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One of the last notable hedge-priests of the 19th century was William Rudge. He was nicknamed ‘the Centaur’ as unlike other hedge-priests, he made his rounds on horseback. He was so often seen atop his horse Highbones that they were often addressed as if one creature.

Goodnight from Jody Keys, taking strangedelight in constructing her Coreham Witch Trials diorama for school. Goodnight from Mandy Phelps, pleading with her Hillman Avenger estate to not breakdown on that bit of the B3290 where ghost lights have been seen. Goodnight from Hookland

How like men to call it mother glass or nipple glass and then still believe it to have witch-warding properties. - #EmilyCBanting, 1982 #Witchcraft

Goodnight from Coreham General Hospital, where Davey Smith feels better about oxygen tent isolation with the ghost on his bed turning the pages of Starlord comic for him. Goodnight from Long Lumb, all its doors shut in the face of Stay Below mating cries. Goodnight from Hookland.

Goodnight from Micky May, playing all his hits from 1964 to a bored supper club and haunted by a sense of another dimension where things turned out differently. Goodnight from Horn Lane, where the glow-worms of its hedges are spelling out shining secrets. Goodnight from Hookland.

Goodnight from The Blinking Owl transport cafe, where wrestler Iron Cyclops refuses to take off his mask even when eating a sausage sarnie. Goodnight from Jeff Ohm, regretting picking the disused military hospital at Todfield as a place to poke phantoms. Goodnight from Hookland.

Goodnight from Jack Rosehip, playing cribbage with the spirits of The Gutter Redoubt pub in hopes of winning useful information. Goodnight from Mother Leigh, singing a lullaby to the Dweller-in-the-Wood so Mystlfield village can sleep without nightmare. Goodnight from Hookland.

The slipway holds ghosts. Doomed boats that never came back, drunken falls down the steps, heart attacks climbing them. Phantasmagorical replays of barrels of ale rolled to shore to pay King-Under-the-Sea’s tide tithe. A place shared between the dead and ourselves. - #CJosiffe

Goodnight from the meeting of the Bearwell Women’s Lodge, where the Tarot reading event has led to revelation of several poisonous secrets. Goodnight from the Dolls’ House Shop on Sutton Street, where Geoff Burr is carving increasingly demonic figurines. Goodnight from Hookland.

The Belgar always looks idyllic on those days of pure summer. You ache for shade, to dangle your feet in cool water. Then you remember the stories water folk tell around stoves at winter. Stories of midnight rapping on hulls, Stay Below glimpses. Discarnate cries of the drowned.

Goodnight from Lucy Sears, wondering if inputing lists of demons from the Fifth Rose Codex into the university’s new FORTRAN-friendly database is entirely wise. Goodnight from the River Belgar, where a strange croaking is keeping house-boaters awake. Goodnight from Hookland.

Goodnight from Tom Moss, unsure as to why the MoD scientists were so interested in puddles of slime and softened bones that appeared in Hinton Field yesterday evening. Goodnight from Sam Honeyman, trapped in dreams of a time when soldiers wore redcoats. Goodnight from Hookland.

I think we all know why ...

Goodnight from Judy Stride, down at Cogg Cove to watch the white lace edges of breaking waves in hope of hydromancy insights into a complicated love life. Goodnight from Amber Hopkins, dropping a sprig of myrtle into the River Tarrant to turn her luck. Goodnight from Hookland.

Goodnight from the museum at Weldon St. Thomas, where the old iron plough rusting in its garden is spinning like a compass needle. Goodnight from Izzy Potts, lighting a bonefire on Mund Hill that will inspire rumours of witchcraft for months to come. Goodnight from Hookland.

Goodnight from Jagdeep Kalsi, reciting the name of God as a shield against the black magic he feels emanating from Orry Wharf. Goodnight from Robert Antsey, already having misgivings about searching out the legendary white spiders of Whiston Woods. Goodnight from Hookland.

Goodnight from Reg Duston, worried the rusting iron lace around Lord Blake’s grave is finally going to give out and let his spirit walk again. Goodnight from Harriet Childs, terrified of having to endure yet another evening of apocalyptic previsions. Goodnight from Hookland.

Goodnight from Ted Hopkins, finishing his shift as a porter at Weychester’s Grand Hotel and just now realising he’s been tipped with Faery gold. Goodnight from Emmie Mount, praying the bones of Old Mother Thurkle won’t keep crying into her sleep. Goodnight from Hookland.

I am often asked: "Where do you get the ridiculous names you give to your characters?" The answer is simple, the boneyard. It's a lithic directory of the dead who don't object too strongly at having a second life in the pages of my books. – #CLNolan, BBC National Programme talk

Goodnight from Lock’s Boat Yard at Breywych, where the oak and ash of beam trawler Advancing Alice are remembering a time when they were a forest. Goodnight from Ben Barwell, raging against his ban from The Cawsey Arms on rumour of mirefolk therianthropy. Goodnight from Hookland