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I was asked today why people are so interested in the paranormal and why ghosts are said to haunt places where terrible acts of violence have occurred. It’s a question I get asked often and after listening to one of our big radio stations it’s easy to understand why people want to believe in something beyond our mortal world. The host was speaking to people who had been attacked for no reason other than the attacker or attackers was out for blood. In most cases the attacker got off with a slap on the wrist or the victim was too traumatised to pursue the case through the courts. Is it any wonder, when the arm of the law is so short, that we want to believe in some sort of justice, even if it does comes from beyond the grave?
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I was asked today why people are so interested in the paranormal and why ghosts are said to haunt places where terrible acts of violence have occurred. It’s a question I get asked often and after listening to one of our big radio stations it’s easy to understand why people want to believe in something beyond our mortal world. The host was speaking to people who had been attacked for no reason other than the attacker or attackers was out for blood. In most cases the attacker got off with a slap on the wrist or the victim was too traumatised to pursue the case through the courts. Is it any wonder, when the arm of the law is so short, that we want to believe in some sort of justice, even if it does comes from beyond the grave?
Some secrets refuse to be hidden and there are some souls that will not remain dead. Old industrial schools and orphanages hidden from sight in the depths of the Irish countryside, remain. There are many such unmapped sites, desolate spots, on lonely stretches of road that the locals still whisper about late at night and cross themselves in fear.
Please feel free to <a href="http://askdavid.com/reviews/book/ghosts/1457″ target=”_blank”>review my book “Whispers” on askDavid.com
Whispers
Body and Soul, a story of Possession.
I wondered, as I drove along the narrow, twisting roads on my way to visit my old friend Tom, why the belief in the paranormal is so readily accepted in the countryside. Is it the absence of streetlights that allowed the mind to wander, or the tranquil way of life, uninterrupted by the chaos of city living? In the silence of the bogs and deserted roads one is lulled into a meditative state and is it at such times that the wind whistling across the quiet fields carries within its cries the voices from another world? Whatever the reason the people live happily side by side with all sorts of supernatural beings, be they ghost, spirit, Banshee or Leprechaun.
It was late afternoon by the time I reached Toms cottage and the light was already beginning to dim. It was a stark contrast to the brilliant sunshine I’d left behind at home and I saw from the thin curl of smoke from the chimney that it was colder here. This was evident the moment I stepped out of the car and so I leaned in and pulled my coat from the passenger seat. Tom must have heard me drive up, because as I was fixing my collar the cottage door opened and Jip, his old Jack Russell dog bounded out to greet me with a series of barks and yelps.
“How are you old fellow?” I patted his head and noticed how patchy his coat was. Like his owner he’s showing his age. Rummaging in my bag, I found the pack of dog biscuits and fed him what would be the first of many.
“That’s cupboard love,” Tom joked, as he watched Jip slobbering over me. “How are you girl?”
The arms that hugged me were surprisingly strong and the wool of his jumper felt coarse against my cheek. It smelt familiar of Old Spice aftershave, wood smoke and the earthy scent of the turf he used to power the range.
“I’m fine, Tom, never better,” I assured him.
He always takes a moment to study my face, as though checking to see if I’m telling the truth.
“Aye, well you look all right,” he was satisfied with what he saw. “Come inside and get warm.”
Jip followed at our heels. Every time I enter the small cottage I am overwhelmed by the scent of yesteryear. If I close my eyes I’m a child again and the worries of the world far beyond me. Everyone should have a place like this, somewhere they can become enveloped by an old horse-hair stuffed armchair and bask in the warmth radiating from an old range cooker.
Leaving no time for chit chat, Tom sat down opposite me and said.
“I was talking to the lads in the pub the other night about which story I would tell you about next and I had all but forgotten the one I have for you until old Tim Rodgers reminded me. Do you know the old Pettigrew’s place?”
“The old house at the top of Casey’s lane?” I asked.
“That’s the one,” he said. “It’s so far off the beaten track I all, but forgot about it until Tim reminded me. There’s a terrifying story attached to it, the house I mean and it’s said to be haunted.”
In all honesty there’s not one abandoned building that’s not haunted according to Tom. I smiled at the thought and he grew annoyed with me.
“I’m telling you now and you needn’t believe me if you don’t want to, but I heard the tale from my father and he wasn’t one for making things up.”
“I believe you,” I held up my hands in mock surrender.
“Good,” he mumbled. “But even if you don’t now, you will before the night is over.”
At this, I felt the first prickle of fear on the back of my neck. Jip jumped up on my lap and I begged Tom to let him be, when he roared at the dog to get down. I was glad of the warmth of his little body and the steady rise and fall of his breathing as he drifted to sleep, was comforting as Tom began his tale.
“It was in 1938 that the last of the Pettigrew’s died. Trevor was his name and he was in his ninetieth year when he passed away. I was ten-years-old at the time and my father acted as a sort of handyman for him as old age and rheumatism kept the old man indoors for most of the year. My father would do the odd bit of shopping for him and my mother went up now and then to wave a duster around. There was no payment involved,” Tom said. “It was just being neighbourly to someone in need. My father was with him when he breathe his last and I still remember the night when Pettigrew died and the look on my father’s face when he came home after making sure the old man didn’t die alone. I was too young to understand at the time and imagined my father’s ashen face for that of tiredness, but what I do know is there was something in his eyes that I’ve never seen before and I know only too well its meaning now. He was haunted,” Tom stopped, and shook his head at the memory. “Haunted by what he’d heard that night. It was many years later when he told me the full story that I realised the horror he must have endured as the old man clutched his hand with bony fingers and begged him for help, but I’m getting beyond myself,” Tom said. “I’ll tell you the story from the beginning and then we’ll be off.”
“To the house?”
“We’ve two stops to make first, so the house will be our last call,” he settled back in his chair.
Great, I thought, looking towards the window and the way the shadows crept across the floor as the light faded. If he didn’t hurry up it would be dark before he was finished. Outside the wind had picked up and its rumbling in the chimney was the only sound within the room as Tom began.
Milly Pettigrew hated her stepmother. Stepmother! The title was a joke since Lily was only six years older than her. Her own mother had died giving birth and for years her father had doted on his only child until Lily came into the picture. She was the niece of one of their neighbours and it was on one of her visits that she was introduced to Milly’s father. Things were decided rather quickly in those days and within three months of this first meeting; Lily was ensconced as mistress of their home. It wasn’t that she was unkind to her new stepdaughter, not at all. She went out of her way to make friends with the sixteen-year-old, but to no avail. Milly’s nose was firmly put out of joint by Lily’s arrival and the fact that she was a beauty did little to help her cause. Fair and rosy cheeked, her looks were the opposite too Milly’s and while she never considered herself a beauty, Milly knew she faded into the background the minute her stepmother entered a room. Having decided at the beginning to hate Lily, her father’s pleas for her to give her new mother a chance fell on deaf ears and for the next two years the house vibrated with the suppressed tension between the two women. This was to change in the year1848 when Lily gave birth to a son, Trevor. From the moment Milly laid eyes on the baby she was smitten. Having decided long ago that she was not the marrying kind, she saw her new stepbrother as a way of easing her longing for a child of her own. When the trauma of giving birth proved Lily’s undoing. Milly felt none of her father’s grief as he returned to the status of widower. As the boy grew he knew nothing of the loss of his mother, as Milly’s care and attention made up for any neglect he might have known. Once the boy was weaned and the wet nurse sent on her way, Milly took total control of his care; refusing her father’s offer to hire a nanny and later on a tutor. Every waking moment of the boy’s life was spent in her presence. His bedroom was next door to hers, so should he waken in the night, Milly’s face was the first thing he saw. Many spoke of her dedication to the boy, but to their father, there was something not quite right. He tried to encourage his daughter to mix socially, even going so far as to invite eligible young men to the house, but it was useless. Milly showed no interest in any of them and during their short visits it was obvious to her father that her ears strained to pick up any sound from the nursery overhead. When Trevor was six-years-old, his father decided he must be sent away to school. It pained him to send the boy away, but he wanted more than anything that his son should be free of his stepsister’s influence. Milly went quite mad when this was suggested.
“Trevor is not well enough to be away from home,” the servants heard her say. “He favours his mother in that way and he had never very strong; you know that father.”
Her father would not be swayed and sent orders that the boy’s trunks were to be packed at once for the journey.
“It’s still not known what happened that night,” Tom said. “But her father was found dead at the bottom of the stairs next morning. Rumour had it that Milly had pushed him, but there was no solid evidence to prove this and the boy remained at home.”
It was no surprise when the will was read to hear that her father had left the bulk of his money to his only son, to be kept in trust until his 25th year. Milly received a large sum of money and tenancy for life in her family home. The money made her a target for those in search of a wife with a large dowry and the whispers about her father’s strange death did nothing to repulse those eager or desperate enough to make the match. Like many before them, they were driven away and left in no doubt that any further efforts on their behalf to win her hand were be spurned.
“I would like to say the boy thrived as the years passed,” Tom said. “But that was not the case. He was a delicate child and I remember even in his later years, his face was unlined and ashen, as though carved from marble. He was very thin, riddled with some wasting disease, my mother always said, but I don’t believe that was the cause. It’s true he favoured his mother in looks and his hair was a white as his complexion, but there the similarities ended. There were no roses in his cheeks and his eyes had a lacklustre look that frightened me.”
Milly’s obsession with her younger stepbrother showed no sign of weakening over the years and even though it was normal for a young man to try and break the ties with home, she refused to release him. Every time he made a bid for freedom, she found a way to stop him. His health was the barrier that kept him prisoner and it was said that she used all sorts of potions to keep him weak and in need of her nursing. She didn’t have it all her own way though and during one dreadful winter when the influenza was raging; she had to take to her bed for over a month. Without her meddling, Trevor rallied and was seen out and about with the few friends he had. It was during this time he met the love of his life. Mildred Wilson was the daughter of a local farmer and though beneath Trevor in breeding, the couple fell in love. Mildred’s parents were delighted when he proposed and despite his delicate appearance, they thought him a great catch for their daughter. It is left to our imagination how Milly felt when she heard the news, but she put on a great show of inviting the Wilson family to her home to celebrate the engagement. The dinner that night was the talk of the district for years to come, as she had delicacies delivered from all over the country, along with crates of the finest wines and champagne. The dining room was ablaze with hundreds of candles and the scent of rare flowers perfumed the air as they took their place at the table that night. Milly was looking her most charming in a new dress and coloured jewels hung from her bouffant hair. Outwardly, she gave the appearance of someone delighted with their lot, but her stomach churned each time she caught the eye of Trevor’s fiancée and the smile she gave her held little warmth. After the meal was over, she urged the two young lovers to take a walk in the gardens, with the excuse that she would like to get to know her soon to be in-laws a little better.
“This is most pleasant,” she smiled, leading the couple into the sitting room. “We can speak freely now that the young people are out of the way.”
“Indeed,” Mrs Wilson said, a little confused by her meaning.
After the champagne glasses were refilled and the butler left the room, Milly put her plan into action.
“I was quite relieved when I heard that Mildred had agreed to marry my brother,” she smiled. “I must admit, I thought I’d never get him off my hands.”
“Really?” Mrs Wilson asked. “Why was that?”
“Surely you know about his health problems?” Milly acted surprised.
“I imagined him a little delicate I must admit,” Mrs Wilson said. “But thought nothing more of it.”
Milly sighed, and showed all the sorrow of one who has to break bad news.
“He’s not just a little delicate,” she brought her handkerchief to her eyes and dabbed at imaginary tears. “My brother is very ill. He had the consumption you know?”
“We were not aware of that,” Mr Wilson spoke for the first time.
“Yes, we made a great show of visiting the continent two years ago, but the truth is that my darling boy was in a hospital that deals with such cases. I know I can trust you to tell no one about this, and as we are soon to be related by marriage I know you will keep our secret.”
The Wilson’s knew about the brother and sister’s trip abroad, as did everyone living in the locality, but they had never imagined the dark secret behind it. Milly hid her smile as she watched them digest the lie.
“He is quite recovered now though?” Mrs Wilson said.
“Oh yes, quite recovered,” Milly gushed. “And with a little luck, he might stay that way.”
“You mean it can recur?”
“Unfortunately that is the case. Trevor’s consumption is inherited you see? His mother was very young when she died of it and the doctors have said it is passed down. We must hope that any children the dear pair have will not be afflicted in that way.”
“Yes, indeed,” Mrs Wilson muttered, as she eyed the door, hoping to hear her daughter return so they could make their excuses to leave.
Unlike many at that time, the Wilson’s were not willing to sell their daughter to the highest bidder and the engagement was called off the very next day. Mildred refused to give Trevor a reason for her change of heart and did as her parents urged and said nothing about his illness. Though she loved Trevor with all her heart, she didn’t relish the idea of early widowhood and raising sickly children. Her decision broke Trevor’s heart and though Milly tried her best to console him, he knew deep down, she had something to do with his pain. He threw himself into tending to the business of the estate and spent as much time as possible away from the house. Milly showed no sign of suffering at his rejection and still gushed over him at every opportunity.
“Why didn’t he just leave?” I asked Tom. “He was rich enough and could have gone wherever he pleased.”
“He was a broken man after Mildred called off the engagement,” Tom said. “I think he hadn’t the heart to leave. Now I’m getting to the crux of the story and I’ll tell you what happened the night he died.”
The ticking of the old mantle clock sounded louder and the evening shadows crept closer still as I waited for Tom to finish his story.
That’s all for this week dear reader. I’ll be posting the second part of Body and Soul next Friday. Have a good week and when you turn off the lights tonight, as you settle down to sleep, take no notice of the dark corners of your room. They are, what they appear to be, just empty pockets of darkness or are they? Sleep tight.
Copyright © 2012 Gemma Mawdsley
Now available in print at the link below.
http://www.feedaread.com/books/Whispers-9781781762172.aspx
The bright sunshine is calling me away from my desk and I’ve decided it’s the perfect day for a drive and to visit my dear, old friend Tom. I haven’t seen him in a while, though I stay in touch by phone on the two nights a week that he goes to the pub. It’s the only way I can reach him, as he refuses to have a phone in installed and the idea of owning a mobile is beyond him. He has a host of new stories for me or so he says, and it’s time we went for a bit of a wander, his words not mine. So obviously this means trekking over fields and climbing ditches. Still, if the sun stay out it might not be as bad as I imagine. If, being the operative word. I found out by speaking to the woman who answers the pub phone that Tom will be 84 in June. You’d never think it to look at him, thought his face has a lived-in look, his eyes are those of a young boy. One way or the other, I’ll have a new story for you on Friday. Until then, have a great week.
The postman just delivered my hardback copy of Whispers. As I read the first page I had to pause and think about how honoured I am that so many of you are doing the same thing and reading my words. Looking forward to your reviews and do check out the competition that Steven is running on Facebook, so you can win your own signed copy of the book.
Whispers By Gemma Mawdsley
Step inside, if you dare and witness first hand the horror of the industrial schools. This is not something that happened in the time of Dickins. This horror belongs totally to the cruel Ireland of the 50s & 60s.
WHISPERS is now available on hard copy. To order your very own copy please follow the linkhttp://www.feedaread.com/books/Whispers-9781781762172.aspx (IMPORTANT – Due to problems with Google Chrome and converting the euro, this book can only be ordered through Internet Explorer or Firefox.)
Whispers by Gemma Mawdsley | 9781781762172
Whispers by Gemma Mawdsley (ISBN: 9781781762172). Synposis: Some secrets refuse to be hidden and there are some souls that will not remain dead. Old industrial school……
Whispers
The “For Sale” sign creaked and did it best to stay aloft, despite the winds onslaught. Eileen watched from her bedroom window the leaves that scuttled across the garden path and traced their flight until they disappeared into the maelstrom of darkness. Her house was on the outskirts of the village and therefore deprived of the comforting glow of streetlights. She depended on the moon to light her way when she went outside, but tonight its rays were weak as the wind sent clouds scudding across its face.
“I’m weary Lord,” her sign echoed in the stillness of the empty room, as she crossed the bare floorboards to sit by the dead fire.
Like all houses built over two hundred years ago, each bedroom had its own fireplace, but it was many years since a fire had burned in any of the grates in Eileen’s house. At first, she used the excuse of her arthritis making it impossible for her to lift the heavy coal bucket up the stairs, but the truth was she had grown used to the cold and no longer felt its stinging touch upon her aged skin. An old patchwork quilt, made by her mother, served as her blanket since she no longer used the bed. The old rocking chair was kinder to her old bones and the softness of the quilt gave her comfort during the long wait, And waiting she was.
It was her nephew, Thomas who first suggested selling the house. As her only surviving relative it stood to reason he’d inherit it. The suggestion was not made directly to her, but to his wife on one of their rare visits. Eileen failed to see why anyone would be willing to buy the place with her in situ, so to speak, but Thomas went on about the money it would make and how welcome the extra income would be.
It was no use, she couldn’t rest. She got up and walked back to the window and stared out into the darkness. The garden had become overgrown of late and weeds dotted the cracked pathway. The fruit bushes, picked clean by the autumn wind and scavenging birds, stretched their brambles in all directions and sharp thorns gleamed white in the darkness. Eileen held her hands up to get a better look and shook her head in resignation at what she saw. The fingers that once tended the shrubs and planted the fruits were now as shrunken and gnarled as the tired trees. Still, with the right care, the garden could be brought back to life and it was the ideal place for children. Full of hidey holes and secret places in which to play and dream. They never had children, her and Fred and the house was much too big for them both. With six bedrooms it cried out for the sound of little feet, but the rooms remained closed, all except the one in which she now stood.
Rousing herself out of her self-pitying thoughts, she walked out onto the landing. Other than the crying of the wind, there wasn’t another sound to be heard. The stair carpet muffled her footsteps as she made her way down to the hallway. Dust coated the red floor tiles and the evidence of passing feet showed clearly. There was to be another viewing in the morning, the estate agent told Thomas and hopefully the prospective buyer would show an interest.
“I should hope they would,” Thomas said. “The price has been reduced four times already; it’s practically being given away.”
“I understand that sir,” Eileen heard the estate agent say. “But there is the matter of our little problem.”
Little problem indeed, Eileen glared at the man, imagine at her age being spoken of in such a way. She had to agree that she could be cantankerous at times, but so what? She was old and her bones ached. True, she had seen off more than a dozen prospective buyers, but only because they didn’t suit her. It would take someone out of the ordinary indeed to consider sharing her home with. It was the estate agents next words that made her ears perk up.
“Tomorrows viewer is a widow with four small children,” he said. “The price will appeal to her I know as her funds are limited. Who know?” He shrugged his shoulders. “She might not mind the intrusion.”
So now I’m an intruder in my own house, Eileen fumed, as she pushed open the door to the living room. The clouds cleared and moonlight flooded through the two, large bay windows. It was a huge room and perfect for a family. Only a few items of furniture remained, as Thomas had sold off some of the older bits along with her treasured ornaments.
“No one will want these old, antique pieces cluttering the place,” Thomas said. “I’m sure the new owners will want to put their own stamp on the rooms.”
What could she do, but agree? Eileen moved from room to room making sure everywhere was secure before going back upstairs. The wood on the rocking chair felt good and solid beneath her and the quilt gave her the extra comfort she needed at a time like this. All around her the house sighed and settled. A faint scratching sounded behind the skirting board signalling the presence of mice. This was something the new owner would need to hear about before they infested the place. She closed her eyes and listened to the sighing of the wind. When she opened them it was morning.
“It’s in good condition for its age and the garden is ideal for children.”
Eileen crept out onto the landing and peered over the railing. The estate agent was back and accompanied by the widow woman, whose children clustered around her. Two boys and two girls, Eileen counted a nice little family. The youngest child was about four, she guessed and the eldest about eight. Eileen didn’t realise as she studied them that the smallest child was watching her. The little girl smiled, when she caught her eye and waved her small hand. Eileen winked at her, before going back into her room.
“Can we explore, mummy?” One of the children asked.
Eileen didn’t hear the mother’s reply, but she could guess from the sound of footsteps on the stairs what it was.
“In here,” the whisper sounded outside her door.
She watched as the door slid slowly open and four small faces appeared.
“Come in, I don’t bite,” she ushered them inside.
They didn’t need any more prompting as they tumbled into the room and came over to where she sat.
“It’s so cold in here,” the little girl who smiled at her said.
“Yes, it is quite cold,” Eileen agreed, “but I’m used to it.”
“Is this your house?” The eldest boy asked.
“Yes, it is,” Eileen said. “What do you think of it?”
“It’s nice and big,” he said. “And the garden is huge.”
“Do you think you would like to live here?” She asked.
There were nods of assent all round and for the first times in years Eileen smiled. The next few minutes were spent in introducing themselves and regaling Eileen with stories about the old house. Footsteps sounded on the corridor outside as the estate agent showed their mother the bedrooms. When they reached Eileen’s room, the man made some excuse about needing something from the car, anything rather than confront the old woman.
“In here Mummy,” four-year-old Alice called. “Come and meet our new friend.”
The young woman’s face showed all the signs of her loss. Dark circles swooped beneath her eyes and her skin had a pallor best suited to a corpse. She halted in the doorway and looked from Eileen to the children and then back again.
“Come in my dear,” Eileen smiled at her. “There’s no need to be shy.”
She moved hesitantly into the room and sank into the chair opposite Eileen.
“Run along and explore the garden,” Eileen said to the children. “I need to have a word with your mother.”
After they had scampered, Eileen turned to the young woman.
“There’s always a snag, isn’t there my dear; when something is as cheap as this house.”
The woman nodded.
“I don’t see why my presence should make much difference to you,” Eileen continued. “There is a bedroom for each of you and I tend to stick to mine, so I don’t think we would be in each others way.”
“Yes, but,” the woman stammered.
“I quite understand if our sharing is out of the question, but think of the advantages.” Eileen said.
“What do you mean,” the woman asked.
“You have lost your husband and so have I that is one thing we have in common. Fred and I never had children, though we longed for them. I’m too old to help around the house in any way, but I could keep watch over your children for you.”
“I have to work,” the young woman said.
“Of course you do, but I will always be here for them. At least they won’t come home from school to an empty house and that would be one less thing for you to fret about and I know you are laden down with worry.”
“I am,” the tears the young woman fought to control spilled over.
Eileen pulled a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of the threadbare cardigan and passed it to the woman.
“You have a cry, it will do you good and when you’re feeling a bit better we can talk.”
And talk they did. Eileen listened as the woman; Aishling told her all about her husband’s accident and the worry of raising four young children on her own.
“You’re not alone any more,” Eileen said. “Now you go down and offer that upstart of an estate agent twenty thousand less that the asking price. He’ll take it,” she smiled at Aishling’s look of surprise.
“I’ll go down and do it now,” Aishling walked to the door and then stopped and looked back. “I’m so glad that you’ll be here when we come back.”
Eileen walked to the window and watched as Aishling spoke to the man. He made a great show of indecision, but after a phone call to Thomas a bargain was stuck. The children came running around from back of the house and she watched as they jumped up and down when their mother told them the news. Before they piled into the car, they all looked up to where she stood and waved. They would be back soon and the house would be once more filled with life. She couldn’t have imagined a more fitting family to share her home with and she had known the moment she first saw them that they were something special. After all, not everyone would want to share their new house with a ghost.
gemmamawdsley 