Wednesday, October 31, 2018


If you are looking to truly frighten yourself, we have just the story for you, from our fabulous writer, Tricia. Here's a lady who can freak you out with the tap of her fingers!

Please have a read of our fantastic Tricia's work and we'd love to hear a comment or two to show support for this talented writer!


We run to the playground holding hands. Mum follows. We run shrieking and laughing to the merry go-round. Mum sits on a bench watching.  

An older child pushes us around before jumping on. He pushes against you and I give him a shove. Mum runs forward.
‘Now children play nicely together.’ 

I grab your hand and we skip to the swings. I push you backwards and forwards, your happy shrieks making me happy too. Mum follows us.
‘Why don’t you get on the swing and I’ll push you.’
‘OK,’ I say and jump on to the one beside you. 

You laugh as she pushes, your swing slowing down now. You sit and smile at me. Mum pushes higher and higher, you laugh louder and louder. 

We get bored with the swings and run to the slides. Mum walks back to the bench. Up we climb, down we whoosh. I go ahead ready to catch you. I smile at you, your face the same as mine, your smile the same too. 

You, my twin, my other half, yet I am the only one who survived. We wave at Mum sitting on the bench. She waves back at me.



OK folks, this one is not for the faint of heart but its a good one if you have nerves of steel and it comes from our very own one man wonder, Edward. It's a little historic and a whole lotta creepy and there's a gut-punch at the end to remind us all what we really should be scared of.

Comment if you love it and show support to our amazing Edward!




My room door opened and Kate, my youngest sister, stuck her head in and whispered,
“You’re wanted for escort duty.”
“I’ll be right down”, but she was gone already.
Father O’Boyd was dripping on the kitchen floor when I arrived. 
“You’ll need your top coat tonight James”, he said unnecessarily. I crossed the kitchen to the back door where my great coat hung. 
“I cannot believe that you were ever old enough to wear that coat James”.
“He wasn’t father he was only seventeen when he went to war father”, answered my
mother. Father O’Boyd looked embarrassed, replaced his hat and said, “Thank you Mrs. Connors and God bless you”.
The rain had eased as we made our way towards the town. 
“I’m sorry to bring you out on a night like this James.” 
“It’s alright father I don’t mind.” 
“You haven’t told anybody about this, have you?” 
“No father I blamed the activities of the Black and Tans when I was asked by my parents.” 
“You’re a very brave man James going all through the war without a scratch”. 
I did not answer, preferring to keep my nightmares to myself, besides the father probably wouldn’t understand, few people who weren’t there did.
“Is he there again father?”
“Yes James, I can just make him out in the darkness, can you still not see him?” 
“No father, is he in the same place?” 
“Yes, there in the shadows at the side of the bridge.” 
“Who is he father, do you know?” 
“I think I know who he is James. I can’t be sure because I can’t see his face clearly. Long ago I opposed a man’s burial in consecrated ground because I believed it was suicide. I did a terrible wrong, now he haunts my dreams and watches me from the dark places. The rain has stopped, the stars are out, you can return home.” 
We said our goodnights and parted. As I passed the bridge I looked deep into the shadows but saw nothing. I chuckled at the priest’s fear of being haunted by one soul.
 I wondered what he would do if, like me, he was haunted by the hundreds I saw buried by shell fire in the unconsecrated ground of no man’s land.



That's right, Wicklow Writers have even more scary stories for you on this All Hallows Eve. Check out this brilliant piece from our prolific poet and writer, Martin. 

If you are feeling brave, read on... but be warned, this one will give you the heebie-jeebies.

Give us a comment if this one raises the hair on your arms and support our amazing writer!




It was getting near to Halloween again, early dark nights. Not real deep dark winter
nights yet, leaves still on the trees, increasingly windy conditions, rain, not snow, not
yet. But Halloween would mark a turning point. For this and for other reasons Peter
was always fascinated by this funny scary event.
Had been, it struck him, for over seventy years now, since that early memorable
Halloween, when, aged eight, he had been given that special gift.
As an only child Peter was aware that he was different to the other kids. He was quiet,
alone but not lonely, happy in his own company and his thoughts. Sure, with the other
kids in school or in the streets he would yabber on with them, joking, laughing, tittering
talk about the girls, one of the lads. But even as he was laughing with the lads he
somehow stood outside himself, looking in at the lads, at himself, and wondering if this
was really him or was he just going along to fit in. He was confident, self confident, and
occasionally stood out by doing something the lads were afraid to do. Like that
Halloween week when he was eight and out with the lads in the dark nights, the time
they dared themselves to call on The Dark House.
The Dark House was at the end of the road, in its own grounds inside gates and pillars.
It was always dark, dark curtains always pulled and the house shaded behind tall dense
evergreens. No one knew much about the house or its strange occupant, so the stories
they imagined about The Dark House, and its Dark Occupant, were indeed very dark.
The occupier, and presumably the owner, did seemed to be a dark mysterious
character, his name was Ammon Gamal , and he was Egyptian. The lads parents may
have known more, or even seen him, but the lads knew nothing of this. So, they
imagined the worst. “He’s dead. He only lives at night. He doesn’t shop, he doesn’t eat.

The only flickering light is on around Halloween. He’s walking among the dead....” ,
stuff like that, based on every dark scary movie they’d ever seen. So when the lads
decided to call one Halloween to The Dark House it was a big deal, a real butterfly scary
As a group they egged each other up the dark front steps, each terrified but no one
letting on. They pulled a chain ringing a big bell on the pillar by the black front door.
Nothing happened. They laughed nervously. Comments like “Told you. He’s out in the
graveyard” were bravely spoken for bravado. “Let’s go lads, I’m out’a here, bad idea
this, told ya” were mumbled in the back of the group in the dark. Just then a large
booming dull sound was heard, like a heavy door banging shut deep in the house. The
lads went very quiet, not least because with the booming dull sound, the bell which they
had rung by pulling the chain earlier began to ring, by itself.
“Whoaaaaah....too least two of the lads shouted, while others thought the
same. A few jumped or ran down the steps and ran towards the gates.
There was another large booming thudding sound like the first, louder, nearer, a nearer
door maybe. The bell on the pillar at the front door rang again, more vigorously,
louder. “ Whaaaaaaah..........., an even bigger shout than before echoed back from the
now reduced group as they clambered down steps, tripping and falling in their rush
towards the gates.
Only Peter stayed, Peter all of eight, nearly nine, remained, intrigued.
Someone or something was inside the black door, noisily turning heavy keys in locks
and pulling heavy bolts. The door creaked open, with all the sounds and chills of

Hollywood’s best in the art of movie sound effects. Except this was no movie, this was
A Short dark swarthy man all in black moved into the widening door opening, holding a
dim oil lamp. He seemed clumsy, heavily dressed in black, cloak, scarves, open fingered
gloves. He seemed to have no neck, his big head, dark feature, dark hair, rested directly
on his broad shoulders, like a pumpkin sitting on a wall. Peter knew from something
he’d read that the man looked Egyptian, Pharonic even.
In an odd thin voice the man spoke. “ Aahh Peter.....I’m glad it’s you.....I’ve been
expecting you.....I felt you’d call around this time, Halloween..... And here you
are.....come in.



First up on our spooky Halloween Flash Flood is our lovely Vera Cait with a story about the meanest man in town. There's a lesson in this one... reap what you sow!

Enjoy reading it and please feel free to leave some nice comments for the wonderful writer!

Vera Cait

He was so mean, sold the School playground and turned it into a carpark. Said he could do 
what he liked with his land. Luckily, farmer Jones offered us land near the School.
This was better because we now had a mini football field!
Mr. Meehan ( Meanie to us) would have taken the School as well, but the papers had been
signed over, good and proper.  He tried to put a ban on our ‘play-noise’. Teacher asked us
to be calm, yet she didn’tmind us screaming and laughing when we played. That’s when we
decided to teach Mr. Meanie a lesson.

Wearing our Hollaween outfits, we snuck into Mr. Meanie’s house and up the squeaky stairs… 
He sat up in bed and shouted at us... We got such a fright we began to scream!
I froze and waved my hands in desperation. Suddenly Mr. Meanie dropped back unto the pillows. 
We scarpered down the stairs and ran home.

Next morning, there was a great commotion in the Village. Mr. Meanie had died in his sleep. 
People were puzzled by the look of horror on his face!

Should we confess?  I wonder.



It's Halloween and that means a chance for spooky, creepy stories to freak us out!

Over the course of the day today, Wicklow Wrtiers will post some of our more unsettling work, some nasty little stories you can read here on the blog.

So stay tuned!

Wicklow Writers

Thursday, October 11, 2018


After a relaxing summer for our members, Wicklow Writers are back in session for the 2018/19 academic year.

Our writers have had some recent sucesses which we will be sharing on the blog in the near future!

We're also running our in-house Halloween Flash this month, so keep updated with the blog and our social media (Facebook and Twitter)  for some devillishly good tales from the darkest corners of our group.

As always, new members are most welcome!
Whether you are a newbie or well versed in the realms of yarn-spinning, please drop in for some relaxed writing exercises, tips and critiques by talented, local authors.

We hope to see you soon,

Wicklow Writers

Monday, January 8, 2018

Happy new year 2018!

We are back to our Monday night meetings from next Monday 15 January 2018 at 7:30pm Kilmantin Arts, Wicklow Town.

We also recently launched our latest book on - " Tales of Patrick and Doris”. This is a collection of stories about our two fictional characters - each writer took us on their journey through the lives of their “Patrick & Doris”.

Purchase the book online at the following link - Click on the front cover below: