was at least sane. For what he had seen was what I had seen.
“After that I hated to be alone with a shadow, because at any moment I might see something that would crouch and sink and lie like a black pool and then slowly draw itself into the shadow that was nearest. Often that shadow was my own. The thing came first at night, but afterwards there was no hour safe from it. I saw it at dawn, and at noon, in the dusk and in the firelight, and always it crouched and sank, and was a pool that flowed into some shadow and became part of it. And always I saw it with a straining of the eyes, a pricking and aching. It seemed as though I could only just see it, as if my sight, to see it, had to be strained to the uttermost. And still the sound was in the house, the sound that I could just not hear. At last one morning early I did hear it. It was close behind me, and it was only a sigh. It was worse than the thing that crept among the shadows.
“I don’t know how I bore it. I couldn’t have borne it if I hadn’t been so fond of them both. But I knew in my heart that if he had no one to whom he could speak openly he would go mad, or tell Mabel. His was not a very strong character. Very sweet and kind and gentle, but not strong. He was always easily led. So I stayed on and bore up, and we were very cheerful and made little jokes and tried to be amusing when Mabel was with us. But when we were alone we did not try to be amusing.
“And sometimes a day or two would go by without our seeing or hearing anything, and we should perhaps have fancied that we had fancied what we had seen and heard, only there was always the feeling of there being something about the house that one could just not hear and not see. Sometimes we used to try not to talk about it, but generally we talked of nothing else at all. And the weeks went by, and Mabel’s baby was born. The nurse and the doctor said that both mother and child were doing well. He and I sat late in the dining-room that night. We had neither of us seen or heard anything for three days—our anxiety about Mabel was lessened. We talked of the future: it seemed then so much brighter than the past. We arranged that the moment she was fit to be moved he should take her away to the sea, and I should superintend the moving of their furniture into the new house he had already chosen. He was gayer than I had seen him since his marriage–almost like his old self. When I said ‘good-night’ to him he said a lot of things about my having been a comfort to them both. I hadn’t done anything much of course, but still I am glad he said that.
“Then I went upstairs—almost for the first time without that feeling of something following me. I listened at Mabel’s room. Everything was quiet. I went on towards my own room, and in an instant I felt that there was something behind me. I turned. It was crouching there: it sank, and the black fluidness of it seemed to be sucked under the floor of Mabel’s room.
“I went back. I opened the door a listening inch. All was still. And then I heard a sigh—close behind me. I opened the door and went in. The nurse and the baby were asleep. Mabel was asleep, too; she looked so pretty, like a tired child—the baby was cuddled up into one of her arms with its tiny head against her side. I prayed then that Mabel might never know the terrors that he and I had known—that those little ears might never hear any but pretty sounds, those dear eyes never see any but pretty sights. I did not dare to pray for a long time after that. Because my prayer was answered. She never saw, never heard anything more in this world. And now I could do nothing more for him or for her.
“When they had put her in her coffin I lighted wax candles round her, and laid the horrible white flowers that people will send, near to her, and then I saw he had followed me. I took his hand to lead him away.
“At the door we both turned. It seemed to us that we heard a sigh. He would have sprung to her side in I don’t know what mad glad hope. But at that instant we both saw it. Between us and the coffin, first gray, then black, it crouched an instant, then sank and liquefied, and was gathered together and drawn till it ran into the nearest shadow. And the nearest shadow was the shadow of Mabel’s coffin. I left the next day. His mother came. She had never liked me.”
Miss Eastwich paused. I think she had quite forgotten us.
“Didn’t you see him again?” asked the youngest of all.
“Only once,” Miss Eastwich answered, “and something black crouched then between him and me. But it was only his second wife crying beside his coffin. It’s not a cheerful story, is it? And it doesn’t lead anywhere. I’ve never told anyone else. I think it was seeing his daughter that brought it all back.”
She looked toward the dressing-room door. “Mabel’s baby,” said the youngest of all.
“Yes, and exactly like Mabel, only with his eyes.”
The youngest of all had Miss Eastwich’s hands and was petting them.
Suddenly the woman wrenched her hands away and stood at her gaunt height, hands clenched, eyes straining. She was looking at something that we could not see, and I know now what the man in the Bible meant when he said “the hair of my flesh stood up—”
What she saw seemed not quite to reach the height of the dressing-room door handle. Her eyes following it down, down, widened and widened. Mine followed hers, and all the nerves of my eyes seemed strained to the uttermost—and I almost saw—or did I quite see? I can’t be certain. But we all heard the long-drawn, quivering sigh. And to each of us it seemed to be breathed just behind each.
It was I who caught up the candle—it dropped wax all over my trembling hands—it was I who was dragged by Miss Eastwich to the side of the girl who had fainted during the second extra. But it was the youngest of all whose lean arms were round the housekeeper when we turned away, and that have been round her many a time since in the new home where she keeps house for the youngest of us all.
The doctor, who came in the morning, said that Mabel’s daughter had died of heart disease, which she inherited from her mother. That was what made her faint during the second extra. But I have sometimes wondered whether she may not have inherited something from her father. I have never been able to forget the look on her dead face.
Crossing through the Jura Mountains in Switzerland, an urban legend about the ghost of a lady in white is said to have haunted the Belchen Tunnel and was widely known and written about in the 80s. Question is, is she still haunting the tunnel?
After falling to his death trying to escape the debtor’s prison, The Marshalsea Barracks in Dublin, it is said the ghost of Pat Doyle is haunting the remaining walls of the ruins.
Planted to mark the mass grave of plague victims, the Linden Tree in the Aargau valley in Switzerland has become a famous landmark. In the night though, it is said that the ghosts buried underneath it crawls from the ground to haunt as a warning for any oncoming tragedies.
A rebel and freedom fighter for Irish independence is said to haunt his favorite pub, The Brazen Head in Dublin, where it is said he plotted his fight against the English.
The black cat in European folklore is shrouded in mystery and magical lore. From the old parts of Bern, ghost stories of ghostly black cats linger in the shadows, reminding about the old fear the feline specter used to hold over people.
Mirroring the famous Dance Macabre mural that used to hang on the walls near the Predigerkirche in Basel, it is said that plague victims were buried in the patch of grass outside of the church. Legend has it that when the city needs it, the dead will rise from it in a macabre procession, as a warning of an oncoming disaster.
Where history whispers and shadows reign, the Rathaus in Bern is said to be haunted by a myriad of ghosts. Who are the ghosts lingering in the City Hall after dark?
The two adjoining cloisters by Basel Cathedral are said to be haunted by a couple of spectres entombed within the building. In the darkness of Basel’s Double Cloister, it is said you can hear the moaning of a man slowly suffocating and feel the unsuspected slap from a man, as mean in death as he was in life.
A lock keeper from the adjacent lock next The Portobello Bar in Dublin is said to be haunting it. Ever since his mistake cost the lives of someone crossing, he is said to be lingering in the area.
In an old sanatorium in Switzerland the ghost of Hermann is said to have been haunting for ages. But who was he when he was alive, and what was his true name before he died in the remote fortress up in the mountains? And is he still haunting the old halls where he never made his recovery?
After his master died at sea, the faithful dog was by his master’s grave, day in and day out. After dying of hunger and grief it is said that the Newfoundland dog is still seen, slipping between the graves at Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin.
An online magazine about the paranormal, haunted and macabre. We collect the ghost stories from all around the world as well as review horror and gothic media.
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Crossing through the Jura Mountains in Switzerland, an urban legend about the ghost of a lady in white is said to have haunted the Belchen Tunnel and was widely known and written about in the 80s. Question is, is she still haunting the tunnel?
After falling to his death trying to escape the debtor’s prison, The Marshalsea Barracks in Dublin, it is said the ghost of Pat Doyle is haunting the remaining walls of the ruins.
Planted to mark the mass grave of plague victims, the Linden Tree in the Aargau valley in Switzerland has become a famous landmark. In the night though, it is said that the ghosts buried underneath it crawls from the ground to haunt as a warning for any oncoming tragedies.
A rebel and freedom fighter for Irish independence is said to haunt his favorite pub, The Brazen Head in Dublin, where it is said he plotted his fight against the English.
The black cat in European folklore is shrouded in mystery and magical lore. From the old parts of Bern, ghost stories of ghostly black cats linger in the shadows, reminding about the old fear the feline specter used to hold over people.
Right outside Basel in Switzerland, the haunted former Rectory in Münchenstein is said to be haunted by one of its former priests.
Mirroring the famous Dance Macabre mural that used to hang on the walls near the Predigerkirche in Basel, it is said that plague victims were buried in the patch of grass outside of the church. Legend has it that when the city needs it, the dead will rise from it in a macabre procession, as a warning of an oncoming disaster.
Where history whispers and shadows reign, the Rathaus in Bern is said to be haunted by a myriad of ghosts. Who are the ghosts lingering in the City Hall after dark?
The two adjoining cloisters by Basel Cathedral are said to be haunted by a couple of spectres entombed within the building. In the darkness of Basel’s Double Cloister, it is said you can hear the moaning of a man slowly suffocating and feel the unsuspected slap from a man, as mean in death as he was in life.
A lock keeper from the adjacent lock next The Portobello Bar in Dublin is said to be haunting it. Ever since his mistake cost the lives of someone crossing, he is said to be lingering in the area.
In an old sanatorium in Switzerland the ghost of Hermann is said to have been haunting for ages. But who was he when he was alive, and what was his true name before he died in the remote fortress up in the mountains? And is he still haunting the old halls where he never made his recovery?
After his master died at sea, the faithful dog was by his master’s grave, day in and day out. After dying of hunger and grief it is said that the Newfoundland dog is still seen, slipping between the graves at Glasnevin Cemetery in Dublin.
