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Dunwich (Suffolk, not Massachusetts, sorry HPL fans, though Lovecraft may have named his lost post after this one) is one of those quaint, sleepy villages which litter the coastline, easy to miss and little to offer the typical tourist who wants stimulation and excitement. It is difficult to perceive that the remaining few houses and ruined Franciscan priory were once part of a sprawling maritime town, housing a royal fleet, up to eighteen buildings of religious significance (including the Preceptory of the Knights Templar), and two hospitals.

The town's decline began in the thirteenth century, when a storm swept dozens of buildings into the sea. Less than one hundred years later, the sea had consumed a quarter of Dunwich. Over the next five hundred years, sea surges silted up the river and converted the once glorious town into the small village that exists today.

It is not the history of Dunwich that lured me, but the mythology. The story of lost church bells that ring out from under the sea as a storm approaches is well known in the area. Experienced divers exploring the seabed have reported the sensation that they are not alone. The shingle is also home to an Elizabethan Sailor, who crosses the beach and wades into the water before climbing into a small boat and vanishing into the inky blackness of the moonless night.

The ruins of Greyfriars are probably the most striking feature in Dunwich. The Franciscan priory has survived the approaching sea due to being (re)built on the outskirts of the town, though it is now only a couple of dozen metres from the cliffs. The ruins are the haunt of the monks who once resided there, and young children's laughter is sometimes heard late at night in the area, though they cannot be found when concerned adults investigate the sounds. A shuck, the demonic coastline hound of East Anglia, has also been observed near the building, and a solitary phantom man searches the area for his wife who eloped.

The remains of a Leper hospital found in St James' Church graveyard is protected by a wrought iron fence. Malformed shadows are said to flicker in and out of view, former Hansen's disease sufferers who have remained on this earthly plane. The nearby road is home to a phantom herd of cattle, never seen yet heard moving towards the beach which was once their lush green grazing ground.

Finally, for now at least, the heathland surrounding Dunwich is home to the almost obligatory phantom horseman. Only appearing on nights of the full moon, the former squire gallops across the lands which were once his, unnerving any living person caught out on the heath.

The future of Dunwich is uncertain. The coast continues to vanish at around a metre per year, sometimes more if a severe storm hits the area, and attempts to reduce the erosion have largely been for naught. Dunwich may vanish, but I'm certain the legends, myths and phantoms will be with us for much, much longer.