They’re not delivered as stories or lessons per se. They’re just statements we store in our memory bank and acknowledge, but don’t quite know why. I’m sure you’re familiar with many. Don’t walk under a ladder. If you break a mirror, expect seven years bad luck. Don’t open an umbrella indoors. When cows lie down, … Continue reading Old Wives’ Tales…
We might tend to think of magic as on-stage high drama. Light. Noise. Drum roll. But in folklore the oldest magic is rarely dramatic. It blends into the ordinary, passing for weather, for coincidence, for something you almost didn’t notice until it was too late. Subtle magic is patient and doesn’t demand belief. It waits … Continue reading Wanna See Some Magic, Mister…?
Hag stones are easy to miss. Half-buried along riverbanks or tucked between pebbles on the shore, they can appear ordinary at first glance. But once you notice a hole worn clean through its centre, smoothed by water and time, you know you’ve found something special. This month we’re neck-deep in folklore, and in folklore nothing … Continue reading Hag Stones…
Every region has its quiet monsters. When I say quiet, I mean they’re not polished and don’t have names everyone recognises. They’re local. The ones spoken of once, then not again. The sort of stories that survive not because they’re written down, but because someone lowers their voice when they’re mentioned. In parts of Yorkshire … Continue reading The Iron-toothed Bogeyman…
I stayed at Langley Castle for my birthday. Fourteenth century. Moss-covered stocks on the lawn. Peacocks by the fountain. Wind finding its way through the gaps in the stone, howling its insistence to be let in. Creaking floors and staircases. Tapestries and paintings of long-dead kings and queens. Suits of armour standing guard in corridors. … Continue reading The Grey Lady…
Don’t get too excited, April’s Pink Moon rarely has anything to do with its colour. Its name comes from the North American wildflower ground phlox. It’s one of the earliest flowers to bloom, bright pink against soil that still remembers winter all too well. It’s a moon named not for what it looks like, but … Continue reading The Pink Moon…
In folklore, March winds weren’t merely empty air. Across Britain and northern Europe, the winds of early spring were believed to carry voices and warnings. People once spoke of the wind as though it was capable of listening back. Doors weren’t bolted just against cold, but against what might slip through on a sudden gust. … Continue reading When the March Wind Calls…
Day and night are in balance, neither dominant, neither defeated. For now, the scales settle evenly. Spring is testing the ground. Hesitating. Listening. Winter was a time for letting things lie undisturbed beneath frost and silence. But spring won’t allow everything to remain buried. The equinox isn’t just a celebration of light’s soon-to-be victory. It’s … Continue reading Vernal Equinox…
This is how the story introduced itself to me… Chin up, kidda, says the gaunt-faced, hollow-eyed woman reflected on the surface of the bus shelter’s rain-mottled Perspex panel. She looks like me but also doesn’t. As a fragment from the first draft, it may change. Some things should. But also, it may not. I just wanted … Continue reading Fragments from Harrow House…
In Gothic fiction truth isn’t delivered cleanly or conveniently. It’s concealed in walls, sealed in letters, drowned in wells, locked in cupboards and buried in gardens – and it waits in all those places because it must. Buried truths aren’t narrative tricks, they’re the engine of Gothic fiction. From crumbling houses to unreliable narrators, the … Continue reading Buried Truths…
R. H. DIXON 