Long ago, when nights fell hard and early across the wilds of Aberdeenshire, there was a narrow footpath that threaded the heather between the villages of Insch and Rhynie. It passed a low, mossy cairn on a rise known as the Hag’s Hill, a burial place older than any kirk in the glen, and long shunned by those who still believed the land held memories older than men.
They called it the Cairn Path, and there was a reason few dared take it after sundown.
For that was the haunt of the Muckle Black Tyke — a spectral hound, vast and silent, that patrolled the ridge as if guarding the stones. Tall as a stag, black as a coal-seam, with eyes like smouldering embers and breath that steamed in the cold like rising mist, the tyke was not of this world. It made no sound, dragged no foot, and cast no shadow in moonlight. But it watched — and what it watched, it marked.
I. The Laughing Man
The tale most often told in the taverns of Insch was that of Ewan MacCrae, a cattle drover of some reputation, whose pride was as broad as his shoulders and whose tongue was always too loose when drink was in him. He was known to take dares, spit on luck, and walk where wiser men turned aside.
It was on All Hallows’ Eve, that ancient turning of the year, when the veil was said to thin and the dead might stir, that Ewan swaggered into The Winking Stag with mud on his boots and a silver-stuffed purse from a fine market day in Huntly.
The fire was warm, the ale strong, and the talk of the room turned to ghosts and devil-dogs. When the old carter Donald mentioned the cairn, and how no man should pass it after dark, Ewan banged his cup and roared:
“Black dogs don’t frighten me. Nor witches, nor shadows, nor stories told to scare bairns to bed.”
“You’ll not take the Cairn Path tonight?” Donald asked, eyes narrowing.
“I’ll take it whistling,” said Ewan. “And sleep sweet in my bed after.”
A silence fell. Even the fire seemed to hiss quieter.
“I’d not dare mock what walks that way,” muttered the innkeeper’s wife, crossing herself. “Especially not tonight.”
But Ewan only laughed. He drained his cup, slung his cloak over his shoulders, and stepped into the night.
II. The Hill and the Fog
The air was cold and glassy, the moon sharp and white behind drifting cloud. As Ewan trudged up the slope, the path narrowed, hemmed in by ragged gorse and wind-raked stones. Somewhere in the dark, a lone curlew called — a cry like a woman in pain.
And then came the fog.
It rolled in swift and low, like smoke pouring down the hill, wrapping Ewan’s boots and legs, climbing to his knees. The path beneath his feet vanished. Still he walked on, stubborn pride driving him.
And then — silence.
No birds. No wind. No sound of water in the burns.
He reached the cairn.
There, on the edge of the mist, something stood.
A dog — massive, unmoving.
Its head level with Ewan’s chest. Its body as black as the gap between stars. Its eyes the colour of ember-deep fire.
He froze.
The dog made no sound. It did not growl. It only watched.
Ewan reached for his dirk. His pride had never failed him — but something inside him shifted. Not fear, but awareness, cold and raw.
Still, he would not be bested. “Begone,” he said. “I’ve no business with ghost or beast.”
The tyke took a step forward.
Ewan took a step back.
And in that blink — the hound vanished. No puff of smoke, no leap, no howl. It was simply gone.
He laughed, but it rang thin in the fog.
He turned and walked on, more swiftly now. But there was a sound behind him: padding, soft and steady, in the heather. And sometimes — just once or twice — he thought he saw two small flames flicker in the dark beside the path.
When he reached his cottage door, he did not look back.
III. The Change
His wife, Moira, said later that he came in pale and sweating, lips blue, teeth chattering. He said nothing — just sat by the hearth, cloak still on, eyes staring into nothing.
She questioned him, gently at first, then sharply.
He told her what he’d seen. She made him swear never to walk that way again. He nodded but said no more.
From that night forward, Ewan MacCrae was changed.
He would not cross running water after dark. He muttered prayers under his breath. He kept every door locked and every mirror covered, saying the tyke could step through reflections if you met its eye twice.
And each night — at exactly the same hour — he woke screaming.
Three months passed.
Then, one still winter’s dawn, Moira found him cold in their bed. His body frozen, his mouth open in a silent scream, his eyes wide and bloodshot.
On the inside of the door, there were long, deep gouges. Four lines, like claws, running down the wood.
No one spoke of it openly, but everyone knew.
The tyke had waited.
And then it had come.
IV. The Path Still Watches
Since then, the Cairn Path has been walked only by fools, foreigners, and the drunk — and rarely by any of those twice. Most take the long road through Kennethmont, though it winds a mile wider and turns boggy after rain.
The cairn still stands, half-swallowed by heather, lichen crusted, half-sunken. But locals say no sheep will graze on the hill. Birds won’t nest in the gorse near it. Even the wind shifts strangely around its crown.
And now and then — just now and then — someone claims to have seen eyes in the dark. Not yellow like a fox’s, nor white like a deer’s. But red, glowing low and steady, like coals in the hearth.
They say if you see them, do not run. Do not shout.
Walk backward. Keep your eyes low. Cross running water if you can.
And whatever you do — don’t speak the dog’s name aloud.
For the Muckle Black Tyke is no mere spirit. Some say it’s a guardian of the dead. Others claim it’s a devil bound to earth, exiled from the underworld and leashed to the stones.
But those who’ve met its gaze and lived?
They never forget.
- Original tales adapted by Nick Kimber