In the heart of the Dundrennan district of Kirkcudbright lies Buckland Glen, a place where time stands still and shadows dance under the moonlight. Among the whispering trees and the gurgling stream, a chilling legend persists—a headless lady, forever bound to haunt the glen.
Long ago, on a night shrouded in mystery, a farmer and his young farmhand were returning home from Kirkcudbright. The farmer, astride his sturdy Highland pony, and the boy, walking by his side, found themselves at the witching hour as they approached the ancient bridge crossing the Buckland Burn. The air was thick with an eerie silence, broken only by the soft clopping of hooves on the old weathered stones.
Suddenly, the pony reared, nearly unseating the farmer. "What’s wrong with you tonight, Maggie? What’s got you so spooked?" he muttered, trying to steady his mount.
"Did you see that?" the boy's voice trembled, barely a whisper. "Look! There it is again!"
The farmer's eyes followed the lad's outstretched finger. There, bathed in the ghostly light of the moon, stood a spectral figure—a lady, her head conspicuously absent. The old man felt a chill race down his spine. "Aye, laddie, it’s true. It's the ghost of the headless lady, murdered in this very glen during the dark days of yore. We can’t go that way. Let’s head down the lane and sneak home through Gilroanie."
With hearts pounding, they turned the frightened pony and slipped into the shadowy woods that lined the Buckland Burn. The forest seemed alive with unseen eyes, the rustle of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl adding to their unease. The path was treacherous, but they pressed on, driven by the fear of what might be following.
They reached home without further incident, but the farmer couldn't shake the feeling that they had narrowly escaped a fate worse than death. His suspicions were confirmed a week later. It was discovered that two notorious ruffians had been lying in wait on the lonely Bombie road, a mere quarter mile from Buckland Bridge. Their intention? Robbery, or perhaps something far more sinister. The farmer had gone to Kirkcudbright to collect a sum of money, and had the ghost not diverted their path, another grim chapter might have been added to the glen's bloody history.
To this day, the tale of the headless lady of Buckland Glen is told in hushed tones around the hearth. It serves as a chilling reminder of the ghostly guardian that watches over the glen, a benevolent yet terrifying presence that saved two lives from certain doom.
And so, as the night falls and the wind whispers through the ancient trees, the headless lady remains, a silent watcher of Buckland Glen, ensuring that the darkness of the past does not claim new victims.
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