That haunt dreams and stories,
But for one village in the north of England,
They left a mark bigger than disturbed sleep and spooky tales.
On the stroke of ten,
On Samhain Eve,
It was said,
That the sound of creaking gates,
Could be heard coming from the old church.
A shadowy figure would drift past,
Like the wind rustling the Yew in the yard.
When in the village,
It would lurk around,
Until it found a stray walker,
Or lone traveller,
And it would latch onto them,
Becoming their shadow,
Until finally it would sink it’s teeth into them,
And drain them dry.
Like in most legends,
But instead it would suck,
Every ounce of energy,
So that the victim would feel ill,
…and then collapse dead.
The grumbles of the village ladies,
Rolled from place to place,
And ended up being discussed in a city,
Nearly 200 miles away.
Taking place in a pub,
Were overheard by an infamous investigator,
Who would research the strange and curious.
Known only as The Inspector,
The ageing gentlemen travelled,
And came to reside in the village,
In the old abandoned vicars house.
Spending most of the year interviewing,
And studying his various books,
The Inspector finally uncovered the creatures origin.
A poor young girl,
Due to be wed,
Was murdered by her jealous Stepfather,
Her spirit so enraged,
That it had become envious of the living,
And taken it upon herself,
To seek revenge.
As the boundaries grew thin once again,
On Samhain Eve,
The Inspector waited by the grave of the woman.
His prediction was correct,
Emerging from the grave,
Came the shadowy figure of the girl.
Peering through her ghostly frame,
He could see white eyes with no iris or pupils.
She moved maliciously towards him.
The Inspector reached for his bag,
And removed a vial of salt and elderflower.
He poured the item onto the wraiths grave,
Spoke ancient words of Latin,
And finally, the girls spirit was laid to rest.