Tag: spirits

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 Day After Halloween

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The morning after Halloween arrived with a soft, pale light that belonged to no season and all seasons at once. The town lay in a curious hush, as if the world itself was letting out a sigh after a long, wild party. There were candy wrappers like fallen confetti strewn along the sidewalks, and a faint scent of cinnamon and rain lingered in the air. Beyond the old clock tower, where the town’s gears creaked and sighed, a seam of pale frost appeared along the cobblestones. It wasn’t ice but the beginning of a doorway, thin and shimmering, like a heat mirage that had learned to whisper. The creatures of the night, who had danced under the streetlamps and stirred the shadows with laughter that tasted of danger and delight, began to drift toward it.
The goblins, still wearing their impish grins and pockets full of trinkets, counted the last of their glittering loot and tucked it away. Their hands, stained with chalky dust and moonlight, moved with surprising tenderness as they tied small knots in their little satchels, ensuring nothing spilled into the waking world. Werewolves, who had sung to the moon in a chorus of howls that could shake windows, paused at the threshold of the mist. Their fur still carried the scent of the night, earth, rain, and pine yet their eyes held something softer now, a lineage of loyalty to a world that no longer needed guardians in a hunt. They offered a wary nod to the town, as if to say: we leave the hunt to the dark and return to the dark’s house. Spirits drifted with a measured ease, their forms wavering like candle smoke. They carried with them the memory of laughter that tasted like autumn sugar and the ache of goodbyes spoken in a language older than stone. They glided past alleyways and gardens, leaving behind a delicate frost that sparkled with tiny, unspoken promises. Some wore expressions of mischief that would have frightened a mortal, but the day’s calm offered them a moment of pause rather than a boast.

Ghouls and shadows, silk-wrapped phantoms and lantern-eyed wraiths all moved toward the seam with a surprising uniformity. It was as if a tide of night had been receded, leaving behind an ocean of memory and the soft thump of real-world feet resuming their everyday rhythms: a dog’s eager bark, a kettle singing to itself, a bicycle bell that rang in the distance.
In the center of town, Mrs Alderney, who ran the little bakery that baked more dreams than bread, stood on the last step of her shop, watching the pale seam. Her chalk white apron fluttered in the dawn breeze, dusted with flour and something like starlight. She had spent the night listening to the stories of the day after, the stories told by those creatures who had wrapped the night in their own form of poetry and menace.

“Until next year,” she whispered, as if addressing both the town and the departing travellers. Her voice carried not fear but a gentle familiarity, the way an old grandmother’s voice carries a soft warning and a warm joke in the same breath.

The goblins paused, counting their steps back toward the seam, and the werewolves tilted their heads in a rare gesture of gratitude. The spirits, who often forgot to speak in anything but sighs and chimes, paused to tilt their translucent faces toward the bakery’s warm light. It was as if a single, unspoken agreement passed between them: we visit, we feast, and we fade until the next turning of the calendar when the door will open again. When the last of the wanderers stepped through the seam, the frost dissolved into dew that clung to leaves and ribbon spun spider webs. The town woke in a careful way, as if waking from a dream in which you were sure you’d forgotten something important, and then remembered you’d forgotten all the wrong things. Children who had chased their shadows the night before woke to find their costumes still clinging to the corners of their rooms like friendly ghosts who had not quite finished telling their stories. They traded their masks for crayons and notebooks, their pockets for clean hands, and their mouths for the first sincere “please” and “thank you” of the day. The mayor, who always kept a pocket watch for emergencies, found himself with a moment of unusual clarity. The city might forget the exact shape of a goblin or the echo of a howl, but it would not forget the lesson etched into its heart by their brief presence: difference is a kind of magic, and magic loves a world brave enough to let it pass in and out like breath.

As the sun climbed higher, painting the town in gold and the soft green of early fall, something in the air carried a note of promise. Not a vow of fear, but a vow of wonder: that the world is large enough to hold both the ordinary and the extraordinary, and that, come next Halloween, the door might open again, not for chaos, but for a shared moment of awe.
And so, with the day after Halloween spreading calm like a quilt over the town, the spirits, ghosts, werewolves, goblins, and creatures of the dark world returned to their own realm, content that they had kept a delicate balance between mischief and mercy. Peace settled into the streets, like a lullaby hummed at dusk, until the next year when the music would play again and the seam would glow once more with the soft light of a world that believes in magic even for just one night a year.

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.