Spooky season at the barn
a tale from local poet Oliver J Hopkins
The nights are drawing in and the old beams are creaking, so gather close. This is the barn’s own story: the fields that came before it, the villagers who raised it, and whatever it is that still keeps watch in the dark.
Come gather, young children,
I’ll spin you a yarn
about the Haunting
of Poppleton Tithe Barn
For back long ago,
’twas naught but fields
and a manor that hoarded
all of their yields
Till villagers came,
so keen to expand,
they planted their flag
and settled the land
The lord of this manor
the aged crimson court
a baron whose name
is remembered by naught
Welcomed the people
with open embrace
“A deal we shall strike,
let’s cut to the chase!
This land is now yours
to have and to keep
the fish in the river,
the oats that you reap
But mark well these
exact circumstances
when the moon rusts red
and the firefly dances
when raven’s caw sounds
and the sky is the darkest
beginning the night
of the last day of harvest
for then, take heed,
for I seldom jest
I’m taking my fifth
no more, no less”
The people agreed
and rushed to accept
A promise was made
and a promise was kept
The villagers lived
and grew and they laughed
they soon forgot
the bargain of the past
A year went by, then five, then ten
most wondered if they’d ever
see the Baron again
But one night dark
under bloody moon
the fireflies beckoning
raven’s croon
The Baron emerged
with butcher’s blade
‘A promise is kept
for a promise was made’.
With a swish and a chop
a hack and a scythe
the people of the village
each one paid the tithe
through sickly grin
came the Baron’s demand
a pinky finger from both
right and left hand
And when this bloody work
was through
he filled the tithe barn
to rafter and roof
a thousand chopped fingers;
some left there to twitch
the Baron hoarded them,
his flesh mound rich
By dawn there was
no sign or trace
of the brutality that had
last night taken place
The harvest was over
the people had plenty
but the tithe barn…
mysteriously empty
The village was shaken
the children all wept
But a promise was made
and a promise was kept
Some now laugh and say
‘it cannot be true,
your story’s a lie,
you misconstrue’
But look in the graves
by the barn, in the glen,
to find eight fingered women
and eight fingered men
Good night, my children,
as I take my leave
There’s nothing to fear,
and no-one to grieve
The nighttime is coming
a red moon draws near
And my plan tonight is
to be far away from here…
