Of Boggarts and Barguests by Catherine Cavendish

My latest novel – The Garden of Bewitchment – is set in and around Haworth, in the heart of some of the most glorious and wild moorland countryside to be found in the British Isles. It is an area steeped in tradition and folklore and, as with most rural locations, has its share of strange and mythical creatures, ones so frightening that an encounter with them is not recommended.

The area straddles the traditional counties of Yorkshire and Lancashire so, needless to say, many place names occur on both sides of the mountains and hills of the Pennines which divide them. One longstanding shared tradition is the legendary, not to be trifled with, super-scary boggart. It is a creature to be handled with extreme caution and never, ever to be given any kind of gift. If you do, it will never leave you. There are many boggart related stories but this should give you an idea of what you would be dealing with if one ever came to stay. It comes from an account by Edwin Sidney Hartland, published in 1890 in his work, English Fairy and Other Folk Tales:

‘In the house of an honest farmer in Yorkshire, named George Gilbertson, a Boggart had taken up his abode. He here caused a good deal of annoyance, especially by tormenting the children in various ways. Sometimes their bread and butter would be snatched away, or their pot-ringers of bread and milk be capsized by an invisible hand; for the Boggart never let himself be seen; at other times the curtains of their beds would be shaken backwards and forwards, or a heavy weight would press on and nearly suffocate them. The parents had often, on hearing their cries, to fly to their aid. There was a kind of closet, formed by a wooden partition on the kitchen stairs, and a large knot having been driven out of one of the deal-boards of which it was made, there remained a hole. Into this one day the farmer’s youngest boy stuck the shoe-horn with which he was amusing himself, when immediately it was thrown out again, and struck the boy on the head. The agent was of course the Boggart, and it soon became their sport (which they called ’laking with Boggart’) to put the shoe-born into the hole and have it shot back at them.

‘The Boggart at length proved such a torment that the farmer and his wife resolved to quit the house and let him have it all to himself. This was put into execution, and the farmer and his family were following the last loads of furniture, when a neighbour named John Marshall came up: “Well, Georgey,” said he, “and sca you’re leaving t’ould hoose at last?”

“Heigh, Johnny, my lad, I’m forced tull it; for that villain Boggart torments us soa, we can neither rest fleet nor day for’t. It seems bike to have such a malice again t’poor bairns, it ommost kills my poor dame here at thoughts on’t, and soa, ye see, we’re forced to flitt loike.” 

‘He scarce had uttered the words when a voice from a deep upright churn cried out: “Aye, aye, Georgey, we’re flitting, ye see.”

“‘Od bang thee,” cried the poor farmer, “if I’d known thou’d been there, I wadn’t ha’ stirred a peg. Nay, nay, it’s no use, Mally,” turning to his wife, “we may as weel turn back again to t’ould hoose as be tormented in another’ that’s not so convenient”.’

Not all boggarts start out bad, some began life as helpful spirits (think house elf). Not far from Haworth, near Burnley, over the border in Lancashire, at Barcroft Hall, lived a boggart who started out as a helpful housekeeper.  The farmer's wife would find all her chores done, laundry washed and ironed and the floors swept. The farmer himself was grateful for the help he got bringing in the sheep on a snowy winter evening. He heard the creature's voice, but never saw it. He was determined to rectify that and made a small hole in the ceiling of the room where the boggart performed most of his household tasks. Sure enough, his patience was rewarded by the sight of a small, wizened, barefoot old man who began to sweep the floor.

Surely his feet must be cold against the stone floor. The farmer thought so anyway and decided to make him a pair of tiny clogs and left them out for him. His son saw the boggart pick them up and heard him call out: 

 "New clogs, new wood,

T'hob Thurs will ne'er again do any good!"

From then on, the era of good works was over. The boggart began to hound and hurt his family. The animals got sick, the farmer's prize bull was somehow transported to the farmhouse roof. Household items were smashed indiscriminately. Things got so bad that this family, too, felt forced to flee. But the boggart had other ideas. "Wait there while I fetch me clogs and I'll come with thee."

And this is why you should never give a gift to a boggart - for they cannot harm you unless, and until, you do.

Oh – and never name one either, unless you want to feel the full force of their wrath.

As for the infamous and frightening Barguest, the caves of the deep ravine called Troller’s Gill near the hamlet of Skyreholme are said to live up to their name as trolls and sprites are rumoured to live there, along with the notorious, mythical black dog known as ‘the Barguest’ which provided Charlotte Brontë with the inspiration for the appearances of Gytrash, the ghostly Black Dog in Jane Eyre.

The Barguest is a truly fearsome creature – huge, with long hair and fearsome teeth, sharp as razors. There is a story that a man decided to prove or disprove the legend of the Barguest once and for all by staying out all night in Troller’s Gill. He picked a particularly windy night (actually it is quite difficult to avoid wind on those moors!), but at least it was moonlit. As he crept into the darkness of the deepest part of the ravine that makes up the Gill, he heard a shout.
“Forbear!”

Stupidly he decided to ignore it. He carried on until he arrived at a massive yew tree, under which he drew a circle on the ground, muttered some charms of protection and kissed the damp ground three times. Satisfied no light could penetrate through the thick canopy of leaves and branches, he summoned the beast to appear.

In a gale of wind and raging inferno, the beast appeared and attacked the man. His protective circle had done him no good whatsoever. 

When his body was found, mysterious claw marks that could not have been made by man were found lacerating his breast, along with evidence of a burned out fire.

Don’t play the game.

In 1893, Evelyn and Claire leave their home in a Yorkshire town for life in a rural retreat on their beloved moors. But when a strange toy garden mysteriously appears, a chain of increasingly terrifying events is unleashed. Neighbour Matthew Dixon befriends Evelyn, but seems to have more than one secret to hide. Then the horror really begins. The Garden of Bewitchment is all too real and something is threatening the lives and sanity of the women. Evelyn no longer knows who - or what - to believe. And time is running out. 

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About the Author

Cat first started writing when someone thrust a pencil into her hand. Unfortunately as she could neither read nor write properly at the time, none of her stories actually made much sense. However as she grew up, they gradually began to take form and, at the tender age of nine or ten, she sold her dolls’ house, and various other toys to buy her first typewriter – an Empire Smith Corona. She hasn’t stopped bashing away at the keys ever since, although her keyboard of choice now belongs to her laptop.

The need to earn a living led to a varied career in sales, advertising and career guidance but Cat is now the full-time author of a number of supernatural, ghostly, haunted house and Gothic horror novels and novellas, including The Haunting of Henderson Close, the Nemesis of the Gods trilogy – Wrath of the Ancients, Waking the Ancients, Damned by the Ancients - The Devil’s Serenade, Dark Avenging Angel, The Pendle Curse, Saving Grace Devine and Linden Manor. Her short stories have appeared in the anthologies Haunted Are These Houses and Midnight in the Graveyard.

She lives in Southport with her longsuffering husband and black cat (who remembers that her species used to be worshipped in ancient Egypt and sees no reason why that practice should not continue).

When not slaving over a hot computer, Cat enjoys rambling around stately homes, circles of standing stones and travelling to favourite haunts such as Vienna and Orkney.

 Catherine Cavendish

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