I rode to edge of Barrowcross in hopes of finding Mother Lathwell who people call the three-faced seer. When I arrived I was told she had left for Northmoor some days before as she had seen my coming in her telling bowl. - Dr. Bron, 1638 #WitchWednesday

Many churches on the coast keep to the old superstition of hanging specially blessed fishing nets across their door in belief that such 'witch nets' will deter entry by salt-hags and storm-callers. As if the determined witch is so easily thwarted. – #EmilyBanting #WitchWednesday

The front door of 28 Treacle Street in Penstow, former home of Jennie Ware, known locally as Old Mother Ware. The knocker is said to depict her hand clutching a witch ball. It bangs on the door of its own volition if a fellow witch walks past. #WitchWednesday

Drawing this one today...

The salt hag's shore is a threshold of tidal magics. She stands upon its rocks and charms storms. Walks it to read tomorrow in constantly shifting interference patterns. Her tongue talks the fluid mysteries of gull screech and wave whisper, – #EmilyBanting , 1981 #WitchWednesday

Goodnight from Roy Page, alone in Hobson’s Gym, breathing in embrocation echoes and boxing against the shadows of his past. Goodnight from Heather Attwell, leaving out an offering to the Fox Bride she knows passes her house on the way to Bosley Woods. Goodnight from Hookland.

The arcades of Ashcourt Necropolis are ghost-soaked, shaded and cooled by more than stone-thrown shadows. Phantom promenades for those spirits fed up of the constraints of vaults, the constant, dusty chattering of their interred families. – #CLNolan

Some can navigate their parish by birdsong, some by sigh and snort of wind as it bullies the common. The cunning can make a path through conversation with spirits. A chattering map of genii locorum, a topography of secrets and whispers. –  #CLNolan

Goodnight from Pip Turner, scared in case dreams of St. Mary’s grotesque stone heads becoming flesh, tongues lolling and licking at the air, come back again. Goodnight from Mark Loe, wishing for a speed off the moors his Simson S 51 just can’t provide. Goodnight from Hookland.

Please note, not AI art.

I went under the docks at Maryworth where the parental scarelore is of Drowned Dead, blue-skinned Blood Sisters and Salt Sprites trapped in iron bottles. Beyond stench of rot and diesel, you sense the truth of the space as temporary tidal temple. – Lou Kemp, Hookland artist, 1981