"I'm telling you," said a smoky grey ferret to a stocky rat, "ghosts move just like smoke, subject to every breeze, floating wherever they're told to."

"Aye, never heard such a fib." replied the rat. "Everyone knows that a ghost moves just like a river, it follows the same course every time it's conjured."

"Can't be." said the ferret, shaking his head. "A ghost can appear in a place where it's never appeared before."

"Aye, but what of ghosts who act their deaths night after night?" asked the rat. "What force are they subject to?"

"Unknown ones, mate." replied the ferret. He was slender, though not tall. His eyes were black, though not as black as the circles beneath them. He was subject to superstition, and as such, talked about ghosts and death and magic with a religious fervor. His name was Jasper.

"Well Jasper," said his mate, Tempson, "You ever see a ghost?" Tempson was too a superstitious beast. He would cross himself with a protective gesture before walking by a cemetery, burnt dried herbs in his home to keep spirits away, and spoke regularly of his own encounters with them.

"Nah, but my pa did, before he passed away. In his twilight years he always saw ghosts around the cemetery outside of town while he was out walking. Said they roamed aimlessly. He would always say to me that they were like lost, smoky children."

"Aye, a poetic way to put it, for sure." said Tempson, tipping his ale to his lips. "But can you always trust a beast as old as your pa was to see things for what they are?"

"My pa's mind was sharp as a needle and his sight as clear as crystal clear right up until the day he died!" defended Jasper. "It was my ma's healing that kept him fit. She was a student of the older ways, you know?"

"Aye, so she was. Alright matey, I believe you about your pa. And what you say he saw too." ceded Tempson. "But I still say that ghosts move like rivers."

A mouse, who had been sitting at the table behind them, had decided that he had had enough of the two vermins' superstitious chatter. He slapped two bronze coins on the table, tanked his ale, and stormed out into the chilly night. Before he had left though, he muttered something loud enough for Jasper and Tempson to hear, "Stupid, superstitious vermin. Telling ghost stories like little dibbuns."

"Hmmph, Woodlanders." sneered Tempson when the mouse had gone. "They've got some nerve, acting as if they were above believing in spirits, yet always trying to evoke the name of that damned Martin." He spat into the fire, which provided the only, albeit inadequate, light in the tavern.

"Put it behind you mate." said Jasper. They both returned to drinking in silence for a moment. "Hey Tempson," started the ferret, "you think woodlanders have any ghost troubles?"

"You mean like a haunting?" asked the rat. Jasper nodded his head. "Yeah, I'd assume so. Though, I'd also assume that they'd be too proud to admit it."

There was a short moment of silence. "It'd be interesting to hear about them." said Jasper, and then sipped his ale. "Do you smell something?" he then asked. Sure enough the smell of rotting eggs had penetrated the stale air of the tavern.

"Yeah, I do." he sniffed the air. "Smells like Sulfur." The odor was thickening, as though it were radiating from some moving source creeping closer and closer to the tavern. The tavern door then opened, and a burst of warm wind came in. A tall orange fox stood at the threshold. He was dressed in heavy, mismatched traveler's robes, and seemed to emanate the strange, musty odor. He walked in, and shut the door behind him. The bones hanging from his sleeves rattled as he moved. He looked a lot like a seer, a sort of witch doctor.

He made his way slowly to the center of the tavern, bones rattling hollowly with every step. Everyone looked at him in silence. He stopped, pulled out a long dried leaf which was rolled to hold a plethora of intoxicating herbs, and stood there for a moment, as if waiting for something. "Well?" he started in a raspy voice. "Anyone gonna strike me a Lucifer?" he asked the tavern goers.

Jasper, who had been watching the fox with Tempson, was familiar with the term "Lucifer." It was a northern word for match. "I got one for you." he spoke up. The fox smiled and walked over to him. Jasper pulled a match from his pants pocket and struck it against the hard underside of the table. It sparked to life and he offered the flame to the fox.

"You, sir, are too kind." said the fox, lighting his smoking herbs on Jasper's match. He took a few puffs and blew the smoke into the air. The smoke was blue. "Mind if I take a seat, friends?" he asked. Neither Jasper nor Tempson objected. "Thank you." The fox sat, took a few more puffs from his herbs, and asked, "So, tell me. What shall we be talking about tonight?"

"Well," started Tempson. "Jasper and I here were talking about ghosts."

"Ghosts, you say!?" The fox's eyes lit up at the word. "I know a thing or two about…" he puffed his herbs and let the blue smoke escape from his mouth as he formed the word "…ghosts." The smoke wisped towards the ceiling, like a spirit rising toward the sky.

"Yeah." said Jasper. "We were wondering if woodlanders ever get haunted by ghosts, because if they did they'd never admit it to vermin like us."

The fox chuckled a raspy chuckle. "Oh, I should think that they do." He said, twirling the smoking herbs in his paw. "In fact, I could tell you boys a few stories about woodland haunts…If you'd like. Tales of witches, devils, and spirits all from a place woodlanders revere as good and holy. Redwall Abbey."

Both beasts asked the fox to tell them his stories. "Oh yes please, we'd like very much to hear them." "Yeah, tell us your tales, friend."

The fox chuckled again. "Well, ok." He inhaled a lungful of smoke, released it, and said, "My first tale is of a witch. A witch named Sister Mary…"