The Official Blog of P J Cadavori

Those evil, shimmering eyes …

2017-04-20T14:20:00.000+01:00

It’s taken many years for me to feel able to speak of the violent death of Tom, my closest and oldest friend. As children we went everywhere together. Then, as is the way of things, we separated to take different paths. Tom was a botanist who went to Cambridge while my agricultural leanings pointed me to stay on the family farm in North Devon. But it was Tom’s scientific passion which was to lead to his brutal death and caused me years of self-hate as I could have saved him … perhaps.

But I get ahead of myself.

Devon is not well known for its caves but there are many mine shafts and underground passages to be explored by those who know where to look. It was this rarity that brought Tom down one summer weekend as he had become hooked on studying wildlife in the damp darkness of, what is for me, a gloomy evil passage to the underworld. Even to this day I shiver when I think about that subterranean world which so fascinated the scientist in Tom.

So, one morning, much against my will I agreed to go with him down a mineshaft which reputedly led far below the surface. I was soon filled with horror as, bent double, the walls green with slime and water dripping off the roof with fungi and algae producing a wet stickiness which hung onto the rocks and crevices and kept brushing against my face, I began to panic. And the darkness had a menace which retreated when the light from our lamps swung towards it, but then edged closer remorselessly when the light moved on. It was as if there were ghosts and dark-creatures waiting for us. I still believe that spirits from a primeval time live there. But worst of all was the silence, punctuated by the drip, drip, drip.

At last I told Tom I had to go back. But he was in his element and said he would push on. After much argument I turned for home. The last sound I heard was Tom whistling to himself as he plunged deeper.

But then, there was a different sound. It was as if a dam had breached and a wave of water was thundering down the caves; or it might have been a landslide with the earth grinding its way to a lower level. But whatever it was it lasted just a few seconds and then stopped. The silence was deeper than before. Then I heard a most terrible, fear-ridden scream which sounded as if it had come from the very depths of hell itself. I froze … Tom needed me. Turning back I soon came to a tortured blockage of stones, earth with a lake forming as far as I could see in the sombre tunnel. I had no option but to run back to the surface to get help, but I yelled and screamed his name until overcome with hysteria and my batteries starting to dim, to my eternal shame I left him. To get help I still tell myself. But in the back of my mind, amongst the fear and the horror, there is a recurring memory of a momentary glimpse of a large animal, a fish perhaps? in the water which surely could not have survived from pre-history. It seemed to be enormous as its eyes locked with mine as it swept past, but perhaps the water magnified its image. Or was it just the product of a stressed-out mind?

The next few weeks were a nightmare of remorse, anger and a helpless feeling of injustice. They found Tom’s body several hundred yards from where I had left him. It had been savaged and dismembered with a ferocity which even shocked the seasoned professionals who routinely handle murder and A and E road accidents. My agony was compounded by being a suspect for his murder. Eventually, after many months his death was recorded as unexplained. The official reason for the state of his body was that rodents and a variety of wild life had gnawed at his corpse. But I knew better. I cannot put away the memory of that water creature which, having lived in the caves, must have known how to escape because it was never seen again. I was just dismissed as an eccentric still suffering from shock.

But our paths were to cross again. Once more with no witnesses. It happened a few years later on a neighbouring farm which, like ours, had a large reservoir of underground water. In fact there was a well which in olden times could be accessed from the kitchen. Of course these days it had been glassed over and lighted so you could see the dark still water about six feet below the kitchen floor. I always found it a bit scary with visions of the glass shattering and then the plunge with no chance of climbing out. A wet cold death with several minutes of panic in which to contemplate the end. But that evening something was different. The normally still water seemed to pulsate as if there was an underwater paddle gently moving to and fro. And then, as I looked closer it seemed that a pair of eyes was glaring up at me from the depths; a look of such malignant intent that I froze. And, as the water vibrated (maybe the creature’s tail was thrashing?) the pair became many eyes which seemed to move and multiply with the water’s waves. I was rigid with shock as once again our eyes locked in recognition. That look of evil ferocity was almost human in its intensity.

Then I called out to my hosts but when they arrived all was tranquil. They said the water never moved … indeed they had tried to find its path by pouring in coloured dye but the dye did not re-appear in any of the rivers. It was clearly just a stagnant pool which leached slowly over the years they told me quietly.

But I know what I saw.

The cross roads … steeped in blood

2016-01-05T17:03:00.000+00:00

Imagine …

It is a day of execution at a cross roads in medieval Dorset. The gibbet dominates the scene where the four roads meet which connect the local villages. Life is cheap, and for the poor, short. There is a large crowd gathering in a party atmosphere with brightly coloured stalls selling beer, pies and gruesome relics from other executions. These are always fake but in a time of religious fervour the gullible public will buy anything which has even the faintest hint of a promised salvation which such remains were deemed to possess. This even affected the rich and educated.

Red Post sign, A31, Dorset

They are coming from all four directions; sightsee-ers from the various villages who have been discussing this day for several weeks. There is a palpable feeling of excitement. And finally the star of the show is led to the gallows; sometimes even dragged there on a wicker sled. He, or she as in those days many witches were hanged, is then prodded up the ladder, the halter is attached to the sound of prayers being offered by the local priest, then the victim is swung off into space to “dance” until death relieves the suffering. This is accompanied by much shouting and hooting from the onlookers, until a collective indrawing of breath marks the final moment. Then the crowd, after loitering for an hour or so to watch the final gyrations of the body, departs. Because now a new fear replaces the spectacle. It is a well-known fact that on crossroads such as these, unhappy souls who have committed suicide are buried. There is nothing to mark their passing, none to lament their shortened lives but the rumours persist of these spirits returning to haunt those who linger. It was well-known that crossroads such as these were chosen to bury the dead so that the soul of the departed would be too confused to know which road to take to seek retribution from those who had persecuted them in life. To the Church such an action was an ultimate sin so no help or comfort would come from that source.

And then we come to the interesting part of the story. To remind people of where they are, and to encourage strangers to hurry past with averted eyes to avoid seeing evil, the road signs on these crossroads were painted red.

A likely story I hear you scoffing.

But such a red sign still exists on the Bere Regis to Wimborne Minster road, the A31. So for those who are sensitive to such things if you go there on a quiet morning you might just hear a whisper of the crowd, or a harsh grating of the rope against the crossbar of the gibbet as the weight suddenly takes hold and the struggle begins. Or it might be just the soughing of the wind in the trees. But anyway, this is not for the faint hearted. Most of us who have to go that way, hurry past with a prayer for the tragedies of the past.

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A gentle tale of loss and grief

2015-05-20T16:26:00.002+01:00

Bounce, bounce, bounce.

It used to drive me mad. But I get ahead of myself, so let’s start at the beginning. Many years ago in an ancient cottage in a remote part of Devon lived an old couple who for a variety of reasons, remained childless. I used to visit them as often as I could because I was the nearest thing to family that they had.

It was a warm summer evening when I arrived at the cottage after a stressful drive from London. I had been looking forward to a weekend of quiet solitude with my oldest friends, but as I drove towards their home down their pot-holed lane I instantly saw there was a change. All looked as usual, except there was now a front gate and sitting in the porch was a black Labrador. She came barking up to the gate but the noise was tamed by a whirlwind tail so the bedlam became an enthusiastic greeting.

“Where did she come from?” I asked as I set down my case in the hall. My friends, let’s call them Robert and Alice, had a contained air of excitement which I had never seen before. “Poppy arrived about a month ago. She was neglected, hungry and soaking wet as she sat outside the front door. She was really skinny and shivering so how could we not take her in?” How indeed I said to myself, knowing my friends’ generosity of spirit. Robert and Alice were two of the most gentle people you would find anywhere and their lifelong friendship had given them a communication where words often weren’t necessary. They smiled at each other in a way which tore at my heart. My solitary life, to which I had grown accustomed, suddenly seemed so sad and yes, lonely.

Poppy. The name suited her so well as she was energetic but gentle. She showed me her plaything which was a grubby old tennis ball which she was so proud of and which once might have taken pride of place in a long forgotten tournament. “We found it in an old tin trunk in the attic and Poppy takes it everywhere with her”. She dropped it at my feet. Bounce, bounce, bounce. Large brown eyes looked up at me, her head on one side with the message as clear as speech “Throw it for me”. I remember thinking at the time she was perfect for two people who were so comfortable together. She fitted in as if she had always been there.

And so their lives continued in a quiet routine with Poppy filling in for the child they never had. Until, as is the way of things, Alice had a stroke and after a short illness quietly died. Typically, with no fuss or drama. When I heard the news and I was the first to know as I had suspected this would happen, I dropped everything to be with Robert for a week or a month … however long it took to help him come to terms with his loss.

As usual Poppy met me at the gate but she must have known that change had come to her life as her tail was less enthusiastic, her movements slower. And I noticed that she had grown grey around her muzzle and her eyes had that slightly opaque far-off look of old age, a look of quiet acceptance. But she dropped the ball at my feet … some habits were too hard to break. I saw Robert softly approaching and I hugged him which I had never done before. This sort of sentimentality was not what his generation did but yet he seemed to welcome the physical contact.

I remember thinking how he had changed. His face was more lined, he spoke less and more quietly, he walked with a stoop which was unthinkable even a few months ago. And now Poppy went everywhere with him. Bounce, bounce, bounce which kept him occupied as those soft brown eyes could not be denied. And in the evenings she would lie on the sofa with her head in his lap. I remember thinking “thank God for Poppy” as her company made Robert’s loss and grief less severe. So days merged into weeks and finally it was time for me to go. I left with a heavy heart, but it seemed a perfect pairing which saw me off at the front gate.

And so my life in London continued as normal. Until one day, several years later I received a message that Poppy had died. I immediately left for Devon with real fear as to what I would find.

That evening at dinner we stayed up late while Robert talked about his life and together we travelled back in time to a more gentle, slower era. I remember thinking how difficult it must be for those whose very isolation had made a strange and threatening new environment out of their world. But what surprised me most was Robert’s lack of that almost suicidal desperation which comes from great loss. He said that Poppy was still with him, but it was one of those things which you don’t challenge.

Then, in the early hours of the morning I woke up to a strange ambience in the house. It was a quiet night with the breeze mildly sighing past the windows. There was a silvery light from the moon which bathed the countryside beneath ribbon-clouds which ambled across the night sky. It all seemed so normal. But then I heard it.

Bounce, bounce, bounce. And overlaid was the soft voice of Robert. It seemed that the world had taken on a structure which I didn’t understand. So, later when it came time to leave it was easier in the knowledge that Robert was perhaps not as alone as I had thought. Before I left he told me that Poppy was still with him and that Alice also was present. Who was I to disbelieve this after what I had heard?

And so once again the years past until I heard that Robert had quietly passed away. His last act of generosity had been to leave me his cottage where they had all been so happy.

But it had changed.

After a few days staying there trying to resurrect memories the feeling of bereft solitude became too much for me. I found myself staying awake, waiting for the Bounce, bounce, bounce which used to drive me mad but now of course never returned. It was as if the three of them, having been reunited, had left together to spend eternity in love and companionship. It made my solitary life now seem so pointless … and alone. So I decided to sell the cottage and hope that those ancient walls would relax in the company of a new family.

I know that Robert, Alice and Poppy would understand.

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An enchanting Christmas legend ...

2014-12-22T17:16:00.000+00:00

Holy Grass – hierochloe odorata

We all know the story of “no room at the inn” so when Jesus was about to be born there was a frantic scramble to prepare the manger, to make it warm and comfortable for the Special Arrival. During that time a most charming story has it that the cattle, also seeking shelter, begged that they should be allowed to give their hay to make the bed for the Holy Baby. This hay was gratefully accepted and duly taken to soften the Christ’s bed. Then a further miracle occurred. The hay, which under normal circumstance is simply a collection of dried and dead grasses, herbs and wild flowers, suddenly burst into life and blossoms from the flowers formed a halo around His head.

So what were these grasses which unexpectedly sprang to life?

Star of Bethlehem

Some have suggested the following ...

Clover ... obviously symbolic of the Trinity.
Vervain ... an ancient and respected guard against evil and devils.
Sainfoin ... a fodder which is well known for medicinal properties.
Holy Grass ... hierochloe odorata ... a fairly rare aromatic grass which in days long past was used to strew the floors of Catholic Churches on Holy days.
Lady’s Bedstraw ... one of the most prolific grasses which grows widely in Churchyards.
Star of Bethlehem ... has flowers like a small white star, which reminds us of the star which led the wise men to Bethlehem.

Sainfoin

There are of course many other Holy Grasses which legend has linked to the Holy Hay. So, next time you walk in the countryside, it might be fun to take a book of grasses and see if you can identify any of these plants which, under certain circumstances, have miraculous properties.

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A ghostly halloween moon ...

2014-10-23T16:22:00.001+01:00

It’s the time of year when thoughts turn to muffled walks along the beach, when winds and gales storm in from the vast reaches of the oceans to pluck the leaves from trees which are themselves battening down for the harshness of winter. Walks down country lanes and over fields see the desperation of small animals trying to find shelter from the desolation which is to come. But yet this is no armageddon. It is just the turn of the seasons which give such richness to our lives. It was Keats, about two hundred years ago, who penned the immortal phrase “Season of mists and mellow fruitfulness” which so brilliantly summed up the gentler side of autumn.

But there is a more mysterious side ... felt best at night. About one hundred years ago the poet Alfred Noyes wrote:

“The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,

The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas”

How evocative. And it is true that the moon seems to come into its own when summer has departed and cold windy nights hold sway with threats of darkness, storms and unexplained events. And this mysticism is compounded by the way the moon changes its shape during its cycle. Imagine how primeval man must have lived in such awe of this fearful influence which often hangs, huge and remote, and then seems to shape-change in a baleful silent mystery. Watching and waiting, while the affairs of men continue in fear.

So imagine my delight when driving through a small mediaeval village in Somerset called Stoke sub Hamdon. There are rows of delightful old terraced cottages, many of which have boston ivy clawing a purchase on the honey coloured sandstone, and in the middle of which is a pub called “The Half Moon”. Images of the Occult immediately rose to mind. Finding a parking space I could then look more closely and get a feeling for the building. This appears to be an old coaching inn which according to the most hospitable landlady Anne, then became two cottages before being turned into a pub.

The Half Moon in Stoke sub Hamdon, Somerset

The sign outside is a slight anomaly in that it is actually a waxing crescent moon, with the horns pointing to the left. A half moon by definition has no horns. But who cares? When the moon is waxing, or getting larger, it is a wonderful time for magic, curing of illnesses and generally is a “good” influence. So this pub is definitely worth a visit without any danger!

Going through the heavy wooden coaching doors you are instantly taken back to a more simple age where wood and natural materials give a secure ageless feeling of warmth ... a sympathetic background from the steel and glass of the modern era. And, for those sensitive to such things, it is an obvious playground for the spirit world. So, settling down with a few drinks, Anne told us some entertaining stories about her ghostly experiences since taking over the Half Moon. These included:

Unexplained footsteps upstairs when there was nobody there
Midnight voices, some raised in argument
The front door mysteriously becoming unlatched
Barrels being moved in the cellar in the early hours of the morning

But the piece-de-resistance is the Coachman. He has been seen standing in the main bar area dressed in nineteenth century boots, stove pipe hat and hardy coaching gear as protection against the vagaries of the weather which he must face through all seasons. But he quickly vanishes when observed. It is perhaps he who has followed Anne at midnight, whistling in an eerie fashion?

But that’s not all. There is a Roman soldier who has taken up residence behind the bar; perhaps he was wounded in the many battles which took place around that part of England. Maiden Castle is just thirty miles away, and Roman soldiers have been seen marching in columns down from Ham Hill which dominates the skyline above the village. Perhaps the soldier died on the premises and has been unable to “move on”?

And so the stories go on. Anne is a wonderful entertaining host who revels in the Half Moon’s history. It is definitely worth a visit....maybe on a clear night when the halloween moon is at its brightest?

Buy P J Cadavori's Catacombs of the Damned

P J Cadavori's supernatural horror novel, Catacombs of the Damned, is available to buy at Winstone’s of Sherborne, and online at Waterstones or Amazon, in paperback and e-book formats. Click on the book covers below to view Catacombs of the Damned at Amazon.

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Is this the most ghostly valley in Britain?

2014-10-13T18:04:00.001+01:00

Hermitage Castle, Scotland

In the border lands between Scotland and England there is a most sinister building which has had literally a continuous history of horror, warfare and bloodshed, intrigue and foul tortures, witchcraft, imprisonment to death, boiling in oil to name just a few. It all took place in the “bloodiest valley” in Britain where there is a sinister, evilly atmospheric building called Hermitage Castle.

As is usually the case, we go back to the turbulent 13/14th centuries when the first, and most notable of the horrors started. This involved the owner, a notorious villain called William de Soulis who was an unashamed practitioner of witchcraft and such was his power that he became almost unstoppable. Amongst his many excesses he was rumoured to spirit away children for use in his rituals, and even conspired to kill that iconic Scots King, Robert the Bruce. Eventually however, his actions became too much even for those times and he was captured by his tenants who, legend has it, boiled him in lead within an ancient stone circle; the belief being that this would stop his return from the afterlife.

Then, with bewildering speed the castle changed hands many times, sometimes supporting the English, sometimes the Scots. But whoever the owner was the castle seemed to inspire unbridled brutality and unexplained events:

The mysterious disappearance of the original group of Holy men who lived there; but the name of Hermitage survived
A local sheriff, amongst many others, was imprisoned there and starved to death
Revenge killings as a succession of owners defected to the opposite side
Disappearance of local children during de Soulis’ ownership
A giant who terrorised the area but was eventually caught and drowned ... one of the more fantastical legends
Survival of de Soulis’ “familiars” who continue to haunt the valley
Countless examples of treason and intrigue, jailings and forfeiture of land

Inside Hermitage Castle

As the list of horrors goes on and on it is no surprise that the castle pervades a sinister atmosphere of misery, fear and ghostly sightings. Specifically, the awful cries of children and prisoners who were incarcerated in the dungeons can still be heard, or it might be the wind keening around the stark battlements. Who really knows? And Mary, Queen of Scots is rumoured to be one of the figures who can be seen moving about the upper rooms on dark and dreadful nights. Also, near the Giant’s Drowning Pool, some visitors have felt a presence which appears to try to push them into the water. But, most sinister of all, de Soulis and his cronies in crime are reputed to walk within the castle, treading passageways which no longer exist .. they seem to be floating in the air.

All in all, Hermitage Castle and the surrounding countryside is a “must visit” place; but go with friends as you never know what you might meet.

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In 1916 £35 could buy you a ghost ...

2014-08-12T15:27:00.001+01:00

Thoor Ballylee Castle, County Galway, Ireland

Recently I was thumbing through an old book of Yeats’ poetry, as one does on rainy, storm sodden nights, his particular brand of mysticism being well suited to such conditions. While trying to make sense of “The Tower” my mind wandered away to where he lived in Ireland before his death in 1939.

He fell in love with a bleak but beautifully atmospheric castle in Galway which had gradually fallen into ruins during the many centuries since its construction in the lawless times of the thirteenth century. Yeats bought it in 1916 for £35 and thus started a life-long enthusiasm which saw it being rebuilt into what is now a fairly stark tower within which is a narrow winding staircase. This is where our story begins.

The ghost captured on camera by David Blinkthorne in 1989

Yeats believed strongly in ghosts and the afterlife and swore that he shared the tower with a Norman soldier, perhaps one of the original occupants. Further, this was supported by a more recent curator of the Yeats museum who frequently witnessed a strange shadowy figure gliding up and down the stairs, and whose dog showed extreme nervousness when night was falling. And, most surprising of all, in 1989 a Yeats enthusiast added to the ghostly stories. He had arrived at the tower late in the afternoon when the doors were being shut for the night. The curator, being a kindly soul, allowed him in and left him to take his photographs. But, when these were later developed (in the pre-digital age this took about 2 weeks), there was a strange shadowy figure of a young boy by the window. This was most surprising because the photographer was alone. After much examination, it was generally believed that this ghost was Yeats’ son.

Haunted Thoor Ballylee Castle

The castle is called Thoor Ballylee and is certainly worth a visit ... preferably on a wind tossed winter evening when it is easy to transport yourself back to a more primitive, sensory era. And you will get the added stimulation of revelling in the environment which so inspired one of the giants of the twentieth century.

In Association with the Western Gazette

You can also read this article, and many others, at the Western Gazette website. Click here to follow me and be the first to know when I publish my next short story, article or book review.

Buy P J Cadavori's Catacombs of the Damned at Winstone’s of Sherborne, Waterstones or Amazon, in paperback and e-book formats. Click on the book covers below to view Catacombs of the Damned at Amazon.

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Strange adventures in the County of Dorset AD 1747

2014-07-31T13:15:00.001+01:00

Strange adventures in the County of Dorset AD 1747

When you stumble upon a book with a title like this, you just have to spend a few pounds to buy it.

It is primarily a story about English South Coast smuggling, ghostly rumours within the cliff-top caves and passages of the local Manor House (ghosts being the best security against snoopers), a wealthy Spanish smuggler for the love intrigue and much mayhem and murder around the Poole Customs House ...

“there is said to be a real accredited gang of smugglers about, a tangible witch hard by, a ghost in the house ...”

It is a fast moving tale centred around, amongst other things, the confiscation of illegal tea, the recapture of the tea by the smugglers and eventually, almost a happy ending. It is a story about the infamous Hawkhurst Gang; but everybody was at it “an immense and well-organised illegal traffic was carried on by those deemed the most respectable inhabitants of the district”. Apparently, twenty to thirty wagons of spirit kegs conducted by two to three hundred smugglers were not uncommon in the New Forrest where almost every man was a smuggler or poacher.

The central characters, traveling to the south coast, enter into the spirit of the times by being “much afraid of leaving London, on account of the highwaymen”, and when they finally arrive in their country house immediately sense the ghost “there is something eerie in the room, and I don’t feel happy in it alone.”

The infamous Hawkhurst Gang at Poole Custom House

But what makes this different to other smuggling/ghost stories is that it is written in the diary format of those who were actually there. The quaint and precise 18th Century form of writing with wonderfully evocative descriptions of the countryside are themselves a joy to read and add hugely to the ambiance of the tale ...

“the many coloured sand cliffs curved around the bay, topped by a line of purple heather surmounted by fir trees, the line of the cliffs terminating in a distant headland”

It is as if you are actually there, a part of the elegance,

“after dinner, Eva seated herself at an old fashioned spinet with odd, old tinkling notes, and sang ...”

but yet also a part of the brutality of the age ...

“ a bad offender is hung and the body left in chains ...”

And, in addition, there is a large map and illustrations so you can easily follow the action around Swanage, Corfe Castle, the Isle of Wight, Christchurch and Studland amongst many names well recognised by Dorset families. I particularly like some of the descriptions such as cormorants being labelled as “Isle of Wight parsons”, although I did object to my favourite Blue Vinny cheese being described as a “poor sort of cheese called “Vinny.”

Finally, good luck in finding this book; your efforts will be rewarded.

In Association with the Western Gazette

You can also read this article, and many others, at the Western Gazette website. Click here to follow me and be the first to know when I publish my next short story, article or book review.

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England Football ... blame the Ghosts of Bisham Abbey?

2014-07-21T14:07:00.002+01:00

Bisham Abbey Manor House, Berkshire

It all started in the dim mists of the thirteenth century. The Knights Templar were at the height of their powers. They had bought some land in Berkshire and built an Abbey as a monument to their faith. But in less than fifty years their brotherhood had been destroyed by jealous monarchs amidst fearful punishments with burning at the stake being the norm. The Abbey was taken over by Edward II in the year 1307. Then, for the next 500 years there was a wide variety of owners including Henry VIII. The Abbey was used for many purposes, such as becoming a royal prison, with a succession of celebrated visitors, with Elizabeth I being foremost up until the late 18th Century. So there are 500 years at least of built-in misery, mayhem and murder, including the unexplained death (probably starvation) of one of the sons of Lady Hoby. She was a woman of enormous scholarship and as is so often the case with this trait, a woman of notoriously short temper. It is understood that she locked her son into a cupboard due to his poor intellect, and then forgot to tell anyone where he was. He died there. However, it is rumoured that she eventually regretted his death and it is her ghost which is regularly seen around the corridors harbouring a look of harrowed grief which chills the blood of all whom she meets.

Bisham Abbey National Sports Centre

In addition, footsteps along the corridors at night can often be heard with wraith-like figures gently wafting along. Given the history of the place there can be no doubt that countless spirits are at large ... indeed the most fearsome one is that of the Abbot of Bisham Priory who cursed all and sundry as he was expelled from it during its destruction in 1538. He cursed all who shall inherit the buildings “Its sons will be hounded by misfortune”, along with more colourful promises.

This is what the National Sports Centre “inherited” when the property became a part of their training facilities. So, along with buildings and land have come a history of mayhem and, more worryingly, curses. And these are just the ones we know about. So maybe our footballers should think twice before returning there?

In Association with the Western Gazette

You can also read this article, and many others, at the Western Gazette website. Click here to follow me and be the first to know when I publish my next short story, article or book review.

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Woodland Ghosts ... fact or fiction?

2014-07-10T15:01:00.002+01:00

Imagine ... the excesses of Christmas and the New Year are left behind; resolutions are still respected. Taking exercise through your local woodland is exhilarating. It is spring; the trees are producing soft green leaves which, moving gently in the breeze, seem to test the sudden mildness; the promise of new life and regeneration. Small birds are everywhere, heard but not seen, building bowers for their young which are imminent. There are animals at every turn from shy, hidden rodents to busy squirrels in the tree tops. There are larger creatures such as badgers and deer which forage through the new growth of shrubs, brambles, ivy and holly. And at ground level bracken swarms aggressively between huge clumps of green moss which cushion fallen trees and decomposing branches. A wide mixture of fungi spring to life in the most unlikely places.

Parsonage Wood, Wiltshire
Source: The Wild Life Trusts

Then summer emerges with carpets of bluebells and primroses giving way to large purple thistles, rampant chest high grasses, countless white ox-eye daisies with the gentle lazy floating of new-born insects hovering over the wild flowers. You know this woodland so well. You even walk there during the mild summer nights while the soft breezes gently swirl transporting earthy smells while the quiet night-sounds bring a tranquillity unknown during the hectic daylight hours.

And so the year progresses. Soon you notice the change in the colour and density of the canopy. It is as if there is an unspoken warning of harder times; the browns, reds and golds transform from the green which has run its course and now quietly prepares for discard, for death. But surprisingly, this is not a dismal place, rather one of quiet contemplation, a timeless repetition of the ages. You know this woodland so well ... the dry rustle of brittle leaves seems so natural as you walk within the colder wind under the sharp light of a cloudless autumn sky.

Parsonage Wood, Wiltshire

And then, as Robert Burns said, “November chill blaws loud wi’ angry sugh”; but you expect this. It is only then that you hear strange voices, disembodied howling with groans and screeches which surely could come from no human body. Maybe it is the wind swirling past bare tree trunks, “sughing” through the branches as they toss and tremble in the winter gales like the strings of a musical instrument. Or maybe it is local lads wending their way home having become well insulated against the cold. Or maybe it is something more sinister. But it is difficult to explain the sudden cold spots which hit you as if you had opened the freezer in your warm secure cottage in the village. And your dog comes back to you looking worried and ill-at-ease.

The coldness, the eerie sounds, the unexplained feelings of fear are hard to understand. Are Ghosts afoot? Well, such a place is Parsonage Wood in Wiltshire. If you go there to see and feel for yourself, do not go alone.

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The Fakenham (Suffolk) Ghost ... or maybe not?

2014-06-23T13:44:00.001+01:00

Just the other day I found a tiny little book no larger than a mobile phone which was printed in 1835. Yet it contained 175 pages of very entertaining poetry, with a strong rural bent. It’s called “Bloomfield’s farmer’s boy, rural tales.” What a gem if you like country themes such as Thomas Hardy and Gordon Beningfield. And imagine my surprise when I discovered a poem about “the Fakenham Ghost”, a spirit I had not previously heard about.

The story, interspersed with brilliant evocative lines, goes as follows.

An “ancient dame” in “fearful haste” was going home along a “lonely footpath, still and dark”. She was in a hurry as “her footsteps knew no idle stops” but “echo’d to the darksome copse”. All very well so far ... she clearly was tired and desperate to get home before darkness fell.

But then, “darker it grew, and darker fears came o’er her troubled mind” as a “Short quick step she hears come patting close behind. She turn’d; it stopp’d! ... naught could she see” ... imagine her terror in those lawless times; “terror seiz’d her quaking frame”. Then, suddenly, “through the cheating glooms of night, a Monster stood in view”.

Her fear was such that “down she knelt, and said her prayers” then rushed onwards towards home. But it didn’t stop there, as when she finally opened the gate “so long it swung that Ghost and all pass’d through”. Just imagine, “Much she feared the grisly ghost would leap upon her back”.

She was so overcome by fear that she “fainted at the door”. Quickly, out of the house came her husband and daughter “much surprised”. They lit a candle whose “gleam pierc’d the night” and “there the little trotting sprite distinctly might be seen”.

“An ass’s foal had lost its dam
                                                         Within the spacious park;
                                                         And simple as the playful lamb
                                                         Had followed in the dark.
                                                         No goblin he: no imp of sin:
                                                         No crimes had ever known”.

You can imagine how foolish the “ancient dame” must have felt, but it all ended well as

                                                          “They took the shaggy stranger in,
                                                           And rear’d him as their own.

                                                           His little hoofs would rattle round
                                                           Upon the cottage floor.
                                                           The matron learn’d to love the sound
That frighten’d her before”.

An enchanting story which perhaps sheds some light on the phrase about making an ass of oneself?

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A ghostly revenge ...

2014-06-18T13:29:00.001+01:00

About 200 years ago a merchant ship sank in foul weather off the Kent coast. There were many such incidents in those days, but in this particular case the only survivor was the Captain who, more dead than alive, managed to drag himself over the stinking mudflats and marshland towards lights which he could see, gently twinkling, in the far distance. After what must have seemed to be hours of crawling and struggling through the glutinous mud where every step was an effort, he arrived , thankfully, at the house. With a final push he banged several times on the heavy oak door and then heard an upstairs window being opened.“Begone you villain” he was told with uncompromising harshness. The window slammed shut. The Captain sunk to the ground in dismay. Overcome by exhaustion, he slept.

He never awoke and his body was removed the next day.

Since then his revenge has been remorseless. In what is now a secluded pub, his spirit re-appears with terrifying frequency. If you are sitting at the bar and you suddenly smell tobacco, tar and other nautical odours, and if the wind is whistling and crashing around the building in what must be a repeat of the fatal weather conditions of centuries ago, you might see this apparition.

He brings an aura of silent menace, of pent up anger, to visitors and regulars who are enjoying a quiet drink. He appears, glowers at everyone and then just disappears. But his real revenge is on the staff ... he appears soundlessly when least expected and his looks and chilly presence terrify all whom he surprises. He is even rumoured to have appeared in the bedrooms of the owners and stare malevolently at them before disappearing. The sense of evil and anger has not diminished over the years.

The Shipwright's Arms, Kent

The place? The Shipwright’s Arms in Hollowshore, Kent. Go and visit for yourself, and you might be (un)lucky enough to meet “Harry”.

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Would Drake, or his ghost, vote UKIP ?

2014-05-28T15:19:00.002+01:00

Buckland Abbey, Devon

In 1581 Sir Francis Drake bought Buckland Abbey in Devon. Local legend has it that his ambitious re-building programme was accomplished in a matter of a few days, thus he must have made a pact with the devil!

Indeed, if you are travelling over the far reaches of Dartmoor during particularly bleak and windy winter nights, you might well see a shadowy black coach being driven by horses at breakneck speed. And if this isn’t bad enough, if you can get close you will see that the horses have no heads and there is a pack of wild, ghostly hounds howling alongside. The whole entourage is rumoured to be pursuing the business of the Devil, and is driven by Drake as retribution for his sins. And the sounds of the hounds can be heard several miles away, although some say it is just the keening of the wind, moaning over the desolate wilderness.

Drake's Drum, Buckland Abbey

But, inside the peace and tranquillity of the Abbey is Drake’s Drum which was returned to England in 1596, this being one of his last wishes as he lay dying in Central America. He promised that if ever England was in peril he would hear the Drum being beaten and his spirit would return to help. Sir Henry Newbolt summed it up very succinctly in his poem Drake’s Drum ...

Take my drum to England, hang it by the shore,
Strike it when your powder’s runnin’ low;
If the Dons sight Devon, I’ll quit the port o’ Heaven,
An’ drum them up the Channel as we drumm’d them long ago.

In recent history this drum has been heard several times, especially before the battle of Trafalgar, and in 1939 before the start of hostilities.

Finally, one wonders if Drake has become a thoroughly modern ghost and his spirit is inspiring UKIP by more subtle means as the drum has not been heard recently!!

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Can a ghost be in two places at once? ... perhaps

2014-05-20T13:17:00.003+01:00

Lady Lisle

In 1685 a certain Lady Lisle lived at Moyles Court in the New Forest in Hampshire. This was of course the same year that the Monmouth rebellion was crushed (see my blog The Sedgemoor Ghosts) and the whole of the south-west of England was seething with desperate escapees fleeing the retribution of Judge Jeffreys. In those days to be on the losing side was no small matter.

Lady Lisle was soon contacted to provide safe haven for two rebels who were in sore need of sanctuary. Because of her anti-royalist views she took them in. The house was raided the next day and the two fugitives and Lady Lisle were arrested. She was 70 years old and by all accounts a formidable personality.

Lady Lisle was one of the first to be tried at Winchester Castle and was found not guilty of harbouring traitors. However, the power and personality of Judge Jeffreys was such that he over-ruled the decision and she was sentenced to death. There then followed much discussion about the merits of burning at the stake, hang drawing and quartering, and beheading. On one side was Jeffreys who wanted maximum impact through burning, and those sympathisers who wanted a less harsh punishment of beheading due to her age.

The Eclipse Inn, Winchester

Eventually it was decided that she should be beheaded in Winchester Market Place. She spent her last night in the upper rooms of a building which fronted onto the Market Place, and is now the Eclipse Inn. She had a sleepless night while awaiting her fate because the sounds of the scaffold being constructed were impossible to muffle. The next morning she stepped out of a window straight onto the scaffold where, after the normal speeches, sentence was carried out.

So, 350 years later, what of today?

In the Eclipse Inn a Grey Lady has often been seen drifting along the upstairs passage. She is accompanied by surreal sounds of a wooden construction being nailed together ... presumably the scaffold. And at the same time sounds of footsteps with the swish of an expensive, voluminous dress is heard along the corridors of Moyles Court. It is said that both are Lady Lisle.

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English treachery and Spanish Ghosts in Ireland

2014-05-07T12:00:00.001+01:00

Imagine ... it is mid November and you are walking over some of the most beautiful coastal countryside in Southern Ireland. The gentle sea breezes are caressing you from the far reaches of the Atlantic; there lingers a softness and a warmth from the summer months as they live out their last few days while hinting at the storms and harshness of the winter which is to come.

Dingle Peninsular, County Kerry

You are on the Dingle Peninsular in County Kerry.

But wait ... all is not what it seems. In spite of the tranquil breeze your body suddenly stiffens as you get a contact with a dreadful event from over 400 years ago. There is a ghastly stench of rotting bodies which, although you’ve never met such a smell before, you identify instantly. And writhing within the breeze there are distinct sounds of calling, pleading ... the yells and screams of people condemned to a violent death.

So what happened? The records are varied but what is known involves a Papal conspiracy, Catholic soldiers from Spain and Italy and fierce battles with the English who were running rampant over Ireland during those troubled times.

It all came to a head at Fort del Oro on the Dingle headland in November 1580. A party of about 600 Spanish and Italian soldiers had been financed by the Pope to carry the battle of religious reform to the heretics of Elizabeth’s England. But soon, after some initial success they became trapped on the headland with an English army before them and English Ships behind them. They had no choice but to surrender.

They were unfortunate in that terms were negotiated with General Grey who was not known for honourable behaviour. He gave guarantees that all lives would be spared but then brutally executed all 600 of the captives. Indeed some even had their heads buried while their bodies were thrown into the sea.

Now, centuries later local stories are abundant. Many visitors who speak Spanish have identified the agonies on the wind as pleas for mercy. And local fishermen have often sighted heads and bodies floating close to the shore which mysteriously disappear when approached.

Finally, it is a strange twist in fate that such horror can be visited upon such a beautiful and tranquil place; perhaps “Perfidious Albion” should be blamed. But to those who’ve seen, heard and smelled them, the history and ghosts are very real.

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May Day ... that Pagan Festival

2014-04-30T12:55:00.002+01:00

Wilmington Farm, Somerset

Pre-history ... it is a time of ancient mystical beliefs. The harshness of winter is being banished. The morning mists hinting at warmer weather have started to cover the land to bring moisture and fertility in their wake. The sun has begun its long journey of recovery from its winter exile. They called it Beltane.

In ancient medieval texts we are told that Beltane marked the start of summer with ceremonies held on May 1st. In what was a largely pastoral society the cattle were driven out to their summer grassland, rituals were performed to protect people, livestock and crops from natural and supernatural influences. Fertility was ensured by the wholesale lighting of fires with smoke and ash created which was spread over the land. It was well known that these two by-products of fire can protect against the unknown forces of darkness which walk the night. In addition, many households would re-light their domestic fires on Beltane day to bring good fortune to their families. And many trees, or “may-poles” would be decorated which perhaps harks back to the tree worship of long forgotten times.

The countryside was of course awash with the inspiring yellow of early flowers such as gorse and primrose which had returned from their winter darkness. It was as if the yellow of the flowers was a reflection, indeed an exaltation of the sun which was returning to bless the land. And the early morning dew was a luxury which would be collected and washed in as it was well known to protect youth.

It was a time of extreme optimism, and was a time of supreme importance to the ancient Druids.

But what is so remarkable is that these rituals and celebrations have continued off and on throughout Europe right up to modern times. Beltane is an extraordinary example of religious compromise which, like many other pagan beliefs, modern Christianity has adopted as its own with holidays declared across the world.

Finally, for those interested in these things, I look at several aspects of Pagan/Christian beliefs in my book Catacombs of the Damned. You might enjoy it.

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Easter and a pagan spirit world

2014-04-14T13:56:00.003+01:00

Easter Island

The time...Easter Sunday 1772.

The place...A remote island in the surging wilderness of the Pacific.

Jacob Roggeveen

It is still a mystery what the Dutch explorer Jacob Roggeveen was looking for in such a remote area when he stumbled upon this island in 1772. But find it he did, and perhaps, out of thanks to his religion, he called it Easter Island.

But he must have been shocked by the pagan cult that he found there, with its history going back 1000 years prior to his arrival. He found that the dead and the living were “physically” connected in a deep symbiosis where the dead provided good health, fertile harvests and fishing, and a general community good fortune, while the living provided comfort to the spirit world through a range of offerings including food. This spirit world was located in the far reaches beneath the Pacific so all the human settlements were on the coast of the island to enable closer communication between the two. In many ways it is very similar to Celtic paganism where death was just an automatic, not-to-be-feared part of the journey to the other world. Indeed, Easter Island is famous for its massive stone giants which represent the ancestors, called Moai. These were erected in antiquity by the spirits to protect their descendants.

Moai, Easter Island

It doesn’t take too much of a leap in imagination to visualise the islanders’ daily life and religious ceremonies where the ghosts and the spirits of times and people past actually presented themselves. Certainly history is filled with such beliefs and under the vastness of the Pacific night-skies and the isolation of the inhabitants, there can be no doubt that visions and spirits would have stalked the land. It is indeed an intriguing idea to mull over, but must have been deeply shocking to the early Europeans.

And as a final almost unrelated thought, the Juan Fernandez islands which are part of the same archipelago, came to fame through the pen of Daniel Defoe. These are called the “Robinson Crusoe Islands” with Defoe giving a very stylised idea of life in the remote reaches of the Pacific. Defoe had a most interesting life with all sorts of trials and tribulations; see my blog “The Sedgemoor Ghosts” to read about his luckiest escape.

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Be careful where you build ... The ghosts of Castell Coch

2014-03-31T12:30:00.002+01:00

Castell Coch, Wales

For many centuries after the Norman invasion Wales was a very violent place. There was constant fighting between local barons, and general mistrust of the Normans all of whom were trying to carve out empires for themselves. It’s therefore no surprise that there are many ruined castles around the country. One such stronghold is Castell Coch, just north of Cardiff.

This has a long and unfortunate early history which resulted in it being abandoned in the 14th century. There was then about five hundred years of semi-neglect with wind, rain, fire and storm taking a terrible toll of its structure. Clearly, you would be forgiven for thinking that all the spirits of its ancient occupants, many of whom died violently, should have perished with the ruins. But not so.

Some of the more intriguing stories involve, amongst others, a Civil War Cavalier. He buried much looted treasure which he was subsequently unable to recover due to his untimely death. But such is his jealousy that he constantly revisits to protect it from inquisitive tourists. And there is the mysterious woman who walks the grounds in search of her young son who was drowned in a nearby lake. She has even been seen within the Castle passages.

But if the Castle was ruined beyond recognition, how do we know this?

Well, in 1870 the Marquess of Bute decided to construct a totally new “medieval” Castle on the site of the previous one. He cleared the site and started from scratch. Today we have a wonderful fairytale Castle which is open to the public throughout the year. And for film buffs, Alan Ladd starred in “The Black Knight” which was filmed at Castell Coch about 60 years ago. Since then there have been several Dr Who episodes, with Baroness Orczy’s Scarlet Pimpernel also filmed there in 1982 ... starring Ian McKellen and Jane Seymour.

But if this has inspired you to visit, beware. The ghosts from the old ruins have clearly transferred to the new structure and have caused so much consternation that the Bute family no longer live there. There is also talk of caretaker staff leaving without any adequate explanation.

So be careful where you build. History has a habit of repeating itself.

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Is Mother Shipton a Revenant?

2014-03-24T13:20:00.002+00:00

The Rollright Stones, Oxfordshire

In 1500, so we believe, a group of Knights was moving in a clandestine fashion across the Oxfordshire countryside. They had evil intent for they wished one of their number to become King of England.

But they fell foul of a witch called Mother Shipton who gave their leader what seemed to be an easy task. If he could take seven strides and then be able to see the village of Long Compton, he would indeed become King. Being aware of the wisdom of always humouring a witch, he readily accepted the challenge and took the steps. Then, mysteriously, a long barrow rose before him completely cutting off his visibility.

The witch, cackling with glee in a most sinister manner, then swore that “Thou and thy men hoar stones shall be”.

A far-fetched story? Not so.

The stones are called the Rollright Stones and can be seen near Long Compton. There is The King’s Stone, The King’s Men and The Whispering Knights in three distinct monuments. We know that Mother Shipton punished the would-be King and also petrified his men, but the Whispering Knights she discovered in a small group, slightly away from the main crowd, plotting against the rest... so she punished them as well. Clearly not a woman to be trifled with.

But now it gets really interesting. Mother Shipton was last seen just before her death, in 1551. The monuments however date back approximately 5000 years and are believed to be of Neolithic/Bronze age. How can this be?

Those who know this area really well whisper that the confrontation probably occurred many millenia ago and what was seen in the 1500s was purely a “time slip” which happens occasionally. For another example of time slip, see my blog “Is every old house in this village haunted?” . Thus, what was observed in the sixteenth century actually was a vision from long lost history. Or it might be that Mother Shipton is a revenant who keeps returning to re-enact her historical role. Who knows what the truth is?

So, it’s probably best to judge for yourself because the stones are real enough, and even to this day the “King” and his men have occasionally been seen, usually close to midnight.

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The 700 year old Royal Scream

2014-03-18T13:41:00.003+00:00

Berkeley Castle, Gloucestershire

The year was 1327 when that most unfortunate King, Edward II, was put to death.

The place was Berkeley Castle in Gloucestershire. Within this Castle is a deep dungeon where the bodies of animals were left to decompose with, it is said, the bodies of those who had fallen out of favour with the Berkeley family. The stink from this disease ridden hole, the foetid air, the rats, maggots and other loathsome by-products of death left small chance of life for those who were cast there while still living. This is where Edward found himself.

King Edward II

His story is one of great sadness where opportunity was handed to him by his father, but his character was such that it all just slipped away. When he was deposed by his wife and her lover his list of crimes at his trial was huge, including pursuing occupations unbecoming to a King (probably referring to his bi-sexuality), military defeats which lost Scotland (remember Bannockburn, possibly the greatest English defeat for 300 years), losing land in Ireland and France, damaging the Church (a most serious crime in those days) and a more general charge of losing the trust of his people while not giving the noble families the respect due to their rank.

So he had to go. However to execute a King in those days was a step too far, so another way had to be found. He could be allowed to die from natural causes, so he suddenly found himself in that nauseous pit in Berkeley Castle. But he proved to be too resilient so he needed to be “helped” on his way. His body however should not be allowed to show any external signs of force. Quite a quandary, but one which the medieval mind thrived on.

A particularly unpleasant death was devised. A tube was inserted up his “fundament”... a particularly elegant euphemism ... with a red-hot poker then pushed down the tube into his innards. This, after much excruciating pain, killed him from inside leaving no visible cause of death. It was considered a most satisfactory result, but one of intense agony for Edward.

Now, even today, if you walk around the Castle on the anniversary of his death, September 21st, you can often hear screams which echo far beyond the Castle walls. Or it might be just the keening wind swirling around the massive fortifications. Either way, it is a most eerie sensation.

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Cheltenham’s most famous Ghost

2014-03-12T13:38:00.000+00:00

Fred Archer

The British Empire was being rocked to its very foundations when the Indian Mutiny erupted in 1857. But in that year, back at home in Cheltenham a boy was born. He was the son of the Grand National Winner William Archer. He was “quick and retentive”, was named Frederick, and was to become one of the most celebrated all-round jockeys in the history of racing.

Fred Archer entered his apprenticeship when he was eleven years old and began winning a remarkable series of important races soon afterwards. Some of these were the Champion Stakes, Epson Oaks, St Leger, Prix du Jockey Club; he had 2748 career wins and was Champion Jockey for 13 years until 1886 when he committed suicide, aged 29.

The circumstances were very sad. Fred was unusually tall for his job and was on a constant weight loss diet. In addition, in spite of his success he suffered from depression and was finally pushed over the edge when his young wife died in childbirth. The combination of physical strain through constant dieting and the emotional stress from his loss resulted in him shooting himself.

But before this personal tragedy he was involved in building his own large stable complex in Newmarket which was called Falmouth Lodge out of deference to his main sponsor. This has now become the Pegasus Stables and is where Fred and his favourite grey mare called Scotch Pearl still return to. The two of them have been seen by many people in recent times riding in and around the local area.

So next time you go to the races, especially on the flat, just spare a thought for one of history’s most famous jockeys.

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An eccentric Vicar and his ghostly poetry

2014-03-11T13:03:00.001+00:00

Robert Herrick

Probably one of the greatest times for literature in the British Isles was about 400 years ago. Writers such as William Shakespeare, Ben Jonson, John Donne, Milton, Dryden, Jonathan Swift, Alexander Pope, to name just a few, are even now household names.

But there is a long list of generally unknown “second liners” who are only judged so because they had the misfortune to be born during this star-studded time of history. Such a man was Robert Herrick.

I stumbled upon a book of his poetry titled A selection from the lyrical poems of Robert Herrick while rootling around in a charity shop some months ago. It appeared to have never been read which was a real surprise because it contains such gems as “The Hag”. This is a subject which readers of my book Catacombs of the Damned will readily empathise with, but judge for yourself.

The Hag is astride,

This night for to ride;

The Devil and she together:

Through thick and through thin,

Now out, and then in,

Though ne’er so foul be the weather.

A thorn or a burr

She takes for a spur:

With a lash of a bramble she rides now

Through brakes and through briars

O’er ditches and mires,

She follows the spirit that guides now.

No beast, for his food,

Dares now range the wood;

But hushed in his lair he lies lurking;

While mischiefs, by these,

On land and on seas,

At noon of night are a-working.

The storm will arise,

And trouble the skies;

This night, and more for the wonder

The ghost from the tomb

Affrighted shall come

Called out by the clap of the thunder.

An interesting aside is that Herrick was the Vicar of a small Dartmoor village. So his poetry is surprising not only for its subject matter, but also because he lived in a time of rampant witchcraft and therefore might have taken considerable personal risk in penning such a poem.

In addition, for those who read my recent blog about "a monstrously evil man" it is quite possible that he knew Richard Cabell. And, as a final thought, when next you are out on the moors during a wind swept winter night, study the depths of the Heavens as you might just see Herrick’s Hag, “The Devil and she together” riding the skies, silhouetted against the full moon in the traditional Halloween setting.

Herrick was indeed a surprising choice for a Vicar.

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A stake through the heart and the Nobel Prize winner

2014-03-03T15:13:00.001+00:00

Kitty Jay's grave

High on the ridges of Dartmoor there is a lonely grave. It is at a crossroads where suicides were normally buried. It is unconsecrated ground. There is a stake driven through the heart of the young woman inside which prevents her spirit returning to haunt those still living. Such was the eighteenth century treatment of those unfortunate souls who took their lives when circumstances became too difficult. It is the story of Kitty Jay.

Kitty was abandoned while a baby near Newton Abbot in Devon in the late 1700s. Believed to be the child of a prostitute she was taken into care and later sent to work on a nearby farm. Her name of Jay trumpeted her background because in those harsh days it was a slang term for a “working girl”. So it was no surprise that she was considered fair game by the farmer’s son who flatly denied any involvement when Kitty became pregnant. Her disgrace was such that in those unsympathetic times her only option to a life of further grinding destitution was suicide. She hanged herself in one of the barns.

But then perhaps it was redemption of a sort which visited her. Since that awful day of her burial, she has had a ghostly visitor who can still be seen on some moonlit nights kneeling beside her grave with head bowed. This mourner is always dressed in black and it is said that it is the farmer’s son whose punishment is to attend a timeless vigil over Kitty and their unborn child. Also, there is a further mystery which seems to beg comfort for Kitty. She appears to have found favour in the afterlife because there are always flowers, whatever the season or weather, placed neatly on her grave. It is whispered that the wild spirits of Dartmoor have taken responsibility for her grave in perpetuity as nobody has ever seen these flowers being delivered.

John Galsworthy

And now to more modern times. One of our greatest authors and social commentator of his times, John Galsworthy of The Forsyte Saga who won the Nobel Prize in literature in 1932, wrote a short story in 1916 called “The Apple Tree”. It is generally accepted that the apple is a biblical symbol of the fall from virtue and most critics agree that his story was inspired by Kitty Jay.

Kitty was most unfortunate in life, but her memory lives on. Perhaps this is justice of a sort. If you ever visit her grave, spare a thought for her earthly misery, and the cruel times in which she lived.

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“A monstrously evil man” and his phantom pack of hounds

2014-02-25T17:53:00.000+00:00

The time.........the mid 1600s

The place........the desolation of Dartmoor, in Devon.

Dartmoor, Devon

When you walk across the wildness of Dartmoor the tangible connection with pre-history, the bleak grimness of sharp winds howling through ancient stones with unsuspected patches of swirling mist can combine to give a dreadful feeling of unimaginable evil.

It is said that evil breeds evil, so it can come as no surprise that a monster actually lived during those times of witchcraft and religious fear. His name was Richard Cabell to whom no crime was too far. His passion for hunting with hounds, he cared not what he caught, rumours that he had sold his soul to the Devil and his cruelty to all those who were in his power were legendary. He was even reputed to have savagely murdered his wife.

Richard Cabell's tomb

But when he passed away in 1677 the legend was born. He was buried in Buckfastleigh churchyard in a tomb where heavy slabs of rock were placed upon his grave to contain his spirit; it was thought that his death was temporary and that his pact with the Devil would allow him to return to revel in even more brutal excesses. And on the night of his burial a phantom pack of hounds raced in from the depths of the moors to howl and bay over his grave. Ever since then he can be seen leading his hounds over the wilderness, the pack howling and shrieking across the desolate landscape...or it might just be the moaning of the wind through the rocks and the intense fear of the moors playing tricks with the imagination. But many swear to have seen him and his ghostly entourage.

Now...fast forward to the early 1900s. The stories of Cabell and the terrors of Dartmoor had reached the ears of a certain Arthur Conan Doyle who vowed to visit the place and taste the terrors for himself. He spent many days travelling in a coach across the windswept desolation and was particularly attracted to the story of Cabell murdering his wife, having suspected her of infidelity. He beat her savagely before stabbing her to death, whereupon her constant companion, a large and faithful dog leapt upon Cabell and tore his throat out. But the dog was killed in the melee. Since then the ghost of this hound can be seen howling in grief across the moors, destined to search out and haunt all subsequent generations of the Cabell family.

The Hound of the Baskervilles

And so Conan Doyle’s most famous story, “The Hound of the Baskervilles” was born. As an entertaining aside, the coachman who drove Conan Doyle patiently for those days was called Baskerville. He readily gave permission for his name to be used.

For those brave souls who thrive on the paranormal, a visit to Dartmoor in the depths of winter to feel these stories for themselves is a “must do”.

In Association with the Western Gazette

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The Ghostly Tale of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre

2014-02-14T17:31:00.001+00:00

As it’s Saint Valentine’s Day, here at The Official Blog of P J Cadavori we thought a spooky tale about the day was very apt. So we will share the story of one of the darkest days in Chicago that fell on 14th February 1929, and the ghosts still rumoured to haunt the area.

Al Capone

In the 1920’s Chicago was ruled by mobsters, who ran bootleg alcohol and whose gangs fought one another to gain control of the city. You will surely have heard of the infamous Al Capone. He was the leader of the South side, while a man named O'Banion, ruled the North side. After many fights and several near death experiences, George Moran emerged as the new leader on the North side. Both he and Al Capone fought constantly, and after Moran helped kill one of Capone's top men, Capone vowed vengeance would come on February 14.

He planned an elaborate hoax and instructed one of his men to call Moran to sell him a large quantity of illegal whiskey. Moran agreed to the deal, unaware that Capone was behind the plan, and on February 14, Moran’s men patiently awaited the delivery at a warehouse. Moran was late, and by the time he arrived, a police car was sitting outside so he quickly walked away. But in the police car sat five of Capone's armed men and as he walked away, they snuck out of the car armed with machine guns.

Once inside the warehouse, they forced Moran’s seven men to stand in a line against a wall before firing at them. By the time the real police had arrived, six of the men were already dead. The only man still alive was Frank Gusenberg, but he refused to name the perpetrators and died later that day.

The Chicago Daily News

Capone later claimed that he was haunted by the ghost of Jimmy Clark, one of the men killed in the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, when he spent time at the Eastern State Penitentiary. He said the ghost followed him when he came back to Chicago and while staying at the Lexington Hotel, one of his men also saw Clark's ghost.

The building where the massacre occurred was later used for several different businesses. However, it continued to be a favourite tourist spot for visitors and people were known to steal bricks and other pieces of the building, as mementos. Eventually, the building was torn down but the city kept the St. Valentine's Day Massacre wall, and a man salvaged some of the bricks and used them to build part of the nightclub. Once he closed this nightclub in the 1970’s, he decided to sell the bricks and got a nice sum for them at $1,000 a piece. But before long people began returning the bricks to him claiming that the souvenirs were cursed, explaining that they had experienced terrible luck ever since buying them.

The building where the massacre occurred may be gone now, but there are numerous and frequent claims that

The St. Valentine's Day Massacre wall

ghosts remain. Late at night, some people say they have heard the rapid fire of machine guns and the chilling sounds of men’s screams. And others claim they’ve experienced an intense feeling of terror and a sudden icy coldness, when walking past. Dogs too are known to shy away from the area, fleeing in fear and barking uncontrollably.

You can visit the reassembled St. Valentine's Day Massacre wall at the Mob Museum in Las Vegas.

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