Though Some Deem Me Wicked, I Am Not Sorry

I am very Scottish and this brings me immense satisfaction. My maternal grandfather’s line stretches all the way back to clan Ewing (spelled various ways). My paternal grandmother’s line stretch back to clan Campbell. Being Scottish is pretty rad if you ask me. I like Scotch eggs. I like pints of ale. I like redheads and bagpipes and kilts. I also love the pictures of the rolling hills covered in heather and thistle…

I mean, this is pretty much me in real life:

But what has me jazzed today is finding out that one of the scariest women of all history lived in Scotland.

Oh, hush. She’s of no relation to me.

Ready for this?


The scariest woman of all history was named Violet Spears.


My Great grandmother’s maiden name was Spears…but she was French.

Anyway, back to Violet.

Violet was born Elgin, Scotland in 1839. She was a sprightly child with a wide scope for imagination. She loved to draw and dance and sing and perform her own theatrical productions for her family. All that changed when she married at the young age of fifteen. By the time she was 22, she had four children. For a girl with so much love of life, beauty, adventure and creativity, this couldn’t have been easy.

Violet was tired of having children and apparently made it impossible to chance becoming pregnant by refusing her husband’s advances. Rumors had it that because of this, her husband began to stray. But not for long. Tragically, he met his death during a hunting accident. Violet was only 33 years-old when she became a widow.

As was the custom of the day, Violet and her children went into their mourning period. They lived with her sister and remained cloistered away from society—surrounded by gloomy darkness and black clothes. Again, Violet was forced to forgo the colorful parts of herself that loved to be put on display and entertain boisterous crowds. But on the second anniversary of her husband’s death, the day the mourning would end, Violet ran away and never wore black again.

Violet didn’t take her children with her. Perhaps mothering was to dull for her? Whatever the case, she ran away without telling her family where she had gone or where she would be. She built a new life for herself—one in which she would be the center of attention and be able to entertain as vivaciously as she pleased. But not only did she build a new life for herself, but also a new home deep down in the dark, damp depths of the Edinburgh vaults.

Violet, the great entertainer that she was, and with her penchant for theatrics, began to perform seances for Edinburgh locals. She employed new technology to make her seances top-notch, including this little trick:

Violet required those that attended her seances to contribute to a blood ritual. She collected some blood from all those in attendance and drank it, claiming that it renewed and refreshed her--bringing to her very spirit something she had been lacking. Soon, she had quite the following and many adoring fans came to live with her underground too, calling themselves The Hive. Violet was their queen.

The Hive members took over the nightlife of Edinburgh and lured curious bystanders into their lairs, getting them drunk and high and gaining access to their blood. Soon, those that visited The Hive all bore the tell-tale mark of the bloodletting device used to gently open the vein.

The Hive was everything that spooky legends are made of until a government official’s son was killed by an infection due to bloodletting. Soon, The Hive broke up, but Violet lived on in the vaults as comfortable as she could with only a handful of faithful admirers. When she died, she was refused burial on consecrated ground. Her loyal friends buried her and made the grave marker on their own.

What were Violet’s final thoughts on her deathbed? Well, she left this confession behind:

I poisoned my fifth child in the womb. I am not sorry.
I plugged the barrel of my husband’s rifle. I am not sorry.
I am sorry for poor Daniel’s death, I should have looked after him better.
Except for these, I hurt no one, though I am deemed by some to be wicked.

I am not sorry.

Yeah. I am proud to be Scottish.


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