Jamaican Duppies
Duppy stories are a part of growing up in Jamaica. Told in whispers after dark or around the light of a kerosene lamp, they speak of shadows in the bush, cold winds without reason, and things you should never answer when called at night. Some are ghost stories passed down as warnings. Others, like the tale of River Mumma or the Rolling Calf, live closer to legend—part myth, part memory. Whether whispered as caution or truth, they all carry the same understanding: not everything in this world can be explained.
In Jamaica, a duppy is believed to be a restless spirit, often the soul of someone who has died but not found peace—sometimes because proper rituals were not performed, or because of unfinished business. Duppies are said to roam at night, bringing chills, mischief, or even harm. Their stories, woven from African roots and local experience, are more than just tales of fright; they are a vital thread in Jamaica’s cultural fabric, teaching respect for the unseen and reminding each generation that the line between the natural and supernatural is never as clear as it seems.
Di Duppy down a Bamboo Walk (Patois / English)
Everybody who know ’bout Bamboo Walk know seh when night fall, yuh betta keep far from the old mango tree near Miss Mavis yard. Dem seh a deh so Mass Joe duppy roam—him restless, bitter, and hate fi see people pass after midnight.
One Friday night, mi bredda Shabba and me did a stroll home from a domino game down by the shop. Di moon was bright like floodlight, but the breeze have a deadness to it—cold and dry, like it pass through grave dirt. Even di dog dem quiet, like dem know better.
Shabba, always loud and full of false courage, seh, “Mi nuh fraid a no duppy, man. Mek we tek di shortcut pass di mango tree. Di long way too dark.”
Mi heart drop like stone inna mi belly, but mi nuh waan fi look soft, so mi follow him—though every step mi foot mek feel heavier than di one before.
As we approach the tree, mi notice something deh off. No breeze, but mi hear di leaf dem rustle like summ'n a whispa. Shabba laugh and seh, “A just ratbat, man.” But mi know ratbat caan talk, and mi sure mi hear mi name a whisper, but mi can't see where.
Just as we step under di mango tree, mi feel mi breath ketch. The air change—it get tick, heavy, like mi lungs a drown. Then... a low moan rise up from under the roots, long and mournful, like somebody a bawl from six foot deep.
Shabba freeze. “Yuh hear dat?” him whisper.
Before mi could answer, a shadow stretch out from behind the tree—tall, bony, and unnatural. It look like Mass Joe... but no man ever look so dry-up and stiff. Him hat lean same way, him long coat tear like burial cloth, and him eye dem—lawd—dem red like dem soak inna fire.
“Who wake mi from mi rest?” di duppy voice boom. It echo inna mi chest, like it a come from inside me.
Shabba drop him bag a bread and fall to him knees. “Sorry, Mass Joe! Wi never mean fi pass ya so!”
Mi hand dem cold like ice, mi knee dem weak, but mi remember wah mi granny always seh: “If yuh buck up duppy, cuss some big badwud and nuh look back!”
So mi holla two wicked badwud from deep inna mi belly and grab Shabba by him shirt. We run like judgement reach—wi foot nuh touch earth, mi swear.
When mi reach mi gate, mi turn one last time. Di mango tree still deh deh, but mi swear it did a shiff... like it lean in, watching. And the shadow—him never run. It just slowly fade, but mi could still feel him hate, like it follow wi home.
From dat night till now, mi and Shabba avoid Bamboo Walk like a plague. And if yuh pass that mango tree near midnight, yuh better keep yuh mouth shut and yuh eye dem forward. ‘Cause if Mass Joe ever think yuh looking for him... him a go surely find yuh.
Moral of di story: Listen to yuh elders, and nuh trouble duppy place after dark!
English Translation
▶ShowThe Ghost at Bamboo Walk
Everyone who knows about Bamboo Walk knows that once night falls, you should stay far away from the old mango tree near Miss Mavis’s yard. They say that’s where the ghost of Mass Joe wanders—restless, angry, and hateful of anyone who passes by after midnight.
One Friday night, my friend Shabba and I were walking home from a domino game down at the shop. The moon was bright like a spotlight, but the wind felt strange—cold and dry, like it had passed through a grave. Even the dogs were quiet, like they knew better.
Shabba, always loud and acting brave, said, “I’m not afraid of any ghost. Let’s take the shortcut past the mango tree. The long way’s too dark.”
My heart sank like a stone, but I didn’t want to seem scared, so I followed him—though every step felt heavier than the last.
As we got close to the tree, something felt off. There was no breeze, but I heard the leaves rustling like whispers. Shabba laughed and said, “It’s just a bat.” But I could swear I heard something whisper my name.
The moment we stepped beneath the mango tree, I felt my breath catch. The air grew thick and heavy, like I was drowning just by breathing. Then, a low moan rose from beneath the roots—long and mournful, like someone crying from inside a grave.
Shabba froze. “Did you hear that?” he whispered.
Before I could answer, a shadow stretched out from behind the tree—tall, skeletal, and wrong. It looked like Mass Joe... but no living person ever looked that dry and stiff. His hat leaned to the side, his long coat looked torn like burial cloth, and his eyes—God—were glowing red, like they’d been soaked in fire.
“Who disturbed my rest?” the ghost's voice boomed. It echoed in my chest like it came from inside me.
Shabba dropped his bag of bread and fell to his knees. “Sorry, Mass Joe! We didn’t mean to pass this way!”
My hands were cold, my knees felt weak, but I remembered what my grandmother always said: “If you run into a ghost, curse at it loudly and don’t look back!”
So I shouted two strong curse words from the depths of my belly and grabbed Shabba by his shirt. We ran like judgment day had come—we didn’t even touch the ground, I swear.
When I got to my gate, I looked back one last time. The mango tree was still there, but I could swear it had shifted... like it was leaning toward us, watching. And the shadow hadn’t chased us. It just faded slowly—but I could still feel its anger, like it followed us home.
From that night on, Shabba and I avoided Bamboo Walk after dark. And even now, if you pass that mango tree near midnight, you better keep your mouth shut and your eyes straight ahead. Because if Mass Joe thinks you’re looking for him... he will surely find you.
Moral of the story: Listen to your elders, and don’t go near haunted places after dark!
