They say he’s as old as darkness itself, a shadow seen on Halloween night in towns and villages across the world, lurking where people believe they’re safe. The children call him by many names—names spoken in hushed whispers, names that echo across continents as if the mere utterance could summon him from the depths.
In Cape Verde, he’s Nho Lobo, the Old Wolf, an unholy creature who has haunted the island for generations. Those who see him describe a man in a black trench coat with a feathered collar, his mismatched eyes—one blood-red, the other a lifeless white—piercing into their souls. The elders say that he drinks the blood of the young to fuel his endless life, preying upon children who wander too far or fail to heed warnings. Children and pets vanish without a trace in the places where he roams, and only the scent of iron and patches of darkened earth remain. In Cape Verde, families leave a glass of grogue, their strongest spirit, outside their doors on Halloween, believing it might satisfy him. They hope that the spirit of the drink will appease the spirit of Nho Lobo himself, steering him away from their doorsteps.
But Cape Verde isn’t alone. Across the swamps of Louisiana, he is known as Papa Croix. There, he moves in the mist, blending with the shadows until it’s impossible to tell where the fog ends, and he begins. They say he drinks rum to strengthen his unholy existence and lure children to him. He hums a haunting tune as he wanders, and those who hear it are often never seen again. If the locals suspect he’s near, they pour a measure of their strongest rum outside, believing it may draw his gaze from their children. They claim that if you see him, his eyes will root you to the ground, leaving you paralyzed while he drinks the spirit of the living to renew his own.
In the deserts of the Middle East, he is called Al-Shaytan Al-Masha’a—the Walking Devil. Tales speak of him as a jinn in human form, a creature not of this earth but of the shadowy realms beyond it. He drifts through the dunes cloaked in black, his hat casting a menacing silhouette against the pale moon. His mismatched eyes glow in the dark, one a smoldering red like desert embers, the other as white and cold as desert bones bleached by the sun. In this region, families leave a cup of arak, hoping the spirit’s strength will keep Al-Shaytan Al-Masha’a from drawing theirs. Those who have encountered him say his voice drifts like the wind, a haunting, low hum that lulls the unwary into a trance, leading them to vanish into the desert night.
Here in America, the stories speak of The Hat Man—a dark figure who appears in the quietest hours of Halloween night. Unlike the others, this story has a chilling, personal twist for me. I first saw him when I was eight, asleep in my bed when something stirred me awake. I could hear slow, deliberate footsteps in the hallway, and as I watched, he appeared in the doorway. The tall figure in the black trench coat, the top hat, and those hollow eyes stared at me from the entrance of my room. I couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, and somehow, he just watched. I don’t know what saved me that night, but he eventually turned and walked away, leaving me paralyzed in fear. I never saw him again, but his image has stayed with me, etched in my mind, a reminder that he is always somewhere nearby.
Wherever he roams, he leaves terror in his wake, and each culture has created its own means of appeasement. They say that only the strongest spirits—the grogue, the rum, the arak—can temporarily satisfy his endless thirst, each one a different attempt to keep his spirit at bay. So, this Halloween, if you hear a low, eerie hum just outside, remember that he’s close. Lock your doors, leave a glass of your strongest spirit outside, and whatever you do—don’t open your eyes. Because if you see him, you may not live to tell the tale.
And if you’re lucky, maybe he’ll drink and pass you by. But if the humming stops outside your window…well, pray that he has mercy.
