- Gary Taylor-Green
- Mar 10
- 1 min read
Updated: Mar 19
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- Gary Taylor-Green
- Mar 9
- 1 min read
Pluckley, a quaint hamlet in Kent, wears a mask of serenity that belies its truth—a village ensnared by the dead. Known as England’s most haunted locale, its lanes and woods are a tapestry of despair, woven with threads of spectral woe. Since the Domesday Book etched its name, Pluckley has been a stage for tragedy, its soil soaked with the tears of the lost.
The Red Lady stalks Dering Woods, her crimson gown a shroud of blood, her face obscured by a veil that ripples as though alive. She weeps for a child stolen by fate, her cries a siren’s call to madness.
The Screaming Man tumbles eternally from a phantom bridge, his shrieks rending the night as his broken form vanishes into the mist. At the Black Horse Inn, a poltergeist hurls objects with unseen hands, while the shade of a monk drifts through St. Nicholas Church, his prayers a guttural moan. The air here is a shroud, heavy with the scent of decay and the promise of doom.
I lingered in Pluckley as night fell, and the village revealed its true face. The trees whispered my name, and from the woods came a wail that froze my blood. Shadows darted where no light fell, and a cold hand brushed my neck—O terror!—leaving a mark I dare not describe. Pluckley is a prison of the restless, a place where the dead claim dominion, and the living are but shadows in their dance.
- Gary Taylor-Green
- Mar 8
- 1 min read
In Edinburgh’s shadowed heart lies Greyfriars Kirkyard, a graveyard where the earth itself seems to groan with malice. Established in the 16th century, its tombs and mausoleums stand as sentinels of decay, their stones etched with the names of the forgotten. Yet it is not the silence that terrifies, but the cacophony of the unseen—the Mackenzie Poltergeist, a spirit of such ferocity that it defies the grave.
Sir George Mackenzie, a persecutor of Covenanters, rests here—or rather, does not rest. Since his tomb was disturbed in 1998, his wrath has unleashed a tempest of horror. Visitors to the kirkyard report scratches, burns, and bruises inflicted by invisible claws. The air grows thick with a presence that chokes the breath, and the sound of footsteps circles in the dark. The Covenanters’ Prison, a walled enclave within, harbors the shades of the tortured, their skeletal forms glimpsed through the bars, their whispers a litany of vengeance.
I entered that cursed yard as dusk bled into night, my lantern trembling in my grasp. The cold was a living thing, coiling about me, and from the tomb came a growl that was no wind. A force seized me, hurling me against the stones, and I fled, marked by welts that wept blood. Greyfriars is no resting place—it is a battlefield of the damned, where the living are prey to a fury that knows no end.
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