The Ghost of Whittingehame
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The storyteller tells a story...
The Wee Ghost of Whittingehame
In the
serene, sleepy nook of East Lothian called Whittingehame, whispers
of an enchanting tale drift on the breeze—a story of a wee ghost
boy who sat atop a mossy wall by the woods, shedding spectral
tears. But why, oh why, was this wee ghost so glum?
Long,
long ago, two farm workers ambled along the road, heading toward
the village of Stenton. Suddenly, one stopped mid-step, her ears
pricking up like a startled hare.
"Do ye hear that?" she
said, eyes wide.
"Aye," her friend replied, her voice a
hush. "It sounds like a bairn blubbering."
Sure enough,
from the woods came soft sobs, as if the trees themselves wept.
They peered into the thicket, their breath bated, but alas, nary a
soul was in sight. The sobbing lingered, echoing like a melancholy
melody amongst the oaks.
"Spirits take us!" they exclaimed
(perhaps not their wisest words). They searched high and low
through the shadows, only to return to the village empty-handed
and brimming with bafflement.
A few nights later, twilight
draped the land as the pair tread the same path. Once again, those
sorrowful sobs filled the dusky air. This time, they saw him—a
forlorn boy perched on the edge of the wood, his wee frame
shrouded in moonlight, his face buried in his hands.
"Ach,
a wee one all alone!" they thought and rushed to comfort him. But
as they approached, the boy lifted his head, revealing the pallor
of a ghostly visage! With a blood-curdling yelp, they bolted
faster than startled deer.
Word of the weeping ghost boy
spread like wildfire across Whittingehame. People avoided the
road, clinging to tales of demons and dark spirits. But the wee
ghost, dear reader, was no demon. He was but a sorrowful soul,
tethered to the world by a tragic tale.
Long ago, his
mother, an unwed lass, gave birth to him beneath the secretive
shade of the woods. Her love was true but forbidden, and fear of
scorn led her to this lonely moment. She muffled her cries,
cradling her baby, only for heartbreak to strike—her wee lad was
born still. In her panic, she buried him beneath the forest floor,
forgetting in her turmoil to give him a name.
And so,
nameless and unnoticed, the boy's spirit wandered the woods,
crying for love and recognition. But people ran from him, their
fear only deepening his loneliness.
Until one fine morn,
along came a scruffy old wanderer with a kindly heart and a
twinkle in his eye. He spied the wee ghost on the wall and, though
startled, didn't flee.
"Well, good mornin’ to ye, Short
Hoggers!" the man chirped, naming him for his shadowy legs that
looked like footless stockings.
The ghost blinked, his
tears drying in the warmth of those kind words. He beamed a smile
brighter than the rising sun, and with a joyful leap, he danced
and skipped, calling out: "Oh joy, oh glee, I’ve a name at last!
They call me Short Hoggers o’ Whittingehame!"
With his new
name, the wee ghost found peace. He faded from the earthly woods,
skipping happily into the arms of heaven and his mother.
And what of the old man? Some say he never knew the magic he’d
worked with his words—at least, not until he too strolled into
heaven’s embrace.
See also:
Whittinghame
The
Douglas family of Whittinghame
Goulies, ghosties and lang
legidy beasties
More stories from the Douglas Archives
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