Happy Samhain, beauties! This season, as the shadows grow longer and the chill of autumn settles in, there’s nothing like an Irish ghost story to set the mood. Tonight, we’re journeying to a forgotten part of Ireland, a place where shadows cling to walls and whispers linger in the dark. So, settle in with your cuppa, maybe light a candle…and let’s walk into the legend of The House of the White Lady.

The Story of the House of the White Lady

Down a forgotten road in Ireland’s countryside stands a house that has all but been abandoned to time. The ivy has crept over the windows, twisting around the door like hands that would keep intruders out. The locals know better than to speak of it openly, avoiding its name and glancing away if asked directions. It’s just “that house,” the one with the White Lady who never left.

They say she was a young woman once, a beauty whose laughter could fill the rooms and whose love for life was palpable. She lived here, back when the walls were fresh and the floors still creaked with life rather than death. But the house changed one night—a night when her heart was broken, and betrayal left her spirit bound in sorrow. They say she died here, alone and betrayed, her heartache twisting into something darker, binding her to the very walls that once held her dreams.

Since then, many have seen her. And those who dared to spend the night…well, they have tales they’d rather forget.

The Encounters

They say that the first sign is always the cold. No matter how many blankets you wrap around yourself or fires you stoke, it seeps into your bones, leaving you frozen. It’s a chill that isn’t of this world, an emptiness that feels almost sentient. Then, there’s the silence. Every sound dulls to a hush as if the world itself is holding its breath.

And then, she comes.

They say she appears in the dead of night, a figure barely visible at first—a faint outline at the end of the corridor, a shadow just beyond the door. You might see her out of the corner of your eye, standing still, as though waiting. Her pale, translucent face bears a sadness so deep it could drown you. Her gown, once beautiful, trails behind her like mist on water, flowing and shifting as she drifts closer.

If you look away and dare glance back, she may be gone. But her presence stays, an overwhelming sorrow that settles over you like a weight pressing on your chest, a sadness that feels as if it’s seeping into your very bones. Some say it’s her way of sharing her pain, of binding others to her own endless despair.

But there are some, the ones truly unfortunate, who swear she looked straight at them, her eyes as hollow as death itself. Her gaze is like ice, and for a terrible moment, they say, you feel everything she felt—the betrayal, the heartbreak, the endless ache that binds her here. It’s enough to leave a person silent, to drain the very courage from their soul.

For those who see her, her image is never forgotten, lingering in their minds long after they’ve left the house and its haunted halls behind. And when Samhain comes again, they remember her, fearing that one day, she might follow.

So, beauties, as you celebrate Samhain and honour those who’ve passed, remember her story. Some spirits, it seems, are never truly gone, and the past…well, it’s closer than we think.

Blessings on this Samhain night. Let her story remind you to tread lightly where the shadows lie.

Lydia.