A Jamaican Halloween Treat: Granny’s Duppy Stories

Halloween might not be a big thing in Jamaica — no pumpkin carving, trick-or-treating, or haunted houses in every community. But trust mi, we have our own kind of spooky — the real Jamaican duppy stories. From duppies and rolling calves to River Mumma and the White Witch of Rose Hall, Jamaicans have been telling chilling tales long before October 31 ever reach our shores.

If you missed it, check out last year’s feature, Spirits of Jamaica: Haunted Places and Folklore — a look at the eerie landmarks and legends that shape our island’s ghost stories.

Tonight though, we’re keeping things close to home, on Granny’s verandah, where stories sound sweeter under the full moon and bravery come in the form of a likkle white rum.

In this story, we tell our own version of Jamaican duppy stories — pure fiction inspired by island folklore, written to entertain, preserve, and pass on the spirit of our culture.

The moon was bright, the night still, and the old kerosene lamp flicker pon the verandah. Granny sit in her rocker, a sip of white rum warming her chest, while the children huddle close.
“Tonight,” she say, “is a good night fi talk ‘bout di tings dat walk when moon full.”

🪙 The Golden Table & River Mumma

Granny leaned back in her rocking chair, the lamplight flickering on her face. The night was quiet — except for the soft chirp of crickets and the hum of a faraway car making its way down Bog Walk Gorge.

“Mi chile,” she said, swirling the white rum in her enamel cup, “yuh ever notice how di Rio Cobre always look peaceful — but yuh spirit tell yuh fi nuh linger too long by Flat Bridge?”

Flat Bridge had always carried stories — stories older than the bridge itself. People said strange things happened there. Cars vanished without a trace, the water bubbled on clear days, and sometimes, if you looked too long, you’d swear you saw something shimmering just below the surface.

That shimmer, Granny said, wasn’t sunlight.

“Dem seh once every now and den, when midday sun beat pon di wata, a golden table rise up from di bottom — bright bright, like it a call fi yuh. But dat’s di mistake. Dat table nuh belong to man.”

She paused to take a sip. “It belong to River Mumma.”

Granny’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She guard di river, and dat table a har pride an joy. Any man fool enough fi try grab it, River Mumma pull dem straight down. Some say she keep dem fi company, others say she let dem go — but dem neva come back di same.”

People from all over used to come to see the table for themselves. Some claimed they only saw the glow. Others swore they heard a soft humming — a woman’s voice under the water, sweet and dangerous, warning them away.

Granny would rock gently and smile. “An still, every year, somebody get brave. One young fisherman from St. Catherine try him luck once. See di table shining like treasure an couldn’t resist. Him dive in before anybody could stop him.”

She stopped rocking, her voice low now. “By di time dem call him name, di wata start churn, di sun gone dim, and when it clear again — not a trace. Just him hat floating ‘pon top di river.”

She sighed. “From dat day, nobody inna di area even talk ‘bout treasure. Di golden table still rise, but only fi trick di greedy an test di foolhardy.”

Granny drained her cup, the ice clinking softly. “So mi seh, if yuh ever haffi cross Flat Bridge, drive straight. Don’t look down, don’t stop, an don’t answer if di river call yuh. Cause River Mumma still deh deh — guarding har gold, an waiting fi company.”

🕯️ The White Witch of Rose Hall

Granny lean back and tap her knee. “An if yuh tink dat bad, hear dis one,” she said with a half-smile. “Up a Montego Bay, long time, a woman name Annie Palmer use to live up a di big big house dem call Rose Hall. Pretty like sin, wicked same way. Dem seh she deal wid obeah, an even di workers did fraid fi call har name after dark.”

The lamplight flickered as Granny spoke. “Annie was rich, but power sweet har too much. She love control, an she love danger. Married three times — an dem three husband nuh live long fi tell di tale. Every time one dead, she dress up inna white gown an walk di hall dem wid candle inna hand, like she celebrating. But mi granny seh,” she added, lowering her voice, “it wasn’t candlelight alone dat shine — was di fire from di spirits she call fi help har.”

The children huddled closer. Granny’s eyes darted toward the shadows just beyond the verandah. “At night, when di sea breeze blow through Rose Hall, people seh yuh can still hear har voice calling out fi one of dem — ‘John! Robert! Joseph!’ — di same man dem she send to di grave. An sometimes, di gate open by itself, like it still waiting fi somebody come home.”

She took a slow sip of rum and continued. “Years after she dead, workers who guard di place seh dem see har pon di balcony — white dress glowing bright-bright inna di moonlight, candle still inna hand, just watching di cane field. Some even claim seh dem hear footstep echo ‘pon di stairs when di house empty.”

Granny chuckle soft, that mischievous laugh that mean she half-believe every word. “Mi nah know ‘bout unuh, but mi nuh stay out late up deh. Di White Witch love company, an if yuh brave enough fi visit Rose Hall, mind yuh nuh answer when yuh hear har call yuh name.”

Then she smiled and leaned back in her chair, the crickets filling the silence that followed. “Mi always tell people, duppy know who fi frighten — an Annie Palmer still proving dat.”

🕯️ Granny’s Closing Words: Duppy Know Who Fi Frighten

By the time Granny’s stories ended, the moon would be high and the lamp burning low. The children would cling to each other, pretending to be brave, and Granny would smile knowingly.

She’d take one last sip of rum and say, “Mi nah tell yuh fi believe everything, but memba — duppy know who fi frighten.”

That was Granny’s gift — her way of passing down the lessons hidden between the laughter and the goosebumps. In her stories, fear was never just about ghosts. It was about respect — for nature, for the unseen, and for the wisdom passed down through generations.

So this Halloween, light a candle, pour a little white rum, and listen for Granny’s voice in the wind. Somewhere under that Jamaican moon, she’s still telling stories.

Until next time, Walk Good.