Huey’s Foreword: This short ghost story is inspired by tales local to where I live, being close to a famous British battlefield. Stories of horsemen, and the cries of warring, or dying men. There have even been reports of sightings.
I transposed the location to perhaps the most famous battlefield in British History; the site of the Battle of Hastings, in 1066. I grew up not far from the spot and visited it several times when I was a schoolboy. I haven’t been there for more that thirty years, but I imagine the area is full of lore too.
It’s another shorty inspired by the master of such stories, M. R. James.
It’s 2,000 words, a ten-minute read.
I hope you enjoy. Don’t forget to like and share. Thank you.
Huey Hawke, 2025
The Cough
Fletcher stood like a sentry on the patio. Only his right arm moved; slowly raising the cigarette to his lips. He watched the thin plume of smoke rise straight up and disappear into the darkness. He continued to wait; listening and watching the dark shadows.
‘Ahem, ahem’. There it was again. That’s all there was. Like an old smoker clearing their throat. Fletcher waited a moment longer. The cough wasn’t repeated. He put out his cigarette and went back inside.
The following day he called Simon, to ask about nocturnal birds.
‘Like a cough you say?’ Simon asked.
‘Yes, every night at 11.’
‘There be night birds but none ‘ere sound like that, no.’
‘What could it be then?
‘Well now, reckon could be cattle; livestock. A fox maybe.’
‘I’d already thought of that. We haven’t got any cows or sheep in the fields. Can you think of anything else?’
‘It ain’t for me to be rude mister Fletcher, but you ought to try a torch an’ get them ears cleaned an’ all!’
Fletcher took Simon’s jocular advice. That evening he planned to reveal the source of his intrigue.
‘Becky? Becky?’ Said Simon. He was standing on the patio, leaning into the house.
‘What?’
‘Can you grab the torch. I left it on the sofa. Hurry up if you want to hear it. It’s 10.58.’
Becky joined him a few moments later. The two of them stood on the patio, waiting silently. Simon smoked. A cat startled them both as it darted passed into the house.
‘Did you see? Her ears were right back. She must’ve been spooked by a fox or something,’ said Becky, adding, ‘How many nights have you heard this coughing noise?’
‘This’ll be the sixth night.’
11.00 pm came and went. After a few minutes Becky started rocking sideways, from foot to foot; hands in coat pockets and shoulders sunk. She sighed. ‘I’m cold, I’m going to bed. See you upstairs’. She turned to go inside, before stopping and adding, ‘Haven’t you got anything better to do?’
Fletcher said nothing.
There were no coughing sounds. Fletcher waited a few more minutes, before going to bed.
He continued to enjoy his last cigarette, on the patio, at 11 pm every night. He listened expectantly. But every night only brought disappointment. As days turned into weeks, the curious noise was forgotten.
Fletcher was driving home. It was 9 pm on a cold and windy October evening, the following year. Trees were shedding leaves like rust and gold-coloured confetti; twinkling in the car’s headlights as they fell.
Just after Battle he saw a figure far in front of him. As he approached, he noticed it was having difficulty walking. It turned to look at the car and then moved awkwardly, to get off the road, before slumping into a ditch.
Fletcher stopped to offer help. He shouted after them and looked around, but couldn’t see anything. He waited for a moment and decided he must have been mistaken. He was puzzled. ‘How odd. Perhaps it was a trick of the light and leaves,’ he thought. He got back in the car and drove the short distance home.
Later that evening, Fletcher sat at the patio table enjoying his final cigarette. It was still chilly and very gusty. The wind in the trees sounded like waves breaking on a beach. Feeling cold, he rose to go back inside, but stopped when he heard two coughs. He lit another cigarette and waited, but there was no repeat of the odd noise.
Memories of the previous year’s curious coughing came back to him. He was going to be ready if it happened again.
The following night, he sat and waited from 10.45 pm. It was a beautiful starry night, with a strong wind. The torch and tape recorder were ready. He began recording at 10.55 pm.
He directed the thin arrow of torchlight around the garden. There was the lawn, stretching beyond the patio. On the left, a wall ran the entire length of the garden. A row of tall shrubs on the right; silhouetted against the sky, like jagged paper men, cavorting in the moonlight. The torchlight just managed to pick-out the wall and archway at the far end of the garden.
Fletcher checked his watch. There! At exactly 11 pm he was given a sudden start by the sound of a man coughing. Grabbing the torch, he ran across the lawn towards the far wall. Torchlight haphazardly lit the garden, like a lantern swinging in the wind. He stopped at the archway, pausing for a moment, before stepping into the orchard. Wind stirred the twisted trees. Boughs groaned and gnarled trunks swayed like geriatric dancers. He directed the light slowly around the small orchard. Shadows were created and then melted away, as the torch moved slowly from left to right.
Fletcher crept carefully through the trees, his torch sweeping the area like a lighthouse. A small animal slunk away into the blackness. There was nothing on the ground or up in the trees, save for fallen decaying leaves, caught by the wind and twisting upwards like mini tornadoes.
He reached the boundary fence and directed light into the rutted field. What was that? Something moved, away to the left, on the fringe of torchlight and darkness. It was gone. ‘I need a more powerful torch,’ he thought.
He couldn’t delay. With some difficulty he climbed the fence, jumped into the field and moved slowly towards the spot; torchlight fixed in its direction. There it was again! It was moving very slowly away from him, just beyond the limit of light. Fletcher kept pace. There were no features to it, only a dark outline the size of a man. It remained a shadow; the moonlight giving no clues. The figure appeared to have difficulty moving; there was no grace or ease about its actions. It seemed somehow familiar to Fletcher.
‘What was somebody doing out here at this time of night,’ he thought. He called after them. There was no acknowledgement. The form continued to stumble towards Brunton Woods. Fletcher upped his pace and continued to call out. As he got faster, so did the figure, keeping itself just out of direct torchlight.
Fletcher started to run. The figure was clearly struggling, but managed to stay ahead. ‘Argh!’ Fletcher felt a sudden pain. His right foot had landed awkwardly. It seemed to be in a hole. He looked at the figure; it had stopped and appeared to be watching him. Fletcher uttered obscenities and stooping, felt his ankle. Nothing was broken, but it was likely to be a nasty sprain. When he eventually stood up, he saw the figure disappearing into the shadows of Brunton Woods, on the outskirts of Battle village, close to the site of the battlefield, private land managed by the heritage organisation. He couldn’t go on without feeling pain. Frustrated, he returned home. When he got back, he played the tape recording. There was nothing to be heard except the wind.
The following morning Fletcher told his wife had happened. She dismissed the episode and said it was likely to be a local tramp scared of being caught by the farmer. ‘Yes, but I’m not the farmer,’ he thought.
He called Simon after breakfast, to ask if he knew of any local vagrants. He explained what he’d seen and heard.
‘And you say ‘e went into Brunton Woods?’
‘That’s right, I think he did. But I’m not sure if it was a man. Why did you say ‘he?’’
There was a long pause before Simon replied. ‘Well now, Fletcher, there’s a story, been in these parts for years an’ years. ‘Bout a man called Brunton. ‘E were a Saxon bodyguard to Ealdormen Erikson, an’ badly injured ‘e was, at Hastings. Throat and chest. ‘E got separated from ‘is housecarls, but managed to escape from William’s men, an’ ‘id in them woods.’
‘Brunton Woods?’
‘That’s right. Brunton Woods. Survived for ‘bout a week up there, an’ then died of ‘is wounds. Before ‘e died, ‘e told some folk who’d found ‘im, it were ‘is dyin’ wish to see a holy man. Dunno why. Some say ‘e were goin’ to confess to murder! Others say adultery. ‘E died before the holy man could reach ‘im.’
Simon revealed that over the years there had been reports of a ghostly figure, in shabby early medieval-style attire; stumbling along the quiet lanes from the site of the Battle of Hastings, towards Netherfield. The route Brunton would likely have taken.
When he finished speaking to Simon, Fletcher checked the date. It was the 16th of October; two days after the battle’s anniversary and exactly a year since his first experience of the peculiar coughing noise. He told Becky what Simon had said. She seemed utterly disinterested.
Becky went to bed early that evening. Fletcher then waited. His mind thought of nothing but the figure. If his hunch was right, the coughing would occur again that night.
It was a cool, bright evening. The wind had dropped and only a gentle breeze disturbed the sleeping orchard. Fletcher kept his torch switched off. He checked his watch. 10.58 pm. He leant on the orchard fence and scanned the field. He noticed an odd shape, moving very slowly, away to his right. It was being very deliberate in its movements, as if navigating through rabbit warrens and other hazardous features. Fletcher watched in silence. His heart beat powerfully, the pumping physical in his ears. The figure was moving from right to left and getting closer to the orchard. Fletcher felt a chill and shivered. When it was twenty yards away and level with Fletcher, it stopped. Fletcher felt sweat run done his neck. He clearly saw the figure was that of a person. It raised an arm and put a hand to its chest. The head went back and it coughed loudly, twice. It sounded like it had cleared its throat.
The figure seemed to sense Fletcher’s presence. It began running, heavily and with great effort, towards the woods.
Fletcher climbed the fence, jumped, and felt pain in his ankle when he landed. He couldn’t run.
‘Brunton, is that you?’ Fletcher shouted.
The shape continued to run.
‘Brunton, please, I want to help you!’
The figure stopped. It turned to face Fletcher.
‘I can help you. Please, wait there.’
The figure stood perfectly still. Fighting terror and by shear force of will, Fletcher started to walk slowly towards it.
‘Where are you? Who are you calling to? Are you in the orchard?’ Said a female voice loudly.
It was Becky.
Fletcher didn’t reply. He stopped and looked at the shadowy motionless figure.
‘Fletcher! Fletcher!’ Becky shouted.
The figure turned and began to run.
‘No! Stop! I can help you!’
Fletcher felt certain Brunton was doomed to make his fateful walk, from Battle to the woods, each of those six or seven days he had remained alive after the battle. His soul would repeat this every anniversary. The sadness and pity Fletcher felt compelled him to act.
Too late. The mysterious figure disappeared.
The following day was a busy one. Fletcher contacted his friend, the retired local vicar, David Hill. Fletcher explained everything. Quietly, Hill listened. He asked no questions and made no judgements. Instead, he showed immense sympathy. He understood the need to help immediately.
Fletcher spent most of the day driving the roads along the various routes between Netherfield and home. He didn’t find what he was looking for.
Becky was taken aback when the retired vicar arrived at the house, later that evening. Her surprise turned to shock when Fletcher, quietly and calmly, explained the reason for Hill’s visit.
Just after 10.30 pm, Fletcher and Hill went to the orchard. They talked of war and peace until 10.58 pm, when all conversation stopped.
In the moonlight, Fletcher made out the slow, tortuous progress of a figure, away to the right. He tapped the retired vicar’s arm and pointed. They watched in silence, before Hill, firmly, but also with fear, bade Fletcher return to the house.
The vicar never revealed what occurred afterwards, in Brunton Woods. But Brunton, if indeed it was he, never reappeared.
The End