The Rocking Chair of Inverness

Fireside Stories

So grab a cuppa, get cosy and enjoy our series of Scottish Travellers' ghost stories, passed down orally, around the campfire, from generation to generation.

The Rocking Chair of Inverness

"Some stories are told to entertain. Others are told as warnings. This is one of those stories."

It was the summer of 1978, and a Scottish Gypsy/Traveller family were making their annual journey north through Scotland. There was James, the father, a hard-working man who could turn his hand to almost anything. Mary, his wife, held the family together with kindness, patience, and a firm voice that every one of the children listened to. Their eldest son was Billy, followed by his five younger brothers and sisters. With so many children, there was never a quiet moment.

Every year the family travelled north to Inverness, stopping at the same ground where generations before them had rested. It wasn't just somewhere to stay—it was part of their family's history.

James smiled as they approached.

"Nearly there now."

But when they arrived, the smiles disappeared… Where the stopping place had stood for generations were rows of newly built houses: the old fires were gone; the stories were gone; the memories had been buried beneath bricks and concrete.

Nobody spoke for a long while. Billy stared across at where the river still flowed.

"That's where I caught my first salmon" he whispered.

His father placed a hand on his shoulder.

"I know, son."

Billy clenched his fists.

"It isn't right."

James nodded, "no... but we move on. That's what Travellers have always done."

Later that afternoon James gathered everyone together.

"I've spoken to the other families, there's another piece of ground a mile or two away."

Someone asked quietly, "Isn't that the place folk say is haunted?"

James laughed.

"They say a Banshee walks there."

A few of the older women crossed themselves.

"But we'll only stay a few days" James continued. "Long enough to earn a few pounds, rest ourselves, then move on."

No one liked the sound of it. But nobody had anywhere else to go…

By evening the new camp was alive. Children chased one another between the trailers, the smell of stew drifted through the air. Old songs echoed across the firelight. The men laughed, the women shared stories. For a little while, it felt like home.

As Mary stirred the evening meal, James called over.

"Mary, I heard there's a new antique shop in town."

She smiled.

"Don't be too long."

"I'll take Billy."

Billy groaned, "Da... antiques smell like old people."

The camp burst into laughter.

"You'll survive" James grinned.

The little antique shop was packed from floor to ceiling: old clocks ticked, dust floated through the light. Portraits seemed to watch every customer who walked past.

Billy hated every second.

James loved every minute.

Then... He saw it: a beautiful old rocking chair - dark oak, hand carved, polished smooth with age. It looked as though hundreds of hands had rested upon its arms. James couldn't take his eyes off it.

"How much?"

The old shopkeeper looked at him strangely.

"That old thing?"

"Aye" James smiled. "I'll give you a pound."

The old man hesitated: "a pound fifty."

James shook his hand, "done."

As they carried it outside, Billy looked back. The shopkeeper hadn't moved, he simply watched them leave… making the sign of the cross.

Back at camp everyone gathered around.

"What a chair!"

"That's beautiful!"

James beamed with pride.

That evening he sat in it beside the fire like a king upon his throne while the stories were told and the songs were sung. When the fire burned low, James carried the chair a few feet away before heading to bed.

Sometime after midnight...

Billy awoke.

Creek...

Slow.

Steady.

Rhythmic.

He nudged his mother: "Mam..."

"What is it?"

"Can you hear that?"

"It's only the fire dying."

Billy lay back. Then...

Mary heard it too.

Creek...

She sat upright: "James..."

James groaned: "what now?"

"Listen."

Silence.

Then...

Creek...

James opened his eyes: "The chair."

He climbed outside. There, beside the dying fire... The rocking chair moved gently backwards and forwards. Nobody was in it.

James looked around: "very funny!"

No answer, he walked over. There wasn't the slightest breeze, not a single leaf moved.

"It's only the wind" he muttered.

Even though there was none. To be safe, he lifted the chair into the back of the van.

"There."

"Let's see you rock now."

Less than half an hour later...

Creek...

James shot upright: "no..."

He ran outside. The chair... was back. Exactly where it had stood before.

Rocking.

Slowly.

Backwards.

Forwards.

Backwards.

Forwards.

James shouted across the camp: "very funny, boys!"

The men stumbled from their trailers.

"What happened?"

"You've moved the chair!"

One by one they all shook their heads.

"No one touched it."

James frowned. Someone had to be lying. He carried the chair back into the van once more -this time he locked the doors.

An hour later...

The sound returned.

Only louder.

CREAK...

James didn't even wake Mary. He was already outside. The van doors... were still locked. He opened them, the chair was gone. Behind him...

Creek...

He turned slowly, there it was. Rocking beside the fire…

Waiting.

James felt every hair on his neck stand up. Enough was enough, he grabbed a hammer. With one mighty swing...

CRACK!

Again.

CRACK!

Again.

CRACK!

The chair shattered into splinters. James gathered every piece, he threw them onto the fire.

The flames swallowed the wood.

"There."

"Now I'll get some sleep."

He had barely lain down.

Then...

Creek...

James froze.

"It can't be."

The whole camp was awake now, everyone stepped outside together. Nobody spoke.

There... In the middle of the fire... stood the rocking chair.

Perfect.

Whole.

Untouched.

Rocking gently inside the flames.

The fire did not burn it, the flames curled around it as though welcoming it home.

Then...

A shape appeared.

At first it looked like smoke.

Then...

A tall figure.

Darker than the night itself.

Its outline shimmered inside the fire: no face, no eyes - only darkness.

The air became bitterly cold.

Children began to cry, dogs whimpered and hid beneath the trailers. Then came a scream, not from a person, not from an animal - a sound so sharp and piercing it seemed to tear through the night itself.

The flames burst high into the morning sky.

The figure stood behind the rocking chair... its long hand resting gently upon its back.

Rock.

James shouted,

"Mary!" Get the children! We're leaving!"

Within minutes the fire was abandoned, horses were harnessed, engines started.

Trailers pulled away, no one looked back. Not one.

People still speak about that night.

Some say it was the Banshee warning Travellers away.

Others believe the chair belonged to someone who had never truly left it.

But among the old Traveller families, another story is told.

They say James ignored the oldest warning of all.

Never take home something whose story you do not know.

Some objects carry memories.

Some carry grief.

And a very few... carry something that refuses to let go.

They say the chair still waits, not in the antique shop, not on that old camp. But somewhere in Scotland...

Rocking.

Patiently.

Waiting for the next person who believes they have found themselves a bargain.

Retold with respect by

Tommy Bennett