Day 2,208

When we talk about urban legends we only tell the better-known tales that blur into popular countrywide figures or the ever-present fae and their kind. Out in the heart of the country, beside wide lakes and forests that swallow sounds and souls alike - there you find real legends.

They aren't all ancient and invulnerable godlike thing - some are soft and sad and meant to teach us rather than instil fears into us. Like the wasteland kelpie of Barrowisle who is said to have once been as ferocious and bloodthirsty as any proud keplie ever was. A true terror that lured countless souls deep down into the lake to feast on their flesh.

Then modernity came and its lake became the unofficial dumping ground for a nearby holiday park. On the rare occasions that is is seen, the poor beast is found choking on empty food wrappers, black sacks full to the brim weigh it down til its back seems about to break and its mane is so tangled up with wires its impossible to tell where the cables end and the hair begins.

Further up the country there's the faceless lambs of Duntfield who are born as normal little lambs until the storm winds come and those sweet little faces go flying away, leaving broken bodies that don't seem to realise that they're dead.

They say you can hear them screaming if the wind is just right. They also say that if you are by a window when this happens then you're bound to see those little faces pressed against the glass while their bleeding bodies run about close by.

Finally we come to the weeping tractor of Bishops Mabfleet which is by far the strangest of legends I've heard thus far. From what the locals have said it reacted almost like a horse - one day it was fine and the next day its wheel was turned a tad too far on uneven ground, it overbalanced and broke an axle.

Now normally this would be a simple enough fix but it wasn't a simple tractor. It didn't slow to a stop, engine purring away totally unaffected, it howled a deep, mechanical roar that set everyone's hair on end. Its engine stuttered and hiccuped like a child with a grazed knee and its headlights swivelled towards anything that moved.

In the end the farmer shot it until the engine died and sold it for scrap.

In the end the lambs did die, mothers still nudging their cooling bodies.

In the end they drained the lake and built several apartments that always feel damp.