The Sköllkin

Collected from a book of Scandinavian folk tales. Nashua Public Library, 1910. Original source unknown.

Something stalks the forest deep, 
Where shadows twist and grow, 
Its name we dare not speak aloud, 
But into darkness I must go.

It watches with its blackened fur,
 Its eyes like pools of blood, 
This is the beast I warn thee of— 
The Sköllkin from the wood.

If you hear a voice at night 
That sounds like those you love, 
Do not open wide the door 
No matter what you're dreaming of.

If you see a shape that walks Like mother, father, kin, 
Look close upon the feet and eyes 
Before you let them in.
For Sköllkin wears a borrowed face, 
It steals the voice of those you trust, 
It mimics all that love should be 
And turns your faith to dust.

Its voice may come like honey sweet, 
Its words may ring as true, 
But something in the sound feels wrong— 
A scraping coming through.

Its feet are black as burnt-out coals, 
Its eyes are red as flame, 
And when you feel that creeping doubt, 
Do not ignore that shame.

Skin and bone and breath it takes,
It eats both fast and slow, 
And sleeps content with swollen 
gut Where children used to grow.

Should dawn arrive and I not come, 
Do not wait, do not stay, 
Run until the trees grow thin 
And night gives way to day.

And if I return with altered face, 
If arms feel strange and cold, 
If words are right but wrong somehow,
If love feels bought, not old—
Then leave me standing in the snow, 
And bar the door once more, 
A mother lost to winter's bite 
Is kinder than that horror.

The mother left at break of day, 
Her children locked inside, 
They watched her figure fade to gray 
Where forest shadows hide.

It was not long before they heard 
A knocking at the door, "Children dear," called out a voice, 
"Your mother's home once more."

But something in the voice was wrong, 
It scraped like stone on stone, 
"You are not our mother!" cried 
The children, all alone.
"Your voice is rough, your words are harsh, 
You are the Sköllkin beast!" 
The creature snarled and slunk away 
To find a sweeter feast.

It went unto the beekeeper's hive 
And drank the honey deep, 
Until its voice grew soft and kind, 
Like mothers sing to sleep.

Again it came and knocked the door, 
"My darlings, let me in, I'm cold and tired, 
I've traveled far, 
My journey's wearing thin."
But clever children looked below 
And saw through crack of wood 
Two feet as black as burnt-out coals 
Where mother's pale feet stood.

"You are not our mother!" they cried, 
"Your feet betray your lie! 
You are the Sköllkin come to feast— 
We'll watch you starve and die!"

Again the creature slunk away, 
But it did not despair, 
It went unto the miller's shop 
And rolled in flour there.
It covered every blackened toe, 
It whitened every nail, 
And when the children looked again 
They saw their mother's trail.

This time the voice was soft and sweet, 
The feet were clean and white, 
"Please, my darlings, I am weak, 
I've wandered through the night."

The children looked at one another, 
Uncertain what to do, 
For everything appeared correct— 
The words, the voice rang true.
"If you won't let me in," it begged, 
"At least give me some bread, 
Some water or a cup of broth— 
Without it I'll be dead."

The youngest child, with tender heart, 
Could bear the pleading no more, 
"I'll only crack it just an inch," 
And opened wide the door.
The Sköllkin smiled with mother's face 
And stepped across the stone,
 And once inside, the mask fell off— 
The children were not alone.

Its back grew hunched, its teeth grew sharp, 
Its eyes began to gleam, 
And one by one it took the six 
Who couldn't run or scream.

It swallowed whole their little bones, 
It swallowed skin and hair, 
And when its belly filled and swelled 
It slept without a care.

Only the smallest child escaped, 
Who hid inside the clock, 
And listened to the silence fall 
Like heavy winter's shock.

The smallest child crept from his hide 
When all was still and dead, 
He looked upon the empty room 
And ran outside with dread.

Deep in the forest, through the trees, 
He found a hunter's track, 
A woodsman strong with silver blade 
Who vowed to bring them back.

"The Sköllkin has devoured my kin, 
My mother and my own, 
Please help me slay this wicked beast 
And bring my loved ones home."

The hunter knew the Sköllkin's ways, 
He'd tracked its kind before, 
"We'll find it sleeping by the creek 
With belly fat and sore."

They crept through brush and over stone 
Until they found it there, 
Asleep beside the water's edge, 
Its belly bloated, bare.

The hunter took his sharpest blade 
And cut along the seam, 
And out came tumbling, one by one, 
The children from the dream.

The mother too spilled from inside, 
All living, breathing still, 
For Sköllkin swallows victims whole 
To savor later's kill.

"Quick now," whispered hunter wise, 
"Before the beast awakes, 
We'll fill its belly full of stones 
From river's bed and lakes."

They gathered heavy river rocks 
And stuffed them deep within, 
The mother sewed the belly tight 
With thread and steady grin.

The Sköllkin woke with thirst so great 
It stumbled to the shore, 
But stones were heavy in its gut— 
It couldn't rise once more.

It toppled forward, hit the stream, 
And sank beneath the black, 
The weight of stones dragged down, down, down, 
And it never did come back.

The mother and her children seven 
Returned home safe that day, 
And never spoke the Sköllkin's name 
From then until today.