The ghosts of Wycoller
It is a wild, wind-blown, rain-lashed winter’s night. A spectral horse gallops up to the moss-covered ruins of old Wycoller Hall, the rider a man dressed in early 17th century fashion He slides swiftly from the saddle, enters the house and dashes up long-vanished stairs. A door is flung open. Terrified shrieks pierce the pitch …