The Red Hound of Pooley and other tales of mystery

By Roy Whitlow

Here are four tales of mystery; each one is fiction, but each is also based on a folk tale or a legend. 'The Red Hound of Pooley' is my invention, but there are numerous stories in many different localities of mysterious hounds or dogs, some stranger and some darker than others. In this one a young bricklayer’s mate one night encounters a red hound and does it a favour. When he tells him parents they are terrified of the possible consequences, for a similar legendary hound is said to bring serious bad luck to those with whom it meets. There is a village in Somerset where 'The Fiddington Smith' is said to have had a strange brush with the Devil himself. Several people from a mid-Cheshire town have claimed a sighting of a ghostly apparition known as 'The Winnington Lady'; in this short tale a prank in a large chemical works goes seriously wrong. The story of 'The Poachers of Darnall' (another Cheshire tale) is well documented in essence; my version is envisioned with some true characters and some fictional, but not fully historically complete – it is a strange yarn, nevertheless.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Roy Whitlow
• Release date: Feb 6, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301089611

Book preview

The Red Hound of Pooley

and other tales of mystery

Four stories by

Roy Whitlow

Published by:

R.Whitlow, Bristol, UK

Smashwords Edition

Copyright: © 2012 Roy Whitlow, Bristol, UK

All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, manual, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, brands, media, and incidents are products of the Author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Some places referred to may exist, but any incidents related to them are fictitious.

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Table of Contents

The Red Hound of Pooley

The Fiddington Smith

The Dark Lady of Winnington

The Poachers of Darnhall

The Red Hound of Pooley

There are many old legends, mysteries and folk tales involving dogs. Often these yarns described large black animals; many were aggressive and quite a few were reputed to punish wrong-doers of the human kind. The following story was inspired by a nineteenth century tale told in southern Cheshire, England – the colour of this legendary hound was however red.

Caleb Barnett lived just on the edge of the village of Pooley in the heart of the Cheshire countryside. He liked to be called ‘Cab’ because his middle name was Arthur, after his father; also, he hated the rather old-fashioned ‘Caleb’ (after his granddad). Some of his friends – and others – had tried calling him ‘Cay’, pronounced with a hard ‘K’ sound, but he thought this too girlish. His mother and father always used his full first name: Caleb. His younger brother and two (younger) sisters had been persuaded to use ‘Cab’ – as had most of his friends.

His father, Arthur, laughed and teased him about this name business. His favourite remark was that folk could call him anything they liked except ‘late for dinner’. Everyone always laughed at this, even though they had probably heard it a hundred times.

The Barnett cottage was one half of a semi-detached pair of houses standing on about an acre of land. Two pairs of house had been built as farm cottages originally in around 1870. The ‘semi’ wasn’t very large, but had been ‘modernised’, with central heating, a fitted kitchen, well-appointed bathroom and a reasonably roomy lounge-diner. There were four bedrooms, by virtue of an extension, although the smallest of these was really small. The youngest Bennett son, Adam, had this one; he was 16. The two girls, Laura and Sarah, aged 14 and 12 respectively, shared a room. Cab was the eldest at 18 and had the second largest bedroom.

The Barnett family were happy working folk. Arthur was a cowman at Fletcher’s Farm. Helen Barnett mostly looked after the house, garden and her brood; she was also a ‘dinner lady’ at the local primary school. The three younger children attended a comprehensive in the nearest town of Chaleford.

On the whole, the Barnetts were a happy family. There were the usual squabbles among the siblings, of course. They were by no means well off, but they were well fed, well clothed and kept warm. They were not overly religious, but Arthur and Helen still attended St Michael’s church about once a month, and on high days and feast days. The children had been encouraged to go the Sunday school, but had ‘grown out of it’.

All in all, they were a reasonably well-balanced family, not particularly given to superstition. They all read quite well; Laura loved Jane Austen and Adam was a great Harry Potter fan. Both parents were also readers of both non-fiction and ‘good stories’. What happened during that strange time in the autumn of 1998 was therefore very surprising to everyone who got involved or even just heard about it.

It started one evening as the light was fading to dusk. Cab was walking home from the building site. He was employed as a bricklayer’s mate or labourer. It was his job to stack the bricks or blocks in piles for his partner to reach easily and then to mix the sand/cement mortar and deliver quantities of this to the ‘spot’ (a squarish board or palette) from which Stan, the brickie, could scoop up trowelfuls as he laid the bricks. It was hard work and they worked with few breaks, since getting the work done quickly would bring a bonus. However, Cab was a strong muscular lad and did not seem to be bothered by the effort or by poor weather if it came to it.

It was a fine clear evening as he walked home. The air was still relatively warm for the season and he was in good spirits. He generally whistled when he was on his own. He had turned off the main road and was several hundred yards along Pieberry Lane when he heard a sound. He stopped and listened. He could hear nothing. He walked on slowly, silent now, with an ear cocked.

There is a high hedge of hawthorn, hazel, ash and other similar bushes along one side of Pieberry Lane, but the other side lies open onto common land. This land is a bit rough and uneven, with many tufts and tussocks and hollows. There are lots of thistles and numerous patches of brambles, wild and unruly; it is these blackberry bushes that are probably responsible for the name of the lane. The common land can be used for grazing; it is also good for dog walking; courting couples find it convenient as well.

Cab heard the sound again. He stopped again and cast a slow careful look at a patch of tangled brambles. He waited, holding his breath and straining his ears. It