Introduction

When I was six years old, my world changed.

Even now, nearly 37 years later, I vividly recall sitting in the living room of our semi-detached family home in Barry, South Wales, my heart sinking as my father broke the news. I was inconsolable—he had just returned home from work and announced that he had been offered a new teaching job at a school in South Devon, which meant we were moving.

Devon? Where even was Devon? In England – a whole other country! To my young mind, the idea of leaving South Wales felt monumental. I didn’t realise that the distance between Barry and North Devon was barely 50 miles across the Bristol Channel—all I knew was that we were leaving everything behind. To me, it might as well have been the other side of the world. But it was out of my hands, and in October 1988, my family packed up our belongings, said goodbye to the only home I had ever known—my school, my friends, and the familiar streets we had explored together—to begin a new life “overseas.”

Adjusting to my new reality was far from easy. As an “expat”, I found myself navigating a new school, unfamiliar surroundings, and the slow process of trying to make new friends—something that felt especially daunting for a shy six-year-old. It was during those early months, during my struggle to settle in, that a simple trip to the local newsagents set me on a path that I’ve been travelling ever since.

One afternoon, my mother bought me a book of local ghost stories. It was nothing elaborate—just a self-published guidebook by a local author—but from the moment I turned the first page, something shifted in me. Haunted places weren’t just the stuff of fairy tales or horror films—they were real, tangible, and everywhere.

Many of the places described in the book were familiar. I recognised buildings I had walked past during trips into town with my parents at the weekend. Suddenly, the world around me was alive with mystery. I was (and still am) particularly captivated by the eerie tales of Berry Pomeroy Castle, with its tragic White Lady, Margaret Pomeroy, and its sinister Blue Lady, who seemed determined to lure unwary visitors to a grisly fate among the unstable ruins.

And then there was Dartmoor—a short drive from my home, its sprawling, mist-shrouded landscapes brimming with stories that felt as old as time itself. It was as if every corner of that desolate but breathtaking place held a ghost story, a secret waiting to be uncovered.

That moment sparked a lifelong passion for the paranormal—one that remains with me today. The stories of Dartmoor, full of ghostly apparitions and haunted ruins, taught me that every narrow lane and forgotten pathway might harbour a lingering spirit, a hidden mystery, a tale waiting to be told. Through those early pages, I discovered that the paranormal was not some distant myth—it was woven into the history and culture of my new home.

In this new series of posts, I aim to take you on a journey back to Dartmoor—the land that first awakened my love of all things paranormal—by revisiting some of the tales that first sparked my imagination.

Dartmoor is more than just a backdrop for ghost stories—it is an active participant, a character in the story itself. Picture rolling mists enveloping the rugged tors, ancient stone ruins guarding dark secrets, and miles upon miles of lonely roads. Over the centuries, locals have passed down tales of spectral figures and phantom riders, witches and devils, demonic dogs and mischievous faeries.

Every corner of this sprawling land, every weather-worn village, carries its own strange, sinister, or otherworldly tale. And in the posts that follow, we’ll step into the mist together—to explore them, one haunting at a time.

In this first instalment of our three-part series on Dartmoor’s supernatural legacy, we will explore three of its most enduring legends. We begin with the mysterious force known as the Hairy Hands, move to the sorrowful tale of Jay’s Grave, and finally journey back in time to a stormy day at Widecombe Church when a sinister rider left his terrible mark.

The Hairy Hands – a Modern-Day Folk Legend

If you ever find yourself driving along the B3212 between Postbridge and Two Bridges in the heart of the moor, it might be in your interest to keep a firm grip on the steering wheel.  The legend of the Hairy Hands has haunted this stretch of road since the early twentieth century, where numerous mysterious accidents have occurred.

When travelling along this stretch of road, motorists and cyclists have often reported a sudden, inexplicable loss of control.  Many have reported a sensation as if a powerful, unseen force had grabbed the steering wheel or handlebars and tried to force the vehicle off the road. 

The earliest accounts begin in the 1910s, when a series of inexplicable accidents routinely occurred on this stretch of road.  Pony traps would overturn in the ditches, bicycles would suddenly be forced onto the verges, horses would bolt and throw their riders. 

Most incidents occurred near a farm called Archerton just outside Postbridge.  Famously, a doctor from Princetown, Dr Helby was riding his motorcycle on this section of road with his two children as passengers in the sidecar.  Suddenly, the engine detached itself without warning, causing a crash which killed the doctor on impact.  His two children were thrown clear and survived.

Another incident, again involving a motorcycle, added a more sinister aspect to the mystery.  An Army Officer was riding the same stretch of road shortly after the crash that took Dr Helby’s life.  He too got into an accident where he was thrown from his bike at the same location.  This time, although injured in the crash, he survived and later recounted that in the moments before the incident, a disembodied pair of large, muscular and hairy hands appeared out of nowhere and closed over his own, wrenching the handlebars and forcing him to crash.

When the press got hold of the story, this stretch of road became the focus of widespread attention, which came to a head in 1921, when the Daily Mail newspaper sent reporters to investigate.  Because of the increased publicity and public concern, local authorities also investigated and concluded that adverse camber of this particular section of road was the most likely culprit for the accidents.  Reports of “hairy hands” were dismissed as hysteria or fabrication.

This wasn’t the end of the story, however.  Three years later, in 1924, A woman and her husband were staying in a caravan near the site of the earlier accidents.  One moonlit night, the woman was awoken by a scraping sound and was horrified to see a large hairy hand clawing up and down the window close to her sleeping husband’s head.  In terror, she repeatedly made the sign of the cross, upon which the hand promptly vanished.  It did not return but after that night, the woman reported an uneasy feeling in the air and refused to go near that part of the moor ever again.

There have been no further reports of the hands at this spot since the 1920s, yet the story persists.  In the latter part of the twentieth century, a young man driving from Plymouth to Chagford was found dead under his overturned car, with forensic analysis of the body and vehicle unable to draw a satisfactory conclusion as to the cause of the accident.  Reports of momentary loss of control on this stretch of road persist sporadically to this day.

Aside from car crashes and sightings of hairy hands, people have often reported strange feelings in the area around Archerton.  Feelings of fear and unease often take over for people passing through the location, often among people that apparently aren’t aware of the history of the infamous accident hotspot.  In 1958, a woman was walking through one of the plantations when suddenly she was overcome by an intense panic attack which struck out of nowhere, causing her to flee, only stopping when she slipped and fell into Gawler Brook which runs through the farmland, and the sudden cold soaking snapped her out of the episode.

There have also been rumours of the hands making appearances in Rundlestone, near Princetown, though details are scarce.  It has been speculated among local folklorists that the entity responsible for these strange, sometime fatal, incidents could be some form of elemental being.  Such beings were sometime reported to be hairy, muscular ape-like beings, which has been posited as connected to the description of the Hands.  Others have speculated that perhaps it is some kind of demonic entity, or the ghost of a man that met his end on the same spot at some undefined moment in the past.

But these ideas are merely conjecture, and many would simply side with the original explanation of being due to a poorly designed road layout, combined with hazardous weather conditions and driver error.

Regardless of where you stand, the mystery of the Hairy Hands remains a powerful example of a modern-day folk tale, a reminder that the old-world superstitions that birthed many legends have never really gone away.

Next, we move on to a location 8 miles away, to a lonely patch of road close to the village of Manaton…

Jay’s Grave: Flowers for the Forgotten

If you drive two miles from the majestic rock formation known as Hound Tor, heading north along the road towards the village of Batworthy, you will happen upon an unusual landmark. At the crossroads where the road intersects local farm tracks lies a solitary grave. This is the final resting place of Kitty Jay, a young woman whose tragic life story became a symbol of despair and the basis of a deeply rooted local legend.

While there are many versions of the tale, the most popular (and most likely to be true) version is as follows. Kitty Jay was a young orphan in the 18th century who found employment at a nearby farm in Manaton. At the age of sixteen, she was seduced by a young farmhand (some versions say it was the farmer’s son) and fell pregnant—or at least, that was the rumour. When her situation became known to her employers, she was dismissed from the farm and became the subject of cruel gossip among the locals. In her shame and desperation, she chose to take her own life, though accounts vary on whether she hanged herself or drowned.

As was customary for suicides at the time, she could not be interred in consecrated ground. Instead, her body was buried at a crossroads—said to be where the parishes of Widecombe, North Bovey, and Manaton intersected —ensuring that none of them bore responsibility for maintaining her grave.

For years, speculation swirled as to whether the grave truly contained the remains of Kitty Jay or perhaps those of some animal. In around 1860, the owner of Hedge Barton, James Bryant, set out to resolve the rumours. He had the grave exhumed and confirmed that it contained the skeleton of a young female, possibly a teenager. However, there was no evidence to support the longstanding claim that she had been pregnant. Following this discovery, he had the remains reinterred, raising the grave mound and placing the stone marker that stands today.

Since then, fresh seasonal flowers have always been found laid on the grave and are regularly replenished. For a long time, these flowers were almost certainly placed there by Widecombe resident and local author Beatrice Chase, perhaps motivated by pity for the young girl’s tragic tale—or possibly as a means of perpetrating a playful mystery, since she ensured the flowers were laid when no one was around to witness the act. However, Chase passed away in 1955, yet the tradition continues. Some believe a friend of Beatrice may have carried on the custom, while others suspect locals silently maintain it as a secret tribute. To this day, the origin of the flowers remains unknown to all but those responsible.

Over the years, tales have surfaced of Kitty Jay’s ghost lingering at the gravesite, with some claiming to have seen a spectral figure hovering above the mound, particularly at dusk. Others report strange lights or an overwhelming sense of sorrow upon visiting the site. While these accounts remain unsubstantiated, they serve to deepen the reputation of Jay’s Grave.

Regardless of whether one believes in spirits or sees Jay’s story as a tragic historical reminder, the legend persists. The presence of fresh flowers on her grave—unchanged for over a century—suggests that someone, somewhere, still remembers Kitty Jay. And perhaps, just perhaps, Dartmoor itself ensures she is never forgotten.

For the third and last stop of this instalment, we head three or so miles southwest to a village where it is said that the Devil himself once came calling…

The Phantom Rider of Saint Pancras Church

In 1638, the church of Saint Pancras in Widecombe-in-the-Moor was badly damaged when it was allegedly struck by ball lightning—one of the earliest recorded incidents of this elusive phenomenon—during a severe thunderstorm. Four members of the congregation were killed, and sixty others suffered injuries and burns. While historians attribute the disaster to freak weather conditions, local legend tells a different story.

Jan Reynolds was a local card player of ill repute. Having fallen on hard times due to his gambling and riotous living, legend says he sold his soul to the Devil in exchange for more coin. The terms of the agreement allowed Jan to continue his debauchery for a while longer, but eventually, the Devil would come to collect—at a time of his own choosing. That moment arrived on Sunday, 21st October 1638.

Earlier that day, a mysterious dark-cloaked stranger arrived at a local inn, riding a jet-black horse. Witnesses described unnerving details: the drink he ordered sizzled when he swallowed it, steam rose from his throat, and some claimed to glimpse cloven hooves beneath the hem of his coat. After finishing his drink, the stranger paid the landlady, but when she later examined the coins, they had turned into dead leaves. A young boy who bore witness to the strange visitor, when asked to describe him during Sunday school, reportedly exclaimed:

“Please, sir, it’s the Devil, and he du live tu Widecombe!”

Later that afternoon, as the congregation gathered inside Saint Pancras Church, the storm outside raged with unnatural fury. Jan sat toward the back, a deck of playing cards in hand, intending to lure fellow churchgoers into a game once the sermon ended. However, whether drunk or weary, he eventually fell asleep—a mistake that would seal his fate.

Suddenly, the stranger burst into the church, his fiery eyes fixed on Jan, seizing him effortlessly before throwing him onto the back of his horse, which had been tethered to one of the church pinnacles. As the phantom rider mounted his steed, one of the horse’s hooves struck the pinnacle, triggering the destruction, death, and injury that later came to be blamed on the storm. Some terrified witnesses claimed to hear the rider’s laughter—a deep, unearthly chuckle—as he galloped into the storm, carrying Jan Reynolds to his grim fate.

As Jan was wrenched away, he dropped some of his playing cards—specifically, all four Aces from his deck. According to legend, these cards fell onto the hills below, transforming into small field enclosures, or “intakes,” each shaped like one of the symbols in a deck of cards. These became known as the “Ace Fields” (or the Devil’s Playing Cards) and, supposedly, they can still be seen today from the nearby Warren House Inn.

Historians have long attempted to rationalise the event, attributing the destruction of the church to a rare convergence of ball lightning, violent weather, and the superstition of the era. Yet for many, the story stands as a clear warning of diabolical intervention. It also serves as a cautionary tale: never fall asleep in church, lest you find yourself snatched away by the Devil himself, just like poor Jan Reynolds.

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Shadows That Linger

Dartmoor is a land of stories: the three tales told above are testament to a place that has the supernatural ingrained into its landscape and culture, and this has endured through the centuries up to the present day.  Whether it is the cautionary tales about deals with the devil, mournful tributes on forgotten graves or otherworldly assailants on lonely roads – we may live in so called enlightened times, but the beliefs and superstitions of the past aren’t quite as easy to surrender as we would perhaps like to imagine.

Dartmoor’s spectral legacy is an invitation to those who dare listen to the whispers of the past. Whether you’re drawn by the allure of ghostly apparitions or the tragic beauty of forgotten souls, these tales serve as both a mirror and a mystery—a reminder that some shadows never fade.

In the next instalment of our series, we will venture deeper into Dartmoor’s haunted locations—exploring ruined churches, abandoned castles, historic prisons and desolate monuments that serve as gateways between our world and the next.

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Further Reading & References

For those eager to delve even deeper into the supernatural history of Dartmoor, consider checking out the following resources:

• Books & Publications:
  • “The Haunted South” by Rupert Matthews – An exploration of ghost stories across southern England, with notable Dartmoor accounts.
  • “Folklore of Devon” by Ralph Whitlock – Offers in-depth insights into local myths and legends, including those from the moors.
  • “The Ghosts of England’s Southwest” by Peter Underwood – Features detailed narratives about haunted locations in Devon and Cornwall.
  • “The Witchcraft and Folklore of Dartmoor” by Ruth E. St Leger-Gordon – A collection of well known folk tales from the region.
• Web Resources:
  • Legendary Dartmoor – A comprehensive collection of myths, legends, and ghost stories from Dartmoor.
  • Widecombe-in-the-Moor History – Local accounts and historical context for stories surrounding Widecombe Church.

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Would you dare to follow these legends into the mists? Share your thoughts, and prepare for our next journey into Dartmoor’s haunted ruins and abandoned castles.