The Red Monkey of Colebrooke

Long before the Red Monkey of Colebrooke became a whispered warning passed from parent to child, the village held a quiet understanding with the shadows—an old knowing that some lanes should not be walked after dusk. In this corner of Devon, where the land folds in on itself with hedgerows thick as stone walls and twilight comes early beneath tangled boughs, something ancient has always stirred just out of sight. No church bell could banish it, no torchlight chase it away. It is older than roads, older than names, perhaps even older than fear itself. The villagers spoke little of it, not because they had forgotten, but because remembering too loudly might stir it from its restless watching. And so, Colebrooke slept lightly, and walked quickly, and never, ever accepted gifts from the dark.