Tag: haunted

Spooky Truth – No 2 – 1972

lazaruscarpenterauthor

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.

The Haunted Hearth: A Tale of The Gilded Goblet

lazaruscarpenterauthor

Once upon a time, nestled in a sleepy village, there stood an ancient pub known as The Gilded Goblet. Its weathered timber beams and creaky floors whispered stories of three centuries past. But what drew curious visitors and sometimes dread wasn’t just its age, but the spectral inhabitants that called it home. Legend had it that Spew Hardcastle, the original landlord from the early 1700s, still lingered behind the bar, his ghostly figure often seen polishing invisible glasses or napping in his old leather armchair. Over the centuries, a motley crew of ghostly patrons had joined him: a jolly pirate, a forlorn noblewoman, and a mischievous tavern boy, all eager to play tricks on the living.

In recent years, the current landlord, Tom, and his wife, Mary, found their peaceful business turned upside down. Ghostly “customers” would tip over pints, hide the keys, and whisper eerie comments in the dead of night. Sometimes, a sudden chill would sweep the room, and the flickering candlelight would dance to an unseen tune. The staff grew nervous, and the once lively pub became a place of nervous glances and whispered fears. Tom tried everything, blessing the place, hanging garlic, even trying to ignore the spectral antics. But the spirits were persistent, and their pranks grew more elaborate. Chairs would slide across the floor, ghostly laughter echoed when no one was near, and the ghostly patrons seemed to demand attention, uninvited.

One stormy evening, as the tavern was shrouded in shadows and ghostly chuckles, a stranger stepped inside. Dressed in a long coat and with a calming demeanour, she introduced herself as Miss Eliza Hart, a renowned psychic investigator. Eliza quietly observed the scene, sensing a swirl of restless energies. She sat at the bar, ordered a pint, and began speaking softly to the spirits. Her voice was gentle but firm, and she listened intently to their stories. Through her communication, Eliza learned that Spew Hardcastle’s spirit was upset because he felt forgotten. His descendants had long since sold the pub, and he yearned for recognition. The ghostly patrons, too, had their own tales; one had been a sailor who died in a drunken brawl, another a noblewoman who longed for her lost love. Most importantly, Eliza discovered that the ghosts weren’t malicious; they simply wanted to be seen, heard, and remembered.

Eliza gently explained to the spirits that they were loved and appreciated, even after all these years had passed. She promised to tell their stories to the living world and to help them find peace. She performed a heartfelt ritual, lighting a candle and reciting words that honoured their memories. As she did, the ghostly activity softened. The spirits nodded, their forms shimmering with gratitude, before slowly fading into a peaceful glow. The next morning, the atmosphere in The Gilded Goblet was transformed. The pranks ceased, replaced by a warm and welcoming charm. Tom and Mary felt lighter, their pub filled with a renewed sense of joy. Visitors now often remarked on the friendly, lively spirit of the place, not just the living, but the ghosts as well.

And as for Spew Hardcastle and his spectral friends? They remained, not as troublemakers, but as eternal guardians of the pub’s history, happily watching over their beloved Gilded Goblet, forever part of its story.

‘Walls Have Ears’- Craig y Nos Castle

lazaruscarpenterauthor

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.