Kludde

Two small blue flames drift along the towpath a little ahead of walking pace, low to the ground and steady in a wind that should have put them out. A man following the Dender home from Aalst sees them and thinks, for half a breath, of a lantern swinging in someone’s hand. There is no hand. There is no one on the path at all. The flames are eyes, and the thing they belong to is already behind him.

This is how the Kludde makes itself known in the flat wet country of Brabant and Flanders, where the rivers move slow and green and the fog climbs off the water at dusk. It has no face a person could describe afterward, because it never keeps one. On a given night it might be a lean black dog dragging a length of chain, a bony horse standing patient at a ford, a sheep, a cat, a bat, a frog, or a sapling so thin you would step over it without a second glance. The shape changes. The two blue flames never do. Whatever the Kludde has chosen to become, those cold lights swim in front of it, and a traveler who knows the old warnings is afraid the moment he sees them.

The creature is named for the sound it makes. When it has fooled someone, or when it turns to flee, it cries out “Kludde, Kludde,” and the word follows the victim down the dark as closely as the thing itself. The call earned it its name across the whole region, from Merchtem to Dendermonde, where it is said to live in the river Dender and to drink the green standing water of the ponds.

Its favourite trick is the back-ride. In the shape of a black dog or a shaggy man-wolf it springs onto a lone walker’s shoulders from behind, clamps down, and rides there while the person staggers under a weight that keeps increasing, until the victim is wrestled to the ground and the thing is simply gone, laughing somewhere in the reeds. The other trick is gentler to begin with and worse at the end. It stands by a ford as a tired, harmless-looking horse, waits to be mounted, and the instant a rider settles it bolts full tilt for the nearest water and pitches him in. Then it lies on its belly on the bank and laughs, long and loud, while the man thrashes in the cold. It will not leave until he has hauled himself out. There is also the tree: a small delicate sapling that grows, as you watch, until its crown is lost in the clouds, purely to unnerve whoever is standing beneath it. That one seems to be for its own amusement.

Where it came from, the stories do not agree. The first notable account was set down in 1840 at Ternat by the Baron de Saint-Genois, and by then the Kludde was already old in local mouths. Some hold that it rose from the burned bodies of witches and wizards. In Ostend it is reckoned a necker or nix, a water-spirit; out in the open flatland people simply called it a werewolf. One telling says the folk of Aalst once drove it off their stretch of the Dender, and it settled downstream at Dendermonde instead. The demon, in other words, was chased out of one town and took up residence in the next.

To meet it on the road is to lose any contest of wits or speed. It moves at a pace no one can measure, and it can wind and double like a snake, so trying to outmanoeuvre it only tires the runner. Laying hands on it is like grabbing at air, and the grab leaves burns on the palms. It can show itself to one person and stay invisible to their companion, which drove travelers half mad as they raved about the shape at their heels while everyone else saw an empty lane. For all that, it is more tormentor than killer, and its pranks are cruel rather than final.

Its limits are the old ones. It keeps to the night and the water and the mist, and it will not come near a cross or onto consecrated ground. The sign of the cross unmakes its hold. A traveler who reached a churchyard wall, or who simply climbed out of the pond it had thrown him into, would find the blue flames gone and the laughter with them. It does not follow onto holy earth. So people going home late kept the shape of the nearest chapel in their minds, and listened, under the frogs and the moving water, for a voice crying its own name.

Frequently Asked Questions

What is the Kludde?

The Kludde is a shapeshifting night-demon from the folklore of Brabant and Flanders in Belgium. It has no fixed form, appearing as a chained black dog, a phantom horse, a sheep, cat, bat, frog, or an impossibly tall tree, and it torments travelers who cross the misty river country alone after dark.

How do you recognise the Kludde if it can change shape?

The one constant across all of Kludde’s forms is a pair of dancing blue flames that float just ahead of it, which are its eyes. No matter what animal or object the Kludde becomes, those cold blue lights give it away, and a traveler who sees them knows the demon is near.

Why is it called the Kludde?

The creature takes its name from the cry it makes. Whenever it has tricked a victim or is running away, it shouts “Kludde, Kludde,” and that call, heard across Brabant and Flanders, became the name people used for it.

How can you escape or defend against the Kludde?

The Kludde cannot approach a cross or step onto consecrated ground, and making the sign of the cross breaks its hold. Reaching a churchyard or simply climbing out of the water it has thrown you into will make it vanish, since it will not follow onto holy earth. Trying to outrun or grab it does not work, as it moves too fast, winds like a snake, and feels like empty air that burns the hands.

Is the Kludde deadly?

The Kludde is more a tormentor than a killer, and most of its tricks are cruel pranks rather than fatal attacks. It rides victims to exhaustion, flings riders into ponds, and terrifies people with sudden transformations, though some tellings warn that it drags children into the water, so it was genuinely feared.

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