working our way slowly east toward Blackburn, visiting two or three farms each day, slaughtering pigs that have been fattened up for Christmas,” he began. “Then, just two miles south of Blackburn, we called in at Sanderson’s farm. We’ve been dealing with the old farmer there for years and have a long-standing arrangement to pay him a visit in the second week of December. We arrived at dusk as usual. He lets us rest our weary bones in the barn so we’ll be ready for work at dawn the following day.
“We always need that early start because there are a lot of pigs to slaughter. Most farmers have a mixture of animals—cows, sheep, hens, geese, and only a few pigs—but old Sanderson specializes in pigs. He keeps dozens of them and sells them at markets all over the County.
“In his younger days he used to slaughter them himself, but now his back is giving him trouble. It’s hard work, so he gets us in two or three times a year. Of course, with people wanting to add pork, sausage, and bacon to their turkey-and-roast-potato Christmas dinner, December is our busiest time of all.
“The farm lies in a deep valley, so I got off the cart and led the horse down the steep hill into the gloom. It was getting darker by the minute, and as we approached the buildings, I started to feel uneasy. Something seemed wrong.”
“What was it?” I asked. “Any more than just a feeling?”
Peter scratched his head. “Well, there was no light flickering in the farmhouse windows and everything was too quiet. Nothing seemed to be moving in the pigpens either. Even at night there are usually noises, but there was no snuffling, honking, or grunting—nothing. On top of all that, our old horse was nervous. He’s usually a placid creature, well able to cope with the sound of screaming pigs, but he was clearly unhappy. His eyes were rolling in his head, and when I brought him to a halt I saw that his legs were trembling.”
Peter paused, and his eyes glazed over. He was obviously reliving the moment in his imagination.
“What happened next?” I prompted him.
“After lighting a lantern, I told my dad that I thought something was wrong. He just grunted at me—I couldn’t tell whether or not he agreed. Toward Christmas, farmers usually celebrate the end of each session of pig butchering with a pitcher of strong ale. We’d already visited two farms that day, and my dad had filled his boots with the stuff.
“I unhitched the horse and led him into the barn where he could munch on some hay. Then I helped my dad down from the cart. His legs were still wobbly, so I guided him inside, and he collapsed on a heap of straw. Within seconds he was snoring away, dead to the world. So I went back to the cart to collect our blankets. I threw a couple over Dad, wrapped myself in another, closed the barn door, and did my best to ignore my uneasiness and get comfortable.”
“If you knew something was wrong, wasn’t it difficult to sleep?” I asked.
“I can sleep through anything—I must have dropped off quite quickly, because the next thing I knew, I was sitting upright and my heart was hammering in my chest fit to burst. It was pitch-dark inside the barn, but I could hear something being dragged across the floor, accompanied by a sort of rhythmic thumping sound.
“I was terrified, and for a few moments I didn’t dare move a muscle. The barn door was pulled open—I heard it squeak on its hinges. Then the moon came out, and I was looking at something out of a nightmare.” Fear flickered across Peter’s face.
“What did you see, Peter?” I asked him.
“In the doorway I saw a woman dressed in an ankle-length black dress with two long knives thrust into the belt at her waist,” he went on. “I remember thinking that they looked like the blades my dad used to cut the throats of pigs. Her hands had long hooked nails like claws, but it was her face that was truly horrible. The cheeks were bloated, the nose was fat and squashed so
“We always need that early start because there are a lot of pigs to slaughter. Most farmers have a mixture of animals—cows, sheep, hens, geese, and only a few pigs—but old Sanderson specializes in pigs. He keeps dozens of them and sells them at markets all over the County.
“In his younger days he used to slaughter them himself, but now his back is giving him trouble. It’s hard work, so he gets us in two or three times a year. Of course, with people wanting to add pork, sausage, and bacon to their turkey-and-roast-potato Christmas dinner, December is our busiest time of all.
“The farm lies in a deep valley, so I got off the cart and led the horse down the steep hill into the gloom. It was getting darker by the minute, and as we approached the buildings, I started to feel uneasy. Something seemed wrong.”
“What was it?” I asked. “Any more than just a feeling?”
Peter scratched his head. “Well, there was no light flickering in the farmhouse windows and everything was too quiet. Nothing seemed to be moving in the pigpens either. Even at night there are usually noises, but there was no snuffling, honking, or grunting—nothing. On top of all that, our old horse was nervous. He’s usually a placid creature, well able to cope with the sound of screaming pigs, but he was clearly unhappy. His eyes were rolling in his head, and when I brought him to a halt I saw that his legs were trembling.”
Peter paused, and his eyes glazed over. He was obviously reliving the moment in his imagination.
“What happened next?” I prompted him.
“After lighting a lantern, I told my dad that I thought something was wrong. He just grunted at me—I couldn’t tell whether or not he agreed. Toward Christmas, farmers usually celebrate the end of each session of pig butchering with a pitcher of strong ale. We’d already visited two farms that day, and my dad had filled his boots with the stuff.
“I unhitched the horse and led him into the barn where he could munch on some hay. Then I helped my dad down from the cart. His legs were still wobbly, so I guided him inside, and he collapsed on a heap of straw. Within seconds he was snoring away, dead to the world. So I went back to the cart to collect our blankets. I threw a couple over Dad, wrapped myself in another, closed the barn door, and did my best to ignore my uneasiness and get comfortable.”
“If you knew something was wrong, wasn’t it difficult to sleep?” I asked.
“I can sleep through anything—I must have dropped off quite quickly, because the next thing I knew, I was sitting upright and my heart was hammering in my chest fit to burst. It was pitch-dark inside the barn, but I could hear something being dragged across the floor, accompanied by a sort of rhythmic thumping sound.
“I was terrified, and for a few moments I didn’t dare move a muscle. The barn door was pulled open—I heard it squeak on its hinges. Then the moon came out, and I was looking at something out of a nightmare.” Fear flickered across Peter’s face.
“What did you see, Peter?” I asked him.
“In the doorway I saw a woman dressed in an ankle-length black dress with two long knives thrust into the belt at her waist,” he went on. “I remember thinking that they looked like the blades my dad used to cut the throats of pigs. Her hands had long hooked nails like claws, but it was her face that was truly horrible. The cheeks were bloated, the nose was fat and squashed so