Up on Croham Hurst. Snow on the ground, fog among the trees and me alone and terrified of ghosts. Of one ghost in particular. The ghost of an Edwardian lady rider who’d gone done the slope at full tilt and broken her neck. Friends said that if you scrabbled among the scree you could still find stones with her blood on.
This is as good as any Blackwood I've been reading! Very atmospheric and vivid.
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Date: 2004-10-22 07:01 pm (UTC)