So, was it a coincidence that I chose this village as my retirement home? Well, I really cannot say but, once here, I needed something to occupy my mind and years of enquiring into various mysteries had conditioned me to keep probing into that which is hidden. I soon discovered that the village had a wealth of very dark legends and looking into these became a sort of hobby. In these pages, I shall set our just two of the stories which came my way.

The first of these came about after I had been enjoying a quiet pint in The Last Tot, the older of the two village hostelries. An old codger at the bar was regaling me with village yarns and he mentioned that this establishment had formerly been called “The Witch’s Revenge” but the name had been changed after a series of accidents and misfortunes associated with the property. The gentleman gave me the basic details and, lest I should accuse him of romancing, he asked the landlord to give me the name and telephone number of a certain young lady whom he said would corroborate all he told me. Having nothing else to do I did contact the lady who shall remain nameless and I include below the story which she told me.

The Summer after I finished my A levels I was invited to spend a week with my aunt, uncle and cousin at their home in the Compton Valley as a way of putting all the exam stress behind me. On my first evening with them they took me for a meal in the old pub in the village. It was a real old English pub, thatched and half timbered with black oak beams, a low ceiling and that unique scent made up of old wood, smoke and age itself. I have always been sensitive to what I call “atmospheres” which I define as that process whereby events record themselves in the atoms of buildings just as sound can be imprinted on a tape. As I sat and looked at the old blackened oak bar, I reflected that men had leaned on that bar and debated the rights and wrongs of the beheading of Charles I. People had sat just where I was sitting and smoked clay pipes as they discussed the news from Waterloo and Trafalgar.

The place was called “The Witch’s Revenge” and I asked my uncle if he knew the story behind the name. Apparently, it was a well-known local legend and he told it to me with the more salacious bits interjected by my cousin who was just a year older than myself.

According to the tale, during the Civil War, the village had been Parliamentarian and one day a young woman had wandered into the village from no-one knew where. The story went that she wore “Strange and immodest garb” and also spoke strangely. On the basis of this scant data the villagers had decided that she was a witch and set out to punish her but her womanly charms had affected the men of the village and the punishment became a long drawn out violation spreading over many days and nights. Eventually they finished her off in the market square just outside this tavern with a single sword thrust to the centre of her body which was then bloody and bruised. No-one knows what they did with the corpse but that is not the end of the story.

The witch had cursed the village and shortly after these shameful events it was taken by Royalist forces under the command of an unusually vicious officer. In order to set an example to surrounding communities the officer had all the men in the village condemned as traitors to the King and they were all put to a horrible death in the market square where it was said the blood flowed an inch deep as the screams of the victims and the wails of the women echoed off the buildings. Apparently, some years ago a historian had stones taken up from various points around the square and microscopic traces of old blood were found during tests of several of the samples so it does seem that a lot of blood had once been spilt over quite a wide area in the square.

Well, it had been an intriguing story but the evening progressed and the legend was soon forgotten or at least relegated to some back attic of the mind. The following day we all went on an excursion along the Dorset coast enjoying the wide sea vistas, sands and the clear blue sky. Next day my aunt and myself hit the shops in Dorchester and the following day I had to myself. This was not at all a lonely experience as it is a facet of my personality that I need time alone to recharge. I hiked to the top of Hunter’s Hill and then made my way down to the village seeking a tea shop; it was another warm day and my brief denim shorts and thin sun top were quite sufficient in the way of clothing.

As I approached the village, I encountered a small girl in full period costume of long black dress and a white pinafore and mop cap. She had been sitting on the grass beside the road making a daisy chain but when she looked up and saw me her hand went to her mouth, she hitched up her dress and hurtled off towards the village at Olympic speed. I was just assimilating my encounter with the child when I beheld an old lady sweeping her front doorstep with an old fashioned broom. The woman made a sound which I would never be able to reproduce then she dashed inside her cottage slamming the door behind her.

This was the point where I registered the fact that I was walking on dust rather than tarmac and I wondered if I had stumbled into some local festival or even if a film company were using the village but it seemed strange that my uncle and aunt had mentioned nothing about such an event.

I had just decided to ask the next person I saw what was going on when three young men came into view advancing down the street.