by Tony Locke
If only it were that simple.
The same thing happened night after night, Peter’s wife returning only to search for food and leave. Every night Peter cowered in his room, terrified of confronting the thing that used to be his wife. He couldn’t sleep, couldn’t work and spent his waking hours in terror. It couldn’t go on. If she came again, he decided, he would have to seek outside help.
One night just as darkness fell, one of Maguire’s neighbours, a man called William Nixon, was walking to Gilleese’s public house when, to his horror, he saw Peter’s dead wife walking the road between the pub and Maguire’s cottage. She was dragging her bad leg behind her and keeping close to the hedge. Her matted red hair had grown longer and was covered in graveyard dirt. Her filthy fingernails had grown and looked like the claws of a wild animal. William ran to the pub. He needed several shots of whiskey before he stopped shaking and was able to talk about what he had seen.
Back at the cottage, Peter heard scratching at the window. He had brought his son into bed with him in order to protect him and pulled the blankets over their heads. He began to say his prayers, begging God for help, but to no avail. The baby started crying and the sound of scratching began to intensify, becoming more frantic, then all went quiet. Peter lowered the blankets and peeked out. He heard the bolts on the cottage door rattle, but he had strengthened them and the corpse found the door barred against her. To Peter’s horror the baby started crying again and the sound seemed to incense the corpse. With a loud tearing noise, the bolts gave way and she came crashing into the kitchen.
Peter shouted, ‘In the name of God, go back to your grave and leave us in peace.’ It did no good. Not even the name of God made any difference. As he held his son tight to his chest the bedroom door creaked slowly open. Peter’s heart nearly stopped. She was in the room, standing at the foot of his bed, looking into the empty cot. She drew her dirt-encrusted fingernails across the little white pillow where the baby had left an imprint of his head. Peter heard a low growl coming from her throat as she moved back through the door and into the kitchen. From there she went out through the cottage door into the darkness. If something wasn’t done now, then next time it could be too late.
Later that day Peter went to see his parish priest. The priest was scared stiff when he heard Peter’s story. He had already heard his parishioners whispering about the strange things happening up at the Maguire cottage and even though Peter begged him in the name of God to help him, he refused. He did, however, offer to pray for him and he sent Peter away with a crucifix blessed by the bishop, saying this would solve all his problems. He also told him not to forget to put a few bob in the collection box. Peter walked away, disappointed and alone. Needless to say, he kept his money in his pocket.
That night, as dusk began to fall, Peter took up a position by the window and looked towards Arney crossroads. It was from this direction that his dead wife would come. Once again he threw his clothes over his son’s cot in order to protect him from evil and harm, then he waited. As the sun slowly sank in the sky and twilight settled in, Peter saw his dead wife walking slowly up the road. She was dragging her leg and keeping well in to the hedge. Peter gripped his crucifix tightly. As she dragged her fingernails across the glass of the window he thrust the cross against the pane but it only seemed to annoy her. Her face was a mask of hatred, her mouth moving as if to curse him, although there was no sound. She turned and was gone from the window only to once more throw herself against the cottage door. Peter heard it splinter as she forced her way into the cottage once again.
Peter raised the crucifix, keeping one hand on the coat that lay protectively across the foot of his son’s cot.
‘Get back to your grave! You’ll never have my child! Leave us alone!’
The corpse turned and left the way she had come. Peter watched her limp away, knowing that she would return, but now he had a plan forming in his mind.
Near the Bars of Boho lived Ellen Mohan. She was known locally as Grey Ellen and it was widely believed that her lonely and isolated cottage was frequented by ‘The Gentry’ (the fairy folk). She was said to be very wise in the ‘old ways’ and had been given special powers by the fairies. It was to Grey Ellen that Peter went for advice. He left his son with his sister and was anxious to return home before nightfall so he approached Grey Ellen’s cottage without hesitation, even though he was afraid. He knocked on the door and entered.
She listened quietly while Peter told her his tale, waiting patiently until he had finished before she spoke.
‘The walking dead is it? And ye’ve been to the priest, for all the good that will do ye. It’s well known that for all their big books and fancy learning, the Church knows nothing about the old ways.’ She leant towards Peter and gripped his arm with her bony hand. ‘The Church is only any good if it’s backed up by the older powers of the earth and the land. Now tell me, does your wife wear any boots when she visits you?’
Peter thought for a moment.
‘No’ he said, ‘She always comes barefoot and dressed for the grave.’
Grey Ellen asked him if he knew why this was. Peter shook his head.
‘It’s because of the iron nails in them,’ she said. ‘Iron was always a magic metal, ever since the old times, more powerful than the cross the priest gave you. Fairies and the walking dead can’t stand it being anywhere near them.’
Grey Ellen went to a small box and took out a handful of iron nails. She handed them to Peter and told him to wear one on a string around his neck and to place another around his son’s neck. She told him that when his wife came again, he should throw a handful of nails at her to drive her away. Peter took the nails, thanked her and left. When he arrived at his sister’s cottage he took the cross from around his son’s neck and replaced it with a nail, much to his sister’s amazement, then he set off for home.
By the time Peter arrived back at the cottage it was getting dark. He lit a lamp, put his son into his cot, placed his coat over him for protection and decided to go to bed and wait to see what the night would bring. As he turned he saw his reflection in a little mirror hanging on a nail by his bed. He looked old and weary – a lot older than his years. As he stood gazing at himself, he saw the old wardrobe containing his wife’s clothes reflected in the glass. He froze and his mouth went dry. The wardrobe door was opening slowly. Long dirt-encrusted fingernails curled around the edge of the door. Peter watched in horror as his dead wife’s head appeared, her eyes full of hatred, her long red hair matted with graveyard dirt and insects. She sprang towards the cot with her hands outstretched. Peter tried to stop her but she moved with supernatural speed.
Suddenly she stopped and let out a terrible scream. She raised her head and looked at Peter, her eyes ablaze with hatred, for she had seen the nail around the child’s neck. She spat and hissed, making desperate snatching motions over the cot. Peter cowered in terror but he realised it was the power of the iron nails that had prevented her from taking his son.
He remembered the nails he carried in his pocket and flung a handful of them at her. She screamed and jumped back in fear.
‘Get back to your grave, ye old witch,’ he roared.
Seeing a single nail that had fallen to the side of the cot he picked it up and threw it at her. It struck her pale waxy cheek, causing the dead skin to sizzle and burn. She let out a blood-curdling scream and ran out of the cottage into the darkness.
That horrific night was the last time Peter Maguire saw his dead wife. Peter’s son eventually grew into a strong and sturdy young man who looked after his father in his old age. He married a local girl and his descendants still live in the area.
If ever you’re in the Arney area and fancy a quiet pint in Gilleese’s pub you may have to walk past the crossroads where Peter Maguire’s cottage used to stand. My advice is to walk fast and don’t stop, for the walking dead cast a long shadow.
14
THE BOGEYMAN
Many years ago, parents would sometimes
threaten their children with the words, ‘If you don’t behave, the bogeyman will get you.’ Who or what, you might ask, was the bogeyman?
A bogeyman might live under the bed, in a wardrobe or closet, in the dark cupboard under the stairs or any other dark place. If you look through a keyhole, you could see an eye looking back at you … It might be the bogeyman.
Bogeymen can appear as shadowy figures you see out of the corner of your eye, but when you look there is nothing there. They can change shape to look like black dogs, weirdly shaped trees with branches like claws or glowing eyes that appear in the dark of night. They may even stand behind you, causing you to feel uneasy or sending a shiver up your back.
‘Bogeyman’ is a general term for a frightening figure that was used to scare the vulnerable. The word itself may derive from the old Anglo-Saxon word ‘Boh’, meaning ‘demon’. This may also have given rise to the custom of creeping up behind someone and shouting, ‘Boh!’ or ‘Boo!’, meaning, ‘The devil is behind you.’
Here in Ireland our bogeyman was also known as Bloody Bones or Rawhead. This bogeyman has spread throughout the UK and North America, presumably because of the Irish diaspora. Bloody Bones was believed to live in places near water and this may be why he is said to dwell under the sink sometimes, hiding in the cupboard near the water pipes. It was said that Bloody Bones would reward good children but naughty children would be taken down through the sinkhole or drainpipes into the drains or sewers and there they would drown.
So if you see a rock that looks as if it has hair on it, it might be a bogeyman … Or if you see a black dog covered in scabs or scars, ask yourself: is it really a dog? When you are out for a walk in the woods and you hear a noise or when you are standing by a lake and you suddenly feel uneasy, who knows what may be lurking in the undergrowth or beneath the dark waters? The bogeyman can assume many different shapes, so don’t look over your shoulder.
15
RAWHEAD
COUNTY MAYO
Rawhead and Bloody Bones
Steals naughty children from their homes,
Takes them to his dirty den,
And they are never seen again.
The following is a tale that has been told by Irish immigrants to America, especially in the south. I have adapted it to give it a County Mayo connection.
Once upon a time County Mayo was covered in trees. In fact, ‘Mayo’ means ‘Plain of the Yew’. On the edge of this ancient wood there lived a woman called Old Biddy. She was an extremely ugly old woman, scrawny with squinty little eyes and a big black wart on the end of her long, crooked nose. She had a reputation for being a cantankerous old woman and people avoided her whenever she ventured into the town. However, that didn’t stop people from seeking her out when they were sick for Old Biddy was known far and wide as the best wise woman in the west of Ireland.
Old Biddy’s cottage was full of herbs, roots and bottles of various concoctions. There were strange books with magic spells lying patiently on the shelf. This in itself was very unusual for at that time very few people could read, but Old Biddy’s grandmother and mother were both renowned wise women and healers and they had taught her the skill as part of her magical training.
The only friend that Old Biddy had was a giant otter that lived not far from her cottage on the banks of the nearby river. It was a bad-tempered, mean old animal that was as ugly as Old Biddy herself, but they seemed to get on with each other and the otter spent a lot of its time rummaging around in Old Biddy’s garden, eating bits and pieces that she had thrown onto her compost heap.
Unfortunately a number of these bits and pieces had been used in the making of Old Biddy’s concoctions, so they had magical properties. In time, they began to have an effect on the otter. Some locals suggested that they saw the otter walking upright like a man and one fella claimed that he saw the otter sitting in a chair outside Old Biddy’s cottage, talking away to her in Irish while she cooked up some potion in the kitchen. However, no one believed this as the fella in question was well known for his love of poteen.
Old Biddy called the otter ‘Rawhead’ and some people said this was because it was so ugly. The otter didn’t seem to mind his funny name and he followed Old Biddy around her garden, gathering any leftovers he could find. It was said that he even followed her into town on the rare occasions she ventured in to deliver her homemade remedies. The locals soon got used to the sight of the two strange-looking creatures walking around the town, so they were mostly ignored until one market day a shopkeeper noticed that Old Biddy was on her own and looking very worried.
‘Where’s your friend Rawhead?’ asked the shopkeeper.
‘I don’t know,’ Old Biddy replied. ‘I haven’t seen him today and I’m very worried. Have you seen him in town?’
‘No, I haven’t seen him at all,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘And no one I’ve spoken to has mentioned seeing him around, but I’ll let you know if he comes into town looking for you.’
‘Thank you,’ Old Biddy replied. ‘If you do see him please tell him to go home at once.’
Old Biddy headed home but by now she was extremely worried. It wasn’t like her friend to go missing, especially on the day they went into town because the shopkeepers always saved him a few tasty scraps and Rawhead never missed a visit. Arriving back at her cottage Old Biddy mixed up one of her special potions and poured it onto a flat plate. She whispered the words of a finding spell as she poured.
‘Where’s that old otter got to?’ she asked the liquid.
The potion began to cloud over and a series of pictures started to form. First she saw an old hunter who was often creeping around the ancient wood, spying on her and Rawhead. She saw that he had captured Rawhead and was taking him deep into the heart of the wood. Then she saw Rawhead hanging upside down from a tree. The last picture she saw was a pile of bloody bones lying under the tree. Old Biddy went mad with grief. Rawhead had been her only friend – yes, he was old and ugly but he had never harmed any living creature in his life. She considered what the hunter had done to be murder. Everyone knew how much she loved that ugly old otter. He was her friend. She swore that lazy, good-for-nothing hunter would pay.
Old Biddy was known for practising the healing arts but she also knew the dark side of magic. Her grandmother had left her a book filled with old spells, powerful dark magic. She opened the book and turned to the last page. She prepared her altar, lit several candles and placed the plate containing the liquid picture of Rawhead and his bloody bones upon the altar. Then she began to chant, ‘Rawhead and bloody bones, Rawhead and bloody bones.’
The sun shining in the window suddenly disappeared as dark clouds began to gather above the clearing where Old Biddy’s cottage stood. The howl of dark spirits could be heard in the wind as it blew through the branches of the trees.
‘Rawhead and bloody bones, Rawhead and bloody bones.’
Old Biddy continued to chant until a bolt of lightning shot from the plate, straight out the open window. It headed straight into the ancient woodland. When the lightning bolt struck Rawhead’s severed head, which was on the back of the hunter’s wagon, it fell to the ground and rolled over to the pile of bloody bones that had once been its body. As the hunter’s wagon continued on its way the enchanted head of the otter called out, ‘Bloody Bones, get up and dance.’
Immediately, the pile of bones reassembled themselves into the skeleton of the otter, which walked upright as it had often done when it was alone with Old Biddy. The head jumped on top of the skeleton and Rawhead went searching the woods for weapons to use against the hunter.
He borrowed a sharp set of teeth from a dying wolf, the claws of a dead boar and the tail from the rotting corpse of a fox. He placed them over his skinned head and bloody bones.
The otter headed to the home of the hunter, looking for the one responsible for his slaughter. He silently slipped past the hunter and went into the barn where the hunter kept his horse and wagon. Rawhead climbed up into the loft and waited patient
ly for the hunter to enter the barn. It was dusk when the hunter returned home. He drove his horse and wagon into the barn and began to unhitch the horse. The horse began to snort with fear as he sensed the presence of Rawhead hiding in the loft above. The hunter wondered what had spooked the normally docile horse and looked around to find the cause. He saw a large pair of eyes staring down at him from the loft. As it was the month of October he stupidly thought it was some of the local children playing a prank.
‘Oh, what big eyes you’ve got! I suppose they’re all the better to see me with?’
He laughed. He thought one of the children was wearing some sort of scary mask.
‘All the better to see your grave,’ growled Rawhead very softly.
The hunter snorted in irritation and backed his horse into its stall.
‘Very funny,’ said the hunter as he came out of the stall.
The hunter noticed that Rawhead had crept a little nearer. His big, luminous, red eyes and long claws could be seen.
‘Oh, what big claws you have! All the better to scratch me with?’ laughed the hunter. ‘Now you’re beginning to look ridiculous!’
‘All the better to dig your grave,’ Rawhead said, his voice a deep growl that raised the hairs on the back of the hunter’s neck. The hunter began to feel a little uneasy. He hurried towards the door of the barn. Rawhead slipped out of the loft and climbed down the side of the barn behind the hunter. He raced ahead through the trees and up the path to a large, moonlit rock. There he hid in the shadows so that the only things showing were his glowing red eyes, his boar claws and his fox tail.
When the hunter reached the rock, he gave a startled cry. Staring at Rawhead, he said, ‘You nearly gave me a heart attack, you nasty little brat, and what have you got that rotten tail for?’