Thalassa
Junior Member
- Messages
- 30
This happened again at my grandparents that Easter when I was about sixteen or seventeen. I was woken up in the night to hear what seemed to be a rain and wind storm localized entirely outside my bedroom window. Now, when it storms at my grandparents house you can hear it all around the house, it gets under the eaves and my grandmother likens it to being on a galleon as it makes the timbers creak; this storm, however, was in one place, and it seemed to be accompanied by a growling rushing noise. The noise stayed there for a few minutes before moving off down the wall by me, and then off; I heard the sheep in the field start bleating a few seconds later. It was like standing at a station and waiting for a train, you hear it coming, it passes and then it moves off.
The next day when we were in town, my grandmother bought be a book on Ghosts & Hauntings, and it was the legend of The Wild Hunt. The Wild Hunt is part of European folklore, and has many different variants, but the story is pretty much the same. A spectral hunt headed by either Odin, Satan, Herne the Hunter (who I also believe I saw as a child) or Sir Francis Drake rides out on moonlight nights accompanied by their own wind storm, and a spectral pack of hounds (known as "The Whist Hounds") with glowing red eyes. Sometimes the hounds go out on their own, especially on moonlit nights. The stories vary as to what happens if one should come across the hunt to being run off a steep ledge, being made to ride with them, and being swept straight to hell if you are caught in their path. For all the stories, one fact remains, you must never speak to the huntsman (whoever he may be). So in this regional variant the hunt runs from a creepy place called Whistmans Wood (a place I refuse to go), and over the moor. I went and asked my grandmother if you could see the wood from the house, she took me to the window downstairs, pointed a spot on the view and said, "Yes, its right there."
The next day when we were in town, my grandmother bought be a book on Ghosts & Hauntings, and it was the legend of The Wild Hunt. The Wild Hunt is part of European folklore, and has many different variants, but the story is pretty much the same. A spectral hunt headed by either Odin, Satan, Herne the Hunter (who I also believe I saw as a child) or Sir Francis Drake rides out on moonlight nights accompanied by their own wind storm, and a spectral pack of hounds (known as "The Whist Hounds") with glowing red eyes. Sometimes the hounds go out on their own, especially on moonlit nights. The stories vary as to what happens if one should come across the hunt to being run off a steep ledge, being made to ride with them, and being swept straight to hell if you are caught in their path. For all the stories, one fact remains, you must never speak to the huntsman (whoever he may be). So in this regional variant the hunt runs from a creepy place called Whistmans Wood (a place I refuse to go), and over the moor. I went and asked my grandmother if you could see the wood from the house, she took me to the window downstairs, pointed a spot on the view and said, "Yes, its right there."