I am part of a group of storytellers and consequently, I spend time looking for traditional stories and folklore for various events. I came across mentions of this local story, but couldn’t find much detail, so I have tried to put some flesh on the bones of this little ghost story from Kinver in Staffordshire, England.
Lottie is said to be one of the many ghosts who haunt the mysterious area of Kinver Edge, which is the last remaining part of an ancient forest. It is also the location of the cave houses I’ve mentioned previously as part of the inspiration for Meryall’s house, Horn Cottage, in my forthcoming book.
I hope you enjoy this short piece of local folk mythology.
Prudence
Lottie’s Footsteps
The winter of 1850 was harsh and cold. The fish suffocated in the ponds under an inch of ice and people shivered in their homes in the village of Kinver, many unable to afford to keep their fires burning through the long cold nights.
In the dark high street, a cheery light shone from the windows of the White Hart Inn. Lottie, the young serving wench, had spent a long shift serving the guests forced into the inn from the coach road by the foul weather. Her feet were stinging with fatigue from standing so long, and she was glad of the chill night air on her hot face as she stepped out of the side door into the street.
The moon was full and bright as she made her way through the quiet streets of the town, looking up at the sparkling icicles on the edge of the rooftops from time to time.
Lottie’s way home took her down the main street and then on into the narrow streets at the edge of the village. The moon’s light could not penetrate the close lanes and alleys, but Lottie knew them well and walked on confidently, humming as she went, the fresh snow crunching under her neat boots. Lottie paused, noticing her lace had come loose. Crouching to retie it she heard the sound of a foot lowered gently into the snow behind her. Her heart contracted in fear, and Lottie jerked upright, looking wildly around. She could see only cold white snow laid out all around her, with no soul other than herself in sight.
Her heart still beating hard in her breast, Lottie walked on, still humming softly in a show of unconcern. Lottie looked dead ahead as she walked, but strained her ears to trace every sound around her.
Lottie walked on for what felt like an age, then pulled to a sharp stop. There was the soft crunch of a foot coming to rest in the snow – just behind her.
Lottie did not look back. She ran, her black boots pounding, slipping and sliding on the snow-covered cobbles as she went.
Lottie zigzagged through the alleys, desperately trying to rid herself of her pursuer, but the heavy steps behind her drew closer and closer until Lottie could almost feel hot breath on her neck. Lottie tried to scream, but could not make a sound.
Then, there was only darkness as Lottie felt a sharp blow on her head and crumpled to the ground.
She awoke – she could not tell how long she had been unconscious, maybe for a moment, maybe for hours. Her head was dangling down, and she felt a powerful shoulder swaying under her stomach – she was slung over the shoulder of a big, tall man. She could smell liquor on his breath and the smell of sweat on his rough wool great coat. Lottie tried to remain limp in his grasp so that he would not notice that she was awake. Lottie could not see much from her position and had no sense of where the man might be taking her.
Inch by inch, Lottie raised her hand, trying to move with the sway of her captor’s gait, until she had her hand on the clasp of her cloak- a little pearl pin her mother had given her. In one swift movement, she pulled the pin free, jabbed it point first into the man’s buttocks and rolled off his shoulder. The man bellowed in pain and confusion and flailed around, finding himself holding only Lottie’s cloak.
Lottie sprinted away through the trees- she knew it not, but she was running towards Kinver Edge.
The man grunted and strolled after her. He was in no rush – he was an excellent tracker, and the girl would not get far, uncloaked and alone in the icy woods. The moonlight shone on Lottie’s footsteps, and he walked softly alongside them.
Step by step he traced her, through the trees and into a large clearing. Left foot, right foot, left- the man frowned in puzzlement and dropped to his knees, examining the tracks. There was no right footstep after that final left. There were no more footsteps – only smooth, virgin snow. He looked up – there were no trees within reach above him- she could not have leapt up into their limbs.
The clearing throbbed with an unnatural silence, broken only by the soft fall of snow upon snow.
His heart pounding, the man ran, heedless of where he went and wishing only to get away from the fearful blank snow.
The man’s body was found by the villagers, frozen beneath a covering of snow. But try as they may, the villagers could find no trace of Lottie.
It is whispered, even now, however, by the poachers who have cause to walk on the Edge after dark, that they sometimes hear a soft voice humming a sweet song on wintery nights.