The Cockstride Ghost

In the frost-veiled stillness of Coffinswell, where South Devon’s winter mist cloaks the ancient lanes, the Cockstride Ghost stirs on the last night of each year, a spectral lady of forgotten sin condemned to an eternal pilgrimage toward the churchyard’s sacred ground. Bound by a curse to move only a single cockstride—a mere inch—each New Year’s Eve, her pale spirit rises with the midnight chime of distant bells, her silent steps a mournful echo of a journey begun centuries ago, creeping ever closer to a salvation or damnation that awaits on Judgement Day. As the village locks its doors and whispers prayers, her ghostly march continues, unseen but ever-present, a haunting reminder of time’s relentless tread and a soul’s unyielding quest.