Lietuvēns

The horse was fine at dusk. By the grey of the following morning it stood trembling in its stall, flanks dark and wet, mane worked into hard knots, eyes rolling as though it had run all night without ever leaving the barn. The farmer knew what had come. Something had ridden his animal to the edge of collapse between midnight and cockcrow, and it had gone back out through the same crack in the boards it had come in by.

In Latvian belief the culprit had a name. Lietuvēns. It came through keyholes and knotholes, through any gap a draught could find, and it laid its whole weight on whatever slept. On a sleeping man it pressed the chest until the breath thinned to nothing and the body would not obey the mind’s screaming order to move. On horses and cattle it climbed astride and rode, and this is why the barns suffered worse than the bedrooms. Cows gave sour milk. Horses aged in a night.

It was not a demon in the ordinary sense. It was a dead person with no business still being here. The stories hold that a Lietuvēns is the soul of someone killed before their time, strangled or drowned or hanged, condemned to walk out the full span of years that the violence had stolen. Others say it is the soul of a child who died unbaptized, turned loose without a name to hold it in place. Either way the thing carries the grievance of a life cut short, and it takes that grievance out on the living and their beasts.

Those who claimed to have glimpsed it described something small and pitiful, a labored little figure with the look of a sickly child, light on its feet and gone in an instant. It came at noon as readily as at midnight, though the dark was its usual hour. Now and then it wore another shape, that of an ugly, spiteful woman with the bearing of a village witch, but the child-form was the one people expected to feel rather than see. One thing never changed. A Lietuvēns always left by the exact opening it had used to get in, and if that opening were closed against it, the creature was caught.

That single flaw handed the farmhouses their best trick. A householder who woke under the weight, or who found his beast lathered again at dawn, would wait for the next visit and then stop the gap. The wood had to be mottled, cut with the left hand, carried in thick end first, and the whole business done in the dark once the thing was already inside. With no way out, the cornered Lietuvēns would often drop its wretched shape and stand there transformed into a beautiful young woman, patient, waiting, until someone reopened the hole. The moment the wood came free, she was gone.

Against a creature that entered through gaps, people drew a barrier over every gap. The lietuvēna krusts, the Lietuvēns’ cross, went onto doors and thresholds and window frames, onto the hooves of horses and the horns of cattle, even scratched into a sufferer’s own fingernails. In its simple form it was a five-pointed star; doubled, it became the auseklis, the morning star, the sign of light driving back the dark. But the mark obeyed one unforgiving rule. It had to be drawn in a single unbroken motion. Lift the hand partway through and the cross was worthless, and the thing could walk into a house that believed itself guarded.

The barn had its own rougher defenses. A knife, a comb, or a scythe laid along an animal’s back gave the rider something to wound itself on, for the Lietuvēns could be cut by blades. Grease the beast’s back and the creature got no purchase and slid off. A slit in the animal’s right ear seemed to put it off entirely, and anyone quick enough to seize the thing had to grab it behind the animal’s left ear and strike it with a rowan stick, after which it kept well away.

Its strength was really the sleeper’s own body turned against him. It needed no weapon. It pressed, and the pressing stole breath and strength alike, leaving the victim slick with sweat and hollowed out by first light. It could pass through solid walls by way of any flaw in them, and often it could not be seen at all, only felt, a suffocating mass with a will behind it.

Its weaknesses were as odd as its habits. It would not touch anyone or anything born in the daytime. It could not cross a properly drawn cross, could not leave by any door but its own, and could be broken off mid-attack by the smallest act of defiance: a sleeper who managed to twitch the little toe or the big toe of the left foot shattered the grip, and the Lietuvēns bolted at once. The lasting cure was gentler than folklore’s usual cruelty. Find the restless bones, bury them in the churchyard with honor, and the soul is released for good. They said that at the very moment of that burial a storm would rise and lightning would strike, the sky’s way of carrying the poor lost thing home.

Frequently Asked Questions

What is the Lietuvēns in Latvian mythology?

The Lietuvēns is a nightmare spirit of Latvian folklore, the restless soul of a dead person that slips into houses and barns through keyholes and cracks to press down on sleepers and ride livestock. It is Latvian tradition’s explanation for sleep paralysis and for the strange exhaustion of farm animals found sweating and worn out at dawn.

Where does the Lietuvēns come from?

The Lietuvēns is said to be the soul of someone who was murdered before their time, whether strangled, drowned, or hanged, and who is cursed to remain in the world for the full lifespan the violence cut short. In another version it is the soul of a child who died unbaptized. In both cases it is a dead spirit that never properly departed.

How do you protect against or get rid of a Lietuvēns?

The strongest protection is the lietuvēna krusts, a five-pointed star or doubled morning-star (auseklis) drawn in one unbroken stroke over doors, thresholds, and even animals’ hooves. Animals can also be guarded with a knife, comb, or scythe laid on their back, or with grease so the creature cannot grip. A person under attack can break free simply by moving the little or big toe of the left foot.

Why does the Lietuvēns attack horses and cattle?

The Lietuvēns climbs onto sleeping livestock and rides them through the night, which leaves horses and cattle trembling, sweat-soaked, knotted-maned, and drained of strength by morning. Folklore records these barnyard attacks more often than attacks on people, and blames the creature for sour milk and animals that seem to age overnight.

Is the Lietuvēns the same as sleep paralysis?

In Latvian belief, the sensation of sleep paralysis, being pinned by a crushing weight and unable to move or breathe, was understood as a Lietuvēns lying on the sleeper’s chest. The tradition even holds that the creature spares anyone born during the day, and that the smallest movement of the left foot’s toe drives it away.

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