Tag: ghosts

Spooky Truth – No 2 – 1972

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This series of Spooky Truths are accounts of experiences in my life that really happened.

The year, 1972 and the place is Leicester. A nightclub on Church Street, motorcycles scattered through walls, a unique decor …. welcome to the ‘Freewheeler’, formerly the Hippo Club. It was a very old building dating back to the early 19th Century, maybe even older. I was the resident DJ and Compere, a young twenty year old hippy enjoying everything life presented me with in ‘spades’. I knew the city well as I first came in 69/70 to a residency at the Top Rank Suite on Haymarket before returning to the Genevieve in Sheffield. Happenstance returned me to Leicester, where unbeknown to me one of the spookiest experiences that would stay with me for the rest of my my life lay in wait.

The Freewheeler was a popular venue and frequented by trendy club goers, a great little club remembered by many I am sure. So lets take a dive into the physical layout of the club. It was spread over four floors, the first being the entrance, a lounge and bar area, the main room with dance floor, stage and bar. On the second floor a large lounge which would later be christened as the ‘Coachman’s Lounge’, plus cloakroom and toilets. Offices and storerooms occupied the remaining two floors. The owner used to arrive in his Rolls Royce Corniche, a wealthy working class bloke who made his fortune from laying turf for all and sundry. He owned this club and its sister, Freewheeler in Kettering. I spent time in both clubs but it is this one in Leicester where our story is born. One day the owner, manager and security chap were photographed together in the office on the top floor. It is interesting to note that this room was always so cold irrespective of the time of day, when entering it was like walking in to a freezer. When the photograph was developed to everybody’s amazement, there on the managers shoulder as clear as day sat, a transparrent hand. It was not a set up, there was no trick photography, this was as real as it gets.

This was the first experience shared by a few of us at the same time which led to conversations about strange noises, children laughing, a ball bouncing and unknown people appearing, then been nowhere to be found. I remember distinctly sitting in the club during the day and hearing children running in the upstairs lounge above the dance floor, and thumping as if a ball was bouncing. Yes it felt a little spooky and often I would experience the hair rising at the back of my neck and up my arms, but nothing at that time felt particularly malevolant, in fact, quite comfortable but obviously strange. One weird happening often filled me with curiosity and to this day over fifty years later still does.

As a prenentious young entertainer my tipple in those days was Canadian Rye Whisky and Dry, in a short tumbler. The first time anything happened, there was the glass full of my tipple sitting on a shelf next to the music consul. I had only just put the glass down to set a disc on the player, so a matter of two minutes, three at the most. Turning around to take a sip and the glass was empty, yes empty, as if the contents had simply evaporated into thin air. Holy crap, methinks, here we go again. On four or five occassions I purposefully left a full glass on the shelf and sat at the far end of the room watching intently to see what would happen. Everytime, excepting one occasion, I saw no movements, no spooky vibes but the glass was drained every time. It became a bit of a standing joke between some of us that the club hosted a ghost who liked a drink.

Following the revealing photograph the owner had been advised not to make anything of the matter, after he recruited a psychic from Northampton to investigate. I wish I could remember his name, I know it was Jack something. Our psychic investigator was an experienced man in his fifties and was under no illusion about the resident spirits. He told us there was the spirit of a Coachman who haunted the lounge on the first floor and this is why it was named so. Confirming the presence of spirit children and a middle aged woman he left reminding the owner to keep eveything under wraps. I suppose it was like telling a child not to open a present, he could not wait and within a few days the story made headlines in the Leicester Mercury. Needless to say, we became busier than ever. I mentioned earlier no malevolance happened, well not whilst I was there but odd spooky moments did. Occurences certainly increased after the publicity.

One evening at around 1.30am the door bell rang and the security manager admitted a tall man in a grey suit with shoulder length blond hair. He walked straight up the stairs towards the cloakroom, and was seen to close the gents toilet door behind him. The stranger in the grey suit never came back down the stairs so the security man, Kieth went to search for the mysterious guest. Not a sign anywhere remained and he had not left the club by the entrance and all other doors were locked. The Freewheeler was a great club and seemingly not only popular with the living.

The paranormal data base for the area published the following.

Location: Leicester – Freewheeler Club, Churchgate
Type: Haunting Manifestation
Date / Time: 1972
Further Comments: An exorcist was summoned to this building after staff reported seeing a strange ghost which would change shape.

Inspector Septimus Summer-Garden and the Dark Case of the Haunting of Craig y Nos Castle

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It was a foggy evening in late October when Inspector Septimus Summer-Garden received the call that would plunge him into one of his most peculiar cases yet. The illustrious Craig y Nos Castle, perched atop the Welsh hills, had long been a symbol of grandeur and mystery. But lately, it had become the scene of inexplicable happenings, strange noises, ghostly apparitions, and an overwhelming sense of dread among the staff.

Now, Inspector Summer-Garden was not known for his sharp intellect or keen observations. No, he was more the type to trip over his own feet and accidentally stumble upon the truth while trying to find his hat. But his reputation as a “detective” was unshakable, at least in his own mind. Arriving at Craig y Nos in his battered, slightly squeaking vintage car, Inspector Summer-Garden was greeted by Lady Eleanor, the castle’s owner, a worried woman with a stern face and a twinkle of skepticism in her eye.

“Inspector,” she said, “something is haunting this castle. Doors slam on their own, whispers echo in the halls, and last night, the ghost of a woman in white was seen gliding through the corridors.”

“Ah, ghosts, you say?” Summer-Garden exclaimed, adjusting his oversized hat. “Fear not, Lady Eleanor! I shall uncover the truth behind these spooky goings-on.”

He wandered the dimly lit corridors, tripping over a loose rug, knocking over a suit of armor, and mumbling to himself. His eyes widened at the sight of flickering chandeliers and shadowy figures that seemed to dance just beyond the corner of his vision. He questioned the staff, including the nervous but loyal servant, Mr. Jenkins.

“Have you seen anything unusual, Jenkins?” Summer-Garden asked, trying to sound authoritative.

“Well, sir,” Jenkins replied, sweating profusely, “some say it’s the ghost of Madame Adelina Patti, who died here over a hundred years ago. But I think it’s just the wind or someone playing tricks.”

“Precisely!” Summer-Garden declared, puffing out his chest. “But perhaps the ghost is merely a misunderstood spirit, perhaps seeking justice or a lost treasure.”

That night, Summer-Garden set up a series of traps, mostly involving a lot of candles, a mirror, and a suspiciously large f;oral hat he believed the ghost might be wearing. As midnight struck, a faint figure appeared, white dress flowing, eyes hollow. Summer-Garden, trembling with excitement, stepped forward.

“Ah-ha! I have found you, spectral lady!”

The figure paused, then suddenly collapsed into a pile of pillows, revealing not a ghost but Lady Eleanor herself, dressed in a white sheet to entertain her guests at a Halloween party. It turned out the “haunting” was a clever ruse designed by Lady Eleanor to attract visitors and boost the castle’s reputation. The noises and apparitions were orchestrated by staff members in the dark, and the “ghost” was simply a servant in disguise. Inspector Summer-Garden, blushing furiously, scratched his head.

“Well, I suppose I was a bit off the mark. But at least we uncovered the truth!”

Lady Eleanor chuckled.

“Inspector, your… enthusiasm is always appreciated.”

As Summer-Garden departed the castle, he was already planning his next case, perhaps involving a missing monocle or a suspiciously absent cheese platter. But deep down, he knew that sometimes, the most mysterious things are just tricks and illusions though he would always approach them with his signature bumbling charm. And so, the haunting of Craig y Nos Castle was laid to rest until next Halloween, when perhaps the ghosts will return just for a little fun.

The Tale of the Friendly Ghost of Ravenshire Castle

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Once upon a time, an ancient castle called Ravenshire stood perched atop a misty hill. Legend had it that the castle was haunted by a ghost named Sir Whisp, who was infamous for frightening every visitor who dared to step inside. Sir Whisp’s spectral form was tall and translucent, often glowing faintly in the darkness, and he would bellow loudly,

“Get out! Leave this place! This is my home, not yours!” startling even the bravest souls.

For centuries, visitors were terrified of Ravenshire. No one ever stayed long enough to enjoy its grand halls or explore its history; they only wanted to escape the ghostly shouts and eerie whispers.

One day, a young traveller named Oliver arrived at the castle. Unlike others, Oliver was not afraid of ghosts. He had read stories of spirits and believed that they only wanted to be understood. When Sir Whisp appeared and roared, Oliver simply looked at him calmly and said,

“Hello there. Why do you scare people?”

The ghost was taken aback. No one had ever spoken kindly to him before.

“I frighten people because I am lonely,” Sir Whisp replied. “Long ago, I was a noble knight, but now I am trapped here, unseen and unheard. My only way to be noticed is to shout and scare.”

Oliver listened thoughtfully and then said,

“If you want to be seen and heard, why not try speaking softly or sharing your story? Maybe people would listen and learn about you.”

For the first time, Sir Whisp paused. He realised that his loudness only pushed visitors away and deepened his loneliness. From that day, he decided to change his ways. The next visitor who entered Ravenshire found the ghost not shouting loudly but softly whispering,

“Welcome, traveller.”

He told stories of the castle’s history and his own past as a brave knight. Visitors found the ghost’s new gentle demeanour more charming than frightening. They began to enjoy their visits, listening to Sir Whisp’s tales and marvelling at the castle’s mysteries. Thanks to Oliver’s kindness and understanding, the ghost’s appearance softened, and Ravenshire became a place where stories and spirits could coexist peacefully. And so, the ghostly goings-on turned from frightful to friendly, filling the castle with a new kind of magic, one born of compassion and empathy.

‘Walls Have Ears’- Craig y Nos Castle

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Introduction

In December of 2022, I had a dream to bring alive the story of Craig y Nos Castle,
to relate the history, its life and times but in that of a novel format. Then, the idea came to write the story from the ‘first person’ perspective as an observer of the comings and
goings of life in this Gothic mansion. What better, thought me, than to be a lump of rock
in the foundations mined from the Cribarth, overlooking Cae-Brynmelyn-Bach opposite
Pentrecribarth farm? Deep in the foundations I would be aware of everything that
happened through vibrations emanating within the walls. Thus, the title was born, ‘Walls
Have Ears’.
Craig y Nos Castle has a long history of paranormal occurrences. As a ‘trance
psychic channel’ I felt an opportunity presented itself to incorporate the words and stories of the spirits still present, combined with tales gained through actual historical facts and interviews with people who had family and work connections with the castle through the years. Thus my research began both with those alive, and those long gone to the world of spirit.

Abstract

I know not how long I have lain upon the Cribarth, here so high on this
craggy ridge amidst passing clouds looking down to the valley below. Back in the
mists of time, volcanoes roared, earthquakes cracked mountains, ice thawed, and beds
of limestone and Twrch sandstone were laid down in sedimentary layers in tropical
seas near the equator some 350 million years ago. They arrived where they are
today by continental drift, and since then, here is where I have been, and much has
passed me by. Many have trod over me through millennia, ancient Celts, Druids,
invaders from Rome and England. But I am a rock, and I remember everything
passing through time as only a rock can.
Staring down the valley below, I see a tall man whom I know to be Captain Rice
Davies Powell, distinguished, suited and whiskered, leaning on an ebony walking
cane with a hand grip of gold. He stands on a field I know as Cae-Brynmelyn-Bach
opposite Pentrecribarth farm. It is late in the Autumn of 1843, leaves falling and
floating through the air, blown by easterly winds gather beneath stone walls and
footings covering ground as a carpet of bronze.
Captain Rice Davies Powell shielded his eyes with a gloved hand, the noonday
autumnal sun momentarily blinding more than ambition. His companion was a much smaller yet rotund man in his fifties, with bushy dark hair swept back over a checkedcoat collar. He stood with a sketchpad in one hand and charcoal in the other. Thomas H Wyatt was an architect of some renown, and being far from his offices in Great Russell
Street, London, he stood looking at the empty field of Cae-Brynmelyn-Bach. A tall,

stooped, thin man with wispy, greying hair stood at Thomas Wyatt’s shoulder. His
partner, David Brandon, accompanied him travelling from their offices by rail to
Swansea and then coach and four to Pentrecribarth for a planning meeting with
Captain Powell. Both were well-known architects at this time, responsible for building numerous Gothic-style churches, public buildings and private mansions.

Dark Tales from the Outback – Abstract

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Kaya

Once, in the remote Australian outback, there lived an aborigine named Kaya. He was a skilled tracker and hunter who roamed the vast, desolate lands with an air of quiet confidence. Kaya had always felt a deep connection to the spirits of the land, and his people often spoke of the ancient stories that warned of the dangers lurking in the wilderness. One moonless night, Kaya set out on a hunting expedition, guided only by the faint glow of the stars. His senses were sharp, and he moved through the rugged terrain with the ease of a shadow.

As he ventured deeper into the heart of the outback, a strange unease settled over him. The usual sounds of the night were absent, and an eerie silence enveloped the land. Suddenly, a piercing scream shattered the stillness, causing Kaya to halt in his tracks. The hair on the back of his neck stood on end as he tried to locate the source of the chilling cry. Following the sound, he stumbled upon a clearing where he saw a lone kangaroo, its eyes wide with terror as it desperately tried to escape an unseen force.

Kaya watched in horror as the kangaroo was dragged into the darkness by an unseen entity, its screams fading into the night. The aborigine felt a chill run down his spine, for he knew that the spirit world held many dark and malevolent forces. He knew he had stumbled upon something sinister, something beyond his understanding. Determined to uncover the truth, Kaya embarked on a quest to seek guidance from the wise elders of his tribe.

They revealed to him the ancient legend of a vengeful spirit unleashed upon the land, seeking to wreak havoc on the living. The elders warned Kaya that the spirit had become a monstrous kangaroo driven by an insatiable thirst for blood. Armed with the knowledge passed down by his ancestors, Kaya set out to confront the malevolent spirit. Armed with ancient symbols and blessed talismans, he ventured back into the wilderness. As he delved deeper into the treacherous terrain, the air grew thick with an otherworldly presence, and the ground seemed to tremble beneath his feet.

Finally, he came face to face with the monstrous kangaroo, its eyes glowing with an unholy light. The creature lunged at Kaya with supernatural speed and ferocity, but the aborigine stood his ground, wielding the protective symbols and chanting the sacred incantations. A fierce battle ensued as Kaya fought to banish the vengeful spirit from the mortal realm. The very fabric of reality seemed to warp and twist around them, and the night itself seemed to hold its breath as the two clashed in a struggle that transcended the physical world. In the end, with a final burst of mystical energy, Kaya managed to seal the spirit away, restoring peace to the land.

As the first light of dawn broke over the horizon, the outback was once again filled with the sounds of life, and Kaya knew he had fulfilled his duty as a guardian of his people. From that day on, the legend of Kaya and the malevolent kangaroo spirit became a cautionary tale, a reminder of the ancient forces that still linger in the world’s wild places. And though the memory of that fateful encounter would always haunt him, Kaya continued to roam the outback with a newfound sense of purpose and a deep respect for the land’s mysteries.

Over time, Kaya’s reputation as a protector and a keeper of ancient wisdom spread far and wide, and he became a revered figure among his people. Years passed, and Kaya’s hair turned grey, but his spirit remained unyielding. He passed down the knowledge he had gained to the younger generations, teaching them to honour the delicate balance between the physical and spiritual realms. His story became a part of the oral tradition, woven into the tapestry of his people’s history as a testament to the enduring power of courage and wisdom.

As the seasons changed and the land continued to whisper its secrets, Kaya’s name became synonymous with resilience and reverence for the natural world. His legacy endured, and the memory of his heroic encounter with the malevolent kangaroo spirit lived on as a reminder of the dangers hidden in the outback’s heart. The tale of Kaya and the vengeful spirit served as a timeless lesson, teaching the importance of humility and the need to safeguard the delicate harmony between humanity and the ancient forces that dwelled in the shadows. It became a parable of the enduring strength of the human spirit and the profound connection that binds all living things.

And so, in the vast expanse of the Australian outback, Kaya’s story echoed through the ages, a testament to the enduring power of the human spirit in the face of the unknown. And though the world continued to change, the legend of Kaya and the malevolent kangaroo spirit remained etched in the very fabric of the land, a testament to the enduring legacy of a humble aborigine who had stood against the darkness and triumphed.