Day 777

There were too many ghosts in Stony Croymoor. Every inch of the village was soaked in violent, bloody history dating from the old Viking crusaders to the spate of cow killings in the nearby fields that were never blamed on the foxes. What kind of fox can string up a full grown Red Poll let alone thirty of them within a month.

It took the entire community putting up surveillance on every house corner before they had even the faintest idea of what they were up against. They'd always known strange things to happen that they'd never be able to rationally explain like lights flickering on while the switch remains in the off position or shadows moving in ways that shadows weren't meant to move.

They could only bee seen through the cameras, those ghosts moving about mouthing out conversations to their imaginary (or further unseen) audience. The same group of five would be seen herding a single cow out to the intended killing spot before shredding right through it with the intensity of a wood mill at full speed. They were eventually identified as local witch hunters from the mid 17th century.

At first a strict curfew was imposed to keep people away from the ghosts before they collectively realised that the dead came and went as they please, giving no mind to the laws the living made or the fears they expressed or the pain they felt when a spectral figure floated straight through them.

To the dead, the living are the greatest inconvenience there is and they made sure we knew that.

There were too many ghosts in Stony Croymoor and they drove us all out before the year was up. Some people managed to empty their homes and get away safely while the stragglers and stubborn ones who left last left with the least. Nobody ever mentions how possessive the dead can be and when they think something is theirs they make damned sure it stays theirs - living be danmed if they get in the way.