William of Newburgh (c. 1130–c. 1200) collected stories about the living dead for inclusion in his History of English Affairs, which surveyed the history of England from 1066 to 1198. It was not difficult for him to find information on the rampages of reanimated corpses in the north of England because, as he claimed, “numerous examples from our own time are at hand and testimonies of the fact are abundant.” Animated by the spirit of malice or the Devil himself, these malevolent creatures threatened physical violence to those dearest to them in life and threatened to depopulate their former abodes by spreading airborne diseases through their restless wanderings. William was a skilled storyteller. He went to great lengths to set the scene by providing detailed information on the shortcomings of the evil men fated to return from the dead. He also relished recounting the bravery of his heroes—monks and villagers alike—who risked their lives to save their towns from walking corpses and fought down fear to keep watch in graveyards at night as they waited for the dead to rise.
In those days an incredible event happened in the county of Buckingham, which I learned about first from friends in that district and afterward heard a fuller account from Stephen, the venerable archdeacon of that county. A certain man died and, according to custom, through the respectable duty of his wife and family he was buried on the evening of the Lord’s Ascension.2 On the following night, however, he entered the room where his wife lay sleeping. Not only did he terrify her when he woke her up, but he also nearly crushed her under the immense weight of his body. The very next night, he afflicted his terrified wife in the same way. Frightened of the danger, to ward off the anxiety that he would come a third time, she remained awake in the company of watchful companions. Again he came, but he was repelled by the shouts of the watchers and, when it was clear that he could do no harm, he departed. Once he had been driven away from his wife, he plagued his own brothers in the same way, who lived in the same village. Following the example of his cautious wife, they, too, stayed up all night with their companions, prepared to face and drive off the danger. Nonetheless he appeared once more, hoping that his brothers might be overcome by sleep, but once he was driven off again by the watchfulness and bravery of the sentinels, he ran riot among the livestock, both indoors and outside the house, as the wildness of these animals and their unusual behavior made plain.
Once he had established himself as a serious threat to his friends and neighbors alike, he made it necessary for everyone to keep watch by night. In that village, there was a general watch in effect in every dwelling, while individuals remained wary of his unexpected approach. After he had run riot in this way for some time at night alone, he began to wander about during the hours of daylight, formidable to all, but seen by only a few. Indeed, it often happened that when he encountered a group of people, he was only visible to one or two of them, even though his presence was not concealed to the others. Alarmed beyond measure, these men finally decided to seek the counsel of the church. With a tearful lament, they told the whole story to the archdeacon I mentioned earlier, while he was presiding solemnly over a meeting of the clergy. The archdeacon immediately set the affair down in writing for the venerable bishop of Lincoln, who was residing in London at that time, and decided that it was best to wait for his authoritative opinion regarding this strange circumstance. For his part, the bishop was amazed by this story and conducted a careful inquiry with his advisors, who told him that such prodigies have happened in England quite often and explained with many examples of previous incidents that the people would find no peace unless the body of this most wretched man was dug up and burned. The venerable bishop found this idea most unseemly and unworthy. So, shortly thereafter, he sent a letter of absolution, written in his own hand, to the archdeacon, with the command that the tomb be opened so that it might be made clear with faithful inspection what state the body was in. The bishop also ordered that the letter be placed on his chest, and the tomb sealed up again. Once the tomb was opened, the corpse was found exactly as it had been laid there. The bishop’s letter of absolution was placed on his chest, and the tomb was sealed once more. He was never seen to wander again nor permitted to inflict harm or terror upon anyone thereafter.
In the northern parts of England as well, we know of another prodigy, not unlike this one and equally strange, that happened around the same time. At the mouth of the river Tweed and under the jurisdiction of the king of Scotland, there is a noble town called Berwick. In this town there lived a man of wealth, but a scoundrel, as became clear afterward. After his death he was buried, but at night he went forth from his grave through the workings—as some believe—of Satan. And followed by a pack of loudly barking dogs, he wandered about hither and thither. Thus he struck all of his neighbors with terror before returning to his tomb at daybreak. After this had happened for several days in a row, and no one now dared to be found out of doors after sunset (for everyone dreaded an encounter with the deadly monster), the townspeople of upper and middling backgrounds met to discuss what should be done, the more simple among them fearing that by chance due to negligence they might be beaten black-and-blue by this undead monster, the more thoughtful believing with good reason that, if a solution was not found quickly, the very air would become infected and corrupted by the repeated wandering of this foul corpse, causing disease and the deaths of many people. The need to avoid these perils was made abundantly clear by many comparable examples. Therefore, they enlisted ten young men, renowned for their boldness, to dig up the abominable corpse. Once they had chopped it limb from limb, they set it alight and made it food for the fire. When this was done, the affliction ceased. For this monster, while it was being animated—as it is said—by Satan, it is said to have told certain people who it encountered by chance that they would not have any peace so long as he was unburned. Therefore, once he was burned, tranquility seemed to be restored to them, but then a disease, which originated as a result of the monster, killed a large number of the villagers. Nor did this sickness rage so terribly elsewhere, even though it was prevalent in every part of England at that time, as will be explained more fully in its proper place.
It would not be easy to believe reasonably that the bodies of the dead should rise from their graves—by what agency I do not know—and should wander around to cause terror or calamity for the living only to return to the same tomb that opens of its own accord to receive them, except that numerous examples from our own time are at hand and testimonies of the fact are abundant. It would clearly be strange if such things happened long ago, since no such account can be found in the books of ancient authors, who applied their formidable energy committing to writing everything worth remembering. For if they neglected by no means to write down even events of moderate significance, how could they have suppressed an event at the same time so amazing and so horrifying, if by chance it had occurred in their age? In contrast, if I wanted to record every event of this kind that was revealed to have taken place in our time, the undertaking would be at once too difficult and too tiresome. Let me add only two more recent accounts beyond those already recorded and insert them into our story, since the occasion permits, as a warning to posterity.
A few years ago, the chaplain of a certain noble lady died and received burial at that noble monastery called Melrose. This man had very little respect for the sacred order to which he belonged and acted very much like a layman. What especially blackened his reputation as a minister of the holy sacraments was his dedication to the vanity of hunting with the result that he was known to many by the notorious nickname Hundeprest, that is, “Houndpriest.” And indeed while he was alive, this preoccupation of his was alternately ridiculed by people or thought to be a refined pastime, but it was only after his death that the guilt deriving from it became clear, for he rose from his grave at night. He was unable to sow terror or cause harm in the monastery itself due to the merits of the holy monks who lived there. After that, he wandered around outside the abbey and carried on with great groans and a hideous murmuring, particularly around the bedchamber of his former mistress. After this had happened a few times, she became very anxious and shared the enormity of her fear and sense of danger with one of the monks who visited her concerning an affair related to the abbey. She demanded with tears that prayers more earnest than usual be poured forth on her behalf as though for one suffering in agony. The monk sympathized graciously and with good reason with her anxiety, for she seemed most deserving of numerous prayers from the holy community of that place, and he promised a prompt remedy through the mercy of the Highest Provider.
The monk returned to the abbey and joined forces with another monk of the same age and temperament and two strong young men, with whom he kept watch over the cemetery where that wretched priest lay buried. These four men, furnished with weapons and bravery, spent the night in that place, safe in the support that they provided for one another. Midnight had just passed and no sign of the monster had appeared. Then it happened that three of them, leaving alone in that place the one who had brought them all together, went into a nearby house, as they explained, to ward off the chill of the night with a fire. Then, when this monk found himself alone in that place, the Devil, believing that he had found the right moment to break the monk’s courage, roused his vessel, which had seemed to have lain quiet longer than usual. Seeing the monster from a distance, at first the monk grew stiff with fear, for he was alone, but he soon recovered his courage. When it was clear that there was no place to run, he valiantly intercepted the onslaught of the horror, which rushed toward him with a terrible roar, and buried the battle-ax he was wielding deep into its body. When it received this wound, the monster let out a cry and, turning its back, fled away, though not quite as quickly as it had advanced. The amazing monk harried his fleeing foe from behind and forced it back into its own tomb, which gaped open for the monster on its own accord. Once it had snatched its guest from the sight of its pursuer, the tomb appeared to close right away with the same ease. When these events were taking place, the companions who had sought relief from the night’s chill near the fire left the house and ran late to the scene. When they heard what had happened, at dawn they assisted in digging up that cursed corpse and dragging it away from the tomb. Once they had cleansed the monster of the dirt that came out with it, they found on its body the great wound that it had received and in the tomb a large amount of gore, which had flowed from it. And so they carried the corpse beyond the walls of the abbey for burning and scattered the ashes. I have told this story in plain language, exactly as I heard it myself from devout men.
Another haunting, not unlike this one but more destructive, happened at the castle called Anantis, as I learned from an old priest, a well-known and influential man who had lived in those parts and remembered this event taking place in his own presence. A certain man who had committed evil deeds, fleeing from the province of York in fear of the law or his enemies, came to the lord of the aforementioned castle, to whom he was known, and settled there. Having found by chance a line of service suitable for a man of his character, he worked hard to increase rather than correct his own depravities. He took a wife, to his own detriment, as became clear thereafter. For, hearing certain rumors concerning her, he was stricken by the spirit of jealousy. Eager to learn if these rumors were true, he made as though he was about to go on a long journey and would not return for several days. He returned that evening, however, and secretly entered his bedroom with the help of a servant. There he lay on a beam overhanging his wife’s chamber so that he might prove with his own eyes if anything threatened the honor of his bed. Seeing his wife having sex with a young neighbor, forgetful of his purpose due to his wrath, he fell and landed heavily on the ground next to where they were lying. The adulterer made his escape, but his wife, concealing the fact with her cunning, took care to lift her fallen husband gently from the floor. When he had recovered somewhat, he reproached his wife for her adultery and threatened punishment. But she said, “Make the sign of the cross on yourself, my lord, for you are saying strange things, which should not be attributed to you, but to the sickness that has a hold on you.” Then, shaken by the fall and struck numb throughout his entire body, as you can imagine, he was laid low by a disease. The old priest I mentioned, who told this story to me, visited him as a duty owed to piety and advised him to make confession for his sins and to receive the eucharist according to custom like a Christian. But this man was caught up in recalling what had happened to him and what his wife had said and decided to postpone until tomorrow—a tomorrow he would not see in the body—what he was advised to do today. For on the following night, destitute of Christian grace, in the grips of the misfortunes he merited, he shared in the sleep of death. And although he was unworthy, he received a Christian burial, which was no benefit to him at all. During the night, by the machination of Satan, he came forth from his tomb. With a pack of dogs following after him emitting terrifying barks, he wandered through the courtyards and around the houses. Everyone locked their doors and no one presumed to leave on any business from nightfall until sunrise for they feared to be beaten black-and-blue should they perhaps encounter this rampaging monster. But in fact these precautions were of no use, for the air had become infected by the rambling of that grim cadaver, filling every house with disease and death by its pestilent breath. Already the town, which a short time before was populous, now seemed nearly empty of people, as the survivors of the destruction fled to other regions, so that they would not die as well. Saddened by the ruin of his parish, the old priest, from whose mouth I heard this story, endeavored to summon together wise and devout men on the sacred day of the Lord called Palm Sunday, who would in this great predicament provide useful counsel and revive with whatever consolation they could muster those miserable villagers who remained.3 Therefore, after he had delivered a sermon to the people and performed with solemnity the rituals appropriate to that venerable day, he summoned to his table his religious guests in the company of other honorable people who were present. While they were eating, two young men who had lost their father to the destruction caused by the plague, mutually encouraging one another, said, “This monster has cost us our father and it will quickly destroy us as well, if we do nothing about it. Therefore, let us do something bold that will not only ensure our safety but also avenge our father’s death. There is no one to stand in our way, for a feast is underway in the house of the priest and the whole village is silent, as though completely deserted. Let us dig up the cause of this pestilence and burn it with fire.” Thus, they found a shovel with a blunt edge and proceeding to the cemetery they began to dig. And just when they thought that they would have to dig even deeper, suddenly before they had removed very much earth, they uncovered the corpse, swollen to an enormous size, its face bloodied and bloated beyond measure. It seemed as though the burial cloth, in which it had been wound, was nearly torn to pieces. Spurred on past fear by their wrath, the young men inflicted a wound on the unmoving carcass, from which flowed a continuous torrent of blood as though it was filled with the blood of many people, like a leech. Then they dragged it outside the village and hastily constructed a pyre. But one of them said that the pestilent corpse would not catch fire until its heart had been removed, so the other cut open its side with blows from the blunt shovel and thrusting his hand inside, he pulled out that cursed heart. After the corpse had been torn apart and given to the flames, the guests dining with the priest learned what had taken place and ran to the spot in order to be able to testify to this event. When that infernal monster was thus completely destroyed, the pestilence that had prowled among the people ceased, as though the air, which had been corrupted by his loathsome activity, was cleansed by the fire that had consumed that wretched cadaver. Now that I have explained these events, let us return to the course of history.