Who has not heard of the wild spirit of the sinner Jan Tregeagle, a ghostly specter that haunts the shire of Cornwall in the realm of England? The ghostly figure is seen from the dismal moors, the thin soil of the valleys, the rocky treacherous coasts and to the wind blown sand hills. The doomed specter, from the far north to the south, from east to west of the county, is cursed till the Day of Judgment to wander, pursued by avenging fiends of the dark underworld, from the demons to the furies. Forever endeavoring to perform an impossible task, he hopes to secure repose, and yet is forever defeated.

Air fills with mystery when the soughing of the winds, the calming of sea and the trickling of the wavelets to the shore cause low wailings to creep along the rocky shore. Terror lurks in darkness when shapeless forms are seen, but not wholly lost. When the storms come from the mighty seas and break on the rocky coast, the tormented shrieks of a tortured spirit can be heard over the howl of the winds.

Jan Tregeagle, an oft-sighted figure in days of yore, trod the paths in the shire of Cornwall in his majesty's kingdom. Who has not seen his haunted figure, bent in the vice of avarice in the advance of his elder years – dressed in the shabbiness of dark attire and scuffed shoes indefinably grim, although well-knit and shaped. Who has not seen his hollow cheeks, his sunken brilliant eyes, his lips in a sullen grimace, his grizzled hair hanging like waving wispy tendrils about his face – as if he had been a lonely mark for beating and chaffing throughout his miserable existence.

In his time, Jan Tregeagle was a cruel creature. His cup of sins overflowed. Yet, being a wealthy man, his gold purchased immunity, which the Church, in her degenerated days, accorded those who could aid the priesthood with the power of their coinage.

As a magistrate for the crown, he rendered unfair verdicts, and many an innocent man or woman was found guilty of a misdemeanor to hide Tregeagle’s own dark deeds. As a landowner, he inflicted upon tenants harsh toils so that they could not escape his grasping hands. Tregeagle was a murderer; it had been rumored he’d sacrificed a saintly sister whose goodness stood between him and his nefarious passions. Tongues told that even his goodly wife and innocent children were victims to his savage cruelties.

When the age of years crept in the ticking of the hourglass, the Grim Reaper appeared out of the shadows to claim Tregeagle’s wicked soul. But the Devil wanted his vital force to bring to the Land of Fire and Brimstone before it fell into the sack of Father Death. Sly Tregeagle had bribed the church with gold to secure his soul and save it from eternal fire. The struggle raged, but the banded brotherhood of the monastery drove back the Evil Ones with earnest prayers. Thus, without regret, Jan Tregeagle slept with his ancestors, safe in the custody of the monks who buried him in hallowed ground.

But Tregeagle was not fated to rest for long, despite the chanting and prayers by the monks above his grave. Satan fought to gain possession of the wicked sinner with all the powers he possessed.

The Devil's patience was near an end when, with the aid of his unholy ministers, a dispute arose between two wealthy and respected families of extensive lands. The vile conduct of Tregeagle, steward to one of the claimants, had rendered the question of ownership impossible. Avarice had compelled him to destroy ancient deeds, forge others, and appear as the owner of the domain. Goodly portions of the land Tregeagle had sold, and other parts leased on long terms for a weight in gold. But the gold burned in his hands, caused him grief and misery, and shortened his days on earth.

Upon the discovery of Tregeagle’s behavior, legal counsel argued with great tenacity at the assize to their client’s legality of ownership.

A trial day was fixed at the courts. A jury of peers was sworn in to hear the evidence of both sides and to render a just verdict. Numerous witnesses were called and they gave testimony to the validity of claim by both parties. After a week of debate, with the judge ready to sum up the evidence for both sides, the lawyers to the plaintiff declared they had another witness to produce.

An eerie silence stole into the courtroom. A cold chill spread throughout the gathered throng, from the judge on the bench to the jurors in box and to the numerous spectators. When the lawyers of the plaintiff called to the stand the ghostly spirit of Jan Tregeagle, a throb filled courtroom. There, the specter of Tregeagle, accompanied by the brotherhood of faith, entered and took the stand.

The awe-struck assemblage settled down and recovered their composure, and the jurists questioned the witness. The spirit voice was slow and deep, as he answered the questions to the charges leveled at him. The grueling session disclosed the vile swindle. The jury heard enough: the plaintiff had been the victim of fraud, and they gave their verdict in his favor.

Everyone expected to see the specter removed from the court. Yet the disgraced spirit of Tregeagle stood powerless to leave, even though he was desperate to hurry from the scene of his tribulation. The demons and furies appeared to spirit him away to the dark underground, but some spell of holiness prevented them from taking hold of him.

A great struggle ensued between the powers of evil and the good men of faith, and the assembled crowd froze in the horror. The judge addressed the holy men with a commanding tone, “Your task to bring him from the grave was dreadful in its fulfillment. I leave him to your care till judgment determines his fate.” Upon those words, the brotherhood bundled the spirit of Tregeagle out of the assize. Churchmen deliberated and consulted the best legal minds, for the disposition of Tregeagle to a deserving punishment. Discussions and arguments ended and the holy men announced a decision. They recalled the spirit of Jan Tregeagle. Who could not have noted the manner of the frightened specter, so gloomy and shadowy with thoughts reverting to a damned bygone age, as he stood before the bench?

The judge at the assize placed the verdict into the waiting hands of demons and furies of the Devil. But the churchmen argued that they couldn’t sacrifice a human soul to such evil and begged to keep him safe from the hellhounds.

The good men of faith proposed a solution, “Give Tregeagle a task, difficult beyond the power of human nature, that might last to the dawn of eternity. Thus, during the period of his labors, he might repent and seek absolution for his sinful ways. Yet, he must work hard and steady with no rest ‘til salvation is achieved. Then he would be safe from the grasp of the fiendish Lucifer and his demons.”

The lawyers agreed and they proposed that Tregeagle empty the bottomless Dozmary Pool. The good churchmen suggested for an additional burden, his tool should be a clamshell with a small hole in it.

All assented, and the required ceremony of prayers and holy chants blessed the unfortunate spirit of Jan Tregeagle. Thus bound by the spell of faith that saved him from the cohorts of the devil, the sinful specter was removed to the pool at the borders of the dark moors. The wind danced in the air, piercing and shrill, as Tregeagle began his task of empting the deep waters, clamshell in hand.

Weary year after year passed and there through long days and nights, hot summers and cold winters, Tregeagle labored at his task, never resting. But, no matter how hard he worked Dozmary Pool never emptied.

But the fiends of Hell, the servants of the Devil, kept a watchful eye on the miserable spirit, waiting for him to rest. The Evil Ones raised fierce tempests to force Tregeagle from his task, knowing well enough if the specter failed to work hard as his labors, they could grasp him and bring him to the dark underground lair. Lucifer tried and tried in his treachery, and finally the auspicious moment came to fore.

Dark and cold in the season of frost and storms, the elements of nature lost their balance and a forceful struggle raged to recover it. Bolts of lightning shot tongues of threatening flashes through the desolate moors and around the Dozmary Pool. The roar of thunder echoed through the hills and valleys; the earth shook to the tremor, and terror was in all living creatures. The gloom of the storm covered the earth and heavens above, the winds rose in fierceness and large balls of hail beat on the tortured earth. Hour after hour, through the terror of the pitiless storm did the spirit of Jan Tregeagle endure the misery. But weary, he succumbed to the blow of the storm and ceased his burdensome task, dropped his clamshell, and fled from the pool.

The Evil Ones ran at his heels, mingling their ghastly cries with the rending roar of the storm. Three times he circled ‘round the pool, one step ahead of the Evil Ones. Three times he tried to retrieve his tool and continue his labors, but the waters stormed, and he lost his grip. With no time to search for the clamshell, the frightened specter ran helter-skelter from the Dozmary Pool through the shire of Cornwall.

In the dark of night when the mists released the shadow from their hidden place on the moors, the Evil Ones chased Jan Tregeagle through the desolate land. Away, away went the cursed spirit, faster and faster, the horde pursued him. Tregeagle gave out howls of torment and pleading calls of prayer. He writhed and shrieked under the tortures of the storm and the hellish creatures; but the cohorts of the devil filled the air with their horrible shrieks, ready to seize him.

Jan Tregeagle carried on in his desperate bid to escape the demonic horde, never resting his weary legs and tired body, always a step ahead. Even until this very day, the specter labors at his task through storm and wind. When the good folk of the shire of Cornwall are at their nightly rest, his moaning cry is heard in the soughing of the winds. When the storms become a fearful roar, they hear the condemned specter above the mighty tempest.