Goodnight from Jan Hawley, looking at the silhouetted trees on Edney Common and wondering if they and she aren’t shadow theatre cut-outs played with by Faeries. Goodnight from Ettie Hall, regretting reading The Salt-hag’s Child as her son’s bedtime story. Goodnight from Hookland.

Now the county is hay-walled, the Heg-spunt takes its tithe. A guardian sprite of bales, stacks, barns and thatched roofs, it fills itself on offerings given in hope it will prevent unwanted fires breaking out. Those refusing this superstition are known as 'Heg-fools'.

Ahead of surgery tomorrow afternoon, I have spent the day on Hookland’s salt marshes. The county is likely to be erratic for the next few days, but I am hopeful some minimal service will still be offered.

Roy Adey's Campaign Requiring Obliteration Of Pillboxes is nonsense. His idea they act as portals for ghosts of a parallel dimension where England was invaded come through is total arse. Yet he's right about the concrete cicatrix of war. It is psychically nasty. – #DICallaghan

Goodnight from the ladies of Brimblecombe's sewing circle, casually discussing which over-leery men of the village are in need of a good cursing. Goodnight from David Bray, scribbling occult formula on beer mats as Caleb Aldane's spirit possess him again. Goodnight from Hookland.

If you want a beautifully illustrated fairy tale, explore any church where the carver has applied his craft turning folklore into wooden wonder. The pews of England are a library of strange delights. – #CLNolan #FairytaleTuesday

Goodnight from Chas Wood, staring at a pint of Lazarus as if it were as much of the Devil as the demons that chased him to drink. Goodnight from Ed Vos, towels wrapped round the oars of his boat to muffle its sound in hope of avoiding the Drowned Dead. Goodnight from Hookland.

The year has withered to pale grass that none will ever cut. Spirits that slept in the dappling of summer's sun now begin to wake, walk old paths. A wise witch knows that the song of harvest always contains voices no longer at the feast. – #EmilyCBanting, 1982 #WitchWednesday

I remember a rope rhyme from my childhood that went: 'Salt-marsh, shore and sea. How many places can a witch be? One. Two. Three.' It is oddly comforting to find it has become a prophecy of my own witchery. Its thresholds and territories. – #EmilyCBanting, 1982 #WitchWednesday

At those wild thresholds where brambles scratch the wind as it steals leaves, the song of the year always sings loudest. Witchery isn't only having the ears to listen, but the desire to know its meaning even if its omen lyrics aren't good. – #EmilyCBanting, 1982 #WitchWednesday

Goodnight from the Ashcourt Port Authority archives, where Kenneth Lane’s spirit is refiling material to conform to the system he used when chief archivist. Goodnight from Maddie Holman, obsessively cutting windfall apples for hints of future lovers. Goodnight from Hookland.

Some graveyard guardians work a little harder than their contemporaries in other parishes. For certain places built across old bones have become magnet for the amateur necromancer. Bumbling enthusiasm when it comes to spirits is always a provoker of problems. – #CLNolan

The Owlbeast of Hookland is chimera and engine of many pub arguments. Some say it is an owl's head on a lion's body, others have it as mix of lion and gigantic hare. The only thing they can ever agree on is it a servant of the Queen of Owls. – #CLNolan #FolkloreThursday

Walkers are soon drawn into the unspoken rites required by the land. They may not understand their overwhelming need to trespass upon a farmer's field and walk towards a lump of trees, but they must do it. The land's call for occulted ceremony is too strong to resist. – #CLNolan

There are certain lanes that wheeze ghosts. Haunted navigations where you feel the breath of dead history at your neck, feel its hard stare at the back of your head. Paths that even the most spirit sceptical hurry down. These are the byways I adore. – #CJosiffe #Ghosts