Beware, for the darkness of Newhaven Fort conceals unspeakable terrors that torment the souls of those who dare to step foot within its accursed tunnels. 

Visitors have recounted harrowing experiences of being violently pushed by unseen forces, witnessing shadowy figures slithering into the abyss, and capturing ethereal orbs on surveillance cameras that penetrate the veil between the living and the dead. But these spine-chilling occurrences are only the beginning, as the fort harbors a multitude of haunting entities that lurk within its magazines and laboratories, their presence evoked by the clinking chains that echo through the desolate halls. One spectral presence, Martha, a tormented soul driven to suicide, is believed to perpetuate the nightmare that grips the fort, her anguished spirit eternally bound to its wretched existence.

Newhaven Fort stands as the final bastion in a chronicle of defense spanning ages, tracing its origins back to the unforgiving Iron Age. Once, the River Ouse flowed into the sea at Seaford, a testament to nature's untamed power. But the whims of time reshaped the land, and in 1539, a new channel was carved, birthing the sinister moniker of the 'New Haven.' It was during this turbulent era that the first gun was dispatched to Newhaven in 1548, a response to a heinous French raid upon Seaford. Through three hundred years of turmoil and strife, the fort's armaments were modernized, and bolstered in times of peril such as the dreaded Spanish Armada and the relentless Napoleonic Wars. Yet, the ebb and flow of fortune saw the fortifications crumble into decay, abandoned to neglect as the very soldiers entrusted with its defense sought sustenance through farming and fishing.

In 1759, a permanent gun battery emerged, solidifying the fort's purpose in a world drenched in bloodshed. Then, in 1855, the Duke of Wellington graced its halls, leaving in his wake a trail of newly installed cannons and an imposing battery. This era witnessed the harbor's expansion, the arrival of the railway, and a burgeoning steamer service to France, propelling Newhaven into the throes of national prominence. The town reveled in its newfound prosperity, unaware of the impending darkness that would envelop its soul.

As the late 1850s unfolded, Napoleon III, the nefarious nephew of Bonaparte, fanned the flames of his naval might, bolstering coastal defenses and arousing the fears of the British government, led by the enigmatic Lord Palmerston. The specter of a French invasion loomed large, casting a pall of dread over the nation. And thus, a colossal undertaking was set into motion—a network of seventy-two coastal forts would rise from the earth, constructed at a staggering cost of twelve million pounds.

Enter Lieutenant John Charles Ardagh, a mere twenty-two years old, his mind a labyrinth of architectural prowess as a member of the esteemed Royal Engineers. In 1862, Ardagh embarked on the construction of Newhaven Fort, a monstrous endeavor that consumed ten years and six million bricks. Ingenious design features emerged, pushing the boundaries of military fortification. Concrete, that wicked concoction, coursed through the veins of the fortress, granting it an otherworldly strength. A new breed of drawbridge emerged, shattering conventions, while the fort itself, defying tradition, melded with the contours of the land, ensnaring the unwary in its suffocating embrace.

As the 19th century drew to a close, the fort demanded rejuvenation, a metamorphosis that bordered on rebirth. It was a time of transformation, as modern guns took their place amidst the relentless march of progress,