Page 9

‘Ah, with tales of Howling Gail, I don’t doubt,’ Ambrose said. ‘Tell me, dear, what did you make of the story? Do you think Gail managed to flee this village after possibly murdering her husband? Or did she die in the woods? Or perhaps even, as some suggest, in the basement of the inn?’

‘I haven’t really had time to think about it,’ Kelly said, absently touching the shortened section of hair where a lock had been cut away. ‘If you want the honest truth, it’s probably most likely just a story to draw in tourists.’

Ambrose laughed. ‘We’ll see how you feel about that at the end of the week,’ he said. ‘We’re still a few days away from the parade and Halloween itself, and the ghosts are still yet to stir. Now, without further ado, let me show you around a little and introduce you to one or two of our other ghostly hotspots.’

He led her up the road past the church and back into the village, down a couple of narrow alleyways she would have walked right past had he not pointed them out.

They made their way between lines of stone-walled houses so ancient that some of them appeared to be on the verge of collapse, leaning forwards as though bent and buckled beneath the weight of time.

Their roof eaves hung over the alleyways, creating more shadows and, in places, almost impenetrable darkness, where Kelly couldn’t help but feel a little on edge.

Once, something scuttled out from beneath her feet, making her scream, only for the meow of a cat to bring her back into reality.

And finally, on the edge of the village, Ambrose came to a stop next to a circular stone wall covered by a thick metal grate. About three feet across, it had a little wooden-framed slate roof over the top like something out of a storybook, with a pulley and a bucket, although the rope had been tied up and the pulley handle looked rusted solid. The stonework was ancient, covered with lichen and moss, and beneath the grate, green, brackish water dotted with lily pads, their edges curled and brown, rose to the level of the ground, making it appear like a small pond someone had built a wall around, rather than a traditional well. And on one side, there was a small arch in the bottom of the stonework, about the height of Kelly’s hand, out of which a trickle of water came, meandering through a narrow channel which connected with a nearby ditch.

‘This,’ Ambrose said, ‘is Briar Speckles’ famous Bottomless Well.’

‘Really?’ Kelly said.

She took out her phone and switched on the torch. Angling the light through the large diamond shapes of the grate, it illuminated the glint of coins lying a couple of feet below the murky water.

‘I can see the bottom, Ambrose. Look. It’s right there.’

Ambrose chuckled. ‘It’s not all bottomless, is it? Only some of it.’

‘So you’re saying there’s, like, a ledge?’

‘A ledge? Or perhaps a false bottom?’ Ambrose said, grinning like the only person in a group aware of a joke.

‘Wow. That is … intriguing,’ Kelly said, unable to keep a smile off her face. ‘Why is it considered bottomless?’

‘Some say that Briar Speckles was once the entrance to hell itself,’ Ambrose said. ‘This was where the condemned would come. One by one, they would jump into the well to wash their souls clean on the way down to spend eternity in damnation.’

‘How on earth could you ever get clean washing in that?’ Kelly said.

‘I suppose to the dead it appears cleaner.’

Kelly peered into the water. ‘Has anyone ever, you know, put on some scuba gear and had a look? Or put a stick in there to see how deep it goes?’

‘There’s no stick long enough. No oxygen tank big enough to find the bottom of the Bottomless Well,’ Ambrose said.

‘Except for that bit with all the coins on it,’ Kelly said.

‘I see we have an unbeliever.’ Ambrose chuckled again. ‘Well, let me take you to our next supernatural place, and we’ll see if you’re still unbelieving after we’ve been there.’

They walked on for a while until they reached the very edge of the village. The sun had almost set, and there was just a distant glow in the far western sky. The hangman’s tree was barely visible at all now against the night sky’s purplish hues, but a streetlight cast a glow along the path to a gate where Ambrose paused.

‘Here,’ he said, leaning on the wood, ‘is Lovers’ Gate.’

‘Lovers’ Gate?’ Kelly said.

‘Yes. When the wind blows, this gate creaks like the crying of two separated lovers.’

‘Really?’

‘Yes. You see, this gate marks the very edge of Briar Speckles, and across that field lies the boundary of the neighbouring parish, Pickleton.’

‘Pickleton?’