Ghosts, Scares and Things that go Bump in the Night

    The fog slowly rolled thick over the moors, swallowing the old stone road, Erica pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders, her boots sinking into the damp earth with every step, she’d taken this shortcut to reach her grandmother’s cottage before nightfall, but now, as the light faded to a murky grey, she wondered if she had made a terrible mistake. The local villagers had warned her to never travel the moors after dark, whispering tales of Jack-in-irons, a restless spirit bound by chains, doomed to wander the lonely paths and moors, searching for something he could never find. At first, the silence was the worse part, no birds singing, the wind that was once rustling the heather had now stopped. The only sound now was Erica’s breathing and the crunching of the stones under her boots. Then she heard it; a faint, dull clank, like iron striking a stone. She froze to the spot, straining her ears, it came again, slower, this time, heavier clank… drag… clank… drag… ...

The afternoon sun hung low, casting long, golden shadows across the rolling hills that mark the divide between Wales and England. For Tom, Dave, and Elias, the hike had been perfect so far—crisp air, sweeping views, and easy conversation as they followed the ancient footpath. They had covered nearly six miles, their legs steady, their spirits high, when the landscape shifted.  The open moorland gave way to overgrown hedgerows and rough pasture, and there, tucked into a hollow between two slopes, stood the ruins. It was the skeleton of an old farmhouse, stone walls half-collapsed, roof long gone, timber beams rotting and blackened by weather. Around it lay the remains of outbuildings and what must have once been a yard, now choked with brambles and tall, yellowed grass. It looked as though it had been abandoned for decades, maybe even a century or more—silent, still, and reclaimed by the land. And yet, as they drew closer, Elias stopped short, lifting his head like a blood hound cat...