gemmamawdsley

Witch’s Hallow Part 2

Tue, 20 Dec 2011 21:43:11 +0100

Witch’s Hallow Part 1

Tue, 20 Dec 2011 21:43:28 +0100

Though I have heard thousands of ghost stories over the years, very few have involved witches and I was intrigued when Bill told me his next tale was about the murder of a witch. Sarah was not in fact a witch, but it suited her accuser to condemn her as such.

I met Bill early on Wednesday afternoon and although it was only a little after 3, the light was already beginning to fade. The landscape is dull and tired now, the fields in hibernation, awaiting the spring. The only colour among the greys and browns was from the holly bushes, which are laden down under the weight of scarlet berries. This is a sure sign that the winter is going to be a hard one, Bill said and he is usually right.

“There won’t be a single berry left once the frost sets in,” he said. “The birds will pick the bushes clean. I’ll cut some for you when the time is right.”

I smiled at this small, thoughtful act, but my heart ached. For the first time, Bill has chosen to link his arm through mine as we walk, and I am aware of how fragile he has become over the past few months. As though sensing my thoughts, he said.

“We won’t feel Christmas; what are you buying me?”

“What would you like?” I asked.

“I was thinking of getting myself a young one,” I sensed his smile. “What do you think?”

“I think you’d be dead in a week.”

His laughter echoed in the stillness and caused a few crows to take flight. The sound of their confusion shattered the silence as they wheeled and dipped among the skeleton trees. As we skirted the edge of the bog, I saw the dark outline of the Wailing Wood in the distance and the cry of the curlew added to the overall sense of bleakness. We were on our way to Witch’s Hallow.

Though I spent most of my childhood holidays in this place, it amazed me how ignorant I am about the stories and the places associated with them. Bill had told me a little about the place we were about to visit, but as usual he would keep the best part of the story for later, when we were back inside his little cottage and safely out of harm’s way. We walked along narrow laneways, the centres churned into waves of earth by the passing of many tractors and across fields until we reached our destination. In reality the hallow is more of a dip in the land. In a sense it would remind one of the bed of a dried up stream with towering banks on either side and overshadowed by trees. It must look lovely in the summertime, when everything is in bloom, but harsh November has stripped it of its beauty and it is now as barren as the rest of the land.

“It’s just up ahead,” Bill breath came in gasps.

I stopped walking and turned to look at him.

“I’ll rest when we get there,” his grip on my arm spurred me on.

It was impossible to see anything other than the high rise of banks and even though I had no idea what I would see when we finally got there, I did expect something.

“This is it,” Bill let go of my arm and perched on a large rock.

“What?” I looked around me in confusion.

“Sarah’s cottage,” he waved towards a small mound in the earth. “This is where it all happened over two hundred years ago.”

“There’s nothing here,” I walked around the edge of the mound.

Bill shook his head and sighed.

“It’s there if you would only look,” he got up and pulled aside some of the brambles. “Look there, you can just make out the shape of her cottage.”

There were some old bricks jutting out from the earth, but otherwise nothing to mark that there had ever been a dwelling there.

“She was only nineteen when she was murdered,” Bill let the brambles settle back in place. “They say her screams could be heard for miles.”

I felt the familiar sense of dread, because I knew what was coming next, as I asked.

“Is it her ghost that’s supposed to haunt this place?”

“Aye, young Sarah’s and her cat.”

“A ghost cat? I’ve never heard of such a thing,” I said. “I’ve heard hundreds of stories about black dogs, but never a cat.”

“There are a lot of things you’ve never heard about,” Bill gestured at me to come away. “We’ll go home out of the cold and I’ll tell you about Sarah. We’ll let her rest for now,” he made the sign of the cross on his forehead and I copied his actions.

“She’s not buried here, is she?” I asked Bill.

“She is indeed,” he took hold of my arm. “She’s under that mound along with her little cat.”

I look over my shoulder a few times as we left the hallow, more aware than usual of the lonesome stillness that covers the countryside at that time of day. Shadows leapt from their hiding places and cast dark shapes in our path. Soft scurrying in the undergrowth became the footsteps of some demonic creatures that might leap out on us at any time.

“It’s probably a fox,” Bill sensed my fright. “We’ve nothing to fear from Sarah, she was innocent and not one to cause harm.”

I tried to concentrate on Bill’s breathing as we walked along in the descending darkness and must admit how relieved I was when the light from his cottage came into view.

Sarah gathered her skirts around her, as she climbed up the bank in search of herbs. The summer was at an end and she needed to gather as much as possible before first frost. The cold stripped the plants of their healing properties, but once dried above the fire in her cottage, they would retain their goodness. The last summer had been hot and dry. The heat brought the flies that fed on the food and spread disease in their wake. Sarah lost both her parents two years before and knew well the cost of careless handling of food.

Her neighbours thought her outlook strange and there were many who whispered behind her back about her strange practises, but they lost no time in coming to ask for help, when the fever hit. Unlike many of his time, Sarah’s father owned the cottage they lived in and this passed to her on his death. The little vegetable garden beside the cottage provided most of the food she needed and Molly, the goat, supplied her with milk and cheese. The few pennies she earned from her medicines went towards buying cloth to make her dresses. It was a lonely life for a young woman and was it not for the company of Sooty, her cat; Sarah would have felt quite alone in the world. Sooty knew her every mood and shared in all Sarah’s highs and lows. She was her mistress’s constant companion and accompanied her on her foraging in the woods and streams.

“Scat,” Sarah fanned her skirts at the cat, which was rolling around on a bed of valerian. “I don’t want to have to pick that free of your hair.”

Sarah knelt and began to pull the herb free from the earth. The valerian was used to calm those in need and was a godsend when it came to easing some of the pain of childbirth.

“Come on Sooty,” Sarah said, scooping up her basket. “We need some vervain.”

This plant helped eased the symptoms of fever and there was only one place it grew, near Oakwood Hall. Sarah picked her way carefully through the wood, stopping now and then to pick some of the wild mushrooms that grew in abundance in the shade of the trees. It was almost two years to the day since she’d lost her parents, but she tried not to think about it and concentrated instead on her gathering. The sharp turrets of the Hall came into view above the tree line, so she stopped behind one of the trees and scanned the area. If her need for the herb was not so great she wouldn’t have dared come to this place, but the loneliness she felt could not be wished on others and there was no doubt that many would suffer her fate, if she did not get the vervain.

“Come on,” she whispered to the cat.

The young woman and the black cat became streaks of light as they ran across the field bordering the Hall. The vervain grew outside the high walls of the Hall’s herb garden and the gardener allowed Sarah to pick as much of the plant as she needed. The pinky-blue flower of the vervain stood out among the other darker plants surrounding it and Sarah made directly for this. Snapping off as many stems as her small hands allowed, she looked around in search of movement, sure that at any moment he would appear; the person she feared most in the world.

Ghost Story (The Wailing Wood 2)

Mon, 19 Dec 2011 21:22:02 +0100

Milly stood at the small window of her cottage and watched the children at play. She smiled at their antics as they chased one another round the yard.

Francis, her eldest at just eight was pretending to be a monster and his lumbering gait had his sisters Jane aged six and Maura four, screaming with excitement and terror. Milly shook her head in awe of their innocence and wishing she could remember such a time. Her husband Pat was due in soon for his dinner and there was work to be done. Selecting a few potatoes from a stack in the corner of the room, she put them on to boil. Tonight their meal would be a fine one, as Father Thomas, the priest she cleaned for, had chicken for his dinner. The old man had very little appetite and insisted she take what remained of the bird home with her. She imagined the children’s faces when they saw the feast and felt a rush of happiness. Even though they were both working, times were hard and the summer of 1845 was proving to be worse of all. Blight had hit the potatoes and over half the crop was rotting in the ground.

“It’ll pass,” Her husband said, when she told him how worried she was.

Still, Milly wasn’t so sure, but she tried not to think about it. They had money put by with the intention of one day owning their own cottage and a small parcel of land. They would have had enough saved by now to buy the home of their dreams, if only Pat would stay away from the pub. The clatter of feet on the path outside the door heralded the arrival of her family. The children, as always hung on to their father’s every word, as he told them stories about his day up at the big house. Pat worked in the stables at the manor house, and the children lived in awe of the many tales he spun about the place, some real, but most imagined. He came up behind Milly as she strained the water off the potatoes and kissed the back of her head.

“How was your day?” He asked, as he plunged his hands into the basin of water laid out for him.

“Very good,” she motioned at the children to follow their father’s lead.

While they were busy washing their hands, she took the chicken from the cupboard and placed it in the centre of the table. Her family’s exclamations of delight were exactly as she expected.

“Well, thank god for Father Thomas and his bad appetite,” Pat said, as he pulled the bird towards him.

“Pat, stop that now,” Milly laughed.

The children watched wide-eyed as he carved the bird with expert ease, as though they were used to having a whole chicken every day.

“Will you have a leg?” Pat asked her.

“No, give one to Francis,” she smiled at her son’s delight. “He loves a leg.”

“Thanks Ma,” he whispered, as he stared down at the prize on his plate.

As they ate, her husband regaled them with tales from the big house. Milly picked at her food, lost in thought, but smiling in all the right places, when he made a joke. Her mind was troubled of late, but she was too frightened to confront him about the stories she’d heard from the gossips in the village. There was a new kitchen maid up at the manor; they said Pat was paying a bit too much attention too. She had heard many such tales over her ten year marriage and always dismissed them as idle gossip, though at times, she had known there was some substance to them. Her family meant more to her than her life, and if ignoring her husband’s odd flirtation meant keeping them together, then so be it. This latest dalliance was more worrying than any of the others and she had a bad feeling about the whole thing. There were many who said that Milly was one of the most beautiful women in the district and one of the most hardworking, but this in itself was not enough for her husband. While she never doubted his love for the children, she wasn’t so sure when it came to her.

“Ma, did you hear what Da said?” Jane roused her out of her musings.

“Sorry pet, I was miles away,” Milly said.

Jane then went on to recount the story her father had just old. Milly smiled at the way she looked adoringly at her father as she spoke. Of all the children Jane was the one who loved him the most. To her he was a hero, her father who could do anything and was afraid of nothing.

“Can we go out to the wood after dinner, Ma?” Francis asked.

“Just for an hour,” Milly said.

The children had a few wild rabbits they’d managed to capture in a makeshift cage and they spend most of their spare time tending to them.

“I love it in the wood,” Jane said, as they got up from the table. “I wish we could stay in there forever.”

Outside a cloud crossed the setting sun and the room was thrown into shadow. Milly shivered, as a cold hand clutched at her heart and she knew that there was something bad about to happen.

The winter was hard and the loss of the potato crop meant everyone was scrabbling about trying to find what food they could. Milly’s saving meant she could buy what little food they needed, and Father Thomas was as generous as ever with his leftovers. Pat now came home each night with tales about poachers being caught in the grounds of the manor and Milly listened in horror as he named neighbours who were being transported to Australia for stealing a rabbit. She had no idea at the time that those who were being sent away would one day count themselves among the lucky ones. Christmas came and went with the usual excitement for the children, but for Milly it was a time of great sadness, as she felt her husband moving further and further away from her. He still lay beside her at night, but as far away from her as their small bed would allow. As she listened to his thundering snores, she wondered how long it would be before she was lying there alone. Shelia, the kitchen maid from the manor, had a hold over her husband that seemed unbreakable. Each night, when the children were in bed, Milly waited for him to tell her he was leaving, but week after agonising week passed and he kept silent.Milly loved Father Thomas’s house and its fine big rooms. The parochial house was huge compared to her cottage with eight rooms to house just one man. Her cottage was on the edge of the bog and always felt damp no matter what time of year it was. Her cloth flew over the shiny mahogany table in the dining room and she wondered what it would be like to sit there and eat some of the food she prepared each day for the priest. The clatter of the carriage arriving at the front gate brought her back to reality and she walked to the window and looked out. Father Thomas had just started on his usual rounds to visit the sick and dying, but he was back already. Frowning, she walked down the hall and opened the front door.

“Have you heard?” He brushed by her and went into the library.

“Heard what, Father?”

She had no idea what could have upset the old man so, and she followed him into the room. His hand shook as he poured brandy into two glasses and held one out to her. She took it and gazed down at the amber liquid in wonder.“Have you heard?” He brushed by her and went into the library.

“Heard what, Father?”

“Sit down, woman,” the priest ordered.

Milly sank down into the chair beside the desk and watched as the priest drained his glass. As he reached for the decanter to refill, he noticed her drink was untouched.

“Take a sip,” he nodded at the glass. “You’re going to need it.”

The brandy burned her throat and it took all of Milly’s self control to stop herself from coughing.

“The crops have failed for the second year,” the old priest words hung in the air like a death knell.

“No?” Milly didn’t feel the glass slip from her hand.

It bounced onto the heavy woollen rug and rolled onto the timber floor with a clatter.

“Sorry, Father,” she stood up to clean the spilt drink.

“No, leave it,” the priest said. “You go home to your family, I’ll see to that.”

Milly couldn’t remember afterward if she thanked the man for his kindness. All she could recall was grabbing her shawl and running for home. There were many like her doing the same thing and the fields and roads were spotted with figures running as though their life depended on it. For the first time she noticed the sickly sweet smell in the air and she knew the crop they all depended on was rotting in the ground.

Pat was already at home when she got there and sitting round the table with the children. Instead of the usual laughter, there was a heavy silence and she nodded at her husband to show she’d heard the terrible news. The girls were too young to understand the severity of the loss, but Francis understood and put an arm round her shoulder when she sat down beside him.

“The family are talking about leaving for England,” Pat said.

His employers, expecting the worst, were abandoning the sinking ship.

“What about your job?” Milly asked. “They’ll still need someone to take care of the horses.”

“They’re talking of taking the animals with them,” Pat ran a hand through his dark hair. “It might not come to that, but we have to be ready when it does.”

What they imagined came to pass some months later. As the supplies of potatoes dwindled, the gentry took fright and abandoned their homes. A few of the staff remained at the manor, but there was no need for Pat and the other men, who worked the grounds. The price of food rose until it was out of reach of the common people and the amount of beggars wandering the roads in search of work increased daily. Disease spread as those dying of starvation feel victim to a worse fate, typhus. Milly kept the children inside the cottage and lived in fear of them catching the disease. Pat spent more time in the pub, coming home with tales too horrible to relate to the children.

“How much money have we left?” He asked Milly one day.

She took her meagre saving from its hiding place behind a loose brick in the wall and shook it free from the old sock she’d stored it in. The coins rolled across the scarred wood of the table. Pat grabbed them and counted each one, before placing them in a pile. When he was finished he sat back, shook his head and sighed.

“There’s not enough.”

“Not enough for what?” Milly asked.

“Our fare to America,” he said. “There’s only enough for one of us to go and the children.”

“You go,” Milly’s mind was made up in an instant. “You can find work once you get there and send for me.”

“No, I want you to go and take the children,” he said. “I heard there’s work going up north. I can go there once you’re safely away, and I’ll follow you out there once I’ve saved the fare.”

Milly opened her mouth to protest, but he held up a hand to stop her.

“It’s no use arguing, my mind is made up,” he said. “I’ll be able to work all the quicker without having to worry about all of you.”

Milly’s eyes filled with tears and she hated herself for ever doubting that he loved her.

“When will we go?” She asked.

“First thing tomorrow,” he said. “There’s a ship sailing in two days time and it’ll take us at least a day to walk to the port. Pack everything you need up tonight. I’ll tell the children myself, if you don’t mind?”

Milly called the children in from the bedroom, where they had been playing. She left them alone with their father while he broke the news. Their excited squeals meant they took it well, and she knew her husband’s skill as a storyteller, was making it sound very exciting. There was little to pack and in the end all she had to take with them to the New World was two small bundles of clothes.

The worry of his family’s departure didn’t affect Pat’s sleep, but Milly lay beside him wishing the dawn would never come. How long would it be before she saw her husband again, she wondered and would the forced separation mean the end of her marriage? How would they survive in another country without a man to protect them? Her head swam with a thousand other thoughts as the hours ticked slowly by.

She used the last of the food to make the breakfast the next morning. They would need it to give them strength for the journey ahead. It was agreed that Pat would take the children into the wood to let the rabbits go free, while Milly went to say her goodbyes to Father Thomas. It was cold that morning, but the sun was bright and the sky was clear of any rain clouds. Milly parted with her family by the wood and stopped just once to wave to them before they disappeared among the trees. Father Thomas was sad to see her go, but he assured her she was doing the right thing. She told him about Pat staying behind until he saved the fare, and her worries about surviving once they reached America. The old priest listened to her fears and blessed her, asking god to give her strength. As he walked her to the front door, he pressed some money into her hand.

“I won’t see you go alone,” he smiled.

Milly looked down at the coins and her heart leapt. Too overcome to speak, she looked up at the priest with eyes filled with tears.

“You take that man of yours along with you,” the priest’s eyes mirrored hers. “I’ve little need for the money, and I wouldn’t like to think of you starting out alone in a strange country.”

Milly ran all the way back home. She wanted to shout, to scream her happiness to the world. There was no one there when she reached the cottage and she started out for the wood. They had probably lost track of time, she thought, and Pat was as bad as the children for playing with the rabbits. As she came closer to the wood, she saw the figure of her husband stagger out from the trees.

“Francis is hurt,” he called.

Milly ran past him and into the small group of trees. She hadn’t time to notice the sheen of sweat on her husband’s face or the hard look in his eyes. The children were all sitting together beneath one of the trees, and she thought for a moment they were playing a trick on her, until she saw the dark stains on the front of their clothes. The sting of her husband’s knife on her throat felt cold and she pulled away from its touch. She tried to speak, to ask him why, but the blood gushing from the wound made her gasp, as she stumbled deeper into the wood. Weak from loss of blood, she fell and was aware of her husband’s dark shadow overhead. He stood watching as she bled out and there was no emotion in his face. Before her eyes were dimmed forever, Milly saw him wipe the bloody blade of his knife on a leaf.

Ghost Story (The Wailing Wood) Part One

Mon, 19 Dec 2011 20:23:08 +0100

There were still a couple of hours of daylight left when we set off for the wood. I was wrapped up against the chill in a heavy coat and gloves, but Bill wore only his threadbare jacket. I’ve bought him gloves and hats in the past, but he refuses to wear them. He says he’s used to the cold, though the state of his skin belies this, as his cheeks are red and threaded with veins and his hands dry and sore-looking.

“I can’t understand how it’s gotten so cold,” I shivered, as we stepped out from the warmth of his cottage.

“It’ll snow before long,” Bill looked up at the sky. “Mark my words; we’ll have snowfall before the month is out.”

“So early in the year?” I asked.

“The seasons are changing,” he said. “The earth is rebelling against the misuse and don’t bother telling me that you recycle, it’ll take a lot more than that to heal the damage that’s been done.”

I hate it when Bill speaks like this, because I know he’s right and it frightens me more than any ghost.

“We’ll go by the bog,” he changed the subject. “It’s quicker that way.”

Bill had mentioned the Wailing Wood in passing and I’ve heard stories about it since I was a child. I’ve seen it in the distance, but never thought anything about it, until now. It’s a strange group of trees, more copse than wood and stranger still; it grows on the edge of the bog. Since I’ve started to record Bill’s stories, I’ve grown wiser and now wear a pants and flat shoes when I go out with him. The land we trek across is uneven and dangerous to those it catches unawares. We crossed a few fields, the earth bare, and the land shorn of its crops, in hibernation until the spring. The sun sank a little as we walked and its dying rays were blinding. The leafless branches of the trees offered no protection from its light, but the beauty of their skeleton forms would gladden the eye of any artist. As we moved closer to the bog, the land turned harsher and its neglect was obvious, as no crop would grow in the marshy earth and the farmer wasted no time in its upkeep. We climbed over barred gates, the bolts rusted into place. Bill pulled back the thorny bushes and it was hard to imagine these barren, brown branches would hang with heavy fruits once the winter had passed.

The bog spread out before us, and we stood panting from our last climb in order to get our breath back and admire the beauty. Purple moor grass vies with gold and brown heathers in a vast array of autumn colours. Other plants grow on the hummocks, the higher, drier parts of the bog, and Bill named each one as we passed.

“Stay beside me and don’t go wandering off,” he still thinks of me as a child who needs warning.

I know the bog well, but not in the way Bill does, and despite its beauty, it can be treacherous. In the numerous hallows, deep pools have formed, some of them bottomless, according to my guide, and the white bog cotton surrounding them masks their danger. Other than the small hummocks, the land is flat and there are no trees to welcome the nesting of birds. To the untrained eye, it seems a dead place, but it is, in fact, teeming with life and Bill calls out the names of every bird we come across. Imagine the thrill of a city dweller like me, to see the Red Grouse foraging among the heather, its gold and crimson coat making the other plants look faded. The bobbing Snipe hops from place to place and takes no notice of the human invasion. It looked up at us and decided we were no threat, before going about its daily business. In the distance the call of the curlew echoes over the bog, its notes haunting in the silent air. Bill says he’s seen Kestrels hunting here and I would love to see one swooping over the ground in search of prey, but my luck was out.

“Look,” Bill whispered.

A red streak ran across the mosses, the fox’s body so lithe, that his movements seemed fluid. I was so taken by all this wonder around me, I had lost track of our reason for being there, and it wasn’t until Bill nodded at the dark shape ahead, that I was jolted back to reality.

The Wailing Wood stood like a dark shadow against the sky and not even the setting sun could pierce its denseness. It is a small growth of trees that overlook bushes and wild undergrowth. Though many of the branches are bare, some leaves still remain and hang like sleeping, black bats. While the trees in the more fertile fields have been stripped bare by the wind, they nevertheless stand proud against the sky. Here, in this veritable, almost petrified forest, they droop limp and drained of life. I started to move closer, but Bill’s hand on my arm stopped me.

“Don’t try to go inside,” he said. “There are thorns big enough to tear through your skin.”

“What is it?” I wasn’t aware that I was whispering.

It’s difficult to explain the wood. It had a hallowed ground feeling, like walking into a church, or a place of the dead.

“I wanted you to see it for yourself,” Bill said. “Before I tell you the story behind it.”

“Can’t you tell me now?” My eyes scanned the undergrowth, looking for signs of life.

“It’s not a story that wants telling in the cold and dark,” Bill said. “I’ll tell you all about it when we get back to the cottage. I wanted you have a look at it first. The bones of a young mother and her children are buried in there,” Bill pointed a quivering finger into the darkness. “I want you to search them out and feel their despair, go on,” he nudged me with his shoulder, as though pushing me into the arms of those waiting trees.

The wood is dark and I saw in my minds eye the centre, the place housing the mass grave. The branches of the overhead trees have tangled together to form an arch, so the grave is always in shadow. Despite its solitude, no birds sing and the usual black shapes of crows’ nests are missing from the branches, but it’s the sadness of the place that makes me catch my breath. For the first time, I am aware of the sun sinking below the horizon and I am totally alone and lost within the tangle of trees and bushes. Everything is lost, I have no one left, all those I love are dead and I’m trapped in a maze of thorns. No, my mind screams for release from these terrible memories and it is the feel of Bill’s arm around my shoulders that pull me back and turn me towards home.

I don’t speak, because I can’t. My throat hurts from the tears I’m trying to hold back.

“I’m sorry, girl,” Bill’s breath is warm on my chilled cheek. “I forget sometimes how strong the power is in you.”

“That’s OK,” I managed to whisper. “I just got a bit carried away.”

I knew by his next sentence that Bill was trying to change the mood and it worked. He’s said the same thing to me a thousand times.

“You know, in the olden days you’d have been burned as a witch.”

“And I know who’d be wielding the first flaming torch,” I said.

“Best thing really,” I sensed his smile. “Put you out of your misery.”

“You’re just pure evil, aren’t you?” I looked at him out of the corner of my eye and saw his face crease up with laughter.

We better get you inside,” he said. “You’re pale as death. A drop of brandy will bring the colour back, and you’ll need it when you hear the story attached to the wood.”

“I can’t drink, I’m driving,” I reminded him.

“Phone home,” he suggested. “Tell them you’re staying the night here. Get yourself a bit of a reputation.”

We were still laughing, when we reached the cottage and saw the welcoming light of the fire inside.

That’s it for this week, dear reader. I can tell you that our laughter soon ceased, as Bill retold his tale. I now understand the sadness of the wood and next week, you will too. Oh, by the way, my reputation remains intact.

Graveyard Secrets Part (2)

Mon, 19 Dec 2011 20:15:30 +0100

Tom’s cottage is snug, though the air is thick from the turf he uses to keep the old range going. I sat at the table and watched as he took plates of cold meats and cheeses out of the fridge.

He had prepared these ahead of time, and I was glad I hadn’t refused his offer of lunch. I was touched and honoured to find he had bought packets of gluten free biscuits for me, and he offered me juice instead of tea. Once he had finished setting the table, he sat opposite and started to talk, as he forked slices of meat onto my plate.

“It all started over two hundred years ago,” he said. “I told you the wall behind that place was part of the manor house? At that time the church was for their private use and part of the estate.”

I nodded; I knew what he was talking about, and found it strange that he couldn’t bear to give the small plot a name. It was not the graveyard to him and never will be. Between mouthfuls, he explained the history of those buried there, and this is how the story goes.

In 1882 the first Lord Fitzwalter died and left behind two sons, Ralph and William. Ralph being the eldest inherited his father’s estate, which was a wealthy one and made him one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. Those who worked on the land belonging to the estate, must have felt the first stirring of fear on hearing of the death of the old Lord, as Ralph was known as a womaniser and his taste for the ale houses and gambling dens was the talk of the district. I have since found photographs of the portraits of both brothers and in looks they were the complete opposite. Ralph was fair and well built, while his brother was dark with more delicate features. William did not only differ to his brother in looks, but he was more reserved and secretive. The reason for this will become clear later on.

The old Lord was barely cold in the grave, when the influx of mothers, anxious to make a good match for their daughters, began. Ralph had no interest in any of the women he was introduced to, but his brother fell for the charms of a Miss Emily, who he later married. If her mother felt disappointed at her daughter’s choice of husband, she kept it to herself. William was, after all, rich in his own right and first in line to his brother’s estate. Emily was pretty and her presence in the house must have made Ralph realise what he was missing, because soon after William’s marriage, he announced that he too was taking the same step. Isabella, his future wife was of Spanish descent.

While her exotic looks and fiery temperament was off putting to some men, it was these attracted Ralph to her, and in a time when maidens were demure, she was a welcome change from the norm. She on the other hand, thought her future husband a bore, and her eyes were drawn to the more familiar, dark looks of his brother. Nevertheless, not one to turn down the change of marrying into royalty, she went ahead with the engagement. From the moment she entered the manor as Lady Fitzwilliam, there was trouble. Jealous of her sister-in-law and the bond between her and her husband, she contrived to cause as much trouble as she could between the couple. They ignored her as best they could and stayed out of her way, by making the west wing of the house their own little kingdom.

Ralph soon tired of his new wife. Her endless tantrums and demands sent him running for the sanctuary of the ale houses and gambling dens. Word reached her that his marriage had not stopped his roving eye, and she went mad with rage. She didn’t want him, but neither did she want anyone else to have him. As the months passed, it became clear to those around her, that she was not quite right in the head. Emily’s announcement of an impending birth was the final straw, as Isabella’s stomach remained flat, despite her husband’s drunken fumbling. When baby Stephen was born, Isabella saw her hopes of holding on to her title fade. If she did not produce an heir, then William would inherit, should anything happen to her husband. Her demands on Ralph grew more urgent and led to bitter quarrels between them. She berated him for his inability to provide her with a child and he, in turn, grew bitter at her words. Their clashes were the talk of the district and both showed the signs of battle, as the fights became physical.

When Stephen took his first steps, the sight of his little form toddling along the great hall, made her grind her teeth in frustration, while praising his efforts to his doting mother. How dare Emily have what she so desired. Perhaps, those who spoke of her madness were right; because it was then she started to hatch her plan. She had inherited from her mother a mixture of potions. These were intended to be used to enhance the complexion, but some held deadly poisons and Isabella knew which ones to choose.

One day, while Ralph and William were at a horse fair in the town, she set her plan in motion by poisoning Emily and Stephen’s food. She copied their symptoms, even making herself vomit in the presence of the attending doctors, but while Isabella recovered, her two victims grew frailer. Stephen was too little to fight the poison and he died three days later. While his mother lay on her death bed, his little coffin was laid in the tomb beside the grandfather he had never known. Emily lingered for eight more days, with Isabella as her devoted nurse. No hint of suspicion fell on her, as the servants put the sickness down to some bad meat, and Isabella’s recovery, to her more robust, foreign genes. It was while Emily lay in the throes of the poison, that Ralph, returning one night from the ale house, fell from his horse and was killed. Such was Isabella’s jealousy that she demanded her husband be buried outside the walls of the manor and not beside his father and nephew.

“I want to keep him close to me,” was her tearful explanation.

William, stunned by the blow of his double loss, agreed with her request and the tomb was hastily erected. Ralph was dead four days when Emily finally succumbed and it is her grave that lies closest to the tomb.

“It’s her sobbing I hear,” Tom paused. “Isabella’s cruelty means that Emily is forever separated from her baby and she can’t rest.”

“I wonder why William didn’t insist on her being buried in the family tomb.” I said.

“The poor man was out of his mind with grief, the story goes and he let Isabella see to all the arrangements.” Tom shook his head and sighed. “Was there ever a more evil woman?”

While the death of his wife and child was a devastating blow to William, loss had the opposite effect on Isabella, who blossomed. It was said she had never looked more beautiful and she put it to good use. As the months passed, she used all her charms to woo her heartbroken brother-in-law, and as the pain of his loss lifted, he fell for her sly endearments and fake acts of kindness. The attraction she once felt for William had waned, but her need to keep hold of her title had not. They were married a year after the death of Emily. Isabella viewed her new husband in the same why she had her last. She cared nothing for him, but neither could anyone else. She saw to the hiring of all the household staff, and it was said that the manor housed some of the ugliest women in the country. William for all his frail looks, proved to be more virile than his brother and Isabella gave birth to six children, none who survived past its first year. It was whispered that she poisoned the babies, because she couldn’t bear to share her husband’s love with another human being.

William began to think he was cursed and returned to what had once interested him, but what Emily with her sweet nature and goodness had driven from his head, the study of the dark arts. His study became home to every unholy thing he could buy and since his fortune was large, there were many strange and terrible things lining the walls. While Isabella did nothing to discourage him, she became enraged at the time he was spending locked up with his books and the arguments began. They both died in their early thirties, some say at her hand, others from some evil he let into the house.

“If you ask me,” Tom said. “They tormented themselves to death. William would have been all right if he hadn’t taken up with Isabella, but as it turned out, she made him as wicked as herself.”

“So they’re your unholy trinity,” I said. “Ralph, William and Isabella?”

“Aye, that they are,” he brushed crumbs from the front of his jumper. “Emily is like the six little innocents buried around her, free of sin.”

“But you still think it’s she who cries?”

“I do, she can’t rest, I’m sure of it,” he turned and looked at the clock. “The mourners are due here at three.”

It was coming up to two-o-clock when we left the cottage and went back to the graveyard. The rain held off, though it was still cloudy and overcast.

“Do you really think they are haunting the place?” I asked.

“Isabella’s spirit is more malignant than ever,” Tom said. “You can feel it in the air. I imagine they’re still fighting now, beneath the earth. I used to think when I was young, that it was all a fairy tale, but I know better now. I don’t think of them as ghosts or spirits. They have a sort of semi-life, dead, but too tormented to sleep.”

When we reached the church door, Tom took an ancient key from his pocket and turned the lock.

“I have to turn on the heating and light the candles,” he stood back to let me pass.

This church, like many of its kind, no longer has a congregation large enough to warrant a full time priest, so one comes for mass on a Sunday and for funerals. The porch smelt of damp. One of the panes of glass in the inside door has a crack that runs in a vertical line from top to bottom, destroying the features of whatever saint it’s meant to portray. The echoes one expects in such a place seem louder and there is something unholy in their sighing and stretching. I’m sure it’s Tom’s story that makes me feel this way. I stopped short when I saw the coffin in the centre aisle.

“I hadn’t realised he was here,” I said, as I followed Tom up on to the altar.

“Where else would he be?” He looked back at the coffin. “They brought him here last night.”

While Tom went into the back of the church to turn on the heat, I slipped into one of the pews to offer a prayer for the dead. These benches are the most basic you can imagine, and the wooden plank that runs at the back of each one is bare with no cushion to buffer the delicate skin of those who kneel. The silence settled all round me, as I waited to Tom to come back and my thoughts were of Emily and her endless sobbing.

“Are you going to wait for the funeral,” Tom came back out onto the altar.

“No, I’m going home,” I got out of my seat.

He walked me outside and down the path to my car.

“I was thinking about Emily,” I said.

“Aye, she’s a sad case,” Tom agreed.

“No, what I was thinking was that after all this time, all that’s left of her are a few bones.”

“That’s all there would be, if that.”

“What if someone dug them up and moved them into the tomb beside her baby,” I suggested, ignoring the look of horror on his face, I continued. “It would be easy to prise the lid off the old tomb, all you’d have to do is put a crowbar in between the crack and push. Come on, I’ll show you.”

My flight back up the path was stopped by a hand on the back of my coat.

“You get in your car and go home,” he spun me round. “And stop all that talk of sacrilege.”

“It’s not sacrilege if it ends Emily’s sorrow, is it,” I said. “Imagine if I was parted like that from my children.”

“Dear god, woman, you’re not going to start crying are you,” he shuffled from foot to foot.

“No, I’m just saying,” I bit my lip.

“Well, don’t just say,” he held open the car door. “Be off with you now and stop filling my head with your nonsense.”

I got in and let the window down.

“Will you think about it?” I asked.

“I will not, indeed,” he leaned down and kissed my forehead.

His bristles felt like the pricking of a thousand needles.

“Go on,” he commanded. “And don’t leave it so long next time.”

I knew he was sad to see me go, as he was half-way back up the path by the time I turned the car round in the small parking lot. Hidden by the wall, I got out and crept up to the gates of the graveyard. Tom had retrieved his shovel and was standing at the door of the church as though undecided. There was still half an hour before the mourners were due, and even longer before he would need to put the shovel to use. You know how it is when happiness just bubbles up inside you, making you feel so warm you want to hug yourself? Well, that’s how I felt when I got back into the car.

You see, I know what a kind heart my old friend has, and I think by now, you do too. Am I wrong to believe that on overcast, Monday afternoon, in a world beyond our own, that a young mother, after a wait of over two hundred years, lay beside her child and with a sigh of contentment, took him in her arms and finally closed her eyes? I don’t think so.

Sometimes, even ghost stories have happy endings. More next week, dear reader.

Graveyard Secrets Part (1)

Mon, 19 Dec 2011 20:23:41 +0100

The elements were against me as I set off on Monday morning, and instead of the sunshine I’d hoped for, the sky was grey and overcast.The first drops of rain splattered the windscreen, as I pulled out of the driveway and I was glad I’d bought a coat and umbrella.

The first sixty miles were the usual seemingly unending stretch of bleak motorway and it wasn’t until I pulled off the main road and was heading into the countryside, that I finally relaxed. The winding, narrow roads here haven’t changed in decades and the few farmers who braved the rain, raised a hand in greeting as I passed. I let down the window a little to breath in the smells and sounds of my childhood, wet grass, and turf smoke, the bellow of cattle and the bleating of sheep. I was back where I belonged and ancient voices welcomed me home.

The clouds lifted as I drove up the hill to the graveyard and the first rays of sun pierced the gloom. The world smelt fresh and renewed, when I got out of the car, and I stopped for a moment to admire the view. From my vantage point, I saw three different counties spread out before me. The grass is still green, despite the bad summer this year, and the fields lay like the folds of a tumbling quilt.

There was no time to waste, as the weather could break again at any time, so I scooped the flowers and paper bag off the passenger seat of the car and walked to the gates. It’s been years since I last entered this place, and I imagined the gates would seem smaller now, but no. They are about ten foot high and still as heavy as I remember. I pushed against the peeling bars and they groaned open enough to let me pass through. Flecks of paint stained my hand and I rubbed them down my coat to clear them away. A winding pathway, with graves on either side, leads the way to the church, which stands dark and forbidding against the sky. I looked from left to right in search of Old Tom, but he was nowhere to be seen.

I told you he is now in his eighties and still working in the same job he’s had since a boy. He has always been known as Old Tom, even when he was in his forties, and as I wandered over to my family plot, I couldn’t help smiling as the memories of the past came racing back. In a farming community where boys were prized, Tom never minded that I was a girl, and it was he who took me blackberry picking and taught me the names of flowers and herbs. I felt ashamed that I hadn’t seen him in over six months, and as I lay the flowers down on the damp earth, I made a silent promise that I wouldn’t leave it so long next time.

“So you got my messages,” the voice startled me.

I looked up to find Tom coming towards me. The blade of the shovel he carried was caked in fresh mud.

“Who died?” I asked.

He named a local farmer.

“He was eighty-seven just last week,” Tom said. “It’s no age when you think of it.”

I dug my nails into the palms of my hands to stop myself from laughing. Tom is nearing that age and still considers himself a boy.

“Did you bring me something?” He noticed the paper bag.

“Chocolate,” I passed it over.

He has a sweet tooth and tooth is the operative word, as he has just the one. An eye tooth that I imagine he uses for piercing bottle caps. He peered in at the assortment of chocolate bars and satisfied, he stuffed the bag into his jacket pocket.

“Mick said you have a story for me?” I said.

“Ha,” his laugh resounded in the still air. “I knew that would bring you running. You could never resist a ghost story, and I bet you can’t wait to find out what I’ve been guarding here.”

“What do you mean guarding?” His words made me shiver, and I buried my hands deeper into my coat pockets.

“The unholy trinity, I call them,” he smiled at his own brilliance. “Come on and I’ll show you.” He started to walk towards the church.

“Is there some tombs inside?” I asked, as I followed him.

“No, it’s round the back,” his boots made crunching sounds on the gravel.

“I didn’t think there was anything round there,” I said.

“Most people don’t know about it, except the old, and they know well enough to stay away.”

The dark butterflies that start up when I’m near something paranormal took flight, and I brought a hand to my stomach to quell them.

“You see this?” he waved the shovel at a hedge. “That’s the boundary, that’s keeps them back. This part of the graveyard is shunned and must be forever divided from the rest. ”

The earth on the shovel smelled raw and blood-sweet as it wafted under my nose, and I felt the first stirring of uneasy, as I knew this man was speaking what he believed to be the truth, and he was not one for weaving some daft ghost story.

“The hedge was planted over two hundred years ago and the holy relics buried along its length keep the evil caged,” he stopped and looked at me. “Do you believe in evil?” Not waiting for an answer, he continued. “Of course you do, I can see it in your eyes. Aye, well I’ll tell you something. The very ground here is saturated with evil.”

We stood beneath the inky shadows of the giant oaks that dot the graveyard, each caught up in our own thoughts. It’s impossible to see anything on the other side as the hedge rises to about seven feet and has reached out to cover the small gate. I didn’t see the opening at first, and it was until Tom moved the branches aside, that the rusty gate came into view.

“The wall at the opposite end formed part of the old manor house and his Lordship left the land to the church. This part of the graveyard is fine, but that,” he nodded into the distance. “Is tainted ground.”

“I swear to god, Tom,” I said. “If I find out that you’re making this up to frighten me, they’ll be trouble.”

“Indeed I’m not,” his eyes grew serious and for a moment I was afraid I had offended him. “Have I ever steered you wrong?”

“No, I’m sorry,” I felt guilty as I looked at him.

The fire and energy I remember from my childhood still burns within his eyes, though his skin is wrinkled and brown from decades of working out in the open.

“I can’t believe this place has been there all this time and I didn’t know about it,” I offered as an apology.

“Your great grandmother knew all about it, and she could tell stories that would make the hair stand up on you head,” he said. “That’s where you get it from, the storytelling lark.”

I looked up at the sky and the dark clouds that gathered. It’s hard to believe that September has just begun and there is already a bitter sting in the air, promising that this winter will be a hard one.

“Can we go inside?” I asked.

He rubbed at the grey stubble on his chin, before deciding.

“We’ll go in for a few minutes,” he walked to the gate.

Large patches of stinging nettles block the path and Tom pushed these aside with the shovel to let me pass.

“Why don’t you cut them,” I asked, as he let them fall back into place.

“They serve their purpose in discouraging the curious,” he closed the gate behind us.

This part of the graveyard is tiny compared to the rest. There’s no path to speak of, just a small rise in the earth that we had to climb up on. In the centre there’s a small tree, not strong like the oaks, it stands gaunt and lifeless as though the energy has been drained from it. A small tomb stands beneath its shade and I counted nine headstones clustered round it. These tilt in all directions as though weary from centuries of standing erect.

“You know the strange thing about this part of the graveyard,” Tom said. “Is there’s never been any sign of vermin here. Not a rat hole in sight,” he pushed back the long grass with the blade of the shovel to show the land was unmarked by their burrowing. “That’s the first thing I noticed about this place when my father brought me here as a boy, and I knew there was something odd without being told.”

“It seems colder here than outside,” I said.

“It is colder,” he agreed. “Even on the warmest day there’s a chill in the air. I used to bring Jip to work with me, but it became too much trouble.”

He spoke about the little Jack Russell dog that usually follows him everywhere. I’d noticed his absence, but didn’t ask, as I assumed he had died.

“You should see the carry on of him, the minute he gets near the hedge,” Tom continued. “He starts to whine, then howl and you can see his hackles rise. I get nervous of him at these times, as he bares his teeth and his eyes go wild with a sort of rage and primitive fear. I leave him at home these days, it’s easier that way and his old heart is failing. I wouldn’t want them to claim any more, especially poor, old Jip” He nodded at the tomb and its scattering of graves.

“Have you seen or heard anything?” I asked.

“I sometimes hear it as the night closes in. A gentle sobbing that shoots daggers into this old heart,” he brought a hand to his chest. “Before you ask, I’ve never looked to see what it is and I never will. You can call it cowardice if you want, but I’ll tell you something,” he paused and looked around the small plot of land. “Whatever it is that makes that sound is not of this world.”

“Do you know its history?” I asked.

“Of course I do,” he waved me towards the gate. “We’ll go back to the house for a spot of lunch and I’ll tell you all about it.”

Once we stepped out of that cursed place the air seemed cleaner. I had to wait while Tom cleaned the earth from his shovel and put it away. I tried to concentrate on the water bubbling from the hose pipe, but it was difficult to ignore the hedge behind us, and the feeling of being watched was unnerving.

That’s it for this week, dear reader. Next week you will learn the dark history behind the graveyard and we’ll explore the church that stands between the world of the dead and dare I say it, undead? Sleep tight.

The Most Cardinal Sin

Mon, 19 Dec 2011 20:09:25 +0100

The world had never been kind to lovers. Those who have fallen in love unwisely have often met with the most horrifying acts of cruelty, even death. From the middle ages and right up to the present day, we read of those who have suffered at the hands of disapproving parents, whose anger had spurred them to terrible acts of violence and murder.

My story this week concerns two such lovers, but it is not the classic boy meets girl tale. I first heard the story many years ago from a school friend who swore she had an encounter with one of the ghosts. It was only when I met her last week, that the memory of it came flooding back and I asked her to tell me about it again. She was slow to do so, because when she told it to us, a group of silly teenagers all those years ago, we laughed at it.

Still. I managed with some gentle persuasion to get the story out, and I promise you, not one word had changed in the telling. I’ve noticed that stories such as this get added to over the passage of time, and it is only the truthful ones that remain the same. The stories I bring to you every week are those I believe in and are not something I write to fill a page. To start I will give you a brief outline of her tale and the rest I have managed to fill in by going to this most haunted place and walking it grounds.

It is one of the oldest remaining convents inIrelandand it was here that my friend Jane was sent for a year as a boarder, while her father took a job abroad. It is situated on the edge of the sea in the most remote spot imaginable and over a hundred miles from the nearest town. Jane’s face grew pale as she recalled her first glimpse of the place, with it medieval spires and dark, forbidding façade. The nuns were kindness itself, she says, and she soon settled in, despite her fears. It had become the custom of the other girls, to tell ghost stories after lights out, and Jane was introduced to these almost from the beginning.

Being a young and enlightened young woman, she laughed them off and no matter how frightening the tale, she refused to believe a word she heard, imagining the stories were planted by the nuns to keep them in their beds at night. The only other buildings near the convent were a small group of cottages about a mile away and a pub. It was here that the girls liked to sneak off to at the weekend. They pooled their pocket money to buy cider, and cigarettes for those who smoked. A hunting party of sorts set out every Friday night, while the girls who stayed behind covered for them and waited impatiently for them to return with the goods. Jane was there over ten months when it came to her turn to go to the pub. Six of them set out that night, but Jane forgot her money and had to go back to the dorm. The others were already outside as she crept down the back stairs and tip-toed along the dark corridor to the back door.

“It was then that I saw her,” Jane said. “The figure of the nun was standing by the door and there was no way I could get past her without being seen. Neither could I turn around, so I decided to face the music and take what punishment was coming to me. I remember wondering, as I walked towards her, why the habit she wore was white. There were no novices in the convent. My legs felt like lead as I moved closer and goose pimples rose on my arms as the air seemed colder the nearer I got. She was looking around her, as though searching for something and it wasn’t until I stood in front of her that she became aware of my presence. I cursed my bad luck for not realising how distracted she seemed. If I’d kept my head I could have made it safely back to the dorm.”

Jane paused a moment and took a deep breath. I knew the next part of the story still affected her, but some memories are like that. They become etched on your brain and can never be eradicated.

“She looked up at me,” Jane said.

I waited for her to continue.

“I have never seen such sadness in a face,” Jane’s eyes filled with tears and she was forced to clear her throat. “I know it’s silly,” she brushed away a tear. “But even after all this time, I can see her as plainly as I see you. She was about my age, but very pale. The few strands of hair that peeped from beneath her wimple were blond, but it was her eyes I will remember forever. It’s hard to describe the pain I saw there. It was a look of hopelessness; of a loss so great it could never be imagined. Tears sprang to my eyes, as they have now,” Jane smiled. “Even I, a gawky, teenager felt her pain and I forgot my worry about being caught, in my need to help her. I put out my hand to touch her arm and she vanished. Just like that, can you believe it? I must have screamed, as the next thing I remember was being led back to bed by the nuns who tutted about sleepwalking and my overactive imagination. I had two months left at the convent, but I was sent home earlier to stay with my aunt. My nerves were very bad after the encounter and the nuns thought it best that I leave. It took me a while to recover, remember I was late starting the autumn term?”

I nodded; I did remember Jane coming to school well after the term started.

“I was very ill for a while and even now, no matter where I travel, I make sure the hotel is not a former convent or monastery. I’m afraid of seeing something like that again. I don’t think my nerves could take it and I wouldn’t ever want to see the vision of hopelessness I once saw. I switch off the TV when those adverts come on about famine, because I know I will see reflected in those starving children’s eyes the same look.”

This, my friends is her story and one I believe. So last Monday I set off for the convent to try and find out the full story of the ghostly nun and the reason for her endless quest. The journey would take me over a hundred and sixty mile from my home and through some of the most ravaged land inIreland. I had to stay overnight at a hotel a few miles from the convent, as I couldn’t possibly make it there and back in one day, not if I wanted to find out the truth. The first part of the drive was pleasant, with wide roads and very little traffic. I stopped at a bustling seaside town and took a short stroll along the beach to stretch my legs. I knew once I left this place that the roads would become narrower, and I would have to be on my guard for stray sheep and chugging tractors. I also knew the landscape I would encounter as the miles spread by and was not looking forward to it. Don’t get me wrong, I love the countryside, especially in summer when the grass is lush and springy underfoot, but there is something depressing about the land in this place. Like most parts ofIrelandit was once ravaged by famine, but here, in this dark place, it has never recovered. I turned the car radio up and tried to ignore the endless fields of giant rocks marred with green lichen.

Once I had checked into the hotel I set out for the convent. I found it strange that it wasn’t mentioned on any of the leaflets available to tourists, but thought it was down to the fact that it isn’t open to the public. It was late afternoon when I reached the small village Jane told me about. It is, as she said, no more than a cluster of cottages that huddle together in a small hollow to avoid the harsh breeze from the sea. It’s the smell that hits you as you step out of the car; the salty, briny scent of seaweed drying on the rocks that sticks to the back of your throat. I went in to the pub. It was empty and the barman polishing glasses seemed glad to see me. We made the usual small talk and I told him why I was there. I found that it’s easier to tell the truth and appearing furtive tends to make people wary.

“Ah, poor sister Theresa,” he said. “Sure everyone round here knows about her.”

“Really, I thought it was supposed to be a secret?” I was surprised by his answer.

“Oh, yes, it is, the worst kept secret ever,” he laughed, took my offer of a drink and I sat down on a bar stool.

“It’s a well-known story,” he continued. “I don’t know the full thing, something about her falling in love. The person you want to talk to is old Ma Cusack. She lives in one of the cottages across the way. Today’s the day she goes to town to visit the doctor, but she’ll be back this evening. I’ll show you her cottage on your way out. Call back about eight. I’ll tell her you’re calling and she’ll be glad of the company. She knows all the old ghost stories from hereabout, and she likes the odd glass of stout.”

“Great,” I asked for six of the half pint bottles from behind the bar.

They would serve as a peace offering, if it turned out she didn’t like strangers calling. John, the barman walked me to the door and pointed out her cottage. Since it was still late afternoon, I decided to drive up to the convent and have a look. I can now understand Jane’s sense of foreboding the first time she saw it. It is perched on a large rock formation and stand shadowing the land like some huge beast of prey, ready to pounce. As I stood looking up at it, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if it lurched forward and tried to devour me. The building itself is 17th century. I know this because I read what little information is available on the place, but there is evidence of other styles. Stout buttresses have been added to strengthen the walls and the windows are of the usual Gothic arch one comes to expect of churches and the like. There is a balcony that runs the length of the first floor and beneath it a large wooden door. A small mesh grill at eye level is covered now, but it can be drawn back to view the visitor, and a large old-fashioned bell with a rope pulley. I was tempted to pull on it, but decided against it.

As I walked back to the car, I was aware of eyes watching me from inside and turned round. The setting sun made it difficult to make out anything other than shadowy forms. I had noticed a small graveyard to the side of the building and pretending to drive away, I moved the car until it was hidden by the trees lining the road and got out. The silence made me catch my breath. Once I stepped inside the rusting railing, it seemed that all sound ceased. I’m sure the birds were still singing somewhere and I think it is the overall landscape that I find depressing and so imagined the loss of sound. It is obvious that the graveyard is still in use, as the new headstones gleamed among the older, grey, forgotten ones. There are three tombs, the lettering faded and unreadable, but they stand out as a reminded of richer times. Large oak trees dot the grounds and cast gloomy shadows over the graves. The silence still seemed eerie and I felt removed from ordinary life. On my return to the hotel, I appreciated the sound of car doors slamming and the excited chatter of children’s voices.

I had enough of the dead for one day.

After a nice dinner, I set off for the village. A lamp shone through a gap in the curtains of Ma Cusack’s cottage and I saw her small figure hunched in a chair by the fire. It took her a few moments to answer my knock and I waited with growing trepidation, unsure of my welcome. I needn’t have worried as she turned out to be the sweetest old lady you can imagine and she invited me in as though I were a long lost cousin. Soon I was seated by the fire and my gift of six bottles of stout accepted graciously. After I refused a drink, she poured one for herself and sat opposite me.

“John told me all about your work,” she said. “I think it must be fascinating. I didn’t think young people were interested in ghost stories any more.”

After assuring her that they were, I asked about the convent and its ghosts.

“There are two ghosts,” she explained. “One is Sister Theresa and the other Johnny, her eighteen-year-old boyfriend.”

I told her Jane’s story and how she had seen the nun, but I had not heard about the boy before.

“Ah, it was a long time ago,” she said. “And the nuns would prefer it forgotten.”

This is how the story begins.

Over a hundred and fifty years ago, a young girl called Doris Wilson was left orphaned at the age of twelve. Her only living relative was an aunt, her mother’s sister andDoriswas left in her care.Doris’s father was a very rich man and on coming of age at eighteen, she would be a very wealthy young woman. Her aunt hated the child, as her husband had once been in love with her sister,Doris’s mother, and she didn’t want the girl to be a constant reminder to him as to what might have been. It was decided thatDoriswould be put into the care of the sister at the convent, who accepted her gladly, when the aunt whispered about her wealth. IfDorisremained with them, they would be entitled to all of her money. So Doris, a sad and lonely child was packed off. One can only wonder at the terror she felt been driven miles away from home to this desolate place. The nuns were kind to her and she fit in well with her unassuming manner and quiet grace. She was fascinated by the young novices, who floating around the dark corridors in their white habits, like pretty little ghosts. The girls were set different tasks and asDorisseemed to have green fingers, she was sent to work in the gardens, planting the vegetables and tending the flowers for the altar. The next four years passed uneventfully and at sixteen she became a novice, taking the name of Sister Theresa. By this time her aunt’s husband had died and there was no one who cared what she did. It was a lonely life for a young woman and as the months passed, she became aware of her blossoming womanhood and started to question her calling to the church.

Towards the end of summer that year, the sisters decided to expand the gardens and hired a young man to assist the aging gardener. Johnny was eighteen-years-old and the moment he and the little novice met; it was love at first sight. Like Theresa, he was an orphan and his life had been a hard one. He made the shy sixteen-year-old girl laugh, and as they worked side by side every day, the bond between them strengthened. For the first time Sister Theresa knew what it was to be love and be loved. Their meeting had to be kept private and the only place safe and out of prying eyes was in the graveyard. One of the tombs has steps that lead down to the door and it was here they met each evening at twilight. It was here also that consumed by passion, they made the mistake that was to be the death of them.

When her stomach started to swell, Theresa, at first, had no idea what was wrong with her. The sickness that sent her rushing for the toilet every morning made the older nuns suspicious and they had her examined. One can only imagine their outrage when they learned that the novice was pregnant, and it didn’t take much detective work to figure out who the father was. Theresa was confined to her room, but managed to get word to Johnny about her condition. There was a small rock outside the church door that they used to conceal their love notes to one another. Having bribed one of the boarders, Theresa kept him updated on events within the convent and her fears for their unborn child. Since the discovery of her pregnancy, the nuns’ attitude had changed towards her. Her inheritance was due in two years time and already they felt the gold slipping through their fingers. They became cruel, starving the young woman and beating her. When Johnny heard this he vowed they would run away together, and told her to be waiting outside by the tomb in the graveyard that night. His note was intercepted by the watching nuns’ and Theresa had no idea that as she read what was her ticket to freedom and happiness, dark deeds were being plotted against them and her happiness would be short lived.

That’s it for this week, my friends. The Story will conclude next Friday.

The Haunted Pub

Tue, 20 Dec 2011 21:44:05 +0100

As hauntings go, the story I’m about to tell you is a fairly recent one. It began in the 1940s, so those of you who remember halfpennies and sixpences, can cast your minds eye back to the time. I first heard about the ghost a week ago and started my investigations right away.

You know from reading my blog that it’s set in a country pub and I will start by telling you a little about the place. It is in the midlands, in a rather remote spot, just outside a village. I will call it Morris’s Pub, not the real name, but you know by now, that I never divulge a name or break the confidence of the storytellers. It is over seventy miles from my home, so I set off atnoonlast Sunday. It was a miserable, overcast day and I hadn’t gone a few miles before it began to deluge, making the drive along the narrow, country roads daunting at times.

The rain stopped before I arrived at the pub, a little after lunch time. The sky was dark with leaded clouds and the promised of further rain. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the air fizzed with the electricity of sheet lightening. The pub itself is tiny and was I soon learned, once the sitting room of a house. I have never seen a place that looked more dismal and unwelcoming. There were no cars parked outside and for a moment I wondered if it was closed. Flakes of paint came off on my fingers as I pushed against the door. It groaned open and alerted those inside to my presence.

The interior was dim, the gloom broken only by a small lamp on a shelf behind the bar. There were four old men seated round one of the five small tables in the room and I knew from their expressions that women were not welcome here. The lone toilet off the hallway made it obvious that this was a male only pub and I won’t try, dear reader, to describe the condition of this stinking pit, as the story of the haunting is disturbing enough. As I made my way to the bar at the top of the room, every eye was on me and I wondered for a moment if the barman would refuse to serve me, but he was gentleman enough to be civil and when I ordered a drink for those present their hostility towards me lifted. It’s surprising how five pints of stout can do that. I sat down at the table next to the drinkers and sipped my coke. This gave me a chance to look around. The walls were full of old, framed photographs and tin plate signs advertising food and drinks that are now obsolete. High shelves lined the room and these were filled with jugs etched with the familiar names of whiskeys. Layers of dust marred every surface and even in the gloom, I saw the cobwebs in the corners.

I bit my lip and prayed the inhabitants were sleeping and I would not have to watch anything crawl out. The smell within the room was a combination of pipe tobacco and wet dog. One of the men made a remark about the weather and we fell into conversation. I was grilled thoroughly as to who I was; what I work at and when they heard my family was from that area, smiles creased their lined faces and I was in. They showed a great interest in my writing and I was delighted when one of them said.

“We have our own ghost here.”

“Really,” I said, hoping it sounded casual.

“Indeed, we have,” our host came out from behind the bar and sat down. “There’s not a man here who hasn’t seen her.”

“Her?” I asked.

“It’s a woman,” another of the men offered. “Catherine Maloney, she was.”

“You’re not going to write about this are you?” our host asked suspiciously.

“I probably am,” I said, as I didn’t want to lie to him. “But if I do, I’ll change the name of the pub and won’t tell anyone where it is.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any harm in it so,” he looked at the men, who confirmed this with a nod.

So this is his story. The Maloney family owned the house that now houses the pub. They had two daughters, Catherine, the eldest and Laura who was five years younger. Their father was a business man and they lived a comfortable lifestyle, until an outbreak of measles killed both parents and it was left to Catherine to look after her sister. Money was not a problem as they were left well provided for, but there was never any peace after the deaths and this all came down the Catherine’s jealousy of her sister. Laura was the beauty, this was obvious from an early age and as she grew so did her sister’s hatred of her. I saw an old faded photograph of the two and Catherine was very different to her sister. Laura was blond and buxom, while her sister was extremely thin, with a hooked nose and dark hair, pulled severely back behind her ears. There was a young farmer who lived close by and Catherine was determined he would be hers.

After all, she considered herself the best prospect as the eldest she had inherited her father’s estate and in those hard times many marriages were based on the dowry that came with the wife. But, Richard, the young man, was unlike the others and when he fell in love with Laura, nothing would stand in his way. One can only imagine Catherine’s fury when he proposed to her sister, but she managed to keep her feeling in check. The wedding was planned for October. The harvesting would be done by then and Richard wouldn’t be under as much pressure. In the run up to the wedding, Catherine was charm itself and helped her sister in every way possible, but she was plotting her revenge. The next piece is mostly conjecture and there is no evidence that it happened the way I heard it, other than the restless spirit.

One night, a week before the wedding, when Laura was out with her intended, Catherine staged a break in at the house. Word of the outrage spread through the small community and everyone was aghast when they heard her story of a strange man who she’d seen a few times spying on the house. Laura was a nervous wreck and begged her sister to move in with her and her new husband after the wedding. Catherine promised that she would do so. Three nights later, Catherine knocked on her sister’s bedroom door. She had made her some cocoa to help her sleep, she said. Laura had no idea as she drank the sweet drink that it would be her last. The heavy drug within the liquid worked in minutes and when her sister was insensible, Catherine dragged her from her bed, out onto the landing and down the stairs. There is a small river that runs at the end of the field behind the house and it was her intention to drown Laura there.

Her plan worked. She returned to her bed and feigned shock and distress when the news was brought to her next morning about the discovery of her sister’s body. Her cunning was beyond belief as she had torn her sister’s nightgown, exposing her flesh and this made her cries about the strange man she’d seen more plausible. Richard was beyond consolation at his loss and if Catherine thought he would turn to her in his hour of need, she was very much mistaken. He was a broken man and died a bachelor. There were many in the district who whispered about the murder, but in those days before DNA and the like, it wasn’t easy to prove who it might be. The idea that a woman would have committed such an atrocity was never considered and Catherine remained free. Rumours ran riot and there was a story of a young man, who on his way home late the night of the murder, swore he saw Catherine going into the house. He remembered it because he said the end of her skirts were soaking wet. He had taken a few drinks that night and those closest to him thought it wiser to say nothing to the law. Catherine became a recluse, which was easy enough, as her neighbours started to avoid her and she died four years after her sister. Some say she starved to death, other she went mad and poisoned her herself, either way, her body now lies in a grave beside her sister.

“I knew all about the story of the ghost, when it bought the place over twenty years ago” my host, Tim said. “The last owner was too old to run the place. I didn’t believe the story at first, but I soon learned, didn’t I lads?” He looked round the little group of men.

They mumbled their assent and I had to wait as he got up to refill their glasses. No one spoke until he came back and the silence seemed to wrap itself around me.

“I took over the place at the beginning of April and laughed off any suggestion of a ghost,” he placed the creamy pints in front of the men and sat down. “The last owner was a bachelor like me and I thought if she hadn’t troubled him then she wouldn’t me. I’ll never forget the first time it happened.”

He stopped and stared into the gloom, as though the memory of that first time was still as fresh as ever.

“It was October, the anniversary of the murder. I was in here,” he paused, and looked over at one of the men. “You were here that same night, Tommy.”

“I was indeed,” the man wiped a moustache of white foam from his upper lip. “I’ll never forget it.”

“It was late,” Tim went on with his tale. “Just after twelve and I was washing up the glasses when it started. I remember looking up when I heard the sound of a thump on the bedroom floor overhead. Then the dragging started, we could trace it with our eyes as it moved along the landing. I’ll tell you, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as the bump, bump, bump started on the stairs. There was no doubt in my mind that it was the sound of a body being dragged down one step at a time. We heard the back door open and felt the cold air enter the room. I don’t think either of us wanted to let on how frightened we were, did we Tommy? So we followed the sound. There was nothing to see once we got outside and I remember how we stood there in the dark for a few minutes. We were just about to go back inside when there was a cry of distress followed by the most terrible scream from the direction of the river. I remember running towards the sound and hearing the splash as a body hit the water, but when we got there, all was quiet. We searched the riverbank, but there wasn’t even a ripple on the water. The same thing was repeated for the next week and everyone here is a witness to this. We’ve all seen her from time to time, the ghost I mean. It happens fast, it’s a sort of out of the corner of your eye affair, but there no denying her presence. Doors slam of their own accord and not just in October, oh no. She tends to come and go as she pleases.”

“How can you live with that?” I asked.

“I’m used to it now,” Tim shrugged. “As I said, she never bothers me.”

“Still, it can’t be easy,” I said.

“It gets me down at times,” he agreed. “I’d like to have a dog for company, but I can’t get one to stay in the place. They turn on their heels the minute they come through the door.”

It had rained again while I’d been inside the pub, but the air felt good after the stuffy interior. I couldn’t help, but wonder why Tim didn’t leave. I don’t think I’d have his courage. It made me smile to see they had all come outside and were waving to me as I drove off; I am no longer a stranger. I would be back on Tuesday to speak to a former customer, who was so frightened by what he witnessed that he has never gone back there. He is away on holiday at the moment, but I’m looking forward to what he has to say.

Tuesday 9th August.

I’m back from the haunted pub. I got there just after seven this evening and met the man I told you about. We will call him John. He was parked a good distance away from the pub, as though getting too close would taint him in some way. He’s a man in his sixties and I knew the moment he started to speak, that he wasn’t a man given to strange fancies. His story started twelve years ago and according to him, he’s still not over the fright. It was around Christmas time, he knows the exact date, but I didn’t push him on it. There were carols being sung on the old radio behind the bar.

“Tim went out to change a barrel,” he said. “They’re kept in the shed attached to the house, so I was alone for about ten minutes. It was too early in the evening for the regulars and pitch dark outside. I was reading my paper and not paying much attention to anything, when I had the most awful sensation. At first, it felt like someone was watching me and I looked up. I’d heard the stories about the place, but never paid the any attention. I heard the thump from overhead and imagined someone had broken in to the place. Then the banging started on the stairs. I was frozen in my seat,” he blushed as he admitted this. “I’m not easily frightened, but I’ll never forget that night. The hallway outside the bar was dark and I heard the shuffling of feet coming closer. I saw her standing in the doorway, I swear to you, I saw her and for the first time in my life I knew what it felt like to be in the company of pure evil.”

“Did she look real?” I asked.

“Not as real as you or I,” he said. “It was more like looking at someone through a rain-spotted window, sort of hazy, you know what I mean?”

“What did you do?”

“I don’t know how long she stood there. It seemed like hours, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. I heard the back door open and Tim coming back in. I don’t know if I blinked or what, but the next second she was gone. I didn’t wait for Tim to come into the room. I was off and out that door as frightened as a small child. Since I had intended having a few drinks, I’d left the car at home, so I’d no choice, but to walk. As I said it was pitch black outside and the twenty minute walk home seemed to take forever. I was looking over my shoulder all the way and my heart was thumping from the fright. I would step inside that place,” he nodded at the pub in the distance. “For any money.”

His terror, even after all these years is obvious and I chose not to go back inside, but take refuge in the safety of my car. As the image of the pub faded in my rear view mirror, I was glad it was still bright and I didn’t have to face the winding roads in the dark.

Ghost of the Wandering Pedlar

Tue, 20 Dec 2011 21:44:22 +0100

In my wandering through the remote parts of this beautiful country, I have come across many strange tales, of hauntings and ghosts. The story of the Pedlar is one of the latest and was told to me a few weeks ago by an old woman who lives near my uncle.

Although we are in the middle of summer here, it is cold and the days damp and overcast. The woman, we will call her Betty, knows I am interested in ghost story, so she told my uncle to send me to see her the next time I was visiting him and to bring her a copy of my book, The Paupers’ Graveyard, as she heard it was good. High praise indeed. Her cottage is at the end of a boreen, that’s a small, narrow track, for those of you who don’t know understand the word. It’s overgrown on all side by hedges and thickets and grass grows in the centre of the track. There is no other house or cottage on the boreen and nowhere to go once you reach Betty’s cottage. It’s one of those old thatched affairs, through the straw on the roof is tatty and bare in patches.

“It’ll see me out,” Betty said, when she saw my frown at its condition.

The walls were once painted white, but the weather and passing of time has faded them to a dirty grey and they are mud-splattered and tinged with green. I had to duck my head in order to enter and the smell of turf from the open fire was overwhelming in the small kitchen and brought memories of my childhood flooding back. The old black arm for hanging pots still hung above the flames and it seemed, for a moment, I was in one of those contrived villages that are set out to attract tourists, but of course this was not the case, as Betty’s home has become suspended in time.

“You’ll have a cup of tea?” She asked, after the usual greetings.

She took my silence for assent and I watched as she hung the age-blackened pot on a hook and swung the bar closer to the flames. I had time to look around the kitchen while she did this and saw to my amazement an old gas cooker in one corner of the room. When I remarked on this she answered by saying.

“Ah, I’ve no time for those new gadgets.”

She made a great fuss of brewing the tea and asking what the fashion was like inLimerick, as though it was the fashion capital of the world. She doesn’t have a television and her small portable radio is used only on state occasions, as in a visit from the Pope. There’s nothing worth hearing about, she says and any news worth hearing she gets from passing neighbours. I must also point out that I loathe tea and coffee and had to sip on this devil brew so I didn’t offend her. So we settled down in the quiet spot with only the crackling of the flames and the slight shifting of sods on the fire as her story began.

“You know Pierce’s place?” She asked.

I knew the small farm she was talking about, though the names of the owners have changed many times since it was Pierce’s place.

“Well, there was a terrible murder committed there not so long ago,” she said.

Not so long ago, turned out to be in 1889, but Betty is in her nineties and time is measured in months and years with her. I’ve noticed that in these remote communities that story such as this start with, it was the year of the great frost or the year after the great frost. Anyway, our story begins.

Tommy Burke was a wandering peddler who called to the area twice a year. He sold lace handkerchiefs, ribbons, threads, jewellery and just about everything he could fit into his small handcart. He was a tatty, bearded man and his age was unknown, as his chin was covered in a heavy beard and his skin lined from the ravages of the open road. He was tall, if a little stooped from bending over the cart and the coat he wore never changed from year to year. It was a heavy army-type affair, though all the buttons were gone and a piece of string kept it in place across his chest. Everybody like him and looked forward to his visits and the exotic things he brought with him. His only companion was a small brown and white mongrel he called Bruce and both man and dog doted on one another. One winter Tommy arrived as usual in the district and went from house to house selling his wares. It was his custom to spend the night with one of the families he’d befriended over the years and no one knew whose house would be honoured with his presence until he arrived at their door, tired and footsore.

John Pierce was married to Hannah, which was just as well, for no one else would have married her. She came with a good dowry and the farm was a thriving one, but nothing was ever enough for her. She nagged her husband from sunup to sundown and was forever berating him for what she saw as his many failings. By the tenth year of their marriage John was browbeaten and the spirit completely knocked out of him. As it happens, Hannah had set her sights on a few acres of land that was coming up for sale. Its close proximity to their farm made it a great buy and they could increase their livestock and crops. John, who was run ragged, didn’t want the extra land, but didn’t dare go against his wife by saying so. For months she had scrimped and saved, refusing to buy even the smallest of treats for either of them. As her lust for the land increased, the state of her husband’s nerves worsened and it was to this house of unrest that Tommy the Pedlar called one night. He was invited in with none of the usual curiosity that usually heralded his arrival and the cup of tea placed before him was thin and without milk or sugar. He had travelled far that day and would be stopping the night at a farm not far from theirs, he informed them. He drank the tea alone in the kitchen as Hannah called her husband out into the hall and he heard the hushed words of disagreement between them. Finally, when he realised there would be no sale, he called to the old dog at his feet and stood up.

“Take the short cut through the orchard,” Hannah told him. “It will take a mile off your journey.”

He thanked her and bade them good night. He was never seen again.

Those who had seen Tommy making his way along the roads, started to ask questions. The police were not interested in the concerns voiced, as a Pedlar was apt to leave a place without a minute’s notice, so their investigations were scant. Rumours ran wild as the neighbours took it upon themselves to organise a search, thinking nothing worse than Tommy had fallen and lay hurt somewhere. The Pierce’s knew better than to deny seeing him and swore he was in the best of health when he left their place. Peter Ryan, whose farm was next door to Pierce’s, recalled the night Tommy disappeared as he was awake with a toothache. Realising sleep was beyond him; he got dressed and went out to check on his cattle. The night was silent and the world asleep as he walked across the frosty grass, the cold air playing havoc with his aching jaw. He could see Pierce’s farm in the distance and swore there was a light in the orchard and the sound of someone digging. With no reason to be suspicious and with the nagging pain worsening, he thought no more about it and went home. Later, when he heard about Tommy’s disappearance, he questioned John about that night and was told that one of Hannah’s cats died and he was burying it.

Time passed and Hannah got her longed-for few acres, but still she wasn’t happy. Her ill-treatment of her husband continued and those who had dealing with the couple swore they heard her screeching at John, that she could have him hanged if she told what she knew. She could have saved herself the bother, as he was found hanging from one of the trees in the orchard some time later. No one know if it was the fright of her husband’s death or the stories that started doing the rounds that made her sell up and flee, but she sold the farm a month later. It was said she had gone toAmerica, but no one cared enough to ask. The new owners got more than he bargained for as from the beginning, they were plagued by ill luck. Crops failed, animals died and no labourer lasted more than a few nights at the place. Most took off in fright without explaining why, those who took the time to explain said it was because of the ghosts in the orchard. He investigated these stories for himself and came back that night, according to Betty, having aged ten years. He was about to give up on the place, when his wife, wading through a mountain of old papers left behind by Hannah’s hasty retreat, came across a document written in the shaky hand of John Pierce. In it, he outlined what had transpired that faithful night when Tommy had gone missing. Hannah knew that the Pedlar carried a good sized purse and she wanted this to add to her growing stash. Urged on by her goading, John followed Tommy into the orchard and hit him on the back of the head with a hatchet.

The first blow didn’t kill the man, it took three more and during this time, Bruce, the little mongrel, put up a valiant fight to save his master. When John had finished the man off, he turned on the little dog and bashed its head in. He buried both beneath a tree in the orchard, the very tree he was later found hanging from. The new owners took this confession to the local priest, who gathered a few of the neighbours and the orchard was dug up. The bones of the man and dog were where John said they would be, and these were interred in a grave in the local graveyard. The funeral, Betty said, was attended by hundreds of people, who travelled far and wide such was Tommy’s popularity. The neighbours paid for the coffin and burial plot and later a headstone was added in Tommy’s memory. Afterward, the farm began to thrive, but the hauntings remained. The priest, you see, refused to let the dog be buried beside its owner, as he considered this an act of sacrilege and Tommy will not rest without his brave and faithful companion.

“I’ve seen them with my own eyes,” Betty said. “They’re like two white little wraiths that glide through the trees at sunset.”

“Doesn’t that freak the new owner out?” I asked.

“Sure they’re doing no harm,” she shook her head at my ignorance. “And if they don’t want to see them, they can stay away from the place at night.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” I said.

“Anyway, “she puffed her chest and sniffed. “They have more to be worrying them than those two restless souls.”

“Like what?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

“Don’t take that attitude with me, miss,” she lightly slapped my hand. “We’ve all seen it. If you don’t believe me, ask your uncle.”

“Ask him what?”

“About the dark shape hanging from the tree in the orchard, that’s what,” she said. “John Pierce won’t get away with his crime that easily and there’s no need for you to look at me like I’m mad. It was seen not three nights ago. You can see if for yourself if you stay the night.”

I didn’t take her up on the invitation.

Gallows Hill House Part (2)

Tue, 20 Dec 2011 21:44:32 +0100

Tonight I continue with the story of Gallows Hill House. I have told you how the haunting began and as we progress, I’ll recount the interviews I had with Katie, the present occupier.

After Thomas’s death, the house was sold off and the shares divided between his few remaining relations. It passed from one owner to the other over the next few hundred years, though none stayed for very long. Its present owner refused to be interviewed, but I know from asking about in the locality, that he stayed in the house only six months and left in the dead of night. I’ve seen the little cottage he now lives in and it’s obvious that something terrible must have driven him from his former residence.

He has found it impossible to sell the place, as rumours travel fast and this is why he rents it out as a holiday let. Many of the neighbours I met grew wary when I mentioned the place and some refused to talk about it at all, pretending to know nothing about the haunting. What I did learn was that once a month, just before dawn, the rumbling of the prison cart is heard making its way to the gallows. The crying of the condemned echoes in the still air and the beat of a phantom drum counts down their last few moments on this earth. One woman swore to me that she would never pass the spot at night, but chose to drive five miles out of her way in order to avoid it. It’s understandable, having been there I feel the same. There’s a chill, even in the sunlight and a lonesome hush that makes one stop and look around, as though someone unseen keeps pace with your every footstep.

I met Katie at her neighbour’s house. She refuses to go back inside her own home and though she offered me the key, some of her fear rubbed off on me and I chose not to. She went on to say how anxious she’d been during the flight over here.

“I put it down to my ill health,” she explained. “I had a miscarriage a few months ago and my nerves are very bad.”

It’s obvious from the way she speaks, that her husband blames her complaints of the strange happenings on nerves, but it’s heart-warming to see her neighbour reach out and lay a worn hand on top of Katie’s smooth one. This old woman knows that the stories are not down to imagination and it’s a comfort to Katie to have such support. The strange events started from the moment they moved in, she goes on to say. At first, it was rapping inside the walls that her husband put down to mice or birds in the attic. He was gone for most of the day, as he travels round the countryside looks for views to paint and she found the time weighed heavy on her. When she complained about this he came home with a little collie pup, she calls Betsy and for a while she hoped things would improve, but it soon became clear that the dog was as sensitive to her surroundings as her owner.

Betsy slept in a basket in the kitchen and one the third night after her arrival, Katie woke to hear her whining. She knew it wasn’t easy for the little dog to be apart from her family, so she tip-toed down to comfort her, but it was not the separation that bother Betsy. Katie found her huddled in the hallway outside the door of the room rumoured to be where the prisoners were held. She said the dog with shivering and backing away and when she scooped her up, in her terror, Betsy tried to bite her. The dog tried to bury itself inside Katie’s dressing gown and as she fussed and petted the terrified creature, she became aware of sounds from inside the room. Pressing her ear to the door, she could make out the sound of someone softly crying and the rattle of chains. Now her terror matched that of the dog’s, but she put her hand on the door knob and was about to open it, when Betsy squirmed out of her arms and fell to the floor. Her worry about the dog overcame her fright and once she’d examined it for any sign of injury, she hurried back up to bed, taking the dog with her. In the morning, when Paul had left for the day, she found the courage to go inside the room and found nothing out of the ordinary.

Sometimes even during the day, there is a resounding crash from overhead, as though one of the huge wardrobes has fallen over, but when she checks there’s nothing out of place. She showed me a scar that runs a good two inches down the side of her thumb and says she was in bed one night and in her sleep put her hand under her pillow. She woke with a scream to find blood running between her fingers. The cause of the wound was an old cut-throat razor that lay open on the sheet beneath her head. Paul accused her of finding it somewhere and forgetting it was there, but even on the trip to the hospital, when she tried to tell him she knew nothing about it, he wouldn’t listen. The strange thing about it, other than the fact it shouldn’t have been there in the first place, was though the razor itself was rusted, the edge of the blade was shiny and sharp. Paul never hears anything that he can’t explain away and she feels that the ghost is trying to drive her mad. The pills her doctor gave her do little to help. The next incident happened one evening when she took the dog for a walk.

There’s no where to go other than out onto the winding road and past the gallows hill and she saw in the distance a man dressed in black standing at the foot of the mound. It was bright and it easy to see him. As they drew closer, within a few yards, she saw his face was ashen, though his eyes seemed to glisten with a strange fire. His face was pock marked and he seemed hunched up beneath his heavy coat. She thought about turning back, but the decision was taken out of her hands when he disappeared right in front of her. There was nowhere for him to hide and she walked on puzzled and thinking there had to be some explanation, but the dog stopped and refused to go any further. Katie felt the hairs on her neck stand and she walked back to the house all the time looking over her shoulder.

To her torment, Paul passed the happening off as a trick of the light. Then last week he left on business and she was alone. On the first night, she took a sleeping pill and with the dog lying beside her managed to drift off. She was woken some time later by the sound of footsteps walking up and down on the landing. It sounded like heavy boots on wood, but the floor is carpeted! She lay there hardly daring to breathe and saw that Betsy had heard the same thing and was sitting up watching the door. Another sound began, the sound of a walking stick tapping on the stone floor below. She listened in terror as the tap, tap, tapping started on the stairs. Sobbing with fright, she held the little dog close as the sound approached.

The bedroom door opened silently, as though someone was sneaking in, but when it was opened fully, there was no one there and that was when she lost it. Jumping out of bed, she ran down the stairs and out into the dark, still clutching the dog and dressed only in her nightdress. The stones on the drive cut her bare feet, but she didn’t stop running until she reached the house we were now sitting in. Now it seems her husband is talking about taking the house for a further six months. She asked if I had heard the story about the young woman who is seen during the winter months, leading the small child along the drive to the house. I told her I had heard about it and she looked at me with pain-filled eyes and asked.

“How will I cope with such a thing? After losing my own child, I can’t bear to even think about what they suffered. If the story is true, how can I bear such a sight?”

I couldn’t answer, because I don’t know; do you?

Sleep tight and remember, there’ll be another story waiting for you next Friday night.

gemmamawdsley

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