We haven’t had a storytime in a while. We haven’t had any articles in a while to be fair. I’ve been a bit busy redecorating my house, finishing my novel and generally wandering around looking for tales to share.

Not today though.

It’s blazing hot in Derbyshire and, to be completely honest with you, I’m kind of looking forward to the shift into cooler – and spookier – days of Autumn. What better way to get into that ‘Seasons of mellow fruitfulness’ mood than a spooky tale from pretty much my very own doorstep?

So…

Pull up a chair, and let me lead you gently through the misty lanes of Bradwell – nestled in the Hope Valley, where the limestone walls have seen it all and could tell you secrets older than memory.

Our story begins with a murder.

A young girl, her name forgotten, killed under murky circumstances. Her body interred under the staircase of a house on Hill Head. The girl’s ghost appeared every night, terrifying everyone who had the misfortune to see her. Doors rattled, dogs retreated with low whines, and people swore a cold hand brushed their shoulder if they braved that way at night. Such was the fear among the folk of the little village that a note in the Parish records from the late 1700s tell of “disturbances” and a girl “who doth trouble the peace of ye road”

And so, the villagers enlisted the help of a well known man with a reputation for both prayer and ritual – a Baptist preacher-magician for the desperate, if you will. Such were the talents of this individual it was said that he could ‘rule the planets’, and the desperate folk of Bradwell enlisted this man of the ‘new fangled body’ (as the Baptists were known by them), to perform a ‘laying’ ritual for the ghost at his very earliest convenience.

On the appointed evening under flickering lantern-light, the man drew a chalk circle at the murder site, binding the ghost within it. Then, kneeling within this circle, he prayed – a torrent of ancient incantation and Christian rite until sweat ran down his body like a river. Such was the man’s fervour, the onlookers who were also kneeling outside the protective circle on the stone floor, swore they had felt the earth move up and down, up and down… Until at last the magician stood up.

“Berald, Beroald, Balbin, gab bagor agaba!” He exclaimed, “Arise! I charge and command thee!”

The sad, innocent spirit of the murdered girl appeared before him. Ashen, dejected, robbed of a lifetime that was meant to be hers.

The Baptist then continued his ritual, ordering the spirit to depart immediately and banishing it to Lumb Mouth and – perhaps as an afterthought, perhaps just because he was feeling fancy and had a penchant for the piscine – demanded she assume the form of a large silver fish… Except for Christmas day when she must turn into a white Ousel and fly to Lumb Pool.

And apparently, she did just that.

According to the tale, the villagers began reporting sightings of ‘a large silver fish that none could catch, try as they might’ at Lumb Mouth soon after and since then, every Christmas Day, as if bound by some solemn decree, her spirit sheds its fish form and becomes a “white ousel,” rising and flying the two miles to Lumb Pool. Generations claim to have seen, or imagined, glimpses of her in whatever form, fish or bird.

But Is there any truth in this tale?

Well, I can’t find a record of a murder in Bradwell at that time but history can get twisted in the retelling. Ghost stories often stem from tragic or unusual demises and the whole of Derbyshire is riddled with odd endings – I’ll probably tell you about a few more at some point. Also, this is an ancient and important land, full of lore and legends, traditions and superstitions.

Just a stone’s throw from Bradwell on the line of the old Roman road known as the Batham Gate stood a tree where a Saxon king named Edwin was captured after a battle and hanged. Over time, this legend has been consolidated into myth as the “Edden” or “Edwin’s Tree” . Even after the tree vanished, the spot retained the name.

Then there is Grey Ditch, a massive earthwork also nearby – twenty feet high and twelve broad which suggests a battlefield or defensive line. I’m told excavations in the area have unearthed swords, spears, bridle bits, and even human bones in burial sites.

Even the local names – Gore Lane, Deadmen’s Clough – seem to leave no doubt that blood once stained this ground. Funny, how these stories lap at the edges of this ghostly tale. The murdered girl’s restless spirit, confined at Hill Head, her watery prison, her flight as bird – might these be haunting reverberations of a violence that scarred this land centuries ago?

Stone Tape Theory suggests that places that have witnessed ‘high emotion or tragedy somehow ‘record’ and ‘play back’ these events. Some theories also suggest that some land is tainted, poisoned even, and that evil things happen in these places again and again. Yet perhaps this particular ghost owes less to poisoned ground or lingering trauma, and more to the village’s own need for order – especially given Bradwell’s old Christmas Eve tradition of mischief-making.

Parish records and local accounts mention carts being wheeled away in the night, cattle found loose and wandering the lanes, and all manner of small but troublesome pranks. On one occasion a wheel was removed from a cart at Hill Head, sent rolling down Town Gate, and speeding up as it went, crashed into a grocer’s shop at the bottom causing all kinds of damage. Mischief-making was part and parcel of the festive season, but to those trying to keep order, the tradition carried headaches enough.

Seen in this light, the legend of the murdered girl begins to look like a warning. A restless spirit who walked the lanes on Christmas Eve, half-fish and half-bird, was the perfect deterrent. It explained away strange happenings – cattle gone astray could be “her doing,” a missing cart? – the work of the ghost rather than local lads full of ale. And it kept the more timid safely indoors. The haunting became a kind of folk justice, an invisible village constable patrolling the dark.

Folklore often works in this way: a story to frighten children from wandering near wells, a spectral warning to stop travellers using dangerous paths. Bradwell’s fish-bird spirit, returning every Christmas Eve, fits the pattern well. Whether born of a genuine haunting or clever invention, it gave shape to disorder and lent the community a kind of uneasy peace.

And so, as the petals fade on Bradwell’s Well Dressing and laughter drifts over the fields from the beer gardens, the old tales are told again – half caution, half celebration – a reminder that the village’s stories are never buried, only waiting for the right night to walk once more.

Until next time… 🙂

K x