The village of Pluckley south east of London, Great Britain, is brimming with ghosts. In a country with numerous hauntings, this place is even more significant. And its reputation is not made out of rumors and innuendo, but of the numerous, verifiable stories told by the townspeople. In this place, sightings are not a rare occurrence.

Rose Court

Juices are red, red like blood.    A house is just a house, isn't it? It can't speak of longing, of passion and sorrow it has witnessed?    It is said that the lady in Rose Court killed herself, that she drank juice from poisonous berries. But why then, is she wandering restlessly the halls of the old house, between four and five on the afternoon, the time of her death? In her death she was looking at the house called Greystone, where a monk also died mysteriously, and is also wandering around as a specter. They’re seen walking together these two, close in death, as they probably were in Life.    Eternity is beckoning behind the veil, the wail, of mundane existence.

   THE MILLER’S BLACK GHOST

   Air is charged, lightning is flashing in the distance.
   Not far from Pinnock’s Crossroads (Fright Corner), and the house called the Pinnock, there is an old ruin of a mill. A Miller is haunting the place restlessly. At least one may deduce it is a miller, the miller, living there once. A Shadow, in thunder and rain. An ominous figure, a portent of the coming Storm. Yes, a miller lived there once, he lives there still.
   The appearance of the Shadow Ghost is heralding the Storm.

   You could say, of course, that it's just one more coup of the christian/civilized stupidity, and I most certainly agree. But that's just the point, isn't it? Circumstances make it special... ;) It's often thus.