Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Since we’re into the Halloween season, it seems appropriate to share this bit of spooky folklore from the “Baltimore Sun,” October 31, 1998:

It's that time of the year when a barking dog late at night is listened to a little more closely than usual. 

Eerie shadows give a start and the mere rattling of shutters by the wind forces the mind to race ahead and contemplate things that go bump in the night. It's Halloween, that time of the year when regiments of costumed ghosts, goblins, witches and Frankensteins take to the streets to go trick or treating or crowd into church halls for parties.

But just as much a part of Halloween is the telling, and re-telling, of the carefully crafted ghost stories. Despite the narrators' propensity for hyperbole, these tales from the crypt and the nether world of restless spirits, can still raise the hair on the listener's neck no matter what their age. Two Baltimore chestnuts that no doubt will be whispered around darkened rooms and flickering fireplaces tonight will be the tale of the blond hitchhiker named Sequin and the tale of "Black Aggie," the statue that once marked the grave of Gen. Felix Angus and his wife in Druid Ridge Cemetery near Pikesville.

Along Route 40 East, if you should see a tall, pretty blond hitchhiker wearing a low-cut, blue-sequined cocktail dress, don't be surprised. 

“She is the subject of one of Baltimore's best-known tales of the supernatural and she has been with us for many years," reported The Evening Sun in 1976. It was a tale told by an East Baltimore Sunday-school teacher about a "thin blithe girl with violet eyes and blond hair," who used to wait outside of church and pick up teen-age boys. "The whole community gossiped about her and people said she was completely immoral," said the newspaper. One Sunday, she sat in the last pew because she heard that the pastor was distributing clothes for the poor and her dress was soiled and old. As the pastor opened a barrel and removed a blue-sequined party dress, she walked down the aisle and removed it from his hands.  "Thereafter, she never wore anything but that party dress, in all kinds of weather night and day," said the newspaper.

Later that winter, the woman was found frozen to death on a back street wearing the blue-sequined dress. Ten years later, two City College students were driving to a dance along Route 40 when they spotted an attractive blond girl wearing a blue cocktail dress trimmed in sequins. They stopped and picked her up and took her to the dance. She told everyone her name was Sequin and she was never without a dance partner. After the dance, the two boys drove her back to her East Baltimore home.

When she complained of the chilly night air, one of the boys removed his topcoat and draped it over her shoulders. Forgetting the coat, they returned to the house the next day and were greeted by an elderly woman. "Sequin? You must be old friends--she's been dead 10 years," she told the stunned boys. Thinking they had the wrong address, the woman reassured them that it was indeed the right address and a girl nicknamed Sequin once had lived there. "Her real name was Betty, and she's buried in the old cemetery six blocks away," she said. Entering the cemetery, they quickly found the young woman's grave.

“They found the small stone where the woman said it would be. On it was engraved simply 'Betty.' And folded across the mound in front of the stone was the boy's topcoat," reported The Evening Sun. 

Da-da! Cue the spooky organ music.

As early as 1950, newspaper accounts related tales of nocturnal visits by teen-agers to "Black Aggie," a copy by sculptor Pausch of Augustus St. Gaudens' "Grief," which marks the grave of Mrs. Henry Adams in Washington's Rock Creek Cemetery. 

"There are lots of stories about it," a Pikesville policeman told The Evening Sun in 1950. "The kids say its eyes shine in the dark, and things like that.  But that’s a lot of who-struck-John.” 

Or was it? Before Angus' descendants removed "Black Aggie" from the cemetery and donated her in 1967 to the National Collection of Fine Arts at the Smithsonian Institution, a visit to the "jet-black, shrouded angel that kept her grief-stricken watch over the lonely cemetery" was almost obligatory for 1950s-era Baltimore teens. 

Via Newspapers.com

 

"Unseen by the visitors, her eyes glowed briefly red, and a beckoning hand moved slightly on the arm of her throne. For the intruders, it was a rite of passage: Anyone brave enough to spend the midnight hour in Black Aggie's lap was man enough to join their fraternity, and the new-brother-to-be joked bravely as his companions returned to their houses, leaving him in Aggie's chilly embrace." 

Other legends claimed that no fertilizer known to mankind could grow grass in her shadow. "Persons who have returned the gaze of those glowing eyes have been struck blind; young mothers who walked too close by at midnight have suffered stillbirths; countless strollers have quickened their step at the sound of wails of pain and clanking chains," reported The Sun. 

John Hitchcock, who was born and raised in the cemetery and whose father had been superintendent there, told The Sun in 1966: "I have patrolled the cemetery hundreds of times and walked right by the statue at midnight. It has never moved or rolled its eyes or done anything unusual." 

The reason the grass wouldn't grow, he explained, was due to the hordes of teen-agers who trampled it.

"Anyone who goes out there to look at that grave at midnight is out of his ever lovin' mind," he told the newspaper. 

Or were they? 

Da-da! Cue the spooky organ music.

The Natives of the Red Dragon

A journal dedicated to stamp-collecting seems like an unlikely place to find a prime slice of The Weird, but that just goes to show that life is full of surprises.  In 1928, “The Stamp Lover” carried an article by one C.H.R. Andrews titled “The Red Dragon Stamps” that is, frankly, not quite like anything I’ve ever heard of.  I’m a bit surprised that Andrews’ story seemed to languish in total obscurity until it was revisited in a 1987 issue of “Fortean Times.”

According to Andrews, for some months past, stamp aficionados had been puzzled by the unexplained appearance of some small-denomination British stamps that were overprinted with red dragons.  They appeared on at least 20 letters and postcards which had pairs of stamps, with only the one on the left side sporting the overprint.  The stamps began to appear soon after a noted Welsh book collector named Rhys Evans inexplicably disappeared.

On April 4, 1928, Evans left his home to show a friend named Jenkins, who was a professor at nearby University College, an ancient book of Welsh stories and folklore.  The book spoke of a secret society tasked with guarding five sacred dragons, and included some sort of coded map which Evans hoped Jenkins could interpret.

Evans never made it to the College.  In fact, he seemed to vanish completely.  Two days after his disappearance, his wife received a letter postmarked from Cardiff.  It bore two stamps, one of which was the dragon overprint.  The letter--written in Welsh--was clearly in Rhys’ handwriting.  It stated that her husband was doing well, and she should not worry about him.  The note ended with the words “Trigolion y ddraig Goch.” (Natives of the Red Dragon.)

Other people subsequently received letters purporting to be from the “Natives of the Red Dragon,” all bearing the strange dragon stamps.  The letters all discussed old Welsh legends.  They were sent from various places around Wales, largely from towns on the sites of ancient Roman camps.

Five days after Evans disappeared, he was found sitting by a lake in Brynmill Park, Swansea.  He seemed in good health and spirits, but he refused to give any explanation of why he had vanished, or where he had been during his absence.  He no longer had the book he wished to show Professor Jenkins, and seemed rather relieved to be rid of the thing.  All he would ever say about his mysterious experience was “There were dragons in Wales today.”

There is a footnote which may--or may not--be connected to our little tale.  Around the time Evans vanished, three children from the Welsh village of Llandegley saw a strange beast in nearby Radnor Forest.  One of the children was brave--or foolhardy--enough to try to follow the creature, but his path was blocked by two men.  These men were dressed in white, with depictions of red dragons on their chests.

The Restless Skeleton of the Borrego Badlands

Photo via gotoborregosprings.com

Whisper in my ear that there is a U.S. State Park which has long been haunted by an enormous lantern-bearing skeleton, and, naturally, all I can do in response is hop up and down like an over-caffeinated kangaroo and shriek, “Blog post, here we come!” 

Southern California’s Borrego Badlands are ideal surroundings for bizarre folklore.  It’s a 20 mile wide, 15 mile long section of the enormous Anza-Borrego Desert State Park.  Although the area was under the sea in ancient times, today it is a mass of arid, desolate arroyos reminiscent of photos of the Martian landscape.  Having visited the place myself, I can attest that it has its charm, albeit of a stark, almost eerie fashion.

Our ghostly legend began with a prospector known as “Charley Arizona.”  Some time in the 1880s, Charley was traveling from Yuma, Arizona to San Diego.  One night, he camped near the appropriately named Superstition Mountain, about four miles southeast of Borrego.  He was awakened by the sound of his burros getting very agitated about something, and he went to see what was troubling them.  Some two hundred yards away, Charley saw a light like a lantern shining through the darkness.  Surrounding that light was a huge skeleton, about eight feet tall, staggering seemingly aimlessly through the desert.  Charley could "hear his bones a-rattlin!"  A few minutes later, the creature climbed a ridge and disappeared from view.

Two years later, two other prospectors camped in the same general area.  During the night, they were alarmed to see a flickering light going by in the distance.  One of the men insisted it was a tall skeleton carrying a lantern.  A few months later, the men were in Vallecito, California, when another prospector told them of having seen “a wandering stack of bones” in the badlands, carrying a light.  Like Charley, he thought the skeleton was just wandering around pointlessly.

Once talk of this peripatetic skeleton began circulating, more sightings emerged, some of them more reliable than others.  Two men went into the badlands, determined to see the strange being for themselves.  After three nights of hunting it down, they were not disappointed.  They chased after the skeleton as it wandered in the general direction of Fish Mountain.  In his 1940 book of Southwest folklore, “Golden Mirages,” Philip A. Bailey quoted one of the men as saying, “it would gallop up a hill with remarkable energy and then stop and putter around, walking in circles as though undecided what to do.  Then it would stalk majestically down the hill and across the plain, only to end up in some canyon busily tramping around.”  One of the men shot at the strange being, which didn't seem to trouble it in the least.  The men trailed after the skeleton for some three miles before it disappeared from view.  Other visitors to the badlands reported seeing a strange moving glow in the distance, without seeing the skeleton itself.

As for the interesting question of why Borrego was home to a giant wandering skeleton, most prospectors believed it was the spirit of a man who had died searching for the elusive Phantom Mine.  (Bailey commented, “The mine is known to exist, and its exact location is common knowledge, but for some inexplicable reason no one can find it.”)  Others theorized the apparition was of one Thomas “Pegleg” Smith, discoverer of a now-lost gold mine.  A mysterious ball of light has often been seen in the vicinity of Squaw Peak, but opinions vary about whether or not it’s connected to our well-lit bones.

In any case, I now have a strong urge to pack my bags and head back to those badlands for a spot of skeleton-hunting.  Who’s with me?

The Fairy Thorn: A Cautionary Tale About Fortean Firewood

This week’s post will demonstrate a vital gardening tip:  Never, ever mess with a tree inhabited by fairies.  The Little Folk have ways of making you regret it.

Our story is set in Fintona, a village in County Tyrone, Ireland.  In late March 1950, the Fintona Golf Club received permission from one Raymond Browne-Lecky to do some landscaping on the golf course on his lands.  Among the changes he OK’d was to remove a thorn hedge that was in the way.  Unfortunately, the gardeners hired to do the job misinterpreted their instructions, and instead used a bulldozer to take down a 300-year-old “fairy thorn”--a tree revered in Ireland for its ancient supernatural associations. Fintonans were incensed at the desecration.  “The people in the village are in a rage over it,” Browne-Lecky told a reporter for the “Northern Whig.  “For my part, however, the hatchet is buried, because it was apparently a mistake.  I was not angry because of possible revenge from the fairies--I’m afraid I don’t believe in them.  But many people do, and that’s why the villagers are upset about it.”

It didn’t take long for the fairies to show their displeasure.  72-year-old pensioner James McAnespie took some of the bulldozed tree to use for firewood.  The “wee folk” evidently saw this as adding insult to injury.  As soon as McAnespie began burning the wood, things started to happen.  Mighty strange things.  He began to hear the sound of tinkling bells in his house.  Tiny figures the size of wasps began flying all around him which were impossible to catch.

On April 16, 1950, McAnespie used up the last of the wood, and--showing an astonishing inability to take a hint--set out to get more.  That night, his neighbors noticed that he had not returned home.  That was unusual, as he was normally in his house by 8 p.m. or so.  After they were unable to find him anywhere, the neighbors went to the police.  A search party was immediately organized.

The searchers went across the countryside, calling McAnespie’s name regularly, but without getting any reply.  Then, at 11:30 p.m., they found the missing man standing motionless on the exact spot where the fairy thorn had stood.  As they approached McAnespie, he came out of his seeming trance, and returned to the village with them.

The story he told was this:  He gathered sticks for firewood around the place where the fairy thorn had been bulldozed.  After tying them into a bundle, he began to go home.  However, when he walked over the spot where the tree had stood, he suddenly became unable to move or speak.  “I couldn’t even let go the rope,” he said.  “It was like as if I was riveted to the ground.”  He stood there helplessly for two hours, hearing bells ringing around his feet.  He saw a ditch all around him, and a big house with lights inside it.  He also saw two fairies--”wee fellows,” he called them.  In short, if Mr. McAnespie did not believe in fairies before, he certainly did now.  

After McAnespie died four years later, Irish papers carried brief death notices commenting that he was still remembered as “the man who was seized by the fairies.”

The Precolitsch; Or, When Hungarian Gypsies Say There is Trouble Ahead, Believe Them

The “Precolitsch” (or “Prikulics”) is among the more unpleasant figures in Eastern European folklore.  This being--sort of a cross between Bigfoot and a werewolf--is said to live in the Wallachian Mountains.  It is of a great size, possesses the capability to assume various forms, and is of a truly terrifying strength.  And it has no fondness for humans.

Although the Precolitsch is regarded as a mythological creature, there is at least one account claiming it made an all-too-real appearance.  This strange tale--which sounds like a horror movie cliche, but is given as literal fact--was related by Philip Macleod in the September 1913 issue of “Occult Review.”  Macleod stated that this story--which he paraphrased--originally appeared in “a German psychological publication" about sixty years earlier.  The account was written by a Hungarian doctor who heard the tale directly from the army officer directly involved with the incident.  Although this original publication apparently used the officer’s real name, Macleod, for whatever reason, gave him the pseudonym of “Muller.”

At the time our story opens, Muller was an Ensign in the Austro-Hungarian army.  He was stationed at the Pass of Temesn in Transylvania, where he commanded some forty men.  The pass was a long ravine, about fifty yards wide, surrounded on both sides by rocky precipices.  A gated wall had been built across it.  Inside the wall were the buildings occupied by the commanding officer, his men, and other officials.  Two sentries were always posted outside the wall, one by the gate, and the other a bit farther out.

One morning shortly before Christmas, one of the soldiers, a Hungarian gypsy, came before Muller and asked to be granted an unusual favor.  He was scheduled to stand guard that night from 10 p.m. to midnight, at the outermost post from the wall.  He pleaded with Muller that some other soldier be assigned to take his place.  He said that he would most willingly do an extra turn as a guard, if he could just be spared having to do it that night.

Muller naturally asked the soldier his reason for such a strange request.  The man replied that he had been born on “New Sunday,” [the second Sunday after Easter] which gave him the blessing (or curse, depending on your viewpoint) of “second-sight.”  As a result, he knew that if he went out on guard duty that night, something dreadful would happen to him.  After midnight, his danger would be over.  He again begged most earnestly to have his turn as guard reassigned.

Muller was so impressed by the soldier’s obvious sincerity and desperation that his first instinct was to grant his request, particularly as the man had an otherwise faultless service record.  However, he concluded that acceding to such an eccentric supplication would set a bad precedent, one that might ultimately be detrimental to army discipline.  He delivered a brief lecture on the folly of trusting in superstition, and ordered the soldier to mount the outer guard that night.  Muller reassuringly reminded him that the other guard would have him constantly in his sight, so he, as well as the rest of the company, could instantly come to the rescue if required.

That evening, Muller went to the Quarantine Superintendent’s quarters for a game of chess.  At about 9:30, their game was interrupted by the sudden appearance of a man’s face outside the window.  The man had a strange, wild look on his face, and stared at them with an expression of what seemed like “mockery or derision.”  He seemed to be wrapped in a white cloak which was common wear for the local peasantry.  After a moment, the man turned from the window and slowly walked off.

Muller and his friend dashed outside to investigate.  It was a clear, moonlit night, which enabled them to see the man pass along the wall, until he reached a small recess in the structure.  He turned into it.  However, when the two soldiers reached the recess, they found it was empty.  Not knowing what else to do, the pair gave each other quizzical looks, shrugged, and went back to chess.

Shortly after 10 p.m., the game was again disrupted, this time by the sound of two shots, followed by strange noises and shouting.  The two men, as well as the rest of the soldiers, immediately dashed outside.  They found the inner sentry standing in a state of shock, gripping his smoking gun and staring towards the spot where the gypsy was standing guard.

Except…the gypsy was no longer there.

Muller ran to the place where the soldier had been standing.  All he found was the man’s gun lying in the snow, with the barrel bent into a semi-circle.  Also in the snow were tracks of the soldier’s shoes, along with other, shapeless footprints.

They found the soldier thirty paces away, lying below the crest of a slope.  He was unconscious, and moaning in agony.  He was carried to their hospital, where they found that his entire body had been burned black, particularly the face and chest.  He never regained consciousness, and continued his piteous moans and cries until he died the next day.

The other sentry stated that, knowing of his comrade’s apprehension, he had never taken his eyes off him.  The moonlight allowed him to see the gypsy quite clearly.  Then he suddenly saw a black shape standing in the snow a short distance away.  It seemed more animal than human.  The creature began moving toward the outer sentry.  The soldier fired at the figure.  Before the inner sentry could reach him, the Thing grabbed the gypsy, and both instantly disappeared.

And that, as they say, was that.  No one ever learned anything more about the gypsy’s weird and terrible death.  And Muller was left with a lifelong regret that he had not taken the soldier’s “superstition” more seriously.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

Via Newspapers.com

At last, the Strange Company moment we’ve all been waiting for: trouble-making Irish ghost pigs.  The “New York Herald,” June 30, 1918:

Of the many stories coming from Ireland as the result of the opposition to conscription and its possible effects is that concerning the appearance of the "Black Pig.” The legend connected with this appearance is said to portend disaster for Ireland, and the stories now in circulation have created quite a ferment In the country districts. 

According to a newspaper correspondent at Roscommon the first tale of the appearance of the "Black Pig" was told in Strokestown, where some people who had come into market from Kiltrustan, about two miles away, said that a little girl named Beirne, aged about 12 years, while going to school saw a black pig come out of a crack or a small hole in the ground near the schoolhouse and begin to walk around the stump of an old tree that had been cut down recently near the public road.

According to the story, the little girl ran to the school and told the teacher, who went with her to the spot, but failed to see the animal, the child persisting all the time that It was there and was walking about quite near to them. Other children of the same age were called from the school, and each of them cried out simultaneously, "Oh, look at the black pig!" "She is eating grass," "She is walking on your boots," &c. The news spread rapidly throughout the district, and a large number of men and women came to the place, but all of them declared they could see nothing of the animal. 

On the next day the little girls again declared that they could see the pig quite plainly walking around the old tree stump, but on this occasion accompanied by six little bonhams (young pigs), three of them trotting on each side of the old sow. Again the elder people who came at the same time with the children said they could see nothing but the trees and underbrush, but the children insisted that the pig and bonhams were there all the time. 

The story has created an extraordinary sensation all over north and south Roscommon. Old people who had studied the prophecies of St. Columcille say that the "Black Pig" is referred to there as an evil omen for Ireland and that she is to travel through a certain part of the country west of the River Shannon before being killed or banished. Others say that the appearance of the pig is the forerunner of a rising in the north to fight against home rule. These wiseacres say that while the omen portends evil in Ireland the application will be confined to Ulster. 

According to old ideas, however, the "Black Pig" was associated with the coming rout of the enemies of Ireland. Yeats says that the prophecies were a great force in the days of the Fenians and that he heard of one man who didn't think it worth while to support the Land League because the battle in the valley of the pig was so near. 

"A few years ago." he said, "an old man at Lisadill in Sligo used to fall down in a fit and rave about descriptions of the battle; and a man in Sligo has told me that it will be so great a battle that the horses will go up to their fetlocks in blood, and that their girths when it is over will rot from their bellies for lack of a hand to unbelly them." 

The legends connected with the appearance of the "Black Pig" are extremely numerous, but perhaps the most interesting is that quoted by W. F. de Vismes Kane, who states that the "Black Pig" eventually settled at Creta after being chased by St. Patrick over half of Ireland. When the pig came to Granard, County Longford, it crossed by Rooskey, swam the river Mair, a tributary of the Shannon, at Muckinagh, and then ran by way of Orange to Kiltrustan, where St. Patrick finally captured it and commanded it to stay until the years of the Great War. It was then to appear three times, and if it could run from there back to Killmore-na-Shinna there would be great trouble in Ireland. This trouble would be averted if it were shot by a one eyed marksman, and the only place where the marksman would have a chance of killing it is at Bonny-a-Glass, a field behind the rectory at Killmore and running from the rectory gate to the crossroads on the Tully side. All legends agree that in the years of the Great War there would be trouble in Ireland.

You have to admit, that pig would explain a lot about Irish history.

The Legends of Papillon Hall

Papillon Hall, via Lost Heritage

Any old English manor house worth its salt has acquired numerous colorful legends. However, there are few who can boast such a weird and varied lot as Leicestershire's Papillon Hall. Of all the stories told about the Hall, it is often difficult to say which are hard fact and which are quaint mythology--likely an evenly-balanced mix of the two--but it all makes for a truly Strange Company-worthy heritage. It's not every day you encounter a home boasting mystery skeletons, warlocks, ghosts, haunted paintings, and cursed shoes.

Papillon Hall was built by one David Papillon in 1624. It was an octagonal building, standing on raised ground. The roof was in the shape of a cross, with a top story consisting of four attics. Its early years were, so far as is recorded, uneventful. The Hall did not make its first foray into The Weird until it was inherited by the original owner's great-great-grandson, also named David Papillon.

This David (who was publicly called "Pamp," "Old Pamp," or "Lord Pamp" by his contemporaries, who privately probably called him much less printable names,) was said to be in league with the Devil. Supposedly, he boasted an "evil eye" which could "fix" those who displeased him. And I mean that quite literally. On one occasion, he came across some men who were ploughing a field in a way he did not favor, so he simply "fixed" them for the rest of the day. The men could not move a muscle until dusk, when Pamp chose to release them from his spell. Another time, a thief was unwise enough to try to rob Pamp as he was riding along carrying a bag of money. Pamp "fixed" the miscreant, left the bag of money at the footpad's feet--nice touch, that--and rode home. He then stabled his horse and calmly sent a groom to fetch the bag. Once the money was retrieved, the would-be robber was released and set on his way, presumably a sadder but wiser wretch. Pamp's reputation was such a evil one, that everyone in the area habitually made the sign of the cross when preparing food and drink, in an effort to avoid his baleful glance.

Before his marriage in 1717, Pamp did not live a solitary existence at the Hall. He kept a mistress, whose name is now lost to history. What little is known of her is as sinister as everything else connected with her Lord. The woman--who was believed to be Spanish--never left the Hall, but neighbors occasionally saw her walking along the leads of the roof. She died in 1715, but there is no record of her burial. However, it should be noted that Pamp subsequently bricked up one of the Hall's attic rooms. In 1903, when Papillon Hall was being renovated, a woman's skeleton was found in this particular attic...

It is said that before Pamp's Spanish lady died, she vowed that disaster would strike if her shoes ever left the Hall. These shoes--a pair of silver and green slippers--still exist, arguably unfortunately. Ever since her death, these shoes have been, quite literally, a damned nuisance. So strong was the belief in the curse, that ever since the home was sold by the Papillons in 1764, all new owners signed deeds requiring them to keep the shoes at the Hall.

Whenever buyers chose to ignore this promise, they always regretted it. In 1866, the Hall's then-owner, George Bosworth, died. In his will, he left the shoes to a daughter who lived in Leicester. The next owner, Lord Hopetoun, found that he and his family were to be given no peace in their now-shoeless home. The household was disturbed by numerous angry crashes, bangs, and other vehement spectral noises until Hopetoun wised up and persuaded Bosworth's daughter to sell him the shoes. As soon as they were returned to the Hall, all was quiet.

The Fateful Footwear, via Harborough Museum

A later owner, Thomas Halford, was rationalist enough--or, perhaps, stupid enough--to loan the shoes to an exhibition in Paris. Immediately, the same uncanny racket that had so plagued Lord Hopetoun broke out. When Halford tried retrieving the shoes, he was reminded that he had signed a contract allowing them to remain in Paris for a full year. Sorry. The indignant spirit of Pamp's Spanish lady made life such a hell for the Halfords that the family was forced to live elsewhere until the shoes could be returned.

When a Captain Frank Bellville bought the Hall, he did extensive alterations to the house. Four extra wings were added to the Hall, as well as an extra story. (This was when the skeleton was discovered.) During the construction, Bellville, in the interests of protecting the shoes, sent them to his solicitors.

He meant well, but, nevertheless, he received the usual punishment. Everything that could go wrong with the renovations instantly went wrong. Worse still, numerous workers began to be seriously injured, one of them fatally. After Bellville himself was badly hurt in a coach accident, he had the solicitors send back the shoes.

Some people never get the message. In 1908, for reasons known only to him and his God, Bellville donated the shoes to Leicester Museum. This time, the Spanish lady was obviously determined to teach him a lesson he would never forget. Soon afterward, Bellville fractured his skull in a hunting accident. Two of his servants died. Three polo ponies were killed by lightning. The Hall caught fire.

The shoes were returned to the Hall, securely locked away in a cupboard above the main fireplace, and, just to make double-sure, the key was thrown in a pond.

During WWII, the Hall was occupied by American servicemen. Showing the talent for doubling-down on Stupid which characterizes our human species, some of them smashed open the cupboard holding the famous shoes. On two occasions, two different soldiers took one of the shoes as a souvenir. Both these men soon died, and thus the shoes were returned to Papillon Hall.

When the Hall was demolished in 1950, the shoes became the property of one of Pamp's descendants, and they were brought to her home, Crowhurst Park. They are now in Market Harborough Museum.

The other supernatural-themed object connected with Papillon Hall is, fittingly, a portrait of its most diabolical owner, Old Pamp. According to one story, in 1800 a servant girl was awakened one night by a strange cry. When she sat up, she was confronted by the figure of David Papillon standing by the foot of her bed. He was wearing the same red coat and gold waistcoat he donned for his portrait. The girl insisted that he had literally stepped out of his picture.

So many unwanted sightings of Pamp became associated with his portrait that in 1840, the Hall's then-resident, a Mr. Marriot, begged one of Papillon's descendents to remove the picture. He complained that he was unable to keep servants because of Old Pamp's unnerving habit of emerging from the painting and stalking about the house. Accordingly, the portrait was brought to Crowhurst Park.

After that, Pamp haunted Papillon Hall and Crowhurst Park, thus proving how difficult it is to outwit a ghost. Even after the Hall was demolished, Pamp was often seen in the stables built on the property, and visitors to Crowhurst, even those who knew nothing about the painting's history, often found themselves confronted by his imposing presence. In 1908, Crowhurst Park was let to a Colonel Tufnell and his wife. The couple were left blissfully ignorant about the fact that they were getting a haunted painting in the bargain.

Well, they were not ignorant for long. Crowhurst's owner soon received a letter from the Tufnells, begging him to take the picture out of the house. They sensed something evil about it.

Pamp's portrait was brought to a Papillon who lived in Hastings. Fortunately, Pamp's ghost, like the shade of his mistress, seem pleased with the current location of their earthly relics. In recent years, both their spirits have finally remained quiet.

The Vengeful Ghost of Galdenoch

Galdenoch Castle, via canmore.org.uk

In most poltergeist accounts, households and individuals are targeted for no discernible reasons whatsoever. The spectral attacks begin and end seemingly at random. However, there are a few cases where the paranormal entity makes it clear it is seeking revenge over some perceived slight or injustice.

The most famous of the latter cases is probably the 17th century "Drummer of Tedworth." A less well-known, but equally interesting, example of ghostly payback took place in Galloway, Scotland during the time of the Covenanters and the Scottish Civil War.

Galdenoch Tower, in the parish of Leswalt, had once been a grand castle owned by the Agnew clan. However, the family eventually fell on hard times, and by the close of the 17th century, Galdenoch had been converted into a mere farmhouse. When a farmer and his family took possession of the property, they learned they would be getting an extra bonus: a ghost.

The story behind that particular haunting was this: One of the Agnew men fought for the cause of the Covenant, but unfortunately for him, his army was thoroughly defeated by Montrose. After the battle, the exhausted Agnew sought shelter at nearby farm. The farmer, described as a "rough and blustering man,"allowed the fugitive to share the family dinner and spend the night.

Early the next morning, young Agnew began to leave, but was stopped by his now extremely unfriendly host. The farmer was a Royalist, and had begun to entertain suspicions that his guest had fought on the wrong side. Fearing that he would be taken prisoner and handed over to his enemies, Agnew drew out his pistol and shot his host dead. He then rushed to the stables, saddled his horse, and fled home to Galdenoch.

Agnew arrived safely at the castle, but that night, as he settled down to bed, he was greeted by a most disconcerting visitor: the ghost of the farmer he had just slain. And this was a very angry ghost, anxious to make Agnew's remaining earthly days a torment. According to tradition, not only did the spirit do just that, it continued to pester all successive occupants of the castle. By the time Galdenoch was converted to a farmhouse, some time around 1697, the ghost's exploits had become stranger and more disruptive than ever.

One winter night, as the tenant farmer and his family sought warmth around the kitchen fire, they played a popular game which involved passing a burning stick from hand to hand while chanting, "About wi' that! about wi' that! Keep alive the priest-cat!" Whoever was holding the stick when the flame went out had to pay a forfeit, which usually involved having to do some curious and humiliating action.

Well, that night, the entire family paid the penalty. When the stick's spark was extinguished, one of the party gazed at the blazing hearth and commented, in that impossible-to-translate Scots fashion, "It wadna be hannie to steal a coal the noo." As soon as he spoke, a glowing peat suddenly disappeared, leaving a hole in the middle of the fire.

"That beats a'," the family observed.

Not quite. A few minutes later, the dreaded cry of "Fire!" was heard. The entire farm-steading was in flames. That "cube of fire" which had vanished from the kitchen hearth had been inserted into the barn. Fortunately, after a great deal of effort, the farm buildings were saved from entire destruction.

Things only got weirder. A short time after this incident, the farmer's mother was sitting quietly at her spinning-wheel when an invisible force carried her off, mumbling, "I'll dip thee, I'll draw thee." True to its word, the entity repeatedly dunked her in a nearby stream until the poor old woman was unconscious and half-drowned. When it came time for dinner, the rest of the family realized "grandmamma" was missing. When a search of the farm buildings failed to find her, the tenants became seriously alarmed. When the children of the household ran about the place, frantically asking each other, "Where's granny?" A spectral voice intoned, "I've washed granny in the burn, and laid her on the dyke to dry!" And, indeed, "granny" was found on the dyke, in a most pitiful condition.

The family had quite enough of this nonsense. Several of the local clergymen were summoned to "lay the ghost," but all their efforts were in vain. Whenever they tried singing hymns, the ghost would simply sing along, drowning out their voices. One minister, who had a reputation for being able to banish any ghost in existence, was so offended by the spirit's booming voice and "sharp retorts" that he stalked off, angrily vowing that he would never come back. The ghost called after the minister, begging him to return. It promised that if he would, the entity would tell him something which he had never heard before.

The minister was intrigued enough to swallow his pride and re-enter the farmhouse. He was greeted by the increasingly obnoxious voice chortling, "Ha! ha! I hae gotten the minister to tell a lee!"

Of all the different types of ghosts, the smart-mouthed ones are undoubtedly the worst.

Things went from bad to worse for the beleaguered family. Spinning thread was snapped into shreds. Peat clods were thrown into the porridge, and worse things still dumped into the kail-pot. Finally, after some years of this, a newly-ordained young man, the Reverend Mr. Marshall of Kirkcolm, volunteered to test his godly powers against the Galdenoch pest. Upon arrival at the farm, Marshall hung up his hat, recited a psalm, and began to sing. As always, the ghost began to sing along, drowning out all in the company except the determined Reverend. Marshall's voice rose louder and louder, belting out his song until the "witching hour" of midnight, when he convinced the exhausted family to join in again. The din lasted until dawn, when the ghost, its voice now weak and husky, gasped, "Roar awa, Marshall, I can roar nae mair! I can roar nae mair!" And, sure enough, the spirit was never heard from again.

Marshall went on to gain lasting fame for both his prosecutions of witches and his stentorian voice (we are told that when he preached on a calm day, he could be heard for miles around,) but it was always considered his greatest achievement to have shouted down the Ghost of Galdenoch.

Donald Bán and the Bócan

This week's forecast for Strange Company HQ: mostly cloudy with a strong chance of malevolent goblins.

The following details of one Scottish Highlander's brush with The Weird comes from two published sources: "The Gael," (volume 6, 1877,) and the Rev. A. Maclean Sinclair's "Glenhard Collection of Gaelic Poetry."  (Sinclair received his information from a man whose grandfather had personal involvement with the story.)

In the mid 1700s there lived in Lochaber one Donald Bán, who, for very good reasons, became renowned as "Donald Bán of the Goblin" [or "Bócan," to use the native tongue.] Donald, we are informed, was no stranger to the supernatural. A cousin of his mother's had been carried away by the fairies, and one night Donald himself saw this lost relation among the fairy folk, "dancing as hard as he could." On another occasion, Donald was out hunting, when he noticed a man on the back of a deer climbing a large rock.  "Home, Donald Bán," the man instructed him. Donald heeded this advice, fortunately for him. That night, eleven feet of snow fell on the place where he had planned to camp. Such encounters were merely an opening act for a spectacularly strange episode in his life.

The details of Donald Bán's initial encounter with his goblin are lost to history. The source material contents itself with the majestic, if enigmatic, line, "It was on the hill that Donald first met with the Bócan." Who--or what--the Bócan was also unrecorded. Some proposed that the being was a servant of Donald's who had been killed when he and his master fought in the battle of Culloden. Apparently, this "gille" had once given a poverty-stricken neighbor more assistance than his master approved of. The two quarreled over this excessive generosity, causing the "gille" to vow, "I will be avenged for this, alive or dead."

The one thing that can be said for certain about the Bócan was that it was a thoroughgoing paranormal pain in the neck. The goblin physically injured Donald Bán and his family. It ruined the household's food supplies. For whatever reason, the butter was a particular target of the being's wrath, despite all efforts to preserve it. We are told that on one occasion, one Ronald of Aberadair tried to keep his butter clean by holding his bonnet over it, and carrying his dirk in his hand (presumably to fend off the goblin,) but by the time he reached the table, the butter had magically been dirtied. At night, no one could sleep due to the goblin's penchant for stone-throwing: "the Bócan was throwing things out of the walls, and they would hear them rattling at the head of Donald's bed." When Angus mac Alister Bán (the grandfather of Sinclair's informant) spent the night at Donald's home, he received a very rude welcome: "Something seized his two big toes, and he could not get free any more than if he had been caught by the smith's tongs. He could not get moved. It was the Bócan, but he did nothing more to him." All of Lochaber, it seems, witnessed the goblin's many destructive pranks, although no one, not even Donald himself, ever actually saw their tormentor.

Donald and his family became so weary of this supernatural persecution that they decided to move to another house, hoping that the goblin would be content to stay behind. They took with them all their possessions except a harrow, which was left by the side of the house. However, as they began traveling along the road, they spied the harrow...following them. "Stop, stop," sighed Donald. "If the harrow is coming after us we may as well go back again." And so they did.

The goblin had a special animus towards Donald's wife. Although it never gave its reasons for this spite--imps, fairies and the like have never felt the need to justify themselves--it may have been because she belonged to the clan MacGregor. One night, the goblin went to the roof of the house and cried, "Are you asleep, Donald Bán?"

"Not just now," his host replied.

"Put out that long grey tether, the MacGregor wife."

"I don't think I'll do it tonight," said Donald.

"Come out yourself, then, and leave your bonnet."

Donald's wife whispered to him, "Won't you ask at him when the Prince will come?"

No sooner had she said these words that the goblin snapped, "Didn't you get enough of him before, you grey tether?"

No matter how uninvited or unpleasant they may be, all houseguests eventually leave. One night, the goblin bid the family farewell. As the Rev. Sinclair described it, "The last night that the Bócan came he was saying that such and such other spirits were along with him. Donald's wife said to her husband, 'I should think that if they were along with him they would speak to us.' The Bócan answered, 'They are no more able to speak than the sole of your foot.' 'Come out here, Donald Bán,' said the Bócan. 'I will,' said Donald, 'and thanks be to the good Being that you have asked me.' Donald was going out, and taking his dirk along with him. 'Leave your dirk inside, Donald,' said the Bócan, 'and your knife as well.' Donald went out, and he and the Bócan went through Acha-nan-Comhachan by night, and on through rivers and a birch-wood for about three miles till they reached the stream of the Fert. When they got to this the Bócan showed him a hole where he had hid plough-irons while he was alive. While Donald was taking the plough-irons out of the hole the two eyes of the Bócan were putting more fear on him than anything else he ever heard or saw. When he had got the irons, they went home to Mounessie, himself and the Bócan, and parted that night at the house of Donald Bán."

There is a poetic footnote to this little tale. During the period when Donald was troubled by his pesky visitor, he wrote a hymn which, happily, has been preserved for posterity:

O God that created me so helpless,
Strengthen my belief and make it firm.
Command an angel to come from Paradise
And take up his abode in my dwelling,
To protect me from every trouble
That wicked folks are putting in my way;
Jesus that didst suffer thy crucifixion,
Restrain their doings, and be with me thyself.

Little wonder though I am thoughtful--
Always at the time when I go to bed
The stones and the clods will arise--
How could a saint get sleep there!
I am without peace or rest,
Without repose or sleep till the morning;
O thou that art in the throne of grace,
Behold my treatment and be a guard to me.

Little wonder though I am troubled,
So many stories about me in every place,
Some that are unjust will be saying
"It is all owing to himself, that affair."
Judge not except as you know,
Though the Son of God were awaking you;
No one knows if I have deserved more
Than a rich man that is without care.

Although I am in trouble at this time,
Verily, I shall be doubly repaid,
When the call comes to me from my Saviour
I shall receive mercy and new grace;
I fear no more vexation
When I ascend to be with thy saints;
O thou that sittest on the throne
Assist my speaking and accept my prayer.

O God, make me mindful
Night and day to be praying,
Seeking pardon richly
For what I have done, on my knees.
Stir with the Spirit of Truth
True repentance in my bosom,
That when thou dost send death to seek me,
Christ may take care of me.

Thus ends our brief look at typical domestic life in 18th century Scotland.

Newspaper Clipping of the Day

I always say, you really can't beat ghosts when it comes to administering cautionary tales. The following Welsh tale of love gone very, very wrong was told by one John Humphreys in the "North Wales Express" for December 24th, 1886. As I have said before, Wales has some of the best ghost stories anywhere, and this one's a particular corker.

Behold, the mother-in-law story to beat them all:

There is today in Carnarvon, a woman who has lived nearly a hundred years. She was pointed out to me some time ago as distinctly remembering the execution, on the Morfa, of a murderer. He was taken to a place of execution in an open cart seized for the occasion by the sheriff's officers, and from the cart he was swung into eternity. As far as I can ascertain this occurred about eighty years ago.

At that time the good folk living in and about Carnarvon were densely, intensely, and ignorantly superstitions--to a great extent they are too much so still--and belief in ghosts and their supernatural appearance was an unexceptional rule. How any work requiring to be done in the dark after sunset was done at all I can hardly imagine, insasmuch as the most hair-raising and ghastly sights were commonly believed to have been seen by belated travelers in all parts of the county. The Morfa, for example, near the present Workhouse was reported and believed to be the scene of ghostly and even demoniacal revels, if revels be the proper word to use to describe the nightly diablerie of perturbed spirits and unholy spirits. One story relates how a countryman, residing near, on looking through his window at midnight, saw the whole expanse of country in front of his home covered with wheels of fire, careening madly hither and thither, interspersed with which were ghostly forms in white robes, with outstretched arms, which floated in an aimless fashion in and out among the fiery wheels. On the sill of every house window, at other times, burned, pale and blue, the terrible "corpse candle" (canwyll corph) prognosticating disaster to all beholders.

To minds inured and accustomed to these things, a belief in such a story as I am about to relate would be the most natural thing in the world, and I, for one, am not surprised that my informant implicitly believes in its truth at the present day, in spite of all the revelations of knowledge. I do not of course, commit myself to the story, but, as related to me, I place the incidents of it before my readers.

In the year 1810, then, John Jones and his wife, Jinney, lived in a substantial farm house near Caeathraw. They were comparatively well to do, and had an only daughter, named, after her mother, Jinney. At the time this story opens, Jinney's mother had just died, and her body lay in a room in the old farm, awaiting interment. Her grave may now be seen at Llanbeblig.

Near Mr. Jones' farm stood the "big house" of Rhys Rhys, whose eldest son, an enigmatical sort of person, morose and taciturn, had fallen in love with Jinney Jones, and had obtained Mr. Jones' consent to a marriage. Mrs. Jones, however, disliked the idea of a match between her pretty daughter and the sour heir of the adjoining estate, and she had, up to her death, steadfastly refused to withdraw her opposition, and in this frame of mind had died, denouncing maledictions on the union if it were consummated after her death. As for Jinney herself, she appears to have been of an aspiring if somewhat flighty character, and, as far as she dared, ignored her mother's injunctions against keeping young Rhys' company. Many a sweet kiss was indulged in during the frequent lonely walks of the young couple around the lanes of what is now called Glangwna and Caeathraw, and they vowed that come what might, as soon as propriety would admit after her mother's interment they would be married.

The day of the funeral arrived, wet, and gloomy with fog, and what was regarded as a supernatural darkness prevailed during the procession to Llanbeblig. The horrified mourners were also startled at intervals by the apparition of the deceased lady, which appeared frequently during the march to the church, gleaming spectrally among the trees or the road side, and in such a form as impressed them with the conviction that the wraith was denouncing doom on those who had so secretly determined to ignore her dying wishes.

But the interment itself past off quietly, and all returned home, drenched to the skin by the sleet which fell all the morning, changing in the afternoon to a heavy fall of snow, which covered the whole countryside with a vast white mantle.

In Mr. Jones' homestead only three persons remained, and one of them sat alone in the kitchen. In a smaller room, where a great wood fire burned, Jinney and Rhys sat together conversing in low tones on the events of the day, Rhys encouraging Jinney in her decision to marry him as soon as decency would permit.

"The firelight flickered, glancing
To and fro,
Raising by its weird enchantment
Ghostly shadows, flitting
To and fro."

The night closed, and Mr. Jones pressed Rhys to stay rather than face midnight terrors on his homeward journey. This the lover consented to do, and a new subject of conversation was started in the ghostly appearance of Mrs. Jones during the funeral procession. But while they conversed, they became aware of a Presence in the room, and their hearts almost stopped from fear. There was nothing to be seen; not a sound broke the deathly stillness of the night; yet they felt that, somewhere near them, all about them, an antagonistic supernatural influence prevailed, and choked their utterance. The fire waned and died; the watchers sat still in their places, staring dreadfully into the gloom; clutching each other's hands in an agony of terror. Every moment they expected some horrible vision to manifest itself; every moment they expected some ghastly outbreak of noise to affright their ears; but neither sound nor vision had they.

The long hours of the night passed, and the day broke, and the three watchers, hand-in-hand, woke from their trance with a shuddering cry of relief, and separated.

Three months passed, and Jinney Jones became Mrs. Rhys.

A large wedding party gathered in the Rhys Mansion, and dance and song rang through the old house. About eleven o'clock the party broke up, old John Jones being the last to leave. Rhys and his wife went with him to his lonely house, and bade him good night on the door steps. They then slowly traced their steps homeward. Arrived there, Jinney turned round to give a last glance at her old home, and immediately fell screaming to the ground. Rhys, who had turned to open the door, swung round to ascertain the cause of his bride's sudden terror. To his unspeakable horror, on the sill of his father-in-law's bedroom window, burned the dim flame of the corpse candle, while all about him in the night air the deadly fear of the funeral night began to assert itself. Gradually the Presence became manifest. Dimly outlined on the door of his house stood the wraith of Jinney's mother, menacing but silent. Rhys stood paralysed with fear. Not a movement could he make, either to pass into the house or to assist his bride. The eyes of the apparition regarded him with terrible persistence, but there was no voice or sound. And so the time passed--in reality but a few minutes, it seemed to Rhys endless.

The spell was for a moment broken by the recovery of his wife from the swoon into which she had fallen.

Rhys stooped to raise her. But the moment she turned her eyes to the hall door, a more terrible cry than before rang through the night, and she dropped lifeless to the ground.

Lights now appeared, and servants ran up on all sides. Rhys regarded them wildly for a moment, then threw up his arms and fell heavily beside his dead wife.

When they carried the bodies into the house, life had passed from the bride. Rhys himself still lived, and for many years after, but his hair had turned completely grey.

In the morning John Jones was found dead in his bed.

When questioned as to the motive of these ghostly appearances on the part of Mrs. Jones, my informant stated that Mrs. Jones in her younger days had been jilted by the elder Rhys, hence her antipathy to the marriage. It was not supposed that her posthumous appearances were intended to result so tragically as they actually did, but were made merely as a kind of protest against the marriage; from which we may deduce the moral that ghosts, no more than frail humanity, can foresee the effects of terror on ignorant minds, and that they ought to be particularly careful how they "turn up" at inconvenient hours to affright pale mortals; with which caution to ghosts in general, and those of mothers-in-law in particular, I close.

Always listen to your mother, girls!

The Road to Fair Elfland: Review of "Magical Folk," Edited by Simon Young and Ceri Houlbrook

"See here, boys, there may be ghosts or there may not; but if there are none, there are fairies, and they are worse."
~One man's understandable reaction to being repeatedly dunked into the Atlantic.

I believe in fairies the same way I believe in Antarctica: I've never seen either in person, but enough seemingly rational people have to convince me of their existence.

I also feel that the fairies--or Brownies, "little people," sprites, pixies, elves, imps, whatever you care to call them--must feel an unimaginable contempt for modern civilization. Consider: for millennia, our ancestors regarded fairies with respect, awe, sometimes deep affection, more often not a little fear. And with good reason: As this book notes, "The fairies...assaulted and tricked and, in some cases, murdered and kidnapped their way through human populations." They were worshiped, placated, grovelled to. Now? They've been degraded into twee, harmless, silly little creatures. Fairies are now cute. And spare a moment of pity for the leprechaun. Imagine going from a mischief-maker with a hidden stash of gold and supernatural powers to a little green guy peddling Lucky Charms cereal.

Possibly for that very reason, few people even believe in them anymore.

Thankfully, antidotes for such puerile drivel are available in the form of books such as "Magical Folk: British and Irish Fairies 500 AD to the Present." This volume brings together contributions by various academics, folklorists, and lay historians addressing various aspects of the astonishingly long and varied reign of these "magical, living, resident humanoids"--a reign that continues to this very day.

The editors kick off the book by addressing the question "What is a fairy, anyway?" (Short answer: "It's complicated,") and offering a helpful guide to the widely varying "Fairy Tribes." Then Jacqueline Simpson addresses the sadly ignored fairy lore of Sussex, complete with the Queen of the Fairies dispensing medical advice and poet William Blake crashing a fairy funeral.

Pollyanna Jones looks at Worcestershire, home of fairies who appear as shape-shifters, or simple blobs of light. The region is known for "Pucks," mischievous tricksters who lead people into ditches or ponds, and other such practical pleasantries. The playful aspect of the local folklore helped inspire J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Hobbit." Oh, and if you're ever in Worcestershire, don't swear or use an angry tone of voice. The fairies don't like it.

Mark Norman and Jo Hickey-Hall take us to the rich lore of Devon, where the Magical Folk so predominate they have been classified into distinct types: fairies, imps, sprites, elves and pixies (the last-named are tentatively connected to the ancient Picts.) Like Worcestershire's Puck, pixies are most noted for leading travelers astray. This was such a common occurrence that being "Pixy-led" was an accepted local hazard well into the 19th century. As recently as 2002, a Devon farmer reported seeing a "circle of small green figures" dancing around a fire.

Richard Sugg writes of Yorkshire, where the history is replete with dark tales of "everyday magic," witchcraft, and powerful, often quite frightening fairies. Fittingly enough, this often cold, bleak region has spawned some of Britain's most sinister and enduring fairy legends: "having drunk in fairy beliefs with your mother's milk, you did not easily lose them. Ever after, the fairies were in your head. Day by day, you heard them, sensed them, inferred them from their activities--and sometimes even saw them." Many of the elves were considered "evil spirits." Yorkshire fairies would kidnap human babies, leaving weird "changelings" in their place. Yorkshire is also the home of the "Cottingly Fairies," that curious hoax which is probably fairy-lore's most notorious chapter.

Jeremy Harte examines Dorset's eight-hundred years of fairy history, which as far as is recorded, began with enigmatic beings known as "pucas," probably an ancestor of "Puck." Harte also delves into "cunning folk," those humans who took advice (for both good and ill) from the fairies, as well as the often tense relationship between fairies and Christianity.

Simon Young takes us to Cumbria, which has a lively contemporary fairy population. In the early 1920s, a self-described "fairy seer" recorded seeing brownies, rock gnomes, tree manikins, undines, lake spirits, nature devas, and--last but certainly not least--a god. Some twenty years later, hikers at Borrowdale ran into some fairies playing on the rocks. The area's older fairy history, however, was far grimmer, reflecting the punishing environment endured by the human residents. For these villagers, fairies were dangerous creatures who needed to be held at bay by all the folk cures at human disposal. Young's essay is aimed at reviving these earlier, now largely-forgotten days where Cumbrians faced a world filled with destructive and predatory boggarts, monsters, and demons. (In the 18th century, one parish recorded that within a five-year period, no less than four people had been "frightened to death by the fairies.") On a lighter note, Cumbrian fairies had a particular fondness for butter.

Ireland is arguably the area most people associate with fairies, and not without reason. Jenny Butler's essay explores how deeply the belief in fairies (or, "sidhe") has been woven into Irish history and folklore. To the Irish, fairies are a component of the otherworld, "a supernatural realm that is intertwined with the ordinary sphere in which human beings live." It is--albeit somewhat ambiguously and debatably--identified with the afterlife. It has even been suggested that the sidhe are spirits of the human dead--what are more commonly called "ghosts." So respected and feared are these beings that the Irish hesitated to even mention them by name, preferring to call them "the noble people," or "the good people," or merely "themselves." (Rather like actors who refuse to call "Macbeth" anything other than "The Scottish play.") Any encounters with the fairies were generally believed to be ill-fated in some way or another. Butler notes that even though Ireland has not been immune from the "Disneyfication" of fairies, the "good people" are still a major element of the country's cultural tradition.

Anyone at all familiar with Scottish history knows that it is a deeply weird place. Perhaps the fact that it is packed to the rafters with fairy glens has something to do with it. Ceri Houlbrook takes a tour of this region that has a particular bond with fairy belief--a bond so deep that the Scottish landscape itself is felt to have been a creation of the fairies. (It is believed that a "Fairyland" or "Elfland" still exists somewhere in Scotland, and woe to any mere mortal who accidentally stumbles into this territory.) Of all the areas covered in this book, Scotland's fairy folklore is probably the most voluminous, varied, and enduring. Not to mention the most delightful: among the Scots fairies are such gems as the evil Dame of the Fine Green Kirtle, the equally malevolent Whoopity Stoorie, Habetrot (kindly patron of spinning,) and NicNiven the Fairy Queen. As we have seen in other regions, there is a lack of consensus about what these fairies really are: nature spirits? Gods? Fallen angels? An early race of humans who were the first inhabitants of northern Britain? Some sort of human/angel hybrids? Take your pick. Happily, a belief in fairies is still strong in Scotland, albeit on a more benign level. Children still pay homage to fairy glens so their wishes will come true, and no doubt many still take care not to wander into Elfland.

Moving on to the unique supernatural lore of Orkney and Shetland, Laura Coulson informs us that the region's most notable "fairies" are those curious beings known as "trows," melancholy human-like beings who are apt to kidnap women and children and steal cattle. They are also referred to as the "grey folk." Trows had an extensive mythology, covering everything from their marriage and family rituals to their Yuletime celebrations. Sadly, in recent years it is believed the trows have abandoned the Orkney Isles. Life has become too modern on the islands, forcing them to retreat to the Dwarfie Stone on Hoy. More unsettlingly, other traditions say all the trows drowned! Either way, the Orkneys are surely a duller place without them.

Wales, as one sixteenth-century man noted, is a land where the people have "an astonishing reverence of the fairies." The country has always been full of all sorts of supernatural beings of the best sort, but you can barely swing a stick in Wales without hitting a fairy. Richard Suggett's essay examines the Welsh history of these sprites, who were apparently as enigmatic and difficult to categorize as they were terrifying. Welsh fairies tend to take so many forms, they defy easy description. Welsh folklore also has humans seeing fairies much more often than legends of most other areas. Suggett notes the "rather prosaic, everyday quality" of Welsh fairy/human interactions, and adds that "Fairies were encountered in everyday circumstances as people went about their usual business and some people claimed to have had numerous encounters with the fairies." Naturally, many Welsh considered themselves to be "experts" on the fairies. "Enchanters," who helped their fellow humans cope with the sprites, was a popular occupation. One Elizabethan-era writer commented that Wales contained "swarmes of southsaiers and enchanters" who bragged about their frequent communion with fairies. Suggett also provides a handy tip for dealing with any Welsh fairies you might encounter: they are repelled by iron. (On the other hand, the metal is a powerful attraction for ghosts. It's literally a case of damned if you do, damned if you don't.)

Francesca Bihet contributes a look at the fairy culture of the Channel Islands. These sprites, known to islanders as "les p'tites gens" ("the little people,") "faiteaux," or simply "dames," are believed to inhabit the islands' many prehistoric sites, which, according to folklore, they themselves built long before the islands were inhabited by humans. In fact, the ancient monuments are commonly called "pouquelaye," or "fairy place." The fairies are also said to have dug a network of tunnels connecting the various "fairy places." The fairies emerge from these underground passages at night to dance under the full moon. Unsurprisingly, it's considered to be extremely unlucky for humans to meddle in any way with these ancient sites.

Stephen Miller's look at the Isle of Man's fairy-lore focuses on the work of the Early Modern writer George Waldron, whose 1731 "A Description of the Isle of Man," contains the first comprehensive collection of Manx folklore. As is the case with the folk beliefs of the Channel Islands, the Manx believe fairies were the original settlers of the Island. Manx refer to them as "the Good People," and say they still live in forests and wilderness, shunning cities "because of the Wickedness acted therein." Manx believe that any house visited by the fairies is blessed, because the beings "fly Vice." Unlike most other regions, the fairies of Manx are loved and welcomed by humans, as they "never come without bringing good Fortune along with them." Despite this, there are still the usual stories about fairies replacing babies with "changelings," kidnapping adults, and even riding mortals' horses during the night.

Ronald M. James deals with the "piskies and knockers" that make life a great deal more interesting for the human residents of Cornwall. Other terms for Cornish fairies are "pobel vean" ("small people,") spriggans, buccas, and brownies. Cornish fairies are a mix or good or bad. While their human neighbors feared them, they also hoped that the piskies could be propitiated into doing them favors. The fairies are invariably described as being tiny, large in number, and often very well dressed. The most well-known Cornish fairies are the "underground knockers," the beings who haunt the region's many mines.

Peter Muise contributes a look at the fairies of New England. Curiously enough, fairy sightings in that area have only really become popular in recent years. Presumably, the fairies (commonly known in New England as ""Pukwidgies") had no desire to hang around those stern early Puritans, and who can really blame them? Historians have also speculated that as fairies tend to be associated with ancient features of the British landscape, when the Puritans emigrated to the New World, they left the fairy folk of the Old World behind. However, anthropologists and historians have documented a rich and ancient fairy belief among New England's Native American tribes, so it could be said that the region has long been populated with fairies, but the white settlers simply ignored them until modern times. The good news is that, according to James, New England fairy sightings are returning with a vengeance. Recent stories contributed to the Fairy Census include six-fingered humanoids, a little creature made of vegetation, and tiny fairies with dragonfly wings.

Although Canada as a whole has scant fairy folklore, the notable exceptions are the coastal settlements of New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, Labrador, north-eastern Quebec, and Newfoundland. Simon Young describes these Canadian fairies as a "melting-pot," "a minestrone of different traditions with ingredients coming from different parts of the Old World." Young notes that Atlantic Canadian fairies (known as "good people," "bad people," "little people," lutins, leprechauns, "devil's angels," or "co-pixies") are a particularly alarming lot: "[these] fairies were terrifying, even by the standards of their European confreres." If you are unfortunate enough to encounter a Newfoundland fairy, be prepared to have your tongue pulled out, your eyes gouged out, and your fingernails removed. If they're feeling benevolent, the little folk might merely trick you into getting lost in the woods or toss you into a whirlwind. Harsh climates seem to breed a harsh race of fairies. So pervasive is the largely malign influence of these "little people," that in one notable instance, they wound up in court. In 1880, a man excused himself from missing several days of work by explaining that he had been kidnapped by fairies. And he won his case! (So next time you're late for work, feel free to use the "I was abducted by co-pixies" line to the boss.) Newfoundland fairy lore, Young notes, has been particularly persistent and long-lasting. He dubs the area's supernatural beings, "The Last Traditional Fairies."

In the book's final essay, Chris Woodyard examines how Irish fairylore was transplanted to the New World, where this fresh soil caused the fairies to sprout in some strange new ways. Irish-American fairies take the form of spook lights, "leaping fiends with luminous eyes," will-o'-the-wisps, women in white, and "the odd leprechaun story." Even the traditional banshee and changeling baby make an occasional appearance in 19th century reports. The oddest story Woodyard presents is a baffling news report of a young woman who was kidnapped by fairies, never to be seen again...in 1876 Dubuque, Iowa, surely the last place one would expect to see marauding Little Folk. (This story has certain elements of modern-day reports of Men in Black sightings and alien abductions, reminding me that it would have been interesting to end this volume with a piece analyzing the similarities between historical "fairy sightings" and today's extraterrestrial "close encounters.")

"Magical Folk" is both impressively scholarly and highly entertaining, and I strongly recommend it for anyone with the slightest interest in folklore--or even just a liking for history's stranger corners. It does a wonderful job of documenting how the fairy legends of different regions are similar in so many respects, while displaying their own quaint and distinctive features.

In fact, the book is so comprehensive that I fear its contributors are in danger of meeting the same fate as our old friend Robert Kirk.

Book Clipping of the Day

This nifty little ghost story was recorded by Jonathan Ceredig Davies in his "Folk-lore of West and Mid-Wales," 1911:

There was a farmhouse in a certain part of West Wales, in which a large and respectable family lived. But there was one room in the house haunted by a troublesome spirit which often cried out in a mournful voice, “Hir yw’r dydd, a hir yw’r nos, a hir yw aros Arawn” (long is the day, and long is the night, and long is waiting for Arawn). Things went on in this manner for a long time, and not one hardly ventured to open the door of that room. But one cold winter evening when every member of the family sat around the fire, before supper, somebody called at the door of the house, and a stranger was welcomed in to warm himself by the fire. The stranger asked for some food and a bed for the night. He was told he was welcomed of food, but that they were sorry they could not offer him a bed, as all the beds were hardly enough for themselves, and that the only spare bed-room in the house was haunted. Then the stranger begged to be allowed to sleep in that room, as he felt sure that there was nothing to do him harm there. The man appeared very tired, and spoke but little except in reply to questions, and when it was found out that his name was “Arawn,” all the family looked into each’s face in great surprise. The stranger presently went to bed in the haunted room, and strange to say everything was quiet in that room that night, that is, no spirit was heard as usual crying and moving things about. When the family got up next morning, the first thing was to find out what kind of night the stranger passed in the haunted room, but to the surprise of all the man was gone, and the ghost was also gone, for the room was never haunted afterwards.

Magazine Clipping of the Day

Via findagrave.com

A minor, but interesting historical mystery was discussed in the "Iowa Public Health Bulletin," Volume 14 (1900.):

The following from the July number of the "Embalmers' Monthly" will be interesting to our readers, as illustrating a too little recognized cause of death.

"A tall, lank man, with a narrow head and a positive expression on a well-cut countenance, entered the marble works of Frazier & Leffel, at Centralia, Ill., recently, and intimated to the business manager that he wanted a tombstone for his wife. Manager Leffel, with one eye to business and the other adjusted to a proper expression of sympathy in his patron's bereavement, proceeded to show him the large array of designs in his establishment.

"A suitable stone was soon found, and here the work began. His patron of positive countenance had more to do with the inscription than with the style of stone. It must be just so. He must have cut on it just what he wanted and as he wanted it. He was willing to pay his money for what he wanted, but didn't want any assistance to say what that was. The undertaker tried in vain to suit him, but to no avail. He couldn't catch the spirit of his dream. There was something in this case that out-reached the rigid experience of many years. Finally the tall, lank patron said: 'Give me your pencil and I'll tell you what I want.' And here it is:

'Kiss me and I will go to sleep.

ALICE

First and Last Wife

of

Thomas Phillips.

Talked to death by friends.'

"No date of birth, no date of death is given. The age is omitted. Thomas had but two purposes in mind--one was to let the world know that he would never marry again, and the other was to let it know that his wife had been talked to death by the neighbors.

"'There, no, I want it just as I wrote it; nothing more and nothing less. I propose to pay for just what I want.'

"Being assured that his wants would be strictly complied with, he paid for the monument and, giving directions where to place it, departed with the satisfied air of a man who felt that he had got even with somebody.

"This stone is an actual fact, and stands to-day in a cemetery near Boulder, in Clinton county, Ill."

[Note: the name on the actual stone is "Phillip."]

Contemporary newspapers offered a variety of colorful--and evidently completely fanciful--efforts to explain this enigmatic epitaph, but the true story behind Alice's monument seems fated to remain forever unknown.

On a side note, is anyone else as pleased as I am to learn there was a publication called "Embalmers' Monthly?"