“The Itchiest Folklore in Bulgaria: A Pirin Mountain Legend”

The people of Bansko will tell you, quite firmly, that there are no monsters in the Pirin National Park. This is said with the same confidence one might use when denying that a cousin ever borrowed money and forgot to return it.

If you ask again — perhaps after a glass of Rakia, or once the stove has begun to crackle in a way that encourages honesty — they may concede that there is something. Not a monster, exactly. Just a presence.

Something that has been there longer than the ski lifts, the hotels, and certainly longer than the tourist information office, which once attempted to rebrand the matter as “a regional biodiversity anomaly” and then quietly stopped answering emails.

They say that long before the roads cut through the pines of Pirin, before Bansko learned the phrase après-ski, there was already something living high above the tree line.

The old shepherds called it nothing at all. You do not properly name such things.

You only speak around them, carefully, as though the words themselves might itch if handled poorly.

The creature was man-shaped but not a man — broad as a door and hunched as if it carried the mountain on its back out of habit. Its hair was matted with resin and snow, its skin cracked by wind so old it no longer bothered with cold. It could walk upright when it wished, but more often it lingered half-bent, pacing the forest edges like something that had never quite settled into its own body.

There is a story — always told with lowered voices and unnecessary throat-clearing — that the creature once angered a Samodiva, or possibly a mountain spirit older than the stones and in a notably unforgiving mood. No one agrees how it happened. Some say he laughed at her song. Others insist he stole warmth that was not meant for men or beasts. One man claims it was a misunderstanding involving soup.

Whatever the truth, the punishment was small but eternal.

“You will never rest,” the spirit is said to have told him, “and neither will the mountain forget you.”

And with that, she cursed him with an itch. Not a dramatic one. Not even a heroic one. Just an itch in a place one would very much prefer not to itch for the rest of eternity.

So he scratches.

Not openly. Not shamelessly. Always with the embarrassment of something that knows it has been seen. Hunters claim you hear him before you see him: the shuffle of heavy feet, the scrape of bark, the sudden, awkward pause when he realises he is not alone. If you catch a glimpse, he will turn away at once, shoulders tight, as though ashamed to have been caught mid-habit by a stranger and several pine trees.

Tourists eventually gave him a name — Sack’n’Cracken, they laughed — and the name stuck, because that is how these things work. The locals pretend not to hear it. Elderly men in taverns insist he once had a proper, ancient name, but admit they cannot remember it and would not repeat it if they could. “Names give ideas,” one will mutter, which is usually the end of the discussion.

Despite his reputation, Sack’n’Cracken is said to be helpful in small ways. He scares off bears, returns lost hikers to the correct path (after standing uncomfortably close behind them for several minutes), and has been known to unblock frozen pipes near mountain huts. In return, the locals leave offerings: bread, cheese, and occasionally a pair of gloves, for reasons no one fully explains and no one wishes to ask about.

Hunters insist you never see him directly. Instead, you notice movement behind a tree, followed by a sudden stillness, as if someone has frozen in place, reconsidering their life choices. The locals say this is because Sack’n’Cracken is not aggressive.

Merely mortified.

If you walk alone in Pirin and hear heavy footsteps behind you, do not panic.

Walk steadily.

Do not turn around suddenly. And under no circumstances should you laugh.

The mountain has a sense of humour.

The creature does not.

If you are curious, and would like to go off the beaten track, take a winter walk on the wild side in search of the Sack'n'Craken, then get in touch with Pirin Pathfinders Bansko. Our trusty mountain dog guide, The Shadows is adept at tracking him down and also keeping him at bay...