Rolling Calf
The Rolling Calf is one of the most feared duppies in Jamaican folklore—a monstrous, fiery-eyed creature said to roam country roads at night, dragging heavy chains behind it. Often described as a large black bull or goat with blazing red eyes and steel hooves, the Rolling Calf is believed to be the spirit of a wicked person, especially one who was dishonest in life. It is said to block travelers’ paths, chase wrongdoers, and bring misfortune to those who cross it. But don’t look back—those who stand their ground or call its bluff might escape.
The Night Mi Run Into the Rolling Calf (Patois / English)
Mi still cyaah sleep straight from dat night. Di night mi see di Rolling Calf fi mi own eye.
It all started out normal. Mi cousin died about a week ago, so mi decide fi go to him nine night over by Mount Carey. Mi end up leavin after midnight and decide fi tek the shortcut through the bush track fi reach mi yard. Mi know mi shoulda tek the main road—but mi tell miself it would be alright.
But as mi step inna dat bush track, mi feel it.
Di kinda quiet weh too quiet. Not even crickets. Just mi footstep pon di dry leaf dem under my foot, an mi own heartbeat a knock like duppy drum.
Mi did nearly reach di bend near di old stone ruins—di one weh dem seh was a slave graveyard—when mi smell it.
Hot metal. Sulphur. Blood.
Den mi hear it.
Clank... clank... CLANK.
Like a ol' iron gate a drag over rockstone.
Mi freeze. Mi mouth tun dry. Mi try fi whisper a prayer but mi tongue curl up like dead leaf.
Outta di dark—two red light pierce mi like knife.
Not light. Eye.
Eye weh look like dem born in hell.
The ting step out.
A bull. Massive an black like sin. Horn long an curve like cutlass.
i could si the flame dem inna him nostril. Chain wrap round him neck, an every time him move, di chain dem scrape an spark like fire a forge.
It nuh charge yet. It just stare. Den it talk.
Voice low, gravelly, not from throat but from the earth.
"Mi deh yah long before unnu born. A who bold enough fi walk mi road?"
Mi try fi move but mi foot feel like it nail to ground.
Then—BOOM!
Him stamp, an di flame shoot from him mouth like a dragon.
Mi run. Mi run so hard mi chest start fi burn. Tree limb a tear at mi face, but mi cyaah stop.
Mi coulda feel di heat behind mi, hear di chain dem a lash like whip. Mi know seh if him ketch mi, a gone mi soul gone.
Mi reach di crossroad when mi hear mi Granny voice echo inna mi head:
“Fling di silver. Cuss di cuss and don’t look back.”
Mi fling mi only coin an drop one curse mi neva even know mi memba.
Silence.
Mi look back.
Smoke. No bull. No flame.
Just chain mark inna di dirt, an di smell of burn still inna di air.
From dat night mi nuh tek shortcut again.
Mi lock up early.
An mi warn everybody—if yuh hear chain, run. If yuh smell sulphur, pray.
Because di Rolling Calf still roam, an him remember face.
English Translation
▶ShowThe Night I Ran Into the Rolling Calf
I still can't sleep properly since that night. The night I saw the Rolling Calf with my own eyes.
It started normal. I had just left my cousin’s wake up near Mount Carey, and I had to walk back through a bush track to get home. I knew I should’ve taken the main road—but I was stubborn and told myself I could handle anything.
But as I stepped into that bush path, I felt it.
That kind of quiet that’s too quiet. Not even crickets. Just my footsteps on dry leaves, and my own heartbeat knocking like a duppy drum.
I was almost at the bend near the old stone ruins—the one they say was a slave burial ground—when I smelled it.
Hot metal. Sulphur. Blood.
Then I heard it.
Clank... clank... CLANK.
Like an iron gate being dragged over stones.
I froze. My mouth went dry. I tried to whisper a prayer, but my tongue shriveled up like a dead leaf.
Out of the dark—two red lights pierced me like knives.
Not lights. Eyes.
Eyes that looked like they were born in hell.
Then it stepped out.
A bull. Massive. Black as sin. Horns long and curved like a machete.
Flames curled out of its nostrils. Chains wrapped around its neck, and every time it moved, the chains scraped and sparked like a blacksmith’s forge.
It didn’t charge right away. It just stared—and spoke.
Its voice was low, gravelly, not coming from its throat but from the ground.
“I’ve been here long before you were born. Who dares walk my road?”
I tried to move, but my feet felt nailed to the earth.
Then—BOOM!
It stomped, and fire shot from its mouth like a dragon.
I ran. I ran so hard my chest burned. Tree branches tore at my face, but I couldn’t stop.
I could feel the heat behind me, hear the chains whipping like lashes. I knew if it caught me, my soul was gone.
I reached the crossroads. My grandmother’s voice echoed in my head:
“Throw the silver. Curse out loud. Don’t look back.”
I threw my only coin and shouted a curse I didn’t even know I remembered.
Silence.
I looked back.
Smoke. No bull. No fire.
Just drag marks in the dirt, and the smell of burning still in the air.
Since that night, I don’t take shortcuts anymore.
I lock up early.
And I warn everyone—if you hear chains, run. If you smell sulphur, pray.
Because the Rolling Calf still roams, and it remembers faces.
