This year’s Scottish Storytelling Festival, which begins on Friday, takes as its theme the idea of growing stories, aiming to unearth ancient roots and to help new talent blossom. To celebrate the festival we present a short story by one of Scotland’s most celebrated storytellers

IT was Halloween and on the street, local kids rushed back and forth calling trick or treat, with painted faces, black peaked hats, raggedy clothes and banging drums. Mary’s usually quiet area was awash with noisy, excited kids, as it was every year at that time. As a lassie, she too dressed in weird clothes, used charcoal to blacken her face, told creepy tales, sang songs and rattled an empty syrup can, calling “a penny for the guisers”. Trick or treat is what kids said in America, not in Scotland.

She smiled thinking on how in a few decades customs had changed so much. Guising meant to be “in disguise” so that nobody recognised you.

Halloween was about spooks and ghouls, the time when they crept out of graveyards and crawled around the streets, or so her granny told her. It was a scary yet exciting time.

Her granny, who was a strong believer in Celtic ways, especially where the dead were concerned, had raised Mary. She was a fine taleteller.

She’d say: “In olden days, doors and windows were secured and locked. Fires were packed with peat, candles positioned in dark corners. At the midnight hour a sprightly spirit could visit to haunt and cause havoc.

“Families sat closely snuggled together sharing ancient stories of mythical Kelpie horses who stole away maidens and Selkies who dived into the deep, wearing skins ripped off the bodies of wayfaring wanderers.”

Halloween was no laughing matter in her granny’s day.

But that was a long time ago now. Mary was bent with age and tired of the fast pace of modern living. She switched on her electric fire as her elderly frame shivered at the thought of an oncoming winter and supped a cup of tea. Her phone rang loudly on a small table by her side. It was the lassie she often chatted to at the library.

“What’s wrong Ann?”

“Mary, my mother has had a heart attack and I have to be with her. As you know Joe is offshore and I have no one to stay overnight with my boys. Would you come to the house and look after them for me. Please Mary, I don’t know anyone else?”

“Oh no my dear, I’m not any good with children. I’m too old any way.”

“Please Mary, all you would have to do is lock up and give the boys a cup of cocoa. The fridge is full and my house is centrally heated, it’s got a secure alarm and Joe will be home in the morning. Oh please Mary.”

She faltered and thought against such a responsibility, but a friend in need is a friend indeed, so she answered: “Can’t be that bad taking care of two wee laddies.”

“I knew you would help, so I have a taxi on its way.”

Mary secured windows and locked the doors. In 10 minutes a taxi sat outside. In half an hour she was outside her friend’s home holding a small overnight bag. The same taxi ferried the young mother off to the airport, after a volley of blown kisses to two little lads standing on the doorstep.

“Life is too fast paced for me,” whispered Mary to herself.

She turned to the boys and held out her hand. “Hello, I’m Mary,” she said.

“I’m Egan, I’m eight and this is Andrew, he’s six.

“Oh and Mum says you have to give us chocolate biscuits with our cocoa, didn’t she Andrew?” The younger lad nodded.

“Cocoa will be your lot! No biscuits, but would you like a story, seeing as it’s a fearty night?”

The lads tore off upstairs thumping across their bedroom floor and bounced on their beds, not in the least interested in Halloween tales.

Nothing she would tackle without a pot of tea. She hung up her coat on a coat stand, switched on the kitchen light and got the fright of her life; a shaggy dog leapt from a wicker basket and licked her hands. “Get down, stupid mutt of a dog!”

This brought the lads rushing downstairs. “Don’t worry, it’s only Maggie, she’s a softy. Mum forgot to take her out the back for her last walk of the day. You’ll have to; she’ll pee in the house if you don’t. We’ll show you where she goes.”

Egan and Andrew donned jackets and two woolen hats and shouted: “Hurry Mary!”

Andrew slipped his small hand into Mary’s and before she knew what had happened two youngsters and a mad dog rushed her off into the night air.

“Boys, this is Halloween, could be fireworks and the dog will take fright.”

Maggie dashed back and forth chasing wind-swept leaves.

THERE was a wooded area to the rear of the house. It was walled off. She counted at least a dozen tall oak trees. She grew scared in the density of the wood but the lads assured her that Maggie would be running home when she retrieved a stick.

She squinted her eyes and, illuminated by orange streetlights, another tree loomed darkly; an ancient yew tree surrounded by a metal fence. She moved to take a closer look. It had a vast, thick trunk, certainly an ancient relic. A cold shiver ran up her spine. It was twisted, gnarled with a knotted, warted trunk, and if she wasn’t mistaken, here stood a Boorak tree.

Her granny spoke of such a tree – a soul gatherer she called it, and warned it must never be touched. Not a single branch, it is cursed!

Suddenly in her mind’s eye she saw the old woman’s face as she narrated to her how evildoers from Celtic times were

punished. They would be tied securely to the trunk of a soul gatherer with their throats cut and left to bleed to death. Into the tree trunk, kept there forever, went the evil that had poured from them. Later the criminals’ bodies were burned and scattered back as ash on to the earth.

Maggie began barking loudly at the base of the tree. She’d squeezed her body between rustic fence poles, leapt up and broke off a low hanging branch, then ran off.

“Bad dog, drop that, now I say!” Her shouting frightened the boys. After all, this was a stranger, they hardly knew her. She composed herself. “Sorry boys, I’m not used to dogs – or to children, come to think of it.”

Egan whistled and Maggie came at once holding the stick in her mouth, and sat obediently by Mary. “Give it here lass,’’ she said, but Maggie growled. Andrew sighed then looked at Mary. ‘‘She’ll not part with it. She likes to take them into the kitchen and hide them. She’ll forget about it in no time, now can we go get our cocoa please?”

The house was warm and cozy, the boys told jokes, drank their cocoa, went to bed and fell asleep. It was well past 11 when Mary climbed the stairs, and after checking doors she patted the dog and felt like a proper fool for being so superstitious about an old yew tree. The bed in the spare room was extra comfortable. She was exhausted, her eyes felt like lead, and soon she was sleeping soundly.

WHY Mary sat bolt upright in bed at the stroke of midnight she did not know. Her body was shivering with the cold. Her sleepy eyes darted into every corner, she felt for her quilted dressing gown. But to her utter horror an invisible hand was pulling it slowly off the bed.

“Who’s there?” she said, angrily adding: “If this is the work of you lads, I’ll never set foot in this house again! Egan, Andrew, you little devils!” She sat on the edge of the bed and fumbled for the bedside light, convinced that in the room two little boys were playing a prank – but when her sheepskin slippers floated in mid-air and the curtains were tied in knots, she knew this had nothing to do with children. Voices whispered in the unlit corners of the room.

The yew tree with its shadows, the dog incident and being away from home was too much for her. Surely this was a nightmare? Breathing deeply she opened her eyes, expecting to see a normal bedroom scene – but how wrong she was! Shadows were dancing on the walls, arms of green were creeping across the ceiling and crawling over the furniture, the bedside lamp flickered as the voices grew louder. Her heart was beating like a thudding drum; she had to get out of that haunted room! Beneath her bare feet dead twigs crackled, she was wading through mounds of fallen dried leaves, where had the shaggy pile carpet gone?

Reaching for the door handle, two long and spindly hands that stretched out from the shadows grabbed her by the shoulders. It was then she heard that the whisperers were saying “give it back, give it back!”

“Who are you?” Her mouth felt dry and the words seemed stuck in her throat. She coughed and said loudly: “I have two little boys in this house. I beg you not to harm them.”

Silence followed as the shadows faded into the walls. The long thin arms fell on to the floor of broken twigs and fallen leaves. Outside an owl’s hunting cry added to the atmosphere.

Mary repeated her question and waited.

A tree began to grow on the bedroom floor, but it wasn’t a tree, it was some sort of creature taking on that form.

Concealed in the trunk were dozens of faces, horrendous, twisted, evil-looking people with eyes staring at her. Every one of them opened grotesque mouths and began screaming: “Give it back! Give it back!”

She covered her ears and called out. “What do I have to give back?”

A strong force within the creature was pulling her closer.

Two powerful branches pushed her against the bedroom wall, a deep growling voice said: ‘‘Look at the top of the tree’’.

She lifted her head upwards and froze at the sight of Andrew and Egan, asleep, held by several spindling arms.

‘‘Oh no, take me, not those little innocent boys, I beg you, take me!’’

A crescendo of voices were screaming: ‘‘Give it back! Give it back!’’

‘‘What! I don’t know what it is.’’

It was then Maggie began scratching at the door and whimpering.

The tree monster’s branches shook vigorously; the boys were slipping downwards soon to be swallowed into the trunk, when suddenly a vision flashed across her mind … the broken branch! Maggie brought it into the house. It came from the bottom of the old tree. Was this what it wanted?

She opened the door and on weak legs clung to the bannister, climbed down the stairs, went into the kitchen and searched frantically for the stick. Dogs like to hide their toys and thankfully Maggie had buried the stick under her cushion in amongst squeaky snakes and torn teddies.

Grasping the stick in her right hand she clung to the bannister with her left. Old legs and flights of stairs could easily result in an accident, so she carefully inched her way upwards.

Limbs were in agony as she counted each arthritic step to face the demon behind the door. She felt sick!

Her elderly body was shaking as she held out the broken branch. Voices went silent, the sleeping boys were held within two circling branches. The faces faded into the tree trunk. One single spindly hand reached out and touched Mary’s face, then slowly took back the stick. Inch by inch the room returned to its normal state. The haunting was over. What a relief to find the boys sound asleep in their pine bunk beds, unaware of what had just happened to them.

She went back downstairs; sleep would be a luxury after what she went through, so on went the kettle. She packed settee cushions around her back, wrapped a rug over her swollen knees and sat there shaking her head at what had taken place. In all her 88 years, she had never encountered such an experience.

Granny had repeatedly told her that at Halloween the dead come close to the living. Did they come to her when a single branch of that yew tree, encircled by a metal fence, yards from her friend’s house, was broken off?

Who knows what secrets the other world holds?

Joe came home early. Breakfast and grateful thanks were followed by little boy hugs. Mary went home, never sharing a single minute of what had happened in that family home. It would go with her to her grave. After all, who would believe her?

Jess Smith was born in Aberfeldy in 1948. She was born into a Scottish traveller family and lived with her seven sisters and parents in a single-decker blue Bedford bus from the age of five to 15.

She has published six books, including an autobiographical trilogy recalling her own childhood experiences, and a booklet on traveller dialects (with co-author Robert Dawson).

Her work focuses on the experiences of Scottish travellers.  In 2014 Smith led a campaign to save the Tinkers’ Heart [a Scottish travellers’ monument in Argyll, Scotland].

She now lives in Perthshire and is married with three adult children (two sons and a daughter).

She is patron of the young travellers’ rights organisation Article 12, which in 2012 won the Herald Society Equalities Project of the Year award.