The following episode contains dramatizations of death, kidnapping, animal abuse and terror. We advise extreme caution for children under 13.

Here is an excerpt from the poem, Lenore by God, Friedberger, the first literary appearance of the Specter bridegroom.

Hello. Hello. Away they go, unheeding wet or dry and horse and rider snort and blow and sparkling pebbles fly, tramp, tramp across the land they spread, splash, splash across the sea.

Harrar the dead can ride a space dust fear to ride with me and low and iron grates at great sun rises to their view. He cracked his whip.

The clanging bolts break off and open Flooz they pass and TWA's on graves.

They trod his head that we are bound and many a tombstone ghostly white lay and the moonshine round. And when he from his see the light his armour black his cinder did molde molder away as warit made of Tynda his head became a naked skull. No hair nor I had he his body grew a skeleton like ash of color free and hollow. Howland's hung in the air and shrieks from Vold sorrows then knew the maid she might know more. Her living eyes unclosed.

Hi, everyone, I'm Alistair Murden. Welcome to Haunted Places Ghost Stories, a Spotify original from podcast. Ghost stories have arisen from every century and every corner of the world, from the streets of Victorian Whitechapel to the swamps of Bangladesh, whether seated around a campfire or curled up with a pair of headphones, we returned to them time and again to feel our skin crawl and our hearts race. Each week, Ghost Stories reimagines chilling paranormal tales from history's most sinister storytellers told like you've never heard them before.

You can find episodes of this and other originals from podcast for free on Spotify or wherever you listen to podcasts. Today's tale does not come from the mind of a single author. It started as an 18th century German poem and over less than a century grew into a whole subgenre of ghost story, with versions by notable authors like Washington Irving and Thomas Percy, both fiction and folktale the Spectre bridegroom's shows that we do not always look to the grave in fear.

Sometimes we look with deep, unfulfilled longing. Coming up, we'll meet the suspect, a bridegroom. This episode is brought to you by the new many countrymen. There's nothing many about the new many countrymen.

It's a spacious four door that can fit up to five people with a trunk big enough for cargo to be discovered more at many USA dotcom. If the thought of the holidays coming up makes you tired for your bed, then listen up.

Kaspar's Black Friday sale has up to 30 percent off of everything you need to make your place of rest a place of dreams, supportive mattresses, plush pillows, soft sheets, cozy crony loans and all of the blankets. But don't fall asleep yet.

Kaspar's Black Friday sale is on now. Go to Casper Dotcom to shop now. Terms and conditions apply. My name is Mr. Hunt, but you can call me Robert. I am by trade a collector of fanciful stories and superstitions. But tonight I seem to recall a tale that is neither tomorrow is Hallows Eve. For many, this chilling holiday is a chance to bask in notions of the otherworldly. And remember those friends and family who have passed on to that great beyond.

But for me, it is a day of grim reflection. Every year on the precipice of this festival, I find myself recalling my own brush with a haunting while travelling in Cornwall in the west of England. If you live in the area, no doubt you've heard a version of this tale embellished by years of retelling. But I'm here to set the record straight with carefully documented testimony and evidence. Please bear with me for many details of this twisted, tragic affair.

Do not align as perfectly as one might hope. The first of a series of strange events occurred on Hallow's Eve in a small field just outside Kimmorley Township. Three young women went out into the night. Their names were ANORO, Jane Nichol's and Nancy Trenwith. Miss Roe and Miss Nichols were both daughters of local farmers, and Miss Trenwith was a servant employed at the local parish. Now, this is not an unusual site. Late night revelry is common for young people on such a holiday, especially in defiance of watchful parents.

The strange part is that of these three young women, only Jane Nickols lived more than a year afterwards.

It was from Jane that I heard a fool telling of what happened that night. By her account, she and Anne were most fascinated by the aloof Miss Trenwith, who was of their age but seemed possessed by a melancholy well beyond her years. She had but one piece of jewelry, an ancient wedding ring secured round her neck with twine. It was tarnished and broken in half. Not a particularly pretty thing to behold. Jane theorized that the other half was held by Nancy's true love, who had perhaps died or otherwise abandoned her.

They learned none of this from Nancy, mind you, for Nancy preferred to keep her past to herself. You see, this was the purpose of that night's outing to get Nancy to open up to her new friends. It was Anne who suggested going out on Hallows Eve to sew hemp seed in the fields and speak their wishes to the spirits. This was a popular superstition in Cornwall at the time, the same way city folk are now enamored with certain photographers ability to capture a ghostly visage on silver plates.

And Nancy, who spent much of her time employed that dreary St. Paul's Parish, was not hard to persuade.

They set off into the fields with excitement. Yet as the witching hour approached, the girls grew afraid. What seemed like a fanciful game in the daytime gained a terrible gravity in the moonlight. Both Jane and and felt faint of heart and hesitated. But dear melancholy, Nancy was strangely undeterred. She took the bag of hemp seed from Anne and started sprinkling it about the field, saying Hemp seed I. So the hemp seed growthy and he who will my true love be?

Come after me and show the. Nancy repeated this three times as the others watched the silence of the night about them was absolute, and as the third uttering faded away, it seemed like nothing at all had happened until Nancy chance to look over her shoulder. I will never forget the look on her face, Jane told me.

I still see it sometimes in my nightmares. Nancy scream pierce the night her legs gave out and she fell onto the grass. Jane ran forward and asked her what she saw, her answer came in. Gasps Lanyard. I saw him in Jane's hands, trembled her face nearly as white as Nancy's. She doesn't look well. We should take her back to town. She wanted nothing to do with this game anymore. But when her eyes met and she saw a strange glint in them, I'm not afraid and said, Give me the seed and snatch the back before Jane can protest and went about reciting her own incantation.

When asked later, Jane could not recall Ann's words. She had been too fixated on Nancy, whose expression was frozen in a mask of shock after reciting her words and did not collapse. Like Nancy, she merely froze in place, staring vacantly into the distance for a few minutes when Jane at last roused her and explained that she'd had a dreamlike vision of a coffin as white as ivory, surrounded by nothing but impenetrable darkness. I will note that I attempted to locate and row for her account of this night, only to learn that she had been taken by fever and buried in a white coffin.

Jane said that when Sheehan and returned to their homes, the air within felt just as cold as the crisp fall air outside. No matter how close she sat to the hearth, none of them slept a wink that night. And the farmer's daughters had learned no more about their mysterious friend, Nancy. But where they failed, I have succeeded to an extent, at least. After hearing rumors of this strange Halloween night, I endeavored to learn all I could about the afflicted.

Miss Trenwith, the name Lannan, which Nancy had uttered in distress, pointed me to a successful farming family in Boscawen. From them, I learned the tragic events that brought her to Kemel. The Chenoweth's were a proud but poor family, often finding themselves in service to their more affluent neighbors from an early age. Nancy was employed alongside her mother at the Lanyon homestead.

The Langan's had a son, Frank, who they described in the fondest of terms as a good for nothing layabout. He could cannot be compelled to any useful task about the House and would much rather spend hours wandering the fields, daydreaming than engaging in any work. So naturally, Mr. and Mrs. Lanyon were horrified to discover that Frank and Nancy had fallen deeply in love with each other. Frank, who had never asked for anything, approached his parents and requested their blessing.

Mr. Lanyon flew into a rage at his son, declaring that marriage to this young woman would mean forfeiture of his entire inheritance.

But like many parents, Mr. and Mrs. Lanyon did not consider that attempts to smother this romance only stoked the fires of passion between Frank and Nancy. No matter how actively they tried to part the young lovers, they never succeeded. The illicit thrill that Nancy and Frank, to many, a secret rendezvous.

It was during one of these in the Holywell that they exchanged their most passionate vow that they would be united one day, either alive or dead. Frank took an old ring he had found in the family crypt and broke it in two. He gave one half to Nancy and kept one himself.

Frank's parents realized that their son could not be persuaded to part from Nancy, for they took it upon themselves to break the couple in to Mr. Lennon, brought Frank to the harbor and without warning, forced his son to board a ship with him to Plymouth across the sea.

When he realized what his father was doing, Frank fled, disappearing into the crowded docks, they suspected that he boarded another vessel bound for India as far away from his overbearing parents as he could go.

This was the last either the Langan's or the Trenwith heard from Frank for many years.

Nancy Senior did her best to comfort her daughter, only to realize that Nancy Junior was with child. She gave birth without any word from the father. The child was some comfort, but according to Nancy Senior, it could not fully repair her broken heart. Eventually, hard times came upon her family, and Nancy had no choice but to go back into service, leaving her child in the care of its grandmother. It is in this condition that she moved to Kemel and it explained why Jane and saw such a mournful air about her.

The vision she had of Frank that Halloween night was the first time she had seen him. Since that parting, she clung to this new image of her beloved like a life raft every night before sleeping. She would imagine him coming back for her, having felt her invocation from across the sea. And a fortnight later, he finally did it was the night of November 14, fog hung low about the fields, giving the land a spectral grey appearance.

Nancy was just looking up St. Paul's Parish when she heard the cancer of hooves approaching up the road. She turned to see a tall, dark rider, but she felt no fear at this site. The animal was familiar to her. It was Franklin's favorite Colt one. She had ridden many a time, and the voice that came from the shadows belonged to her long absent love. My dearest Nancy, I am home at last. I have come to make you my bride.

These were words right out of Nancy's most treasured dreams, and her heart leapt to hear them. At last she took his proffered hand without hesitation.

But as she fit herself in the saddle, a peculiar sensation came over her.

Her arms felt stiff and cold and she was unable to speak.

Her inner nature was at war with itself, rejoicing at Frank's return but growing afraid of this strange affliction.

In a moment, the horse was off carrying her and her bridegroom into the night. Nancy told herself that before she knew it, the two of them would be at the church, ready to begin their lives together at last. It's a comforting thought, but I must interject with a fact that makes this story all the stranger. I spoke to the coroner in Boscawen and it turns out Frank Lanyon had died that very morning and was laid to rest hours before the rider showed up at Nancy's door.

So who was it that came to visit her on the back of Frank Langan's horse? Coming up, we'll learn the origin of the specter and the fate of Nancy Trenwith. Hi, listeners. I'm thrilled to tell you about a new Spotify original from podcast that I think you'll really enjoy.

It's called Our Love Story. Every Tuesday, our love story celebrates the ups, downs and pivotal moments that turn complete strangers into perfect pairs. Each episode offers an intimate glimpse inside a real life romance, with couples recounting the highlights and hardships that define their love. Whether it's a chance encounter, a former friendship or even a former enemy, our love story proves that love can begin and blossom in the most unexpected ways. Ready to hear more, follow our love story free on Spotify or wherever you listen to podcasts.

This episode is brought to you by the new mini countrymen. So you're looking for a car that can take you anywhere from daily errands to new adventures.

The new mini country man has the space you need to do it all and looks good doing it with four doors, a spacious trunk and room for up to five people. The mini country man has all the features you want so that you can say yes to whatever spontaneous plan comes your way. Plus, with all four wheel drive, you can navigate those off the beaten path. Moments with confidence, the new mini countrymen. There's nothing mini about it. Discover more at many USA dotcom.

Now back to the story. The cold wind whipped Nancy's face until it was numb and Frank's horse did not slow. In fact, the rider spoke only to encourage his colt to go faster. Nancy prayed that they would reach the London home soon and she would be released from her strange confinement in moments. They were crossing the river at bottom. Nancy's eyes fell to the moonlit waters for a moment and went wide.

The reflection she saw beneath filled her with dread, the shimmering image of the rider beside her war, not the appearance of her beloved, but a thin figure in a tattered shawl beneath which sat hollow, listless eyes. Fear seized Nancy's heart. She knew she had to escape from the clutches of this specter, or he would carry her to hell. She cast her eyes about looking for a way off that dread steed. The fields were flying by too fast for her to jump, even if she wanted to.

She saw a faint yellow glow on the crest of a hill and called out with all her might help me. A local blacksmith named Tobias soon emerged to see a horse and rider bearing down on his humble township, noting that the creature was not slowing. He did something that few men would have the courage to do. He reached out and grabbed the woman's hand, but the horse did not slow, and the man felt his arm nearly pulled from its socket as the animal dragged him along.

The spectral rider would not be stopped until he had brought his beloved to her final resting place.

It is here that my own path finally intersects with that of Nancy Trenwith and her Specter bridegroom. I had been travelling in Cornwall collecting folk tales for publication when I heard a strange story of three women who summon spirits on Halloween Eve. My inquiries did me little good until I travelled to Burián Church Town, where entirely by accident I met Nancy Trenwith.

I was awakened late at night by a piercing shriek. When I exited the in, I beheld the strangest sight. The local blacksmith was stumbling towards his shop, carrying an unconscious woman in his arms and crying out for a doctor. I followed him. The scent of burnt clothing stinging my nostrils. I demanded to know what had happened to this woman. I don't know much, sir. She came out of nowhere on the back of a horse screaming for help.

The rider would not stop, so I grabbed her. Lucky I did too, for the rider soon vanished into the graveyard, and I feared he would have dragged her there as well. Mr. Woon hurried off to fetch a doctor while I was left to watch over Nancy Trenwith, who at this time was hovering near consciousness. She told me all that had happened. The return of Frank Lanyon, the strange sensation that came over her when she took his hand and all that she had seen and felt during their midnight ride.

By the time her mother had been summoned, Nancy had no strength for any more words. She could only grasp Nancy seniors hand as she passed away that morning, I received news that the corpse of a horse was found on the burnwell cliffs. It was a gruesome sight, eyes bulging, tongues swollen and foam coating its flanks. This horse was last seen at the Lanyon farm and had apparently died of exhaustion sometime in the night. Two days later, on November 16th, Nancy Trenwith was laid to rest in a cemetery near Boscawen in the same grave that housed the mortal remains of Frank Lannon.

After so much bad blood between the two families, the luncheon's finally allowed the couple to be together. It must have been a bitter pill for Nancy's mother, who attended the funeral with Nancy's young daughter in her arms. I attended as well, though I kept to the edge of the crowd.

The last thing these grieving people needed was some big city bookseller inquiring into their business, more so than he already had. To tell the truth, I was still horribly troubled by the stories loose ends. Who was the mysterious rider in the night? Who Nancy had mistaken for her fiancee, and what became of Frank Lanyon before he passed? The answers to these questions came to me in the form of another guest at Nancy's funeral. I saw the strange man almost immediately, for he, too, was keeping away from the family.

His hair and beard were unkempt, and he was clad in a tattered sailor's uniform. I approached him after the service and asked him how he knew the deceased. His voice was rough and dry, like he hadn't spoken in a very long time. I never met the woman, but I heard her name mentioned almost every night. You see, Frank and I were mates aboard the same ship.

The sailor revealed to me the strange events that occurred during that time at sea and finally gave me a clue as to what had happened that strange Halloween night. The ship was bound for the west of England in late October when on the 30th day of the month, Frank Lannan fell into a most disconcerting state. He thrashed left and right eyes bugging out of his head and very nearly pitched himself overboard in his frenzy with great effort, his fellows managed to keep him aboard.

After hours of struggling, he fell to the deck as if dead. The next morning, he awoke his mind seemingly restored to him. The man I spoke to, who has requested to remain nameless, claimed he asked Frank why he acted so strangely on Hallows Eve. Frank's voice had been bitter when he spoke. I was taken by witchcraft. My spirit was dragged from my body to some village not far from my home by a woman casting a spell she did not understand.

The agony of this separation was unbearable. And what's worse is I think I knew her. His hand wandered to the rusted half of a wedding ring he kept in a pouch by his side. He then looked at his mates with the most deadly expression they had ever seen and said, if I ever marry the woman who was cast that spell, I will make her suffer the longest night of her life for tearing my spirit from my body. He offered no more explanation, falling back into an exhausted slumber.

Few live to recount this tale as days later Frank ship was taken by a storm, the vessel was dashed to pieces against the rocks and almost all the crew were consigned to a watery grave. Frank suffered many grievous injuries, but washed up alive with his companion, his friends, for his near dead body, away from the rocks to Boscawen, where they sent for his parents. He passed away mere hours after they were reunited and was buried without the news reaching the Trenwith family.

Reportedly, he had begged his parents to send for Nancy with his final breaths so that he could marry her. I know not what to make of this final declaration. Did he truly intend to marry Nancy or was he making good on the wicked promise he uttered on board the doomed ship? The lovers lie together now, and only they know whether Frank chose love or hate in the end. In my original letter to my publisher, I noted that this story bears a strange resemblance to the poem Lenore by Berger, which only complicates my own assessment of the case of first.

I believe locals were merely retelling me some regional variation of this German ghost story, but I can find no evidence that this poem reached Cornwall until almost a decade later. I think of this story every Halloween of Nancy casting a desperate spell in the field and have had distant lover, his spirits drawn in agony from the high seas to the woman who called it. Until now, my interest in ghosts was purely a sociological one the study of how superstition arises from earnest belief and a lack of objective facts.

But I cannot in good conscience deny the effect the story has had on me. The facts have neither diluted nor clarified the tragedy of what occurred that fall in Boscawen. And this is why I believe this story affected me more than any I have ever recorded. It makes me think about the nature of death and how thoroughly entwined it is with that of love. So many of us live out our days hoping to meet someone who can share our joys and pains for all our mortal years.

It is cruel, but it seems we often measure the success of life by whether a man died alone with a lover by his side. Both love and mortality have been the fixation of countless great minds and will continue to be long after the hands that write this are naught but. Perhaps it is fitting that we take at least one day a year to remember this, so let this upcoming Hallow's Eve be a holiday of love as much as it is one of death.

For the two are never far apart. Yours faithfully, Robert Hunt. The Specter bridegroom is more of a category of ghost stories than a single tale, the Arnd Thomson USA Index, used in studies of folklore, assigns these tales as type 365 under the heading supernatural opponents. Today's telling was adapted from a version published in popular romances of the West of England or The DRAWLS, Traditions and Superstitions of Old Cornwall, edited by Robert Hunt. This volume was published in 1865, but it is far from the first Spectre bridegrooms story.

The original witch hunt points out. At the end of his telling is a German poem entitled Lenore by Gottfried. It was published in 1774 and translated to English in 1796. The poem describes a woman mourning her fiancee, who was lost in a war. She is then approached by a spectral reader who promises to take her away to be married at the end of their long ride. She realizes that beneath the armor is not her beloved, but death itself, taking her to be buried alongside her late fiance.

Only a few decades afterward, Washington Irving wrote his own version, called The Spectre Bridegroom A Traveller's Tale. This story featured a retelling of Lenore as a story within the story and had a much happier ending than the rest. In Irving's version, the man who shows up under the cover of darkness to steal the heroine away is only a human mistaken to be a ghost. However, in all other variations of the tale, the woman's lover leaves and never returns.

The true horror in respect to bridegrooms story is not in the arrival of a ghost itself, it is in the knowledge that if we are lonely and mournful enough, we will fail to see a ghost for what it is. The ghost in the tale is a sign that the woman should move on by accepting her tragic past, but not give in to despair in some variations of the story. She succeeds, but in others she succumbs to the sweet memories of her ghostly lover.

Being mindful of these versions for the pull of nostalgia may carry you to an early grave. Thanks again for tuning in to haunted places, ghost stories, we will be back on Thursday with a new episode. You can find more episodes of ghost stories and all other originals for free on Spotify. See you on the other side. Haunted Places Ghost Stories is a Spotify original from podcast. It is executive produced by Max Cuddler Sound designed by Kenny Hobbs with production assistance by Ron Shapiro, Carly Madden and Erin Larson.

This episode of Haunted Places Ghost Stories was written by Robert Teamster with Writing Assistants by Alex Garland. I'm Alistair Murden. Listeners, don't forget to check out our love story, the newest Spotify original from podcast every Tuesday discovered the many pathways to love as told by the actual couples who found them.

Listen to our love story.

Free on Spotify or wherever you get your podcasts.