Graveyard Secrets

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on September 4, 2011
Posted in: Ghost, ghost hunting, Paranormal. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

I’m heading off tomorrow morning in search of another ghost story. Believe it or not, I’ll be meeting with a man who describes himself as a gravedigger. I’ve known him since I was a child and he’s now in his eighties and still working in the graveyard. My uncle rang to say Old Tom had a story for me and I was ordered to be there tomorrow morning. There’s a secret concerning the graveyard, my uncle hinted, but refused to say more on the subject and I can’t figure out what it could be. I spent most of my childhood holidays here and have never noticed anything odd about the place, other than like all graveyards, it’s gloomy. I’ve been tormented since I got the phone call, because there are countless generations of my family buried there and I would hate to think their rest is being disturbed by some menace or other. Either way, I’ll find out tomorrow and let you know all about it on Friday. God, I hope the sun is shining, because there’s nothing worse than standing among graves when the sky is overcast and the trees send darting shadows along the walls. Sleep tight, I know I won’t.

The Most Cardinal Sin Part Two

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on September 2, 2011
Posted in: Eerie Places, Ghost, ghost hunting, Haunted Houses, Paranormal, scary spiders. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . 1 Comment

The Most Cardinal Sin Part Two

Old Ma Cusack’s story continued and I waited with bated breath to hear the outcome. On the night Johnny and Theresa where supposed to flee, the nuns once again, locked her in her room. She begged the girl who was helping her, to get the key and let her out, but it was well past the hour of the planned meeting when she finally heard the key turn in the lock. Whispering her thanks and wearing the only clothes she possessed, the white habit, Theresa crept as quietly as her bulk would allow, down the stairs and out through the back door of the convent.

Johnny paced the grass in the graveyard as the night deepened. He dare not go to the convent and could only wait and pray that his love would keep the appointment. He heard footsteps on the gravelled pathway beside the church, and crouched down in the steps, as he waited for them to come closer. He knew by the heavy thread that there was more than one person, and he was sure they had been found out. The first blow to the back of his head stunned him. The footsteps were a decoy, and he didn’t hear his assassin approach. He looked up at the dark, cowled figure standing over him and raised his hands to shield his face.

“Please don’t hurt me,” he whispered, but there was to be no mercy, and the club fell again and again until he was no more.

The door to the tomb was open, as the nuns had obtained the key and spent that afternoon oiling the rusted lock. It was that Johnny’s body was dumped among the rotting bits of coffins and the bones of the dead. No one knows for certain whom his murdered was, and it was never spoken about again. Words spread that he had run away after stealing from the convent, and since he was an orphan, there was no one to question his disappearance, other than Theresa. When she reached the tomb that night, the foul deed was done, but having no knowledge of this; she sat down on the steps and waited. The night grew colder and she watched as the lamps in the convent windows went out one by one. The sisters were getting ready for bed. Sick with worry, she decided to walk the mile or so to the cottage where Johnny lived with the gardener. The graveyard gate screeched open and she was about to step outside, when a hand grabbed her wrist and pulled her back. No one outside the convent knew about her pregnancy and the nuns wanted it kept that way.

“He’s not coming,” the reverend mother’s dark, hard eyes blazed down on her. “He sent word earlier this evening. He’s gone away and he won’t be coming back.”                                                                                                The Most Cardinal Sin

“I don’t believe you,” Theresa shook her head in horror. “He would never leave me.”

The blow to her face made her nose bleed and she was dragged back pleading with the nun to let her go. Once again she was locked in her room and fed a diet of bread and water. The young girl who was sympatric to her plight came to visit her and Theresa begged her to check for a note from Johnny. This she did, but returned each day empty-handed. Theresa became despondent as the days passed and there was no word. She cried, she screamed and begged her jailors to let her go, but they were deaf to her pleas and she received even more beatings for her actions. It was obvious from the way they treated her, that the nuns didn’t care if her baby lived, but she would not give in. She would wait until the baby was born and run away with it. The open road could not treat her as cruelly as the nuns, and at least her child would have a chance of surviving. The meagre rations she was fed left her weak and run down. Months passed without a kind word from anyone and by the time it came to giving birth, she was like a walking skeleton. The labour was long and hard, with only the nun who worked with the livestock to help her. A doctor was needed, the nuns knew this, but no one could learn of their shame, and Theresa held her daughter for only a moment, before the blood gushing from her body closed her eyes forever.

Her death remained a secret, though it was whispered about by the girls in the school, that she was locked away in one of the towers as she had gone mad. Her body was buried late at night under one of the flowerbeds she had so lovingly planted with Johnny. The nuns told no one about her death and it was easy to conceal, as her aunt cared nothing for her niece. Two years later, they passed another young woman off as Theresa, when the solicitor called on the day of her eighteenth birthday, and the nuns got their blood money. The story of her ghost being seen started soon afterwards, and there have been countless eyewitnesses to the white wraith, who moves between the convent and the graveyard, in her endless search for the lost lover and baby.

“Would you like to see inside the convent?” Ma Cusack asked when she finished telling the story.

“Would it be possible?” I was excited by her offer.

She stood and walked to a dresser. Opening one of the drawers she withdrew a tissue -wrapped bundle. She opened the parcel to reveal a beautiful white cloth edged with lace.

“I make these for the altar in the church,” she said, passing me the cloth. My old fingers find it harder these days to make the lace, but I’ll keep at it until the end. The nuns pay me well for it and I’m due to drop this off, so we can go tomorrow if you like?”

“Won’t they be suspicious of me?” I asked.

“Ah, no, I’ll say you’re a niece, they won’t ask too many questions,” she smiled at her daring.

As I drove back to the hotel that night, I had to pass the convent and the graveyard. I must admit I kept my eyes on the road and didn’t dare look out into the darkness beside me, sure I would see the fleeting shape of something white drifting between the headstones.

Tuesday morning was bright and the sun was shining when I collected Ma Cusack from her little cottage, she insisted I call her Ma, as everyone does, she says. I had been wondering all night how so much was known about Theresa and asked her.

“Remember the young girl I told you about, who helped Theresa?” She asked, and

without waiting for a reply, she continued.

“Shortly after she left the convent, she wrote a book about it, but the church had it stopped. They could do things like that back then, but word leaked out. It was that, and the rumours that were spread about by those who worked at the convent. In a place as small this, everyone knows your business.”

“Why wasn’t anything done to the nuns?” I asked. “Surely, they could have been made to pay for their crime?”

“The church had terrible power back then and the convent was the biggest employer hereabouts, so who was going to tell on them? They call them the good old days, but they were never that,” she brushed an imaginary hair from her face. “They were wicked, hard times, and those poor innocents paid with their lives.”

Butterflies fluttered in my stomach as we walked up to the door of the convent. Ma Cusack pulled on the rope and the jangle of the bell sounded like thunder in the silence. Overhead gulls swooped and screeched and the wind from the sea ruffled our hair and tugged at our clothes as we waited. From inside, we heard the clatter of hurrying feet and the grill on the door was thrown back.

“Hello, Sister Bridget,” Ma Cusack said. “I’m here with the altar cloth and I have a visitor. My niece has come to stay for a few days and I’ve brought her with me, she’s mad to see the convent, as she loves old building.”

The grill was closed again and we listened as a number of bolts were thrown back. Rather than the scowling figure I had come to expect, Sister Bridget beamed at me and shook my hand.

“We don’t often get visitors,” she ushered us inside. “Feel free to have a look round while I take your aunt to the reverend mother. The other sisters are out in the gardens. There are only ten of us left now, so you can wander around the lower floor as you please.”

I couldn’t believe my luck. Once the nun and Ma Cusack disappeared down one of the corridors, I was able to take a good look around me. The hall was dark and smelled of furniture polish and candle wax. Portraits of past nuns dotted the walls. Some stared down at me, their gaze stern and disapproving; others observed me with furtive smiles and their eyes followed me along the corridors. Each step I took echoed, as I made my way to a door marked refectory. Peeping inside, I saw it was the dining hall. Tables ran the lengths of the room and at one time it must have seated over a hundred. The few table mats set out for the nuns, looked lost in the vastness of the wooden surfaces. This room, like the hallway, was deep in shadow, as the morning sun found it difficult to creep through the high arched windows. The next room was a library, the shelves lined with books. I traced my finger along the spines to read the titles. Some were in Latin, the binding creased and worn from eager hands. I found the back door Jane spoke of. It was at the end of one of the corridors and I walked to the spot where I imagined Theresa stood on that fateful night.

Poor little girl,” I whispered. “I am so sorry for what they did to you.”

Was it my imagination or did I hear a soft sob behind me? Probably imagination, as every sound echoes in this place, and it could have been nothing more than the sighing of the wind. I opened the door and stepped outside. I had pictured it differently in my mind. There is an open quadrangle that runs round the building with a patch of lawn in the centre. The cloisters are framed with large, arched windows beautifully carved into the stone and the ground is paved with uneven slabs worn smooth by the centuries of passing feet. It seemed a peaceful place on such a morning, and anyone who didn’t know its dark history, would be fooled into thinking it had always been that way. Ma Cusack came to get me and hurried me away, refusing Sister Bridget’s offer of tea. I thanked the nun as I was all, but pushed out the main door by the old woman.

“I didn’t want her asking too many questions,” she explained, as we walked back to the car.

Once again I drove out of sight and we went into the graveyard. I followed Ma over to one of the tombs and we stood staring down at steps and the rotting old door.

“I wish I’d brought flowers,” I said. “It would be nice to show someone remembers.”

“Pick some,” Ma waved her hand around the field.

There were wild flowers in abundance, so I did as she suggested and we lay them at the door of the tomb. I tried not to think about the young man who’d be left there to rot and thought instead of the two lovers and the happiness they had once felt.

“When is she seen?” I asked my companion.

“Usually at dusk,” the old woman replied. “Poor child, hers is a terrible tale. Johnny is rarely seen, but when he is, his ghost is a frightening one; blood cakes his ashen face, as he wanders around the graveyard calling her name.”

Twilight seems the favourite time for ghosts. In those few minutes, as day surrenders to night, they are allowed to roam. It’s understandable when you think of it, as the sun sets and shadows deepen. They belong to that place, the land of shadows, caught between darkness and light, in a world of endless dusk. We must pity them, and then let them be. Nothing could be worse than their timeless wandering and we can only pray that our own fate never mirrors theirs.

Until next week, my friends, when I will once again take you into that world beyond our own, the place where darkness lurks and shadows are born.

Copyright © 2011 Gemma Mawdsley

Sister Theresa www.gemmamawdsley.com

The Most Cardinal Sin

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on August 26, 2011
Posted in: Eerie Places, Ghost, ghost hunting, Paranormal. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . 3 Comments

The world has never been kind to lovers. Those who have fallen in love unwisely have often met with the most horrifying acts of cruelty, even death. From the middle ages and right up to the present day, we read of those who have suffered at the hands of disapproving parents, whose anger has spurred them to terrible acts of violence and murder. My story this week concerns two such lovers, but it is not the classic boy meets girl tale. I first heard the story many years ago from a school friend who swore she had an encounter with one of the ghosts. It was only when I met her last week, that the memory of it came flooding back and I asked her to tell me about it again. She was slow to do so, because when she told it to us, a group of silly teenagers all those years ago, we laughed at it. Still. I managed with some gentle persuasion to get the story out, and I promise you, not one word has changed in the telling. I’ve noticed that stories such as this get added to over the passage of time, and it is only the truthful ones that remain the same. The stories I bring to you every week are those I believe in and are not something I write to fill a page. To start I will give you a brief outline of her tale and the rest I have managed to fill in by going to this most haunted place and walking it grounds.

It is one of the oldest remaining convents inIrelandand it was here that my friend Jane was sent for a year as a boarder, while her father took a job abroad. It is situated on the edge of the sea in the most remote spot imaginable and over a hundred miles from the nearest town. Jane’s face grew pale as she recalled her first glimpse of the place, with it medieval spires and dark, forbidding façade. The nuns were kindness itself, she says, and she soon settled in, despite her fears. It had become the custom of the other girls, to tell ghost stories after lights out, and Jane was introduced to these almost from the beginning. Being a young and enlightened young woman, she laughed them off and no matter how frightening the tale, she refused to believe a word she heard, imagining the stories were planted by the nuns to keep them in their beds at night. The only other buildings near the convent were a small group of cottages about a mile away and a pub. It was here that the girls liked to sneak off to at the weekend. They pooled their pocket money to buy cider, and cigarettes for those who smoked. A hunting party of sorts set out every Friday night, while the girls who stayed behind covered for them and waited impatiently for them to return with the goods. Jane was there over ten months when it came to her turn to go to the pub. Six of them set out that night, but Jane forgot her money and had to go back to the dorm. The others were already outside as she crept down the back stairs and tip-toed along the dark corridor to the back door.

“It was then that I saw her,” Jane said. “The figure of the nun was standing by the door and there was no way I could get past her without being seen. Neither could I turn around, so I decided to face the music and take what punishment was coming to me. I remember wondering, as I walked towards her, why the habit she wore was white. There were no novices in the convent. My legs felt like lead as I moved closer and goose pimples rose on my arms as the air seemed colder the nearer I got. She was looking around her, as though searching for something and it wasn’t until I stood in front of her that she became aware of my presence. I cursed my bad luck for not realising how distracted she seemed. If I’d kept my head I could have made it safely back to the dorm.”

Jane paused a moment and took a deep breath. I knew the next part of the story still affected her, but some memories are like that. They become etched on your brain and can never be eradicated.                                    The Most Cardinal Sin

“She looked up at me,” Jane said.

I waited for her to continue.

“I have never seen such sadness in a face,” Jane’s eyes filled with tears and she was forced to clear her throat. “I know it’s silly,” she brushed away a tear. “But even after all this time, I can see her as plainly as I see you. She was about my age, but very pale. The few strands of hair that peeped from beneath her wimple were blond, but it was her eyes I will remember forever. It’s hard to describe the pain I saw there. It was a look of hopelessness; of a loss so great it could never be imagined. Tears sprang to my eyes, as they have now,” Jane smiled. “Even I, a gawky, teenager felt her pain and I forgot my worry about being caught, in my need to help her. I put out my hand to touch her arm and she vanished. Just like that, can you believe it? I must have screamed, as the next thing I remember was being led back to bed by the nuns who tutted about sleepwalking and my overactive imagination. I had two months left at the convent, but I was sent home earlier to stay with my aunt. My nerves were very bad after the encounter and the nuns thought it best that I leave. It took me a while to recover, remember I was late starting the autumn term?”

I nodded; I did remember Jane coming to school well after the term started.

“I was very ill for a while and even now, no matter where I travel, I make sure the hotel is not a former convent or monastery. I’m afraid of seeing something like that again. I don’t think my nerves could take it and I wouldn’t ever want to see the vision of hopelessness I once saw. I switch off the TV when those adverts come on about famine, because I know I will see reflected in those starving children’s eyes the same look.”

This, my friends is her story and one I believe. So last Monday I set off for the convent to try and find out the full story of the ghostly nun and the reason for her endless quest. The journey would take me over a hundred and sixty mile from my home and through some of the most ravaged land inIreland. I had to stay overnight at a hotel a few miles from the convent, as I couldn’t possibly make it there and back in one day, not if I wanted to find out the truth. The first part of the drive was pleasant, with wide roads and very little traffic. I stopped at a bustling seaside town and took a short stroll along the beach to stretch my legs. I knew once I left this place that the roads would become narrower, and I would have to be on my guard for stray sheep and chugging tractors. I also knew the landscape I would encounter as the miles spread by and was not looking forward to it. Don’t get me wrong, I love the countryside, especially in summer when the grass is lush and springy underfoot, but there is something depressing about the land in this place. Like most parts ofIrelandit was once ravaged by famine, but here, in this dark place, it has never recovered. I turned the car radio up and tried to ignore the endless fields of giant rocks marred with green lichen.

Once I had checked into the hotel I set out for the convent. I found it strange that it wasn’t mentioned on any of the leaflets available to tourists, but thought it was down to the fact that it isn’t open to the public. It was late afternoon when I reached the small village Jane told me about. It is, as she said, no more than a cluster of cottages that huddle together in a small hollow to avoid the harsh breeze from the sea. It’s the smell that hits you as you step out of the car; the salty, briny scent of seaweed drying on the rocks that sticks to the back of your throat. I went in to the pub. It was empty and the barman polishing glasses seemed glad to see me. We made the usual small talk and I told him why I was there. I found that it’s easier to tell the truth and appearing furtive tends to make people wary.

“Ah, poor sister Theresa,” he said. “Sure everyone round here knows about her.”

“Really, I thought it was supposed to be a secret?” I was surprised by his answer.

“Oh, yes, it is, the worst kept secret ever,” he laughed, took my offer of a drink and I sat down on a bar stool.

“It’s a well-known story,” he continued. “I don’t know the full thing, something about her falling in love. The person you want to talk to is old Ma Cusack. She lives in one of the cottages across the way. Today’s the day she goes to town to visit the doctor, but she’ll be back this evening. I’ll show you her cottage on your way out. Call back about eight. I’ll tell her you’re calling and she’ll be glad of the company. She knows all the old ghost stories from hereabout, and she likes the odd glass of stout.”

“Great,” I asked for six of the half pint bottles from behind the bar.

They would serve as a peace offering, if it turned out she didn’t like strangers calling. John, the barman walked me to the door and pointed out her cottage. Since it was still late afternoon, I decided to drive up to the convent and have a look. I can now understand Jane’s sense of foreboding the first time she saw it. It is perched on a large rock formation and stand shadowing the land like some huge beast of prey, ready to pounce. As I stood looking up at it, I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if it lurched forward and tried to devour me. The building itself is 17th century. I know this because I read what little information is available on the place, but there is evidence of other styles. Stout buttresses have been added to strengthen the walls and the windows are of the usual Gothic arch one comes to expect of churches and the like. There is a balcony that runs the length of the first floor and beneath it a large wooden door. A small mesh grill at eye level is covered now, but it can be drawn back to view the visitor, and a large old-fashioned bell with a rope pulley. I was tempted to pull on it, but decided against it.

As I walked back to the car, I was aware of eyes watching me from inside and turned round. The setting sun made it difficult to make out anything other than shadowy forms. I had noticed a small graveyard to the side of the building and pretending to drive away, I moved the car until it was hidden by the trees lining the road and got out. The silence made me catch my breath. Once I stepped inside the rusting railing, it seemed that all sound ceased. I’m sure the birds were still singing somewhere and I think it is the overall landscape that I find depressing and so imagined the loss of sound. It is obvious that the graveyard is still in use, as the new headstones gleamed among the older, grey, forgotten ones. There are three tombs, the lettering faded and unreadable, but they stand out as a reminded of richer times. Large oak trees dot the grounds and cast gloomy shadows over the graves. The silence still seemed eerie and I felt removed from ordinary life. On my return to the hotel, I appreciated the sound of car doors slamming and the excited chatter of children’s voices.

I had enough of the dead for one day.

After a nice dinner, I set off for the village. A lamp shone through a gap in the curtains of Ma Cusack’s cottage and I saw her small figure hunched in a chair by the fire. It took her a few moments to answer my knock and I waited with growing trepidation, unsure of my welcome. I needn’t have worried as she turned out to be the sweetest old lady you can imagine and she invited me in as though I were a long lost cousin. Soon I was seated by the fire and my gift of six bottles of stout accepted graciously. After I refused a drink, she poured one for herself and sat opposite me.

“John told me all about your work,” she said. “I think it must be fascinating. I didn’t think young people were interested in ghost stories any more.”

After assuring her that they were, I asked about the convent and its ghosts.

“There are two ghosts,” she explained. “One is Sister Theresa and the other Johnny, her eighteen-year-old boyfriend.”

I told her Jane’s story and how she had seen the nun, but I had not heard about the boy before.

“Ah, it was a long time ago,” she said. “And the nuns would prefer it forgotten.”

This is how the story begins.

Over a hundred and fifty years ago, a young girl called Doris Wilson was left orphaned at the age of twelve. Her only living relative was an aunt, her mother’s sister andDoriswas left in her care.Doris’s father was a very rich man and on coming of age at eighteen, she would be a very wealthy young woman. Her aunt hated the child, as her husband had once been in love with her sister,Doris’s mother, and she didn’t want the girl to be a constant reminder to him as to what might have been. It was decided thatDoriswould be put into the care of the nuns at the convent, who accepted her gladly, when the aunt whispered about her wealth. IfDorisremained with them, they would be entitled to all of her money. So Doris, a sad and lonely child was packed off. One can only wonder at the terror she felt been driven miles away from home to this desolate place. The nuns were kind to her and she fit in well with her unassuming manner and quiet grace. She was fascinated by the young novices, who floating around the dark corridors in their white habits, like pretty little ghosts. The girls were set different tasks and asDorisseemed to have green fingers, she was sent to work in the gardens, planting the vegetables and tending the flowers for the altar. The next four years passed uneventfully and at sixteen she became a novice, taking the name of Sister Theresa. By this time her aunt’s husband had died and there was no one who cared what she did. It was a lonely life for a young woman and as the months passed, she became aware of her blossoming womanhood and started to question her calling to the church.

Towards the end of summer that year, the sisters decided to expand the gardens and hired a young man to assist the aging gardener. Johnny was eighteen-years-old and the moment he and the little novice met; it was love at first sight. Like Theresa, he was an orphan and his life had been a hard one. He made the shy sixteen-year-old girl laugh, and as they worked side by side every day, the bond between them strengthened. For the first time Sister Theresa knew what it was to be love and be loved. Their meeting had to be kept private and the only place safe and out of prying eyes was in the graveyard. One of the tombs has steps that lead down to the door and it was here they met each evening at twilight. It was here also that consumed by passion, they made the mistake that was to be the death of them.

When her stomach started to swell, Theresa, at first, had no idea what was wrong with her. The sickness that sent her rushing for the toilet every morning made the older nuns suspicious and they had her examined. One can only imagine their outrage when they learned that the novice was pregnant, and it didn’t take much detective work to figure out who the father was. Theresa was confined to her room, but managed to get word to Johnny about her condition. There was a small rock outside the church door that they used to conceal their love notes to one another. Having bribed one of the boarders, Theresa kept him updated on events within the convent and her fears for their unborn child. Since the discovery of her pregnancy, the nuns’ attitude had changed towards her. Her inheritance was due in two years time and already they felt the gold slipping through their fingers. They became cruel, starving the young woman and beating her. When Johnny heard this he vowed they would run away together, and told her to be waiting outside by the tomb in the graveyard that night. His note was intercepted by the watching nuns’ and Theresa had no idea that as she read what was her ticket to freedom and happiness, dark deeds were being plotted against them and her happiness would be short lived.

Copyright © 2011 Gemma Mawdsley

That’s it for this week, my friends. The story will conclude next Friday.

The Most Cardinal Sin

Ghost of the Wandering Pedlar

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on August 19, 2011
Posted in: Eerie Places, Ghost, Haunted Houses, Paranormal. Tagged: , , , , , , , . 4 Comments

Ghost of the Wandering Pedlar

In my wandering through the remote parts of this beautiful country, I have come across many strange tales, of hauntings and ghosts. The story of the Pedlar is one of the latest and was told to me a few weeks ago by an old woman who lives near my uncle. Although we are in the middle of summer here, it is cold and the days damp and overcast. The woman, we will call her Betty, knows I am interested in ghost story, so she told my uncle to send me to see her the next time I was visiting him and to bring her a copy of my book, The Paupers’ Graveyard, as she heard it was good. High praise indeed. Her cottage is at the end of a boreen, that’s a small, narrow track, for those of you who don’t know understand the word. It’s overgrown on all side by hedges and thickets and grass grows in the centre of the track. There is no other house or cottage on the boreen and nowhere to go once you reach Betty’s cottage. It’s one of those old thatched affairs, through the straw on the roof is tatty and bare in patches.

“It’ll see me out,” Betty said, when she saw my frown at its condition.

The walls were once painted white, but the weather and passing of time has faded them to a dirty grey and they are mud-splattered and tinged with green. I had to duck my head in order to enter and the smell of turf from the open fire was overwhelming in the small kitchen and brought memories of my childhood flooding back. The old black arm for hanging pots still hung above the flames and it seemed, for a moment, I was in one of those contrived villages that are set out to attract tourists, but of course this was not the case, as Betty’s home has become suspended in time.

“You’ll have a cup of tea?” She asked, after the usual greetings.

She took my silence for assent and I watched as she hung the age-blackened pot on a hook and swung the bar closer to the flames. I had time to look around the kitchen while she did this and saw to my amazement an old gas cooker in one corner of the room. When I remarked on this she answered by saying.

“Ah, I’ve no time for those new gadgets.”

She made a great fuss of brewing the tea and asking what the fashion was like inLimerick, as though it was the fashion capital of the world. She doesn’t have a television and her small portable radio is used only on state occasions, as in a visit from the Pope. There’s nothing worth hearing about, she says and any news worth hearing she gets from passing neighbours. I must also point out that I loathe tea and coffee and had to sip on this devil brew so I didn’t offend her. So we settled down in the quiet spot with only the crackling of the flames and the slight shifting of sods on the fire as her story began.

“You know Pierce’s place?” She asked.

I knew the small farm she was talking about, though the names of the owners have changed many times since it was Pierce’s place.

“Well, there was a terrible murder committed there not so long ago,” she said.

Not so long ago, turned out to be in 1889, but Betty is in her nineties and time is measured in months and years with her. I’ve noticed that in these remote communities that story such as this start with, it was the year of the great frost or the year after the great frost. Anyway, our story begins.

Tommy Burke was a wandering peddler who called to the area twice a year. He sold lace handkerchiefs, ribbons, threads, jewellery and just about everything he could fit into his small handcart. He was a tatty, bearded man and his age was unknown, as his chin was covered in a heavy beard and his skin lined from the ravages of the open road. He was tall, if a little stooped from bending over the cart and the coat he wore never changed from year to year. It was a heavy army-type affair, though all the buttons were gone and a piece of string kept it in place across his chest. Everybody like him and looked forward to his visits and the exotic things he brought with him. His only companion was a small brown and white mongrel he called Bruce and both man and dog doted on one another. One winter Tommy arrived as usual in the district and went from house to house selling his wares. It was his custom to spend the night with one of the families he’d befriended over the years and no one knew whose house would be honoured with his presence until he arrived at their door, tired and footsore.

John Pierce was married to Hannah, which was just as well, for no one else would have married her. She came with a good dowry and the farm was a thriving one, but nothing was ever enough for her. She nagged her husband from sunup to sundown and was forever berating him for what she saw as his many failings. By the tenth year of their marriage John was browbeaten and the spirit completely knocked out of him. As it happens, Hannah had set her sights on a few acres of land that was coming up for sale. Its close proximity to their farm made it a great buy and they could increase their livestock and crops. John, who was run ragged, didn’t want the extra land, but didn’t dare go against his wife by saying so. For months she had scrimped and saved, refusing to buy even the smallest of treats for either of them. As her lust for the land increased, the state of her husband’s nerves worsened and it was to this house of unrest that Tommy the Pedlar called one night. He was invited in with none of the usual curiosity that usually heralded his arrival and the cup of tea placed before him was thin and without milk or sugar. He had travelled far that day and would be stopping the night at a farm not far from theirs, he informed them. He drank the tea alone in the kitchen as Hannah called her husband out into the hall and he heard the hushed words of disagreement between them. Finally, when he realised there would be no sale, he called to the old dog at his feet and stood up.

“Take the short cut through the orchard,” Hannah told him. “It will take a mile off your journey.”

He thanked her and bade them good night. He was never seen again.

Those who had seen Tommy making his way along the roads, started to ask questions. The police were not interested in the concerns voiced, as a Pedlar was apt to leave a place without a minute’s notice, so their investigations were scant. Rumours ran wild as the neighbours took it upon themselves to organise a search, thinking nothing worse than Tommy had fallen and lay hurt somewhere. The Pierce’s knew better than to deny seeing him and swore he was in the best of health when he left their place. Peter Ryan, whose farm was next door to Pierce’s, recalled the night Tommy disappeared as he was awake with a toothache. Realising sleep was beyond him; he got dressed and went out to check on his cattle. The night was silent and the world asleep as he walked across the frosty grass, the cold air playing havoc with his aching jaw. He could see Pierce’s farm in the distance and swore there was a light in the orchard and the sound of someone digging. With no reason to be suspicious and with the nagging pain worsening, he thought no more about it and went home. Later, when he heard about Tommy’s disappearance, he questioned John about that night and was told that one of Hannah’s cats died and he was burying it.

Time passed and Hannah got her longed-for few acres, but still she wasn’t happy. Her ill-treatment of her husband continued and those who had dealing with the couple swore they heard her screeching at John, that she could have him hanged if she told what she knew. She could have saved herself the bother, as he was found hanging from one of the trees in the orchard some time later. No one know if it was the fright of her husband’s death or the stories that started doing the rounds that made her sell up and flee, but she sold the farm a month later. It was said she had gone toAmerica, but no one cared enough to ask. The new owners got more than he bargained for as from the beginning, they were plagued by ill luck. Crops failed, animals died and no labourer lasted more than a few nights at the place. Most took off in fright without explaining why, those who took the time to explain said it was because of the ghosts in the orchard. He investigated these stories for himself and came back that night, according to Betty, having aged ten years. He was about to give up on the place, when his wife, wading through a mountain of old papers left behind by Hannah’s hasty retreat, came across a document written in the shaky hand of John Pierce. In it, he outlined what had transpired that faithful night when Tommy had gone missing. Hannah knew that the Pedlar carried a good sized purse and she wanted this to add to her growing stash. Urged on by her goading, John followed Tommy into the orchard and hit him on the back of the head with a hatchet. The first blow didn’t kill the man, it took three more and during this time, Bruce, the little mongrel, put up a valiant fight to save his master. When John had finished the man off, he turned on the little dog and bashed its head in. He buried both beneath a tree in the orchard, the very tree he was later found hanging from. The new owners took this confession to the local priest, who gathered a few of the neighbours and the orchard was dug up. The bones of the man and dog were where John said they would be, and these were interred in a grave in the local graveyard. The funeral, Betty said, was attended by hundreds of people, who travelled far and wide such was Tommy’s popularity. The neighbours paid for the coffin and burial plot and later a headstone was added in Tommy’s memory. Afterward, the farm began to thrive, but the hauntings remained. The priest, you see, refused to let the dog be buried beside its owner, as he considered this an act of sacrilege and Tommy will not rest without his brave and faithful companion.

“I’ve seen them with my own eyes,” Betty said. “They’re like two white little wraiths that glide through the trees at sunset.”

“Doesn’t that freak the new owner out?” I asked.

“Sure they’re doing no harm,” she shook her head at my ignorance. “And if they don’t want to see them, they can stay away from the place at night.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” I said.

“Anyway, “she puffed her chest and sniffed. “They have more to be worrying them than those two restless souls.”

“Like what?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.

“Don’t take that attitude with me, miss,” she lightly slapped my hand. “We’ve all seen it. If you don’t believe me, ask your uncle.”

“Ask him what?”

“About the dark shape hanging from the tree in the orchard, that’s what,” she said. “John Pierce won’t get away with his crime that easily and there’s no need for you to look at me like I’m mad. It was seen not three nights ago. You can see if for yourself if you stay the night.”

I didn’t take her up on the invitation.

Copyright©2011 Gemma Mawdsley

 

 

 

The Pedlar’s Ghost

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on August 17, 2011
Posted in: Eerie Places, Ghost, ghost hunting, Paranormal. Tagged: , , , , , , , , . 2 Comments

Well, my friends, we are half way through the week and I’ve got my story ready for Friday and all it cost me was a copy of my book, The Paupers’ Graveyard. I also got a smack on the hand for appearing cynical, but it was worth it. I have another great story lined up for the following week. It means that I have to take two day off work and travels into the wilds of Ireland. I already have the outline for the story, but I want to check out all the details for myself and get the right atmosphere of the place for you, so I can lead you through dark corridors and eerie, echoing halls. It’s the story of a doomed love affair, but not in the straightforward boy meets girl sort of way. I know you’re going to love it, as I was mesmerised and saddened by the tale. This week’s story concerns the ghost of a wandering pedlar and his spirit was last reported to have been seen just a week ago. So until Friday morning, have good week, what’s left of it, and I look forward to hearing from you all.

The Haunted Pub

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on August 12, 2011
Posted in: Eerie Places, Ghost, ghost hunting, Haunted Houses, Paranormal. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , , . 3 Comments

As hauntings go, the story I’m about to tell you is a fairly recent one. It began in the 1940s, so those of you who remember halfpennies and sixpences, can cast your minds eye back to the time. I first heard about the ghost a week ago and started my investigations right away. You know from reading my blog that it’s set in a country pub and I will start by telling you a little about the place. It is in the midlands, in a rather remote spot, just outside a village. I will call it Morris’s Pub, not the real name, but you know by now, that I never divulge a name or break the confidence of the storytellers. It is over seventy miles from my home, so I set off atnoonlast Sunday. It was a miserable, overcast day and I hadn’t gone a few miles before it began to deluge, making the drive along the narrow, country roads daunting at times. The rain stopped before I arrived at the pub, a little after lunch time. The sky was dark with leaded clouds and the promised of further rain. Thunder rumbled in the distance and the air fizzed with the electricity of sheet lightening. The pub itself is tiny and was I soon learned, once the sitting room of a house. I have never seen a place that looked more dismal and unwelcoming. There were no cars parked outside and for a moment I wondered if it was closed. Flakes of paint came off on my fingers as I pushed against the door. It groaned open and alerted those inside to my presence. The interior was dim, the gloom broken only by a small lamp on a shelf behind the bar. There were four old men seated round one of the five small tables in the room and I knew from their expressions that women were not welcome here. The lone toilet off the hallway made it obvious that this was a male only pub and I won’t try, dear reader, to describe the condition of this stinking pit, as the story of the haunting is disturbing enough. As I made my way to the bar at the top of the room, every eye was on me and I wondered for a moment if the barman would refuse to serve me, but he was gentleman enough to be civil and when I ordered a drink for those present their hostility towards me lifted. It’s surprising how five pints of stout can do that. I sat down at the table next to the drinkers and sipped my coke. This gave me a chance to look around. The walls were full of old, framed photographs and tin plate signs advertising food and drinks that are now obsolete. High shelves lined the room and these were filled with jugs etched with the familiar names of whiskeys. Layers of dust marred every surface and even in the gloom, I saw the cobwebs in the corners. I bit my lip and prayed the inhabitants were sleeping and I would not have to watch anything crawl out. The smell within the room was a combination of pipe tobacco and wet dog. One of the men made a remark about the weather and we fell into conversation. I was grilled thoroughly as to who I was; what I work at and when they heard my family was from that area, smiles creased their lined faces and I was in. They showed a great interest in my writing and I was delighted when one of them said.

“We have our own ghost here.”

“Really,” I said, hoping it sounded casual.

“Indeed, we have,” our host came out from behind the bar and sat down. “There’s not a man here who hasn’t seen her.”

“Her?” I asked.

“It’s a woman,” another of the men offered. “Catherine Maloney, she was.”

“You’re not going to write about this are you?” our host asked suspiciously.

“I probably am,” I said, as I didn’t want to lie to him. “But if I do, I’ll change the name of the pub and won’t tell anyone where it is.”

“I don’t suppose there’s any harm in it so,” he looked at the men, who confirmed this with a nod.

So this is his story. The Maloney family owned the house that now houses the pub. They had two daughters, Catherine, the eldest and Laura who was five years younger. Their father was a business man and they lived a comfortable lifestyle, until an outbreak of measles killed both parents and it was left to Catherine to look after her sister. Money was not a problem as they were left well provided for, but there was never any peace after the deaths and this all came down the Catherine’s jealousy of her sister. Laura was the beauty, this was obvious from an early age and as she grew so did her sister’s hatred of her. I saw an old faded photograph of the two and Catherine was very different to her sister. Laura was blond and buxom, while her sister was extremely thin, with a hooked nose and dark hair, pulled severely back behind her ears. There was a young farmer who lived close by and Catherine was determined he would be hers. After all, she considered herself the best prospect as the eldest she had inherited her father’s estate and in those hard times many marriages were based on the dowry that came with the wife. But, Richard, the young man, was unlike the others and when he fell in love with Laura, nothing would stand in his way. One can only imagine Catherine’s fury when he proposed to her sister, but she managed to keep her feeling in check. The wedding was planned for October. The harvesting would be done by then and Richard wouldn’t be under as much pressure. In the run up to the wedding, Catherine was charm itself and helped her sister in every way possible, but she was plotting her revenge. The next piece is mostly conjecture and there is no evidence that it happened the way I heard it, other than the restless spirit.

One night, a week before the wedding, when Laura was out with her intended, Catherine staged a break in at the house. Word of the outrage spread through the small community and everyone was aghast when they heard her story of a strange man who she’d seen a few times spying on the house. Laura was a nervous wreck and begged her sister to move in with her and her new husband after the wedding. Catherine promised that she would do so. Three nights later, Catherine knocked on her sister’s bedroom door. She had made her some cocoa to help her sleep, she said. Laura had no idea as she drank the sweet drink that it would be her last. The heavy drug within the liquid worked in minutes and when her sister was insensible, Catherine dragged her from her bed, out onto the landing and down the stairs. There is a small river that runs at the end of the field behind the house and it was her intention to drown Laura there. Her plan worked. She returned to her bed and feigned shock and distress when the news was brought to her next morning about the discovery of her sister’s body. Her cunning was beyond belief as she had torn her sister’s nightgown, exposing her flesh and this made her cries about the strange man she’d seen more plausible. Richard was beyond consolation at his loss and if Catherine thought he would turn to her in his hour of need, she was very much mistaken. He was a broken man and died a bachelor. There were many in the district who whispered about the murder, but in those days before DNA and the like, it wasn’t easy to prove who it might be. The idea that a woman would have committed such an atrocity was never considered and Catherine remained free. Rumours ran riot and there was a story of a young man, who on his way home late the night of the murder, swore he saw Catherine going into the house. He remembered it because he said the end of her skirts were soaking wet. He had taken a few drinks that night and those closest to him thought it wiser to say nothing to the law. Catherine became a recluse, which was easy enough, as her neighbours started to avoid her and she died four years after her sister. Some say she starved to death, other she went mad and poisoned her herself, either way, her body now lies in a grave beside her sister.

“I knew all about the story of the ghost, when it bought the place over twenty years ago” my host, Tim said. “The last owner was too old to run the place. I didn’t believe the story at first, but I soon learned, didn’t I lads?” He looked round the little group of men.

They mumbled their assent and I had to wait as he got up to refill their glasses. No one spoke until he came back and the silence seemed to wrap itself around me.

“I took over the place at the beginning of April and laughed off any suggestion of a ghost,” he placed the creamy pints in front of the men and sat down. “The last owner was a bachelor like me and I thought if she hadn’t troubled him then she wouldn’t me. I’ll never forget the first time it happened.”

He stopped and stared into the gloom, as though the memory of that first time was still as fresh as ever.

“It was October, the anniversary of the murder. I was in here,” he paused, and looked over at one of the men. “You were here that same night, Tommy.”

“I was indeed,” the man wiped a moustache of white foam from his upper lip. “I’ll never forget it.”

“It was late,” Tim went on with his tale. “Just after twelve and I was washing up the glasses when it started. I remember looking up when I heard the sound of a thump on the bedroom floor overhead. Then the dragging started, we could trace it with our eyes as it moved along the landing. I’ll tell you, the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end as the bump, bump, bump started on the stairs. There was no doubt in my mind that it was the sound of a body being dragged down one step at a time. We heard the back door open and felt the cold air enter the room. I don’t think either of us wanted to let on how frightened we were, did we Tommy? So we followed the sound. There was nothing to see once we got outside and I remember how we stood there in the dark for a few minutes. We were just about to go back inside when there was a cry of distress followed by the most terrible scream from the direction of the river. I remember running towards the sound and hearing the splash as a body hit the water, but when we got there, all was quiet. We searched the riverbank, but there wasn’t even a ripple on the water. The same thing was repeated for the next week and everyone here is a witness to this. We’ve all seen her from time to time, the ghost I mean. It happens fast, it’s a sort of out of the corner of your eye affair, but there no denying her presence. Doors slam of their own accord and not just in October, oh no. She tends to come and go as she pleases.”

“How can you live with that?” I asked.

“I’m used to it now,” Tim shrugged. “As I said, she never bothers me.”

“Still, it can’t be easy,” I said.

“It gets me down at times,” he agreed. “I’d like to have a dog for company, but I can’t get one to stay in the place. They turn on their heels the minute they come through the door.”

It had rained again while I’d been inside the pub, but the air felt good after the stuffy interior. I couldn’t help, but wonder why Tim didn’t leave. I don’t think I’d have his courage. It made me smile to see they had all come outside and were waving to me as I drove off; I am no longer a stranger. I would be back on Tuesday to speak to a former customer, who was so frightened by what he witnessed that he has never gone back there. He is away on holiday at the moment, but I’m looking forward to what he has to say.

Tuesday 9th August.

I’m back from the haunted pub. I got there just after seven this evening and met the man I told you about. We will call him John. He was parked a good distance away from the pub, as though getting too close would taint him in some way. He’s a man in his sixties and I knew the moment he started to speak, that he wasn’t a man given to strange fancies. His story started twelve years ago and according to him, he’s still not over the fright. It was around Christmas time, he knows the exact date, but I didn’t push him on it. There were carols being sung on the old radio behind the bar.

“Tim went out to change a barrel,” he said. “They’re kept in the shed attached to the house, so I was alone for about ten minutes. It was too early in the evening for the regulars and pitch dark outside. I was reading my paper and not paying much attention to anything, when I had the most awful sensation. At first, it felt like someone was watching me and I looked up. I’d heard the stories about the place, but never paid the any attention. I heard the thump from overhead and imagined someone had broken in to the place. Then the banging started on the stairs. I was frozen in my seat,” he blushed as he admitted this. “I’m not easily frightened, but I’ll never forget that night. The hallway outside the bar was dark and I heard the shuffling of feet coming closer. I saw her standing in the doorway, I swear to you, I saw her and for the first time in my life I knew what it felt like to be in the company of pure evil.”

“Did she look real?” I asked.

“Not as real as you or I,” he said. “It was more like looking at someone through a rain-spotted window, sort of hazy, you know what I mean?”

“What did you do?”

“I don’t know how long she stood there. It seemed like hours, but it couldn’t have been more than a few seconds. I heard the back door open and Tim coming back in. I don’t know if I blinked or what, but the next second she was gone. I didn’t wait for Tim to come into the room. I was off and out that door as frightened as a small child. Since I had intended having a few drinks, I’d left the car at home, so I’d no choice, but to walk. As I said it was pitch black outside and the twenty minute walk home seemed to take forever. I was looking over my shoulder all the way and my heart was thumping from the fright. I would step inside that place,” he nodded at the pub in the distance. “For any money.”

His terror, even after all these years is obvious and I chose not to go back inside, but take refuge in the safety of my car. As the image of the pub faded in my rear view mirror, I was glad it was still bright and I didn’t have to face the winding roads in the dark.

Copyright © 2011 Gemma Mawdsley

Until next week, sleep tight.

It will soon be time for another ghost story

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on August 11, 2011
Posted in: Ghost, ghost hunting, Haunted Houses. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . Leave a comment

Well, my friends, the weekend will soon be upon us and it’s time for another ghost story. I have just finished writing the tale about the haunted pub and I don’t think you will be disappointed. I am already researching another story for next week, but I’m not going to tell you about it until I’m sure the stories are true. I might, as the week unfolds, give you little teasers to keep you guessing and in between all this I still have to write my daily chapter of Erebus, which is coming along nicely. Thanks to all our you for your kind reviews on Death Cry and those anxious to know when my next book is coming out. Might have some exciting news on that soon, so watch this space. Until tomorrow morning, have a great Thursday.

Last night I met a very frightened man

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on August 10, 2011
Posted in: Eerie Places, Ghost, ghost hunting, Haunted Houses. Tagged: , , , , , , , , , . 1 Comment

Like many of you who are interested in ghost stories and the paranormal, I have seen all the programmes on TV like TAPS, Ghost Adventures, Most haunted etc and I’ve seen people talk about haunting and give first hand experiences on these things, but I’ve never seen anyone as frightened as the man I talked to last night. Remember I went to the haunted pub to meet him? Well, he told me about his encounter with the ghost and it was obvious it has had a lasting effect. This was not some weak, nervous person who  lets his imagination run wild, but someone who has encountered an evil force and lives in dread of seeing it again. I will start writing the story of the haunted pub tonight and post it on Friday morning, as those of you with a nervous disposition have requested.

Further update on Haunted Pub

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on August 9, 2011
Posted in: Eerie Places, Ghost, Haunted Houses. Tagged: , , , . Leave a comment

I have finished writing for the day, 3027 words and am really tired, but needs must. I’m leaving home about 5 P.M to meet the man I told you about, the one who was so frightened by what he saw in the pub that he had never gone back. I wonder if there is any truth in the rumour. I think there might be, as the number of eyewitnesses have increased and I’ve received emails from four more people. They knew I will be there about seven, so hopefully they’ll be hanging about somewhere. I’ll fill you in tomorrow, but not too much information, as I don’t want to spoil Friday’s story for you.

Hello. Dear Friends

Posted by Gemma Mawdsley Blog on August 8, 2011
Posted in: Eerie Places, Ghost, Haunted Houses. Tagged: , , , , . Leave a comment

I’m working hard on my latest novel, but just wanted to pop in and say thanks you to everyone who took the time to comment on this blog, especially my new friends from Dublin, Irakleion Greece and Seattle Washington. Have a great week and I’ll keep you posted on the haunted pub.