The Ghost in the Maten
De Maten, the vast marshland north-east of Hasselt, was a place people preferred to avoid after sundown. Among the reed beds and the silent ponds something sometimes stirred that was not the wind, and lights glowed that were no lanterns. Those who lived there knew the stories — and those who had to cross at night prayed as they walked.
1 The restless marsh
It began one evening in late autumn. A farmer returning from the market in Hasselt took the shorter path through the Maten, past the ponds and the reed beds. Halfway through he heard footsteps behind him — but every time he looked back, no one was there. The footsteps drew closer, grew louder, and then he felt a cold hand on his shoulder.
The farmer ran home and told his wife what had happened. She shook her head and said he was not the first. For weeks the people in the area had been complaining about strange things in the Maten: doors that flew open at night, the sound of a chain dragging across the ground, and a figure — vague and white — seen near the great thornbush at the end of the path.
2 The priest and the bush
The residents summoned the parish priest of Hasselt, an old man who had already witnessed more than he ever told. He listened to the testimonies, nodded slowly and said it was a ghost — someone who could not find rest, perhaps because of an unfulfilled promise or an unconfessed sin.
That night the priest went into the Maten alone, armed with nothing but his breviary and a small iron cross. At the thornbush he stopped and began to pray. The air turned icy cold, the water in the ponds started to bubble and the bush trembled as though an invisible hand were shaking it. Then the priest spoke the formula that had been used for centuries to bind restless spirits — words known to no one but the clergy.
3 Bound to the thorn
A sound like breaking ice rang out, and then there was silence. The bush stood motionless. The water lay flat again. The priest wiped the sweat from his brow, made the sign of the cross and walked back to the village.
From that night on, the ghost was no longer seen on the paths or near the houses. But the thornbush at the end of the path never grew again. It remained standing, year after year, bare and grey, like a skeleton against the sky. And those who passed by swore that sometimes — at full moon or on All Souls’ Day — they heard a soft moaning from its roots, as of someone dreaming in a sleep from which they could not awake.
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