The Mattingley Blacksmith

A Halloween Story from Our Forge

31st October 2024

In our local village of Mattingley, Hampshire, tales of the past still whisper through the quiet lanes. Among them is the legend of a blacksmith named Old Brock, who had forged not only iron but also a reputation for his fierce temper and unparalleled skill.

Brock’s forge stood at the edge of the village, its glow illuminating the dark woods that surrounded it. The villagers kept their distance, wary of his quick temper which had led to him being barred from the local inn many years before. He was unwelcome, too, in the village shop and even at the church, where his surly manners had upset many parishioners. 

One winter's night, a desperate traveller sought refuge in Brock's forge, drawn there by the hope of warmth and a meal. But Brock, in a foul mood, threw him out. The traveller cursed him under his breath, a curse that echoed through the frosty air.

Days later, Brock was found dead in his forge, a heart attack had claimed him as he hammered late into the night. The villagers buried him in the local churchyard, but soon after tales of strange and unusual events began to surface. As the moon waxed and waned, whispers of Brock’s ghost began to spread. They spoke of a shadowy figure seen at dusk, hammering away in the old forge, the clang of metal ringing eerily through the darkness.

One stormy night, a large group of villagers, made brave by an evening spent at the inn, dared each other to approach the forge. Armed with lanterns, they crept closer, the air thick with anticipation. As they entered the fiery forge they suddenly felt the temperature plummet. There, in the flickering light, stood Brock, his eyes glowing like molten metal and his spectral figure bent over the anvil, hammering away with an intensity that sent chills down their spines.

The first man called out, “Brock! We mean you no harm!” The hammering stopped, and the ghost turned, revealing eyes filled with sorrow and rage. “You cowards! You rejected me, just as I cast out that traveller!” His voice resonated, echoing through the forge.

Suddenly the fire roared in the hearth, and the ghostly figure began to fade. In that moment, Brock’s sorrow and fury turned to understanding. He whispered, “May he forgive me!” before vanishing into the shadows. The horseshoe he had been working on fell clattering on the cobbled floor and the fire was quenched.

From that night on, the forge lay silent, and slowly fell into ruin. The villagers spoke of Brock with a mix of reverence and fear, and the tale of the dead blacksmith became a cautionary reminder: kindness is the strongest forge of all. If you visit the village inn today you will find that very horseshoe, nailed up above the bar… for luck.