The Brede Valley Haunting

They say the river keeps its own counsel. Long before the Hall was built on the hill, before the church spire rose above the marshes, before the smugglers carved their paths through the reeds, the River Brede flowed in silence — tidal, restless, and watchful. The sea breathed in and out through its winding channels, and the valley lived by the rhythm of that breath. Old folk in Winchelsea still whisper that the river remembers every secret ever carried on its tide. They tell of nights when the mist rises thick and low, and a lantern glimmers on the hill where no house now stands. They speak of footsteps on the church path long after the church itself fell to ruin. They warn travellers not to linger by the water when the tide turns, for that is when the past stirs, and the dead walk closest to the living. Some say it is only the wind. Some say it is only the marsh birds. Some say it is only the stories of frightened men. But others — the ones who have heard the whisper of water beneath the earth, the ones who have seen a figure standing where no man should stand — they know better. For the Brede Valley has been haunted ever since the night the Hall burned, and four men met their fate in the dark waters of the tide. And though the years have passed, and the marshes have swallowed the ruins, the river has not forgotten. It never does.