The Curse of Broken Barrow

The wind howled across Exmoor, twisting through the heather and bracken like a living thing, whispering secrets to those who dared to listen. Atop a lonely rise near Challacombe, the Broken Barrow loomed, a fissured mound of ancient stone and earth, its scarred crest a silent testament to something long forgotten. The villagers spoke of it in hushed tones, their warnings woven into the fabric of local lore: to disturb its rest was to invite a reckoning beyond mortal comprehension. Some claimed to hear hoofbeats in the night, a spectral stampede that rolled across the moor like distant thunder. Others swore that strange lights flickered atop the barrow on moonless nights, a silent vigil for the restless dead. Few dared venture too close, but those who did never returned unchanged. The curse of the Broken Barrow was no mere superstition, it was a warning, etched in time and shadow, waiting for the fool who would test its wrath.