I spent all of today researching the latest story I heard about a haunted house. It’s easy not to think about ghosts and hauntings when the sun is shining, but I’m going back later, when is sun is down and the dark adds to the atmosphere. The house I’m talking about seems thronged with ghosts and I may have to post the story over a couple of nights. So while you’re all cosy in your beds, I’ll be listening to eyewitness accounts about the hauntings. Sleep Well.
Haunted Houses
All posts tagged Haunted Houses
Tonight I’m going to tell you the story of a haunted house. This house exists. It was built over three hundred years ago and it’s still occupied by one of the original owner’s descendants. She’s an old woman now and worried that once she’s gone that the house will fall to ruin. I felt that this was just as well, though I didn’t voice such thoughts. It haunting is an old and terrible one and I couldn’t help thinking that if the house should fall, then maybe, at last, the spirit would find rest. Before I tell you about its sad history, let me take you on a walk through its rooms. I will describe them much as I have seen them and perhaps, though my words you can pick up its atmosphere and if you allow your mind free rein, you’ll hear the whispers of those who have passed, as we flit from room to room.
The house is in the countryside, in a bleak and desolate spot. Now that the men are gone, the grounds are overgrown and other than the small path that lead to the main door, the garden on either side is a green sea of weeds and stinging nettles. It’s a rather ordinary looking house, painted white, it stand out against a backdrop of mountains and a forest of pine trees. Downstairs there are three rooms, a kitchen, sitting room and for want of a better word, a pantry. Here potatoes lie in small mounds on the floor, alongside onions carrots and whatever vegetable is in season. There’s a musty, earthy smell that overwhelms the senses and it is not a room one would want to linger in. A local man digs the small patch the owner sows each year and it provides enough to last her through the winter. Perhaps, now is the right time to give her a name? We shall call her Sally. No good can come of my telling you her real name and I want her to spend whatever time she has left on this earth, unbothered by thrill seekers.
The hallway is long, narrow and pitch black, even during the day. No bulb had ever lasted more than a few minutes though numerous electricians have found no fault in the ceiling socket or the wiring. The ancient flag stones are uneven and one has to choose their steps with care, as they fumble along in the darkness. The kitchen is a huge affair; the only change in over three hundred years has been the addition of an turf burning Aga, where the great fireplace once stood and a small, stone sink with one lone, cold tap. The old flag stones in front of the fire are worn smooth from the centuries of passing feet. The small light fitting overhead does little to dispel the gloom, so the room is always half in shadow. It is here one first notices the thickness of the outer walls. Overhead are three bedrooms, one is known as the haunted room. The story goes as such, and the Sally swears she has seen the apparition constantly throughout her lifetime and right up to last winter.
Over two hundred years ago the owner, we shall call him William, was in love with a young woman, Maud, who worked on the farm. His father forbade him to marry her, as she was considered beneath him and a match was made with the daughter of local landowner, Ruth. The young girl left the district, broken-hearted and vowing never to return. Sixteen years passed, years in which William lived in hell with a shrew for a wife. They had no children and when he received a letter from his old love Maud, telling him she was dying and her only child would be orphaned, he lost no time in running to her aid. He was too late. Maud died just hours before he got there, but she left a note begging him to take care of her child, with the words, “I shall never be at peace, unless I know my child is safe,”
Rosie, her daughter was thirteen at the time and the image of her mother. After the funeral, William took her to live with him at the house in the glen. Rosie was a bright and loving child and for the first time in decades the house was filled with life. This did not please his wife and as the years passed her anger and jealousy burned until it threatened to consume her. When Rosie was sixteen, Ruth arranged it that her path should cross with a local jack the lad. Thomas was as cunning as he was handsome and the purse Ruth offered for his seduction of the young Rosie was too good to turn down. Within days Rosie was smitten and the outcome was predictable when some month later the swelling in her stomach became noticeable. Ruth was sure that her husband would turn the girl out onto the roads, but no such thing happened. He ordered that Rosie would be kept inside until her due date and them Ruth would claim the child as her own. No amount of screaming and arguing, on his wife’s part, would sway him from this plan and as the girl’s bump grew, so did Ruth’s hatred.
It was the time of the autumn fair, when the last of the trading was done before the onset of winter, when Rosie’s labour pains began. William was away and would be gone for two days, but he left strict instruction what must be down. For hour Rosie lay in agony as the baby, a breech birth, fought its way out of her body. Ruth remained downstairs and listened as her cries grew weaker and weaker. When she finally went up to the room, Rosie was dead and her baby lay in a pool of blood between her legs. It was obvious from the blood staining her hands that she had torn the baby from her body, dying so it might live. It was a little girl that lay nestled in the warmth of its mother’s blood. Ruth later said the child was deformed when asked about its hasty burial in the garden behind the house, but one of the farm lad’s swore he heard a baby cry as he was going about his work. In later years it was said that Ruth fed the baby to the sows. William, overcome with sadness, did not question his wife’s story, as in those times such things happened, but he was never the same again. The light went from his life and he abandoned the house, passing it on to his brother and went to live alone in a small cottage some miles away. Ruth went back to her father’s house and it’s said that as the years passed, she slowly went mad.
The first record of the haunting began a year after Rosie died. A wraith-like figure was seen peering through the windows on the ground floor. Local swore it was Rosie in search of her lost child. The haunting lasted for a week and always at the same time of year, autumn. When the winds screeched around the house and the fallen leaves slapped against the windows, there was another sound; the tapping of ghostly fingers on the glass and the plaintive cry of a young girl. William’s brother was a no nonsense man and with a young family to support, he thought being haunted one week a year was little price to pay for such a good living. Nothing was seen when the listeners rushed out into the night, and the children came to regard it as a harmless game, though there was no denying the looks exchanged by their mother and father.
Sally told me this story two weeks ago and I have no doubt that its true. Perhaps, it was imagination, but there was a chill in the air that went beyond the normal cold of an old house and I was glad that it’s summer. I can’t imagine what it must feel like for Sally, when the nights grow shorter and the season changes, or maybe I can.
I have a treat for all you ghost hunters tonight. It’s a true story about a haunted house about ten miles from where I live. I was there during the week and spoke with the owner. I have to say and its not my imagination, but the very air warns that this is a place of deep unrest. The haunting only happens one week in the year and the little old lady who owns it, accepts it as a natural part of her life. Really sad and a little weird, but Ill tell you more about it later. See you tonight at 9, that’s Irish time for all my friends abroad.
I know we had quite a trek getting here, but I think you’ll agree it was worth it. We couldn’t have picked a better night as the forces of nature are with us. The moon makes it bright as day and I know it’s very warm, but it will be colder inside. I’ll tell you the history of the house as we explore, but first, before we go in, I want you to look at that giant oak tree to you left. Legend has it that the first owner of the house, a Lord something or other, I couldn’t fine any record of his name. It is said he hung a young stable boy from that tree, because he blamed the boy when one of his stallions went lame. The caretaker swears that he’s seen a dark shape hanging from one of the branches and on windless nights such as this, if you listen closely, you can hear the rope moving backward and forwards. Let’s just stand for a moment and listen.
No, I can’t hear anything either. You must admit the house looks very imposing with the moon and trees providing a perfect backdrop. It was built in the 1600s, but it’s been added to over the centuries and that accounts for its miss mash of styles. The turret on the far end, has a story all its own, but we’ll some to that later. Let’s go.
I expected it to be cooler inside, but it’s like walking into a fridge. After the lush ripeness of the overgrown gardens, the smell of damp is overpowering. The rooms are completely empty, so there’s no need to worry about bumping into any furniture. I suspect what little there was has been burned by the tramps who took shelter here. Shine your flashlights around so you get the feel of the place. Dismal, isn’t it. No, I don’t think the sounds overhead are footsteps. It’s probably the house settling after the heat of the day. Old house do that, have you noticed? They sigh and settle. The first story concerns one of the maids and her room is on the third floor. The stairs curve slightly so stay behind one another as I lead the way. We can explore the first floor later, if you want, but I’m more interested in the places I’ve heard tales about.
See how the roof slants as we climb? I imagine the accommodation for the servants was very small. There are three doors on this floor. God, I hate the way the old rusty hinges creak, as though the door is protesting against our presence. The old iron bedsteads are still here and a little washstand, but have you noticed there’s no fireplace. It must have been freezing up here in the winter.
The story goes that a young maid got pregnant by the master of the house and when she told him about her condition, he ordered her to leave. Her family would refuse to have her home, if they knew of her condition, so with no one to turn to, she took poison. If she expected her death to be a quick one, she was sadly mistaken and it is said her screams echoed through the house for over an hour, before she finally succumbed to death. This is one of the haunting. Poor girl, she must have been desperate. Was that a sigh, did one of you sigh? No, God that sounded close. Let’s go down to the first floor. I have goose bumps on my arms and it’s not from the cold. Can anyone else feel that? It’s only since we reached the landing that I’ve started to feel uncomfortable. It’s like being staked by a predator. What’s wrong? The flashlights are going out. It’s OK, I have more batteries. This sometimes happens. The spirits drain the energy. Here pass these around. Everyone all right?
Now we’ll make our way to the turret room. This is accessed by a little winding staircase and has to most pitiful story of all. Oh, my God, that made me jump. A door banged somewhere in front of us. It feels like whoever is haunting here doesn’t want us to go up into the turret. Did you see that? A flash of white. Do you want to move on? Yes, lets, there’s no point in turning back now. No one panic once we reach the turret. There’s only room to move in single file and if a stampede starts someone is going to get hurt. Hang on a second, listen; is that shuffling from inside the door? A trapped bird, perhaps? My hand is trembling as I push against the rotten wood. This house had unnerved me and I don’t understand why. OK, everyone it and there’s nothing to see. The story here is one of the owners had a son who was born deformed. He was so ashamed of the boy, he locked him away in this room from the day he was born. It was only the kindness of the servants that kept the boy alive, bring him scraps of food. His own mother was told he had died and he stayed a prisoner. They say he was chained to the wall, in case he tried to wander. See that cruel-looking hook in the wall? This is here the chain was tied. He died at the age of seven and it’s said that on moonlit nights, his little face, lined with pain, can be seen peeping out of the window. Imagine his terror, the poor little mite. Locked away up here, all alone. What, what’s the matter? If felt like a small cold hand pressing into your? Shine the flashlight over into this corner. It sounded like a chain rattling.
“Little boy, are you here?”
Was that a sob? It sounded like one. Is it creeping you out? OK, we’ll go down and leave him in peace, for want of a better word.
“Goodbye, little boy.”
“Goodbye.”
You heard that, right? It was clear as day, he said goodbye. Keep moving. I don’t know what’s come over me, I feel like crying. We’ll go down to the first floor now. Has it got darker or is my imagination? I have the same sensation of being stalked down here and the …The screams, have you every heard anything like them? Don’t cover your ears, move. Their coming from the attic. Listen, there’s someone moving about up there. The footsteps are moving across the ceiling, they’re coming closer, moving down the stairs and wouldn’t you know it, I once again alone. I’m not waiting here to see what coming towards me. The beam from the flashlight is fading and the hairs on the back of my neck are standing. I won’t be looking up at the turret window as we leave. I’m afraid of what I might see.
The weekend is almost upon us and it’s time for another journey into the unknown. I’ve had feelers out all week trying to find somewhere really creepy and boy, have it found it. It’s a old manor house, but the problem is, it’s been cordoned off by the police. The official word is that the building is unsafe, but that’s just a story put out to keep the likes of us away. So far there have been three unexplained deaths in the house. All were men, tramps who had taken shelter there. I suppose their deaths could be put down to too much alcohol or exposure, but a man who lives locally and who acts as an unofficial caretaker, found all three and he told me he will never forget the look on their faces. According to him, they were scared to death. He showed me a way in. There’s a gap in the wiring that had come loose. He has a key to the gate, but he refused to part with it. He says he’ll deny knowing we were ever there, if anything happens. At least, he took the time to give me a guided tour, so I know the layout of the place. Be here, as usual at 9 tomorrow night. Remember, we don’t have permission, so have someone on standby to bail you out, if we’re caught.
After much discussion and few nips of brandy from John’s hip flask, we have decided to go on. We’ve been standing here in the hall for over fifteen minutes and there’s been no sound from overhead. At times we’ve imagined faint footsteps scurrying along the corridor, but put it down to the rats and mice, that are bound to be plentiful in a place like this. We’re going down into the basement. Remember I told you that this is where the treatment rooms and the mortuary are located and I find these to be the saddest and scariest place in the asylum. You will see things that will make your heart ache. Mental illness was considered a curse in those dark days and the treatment was barbaric. Yet, when you think about it, it was only twenty years ago. Let us hope things have changed dramatically for those who suffer from it these days. It’s freezing down here, but that’s to be expected of basements; they’re always cold, even in summer. Did you see those light; what were they? Oh, its rats, their eyes really blaze in the darkness. Let’s go in here. This was one of the treatment rooms. Follow the beam of my torch on the wall, as I move it slowly up. Can you see the chains and the leather restraints? They used to tie the violent patients up to the walls, shackled like prisoners. Is it any wonder they went mad? Let’s go next door; I want to show you the baths. They filled these with ice water and submerged hysterical patients in this for hours, because they believed it calmed them. Oh, my god, listen. That’s a woman’s voice, it’s faint, but you can make out the words.
“No, don’t, please no.”
That made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up, come on. The dust in the corridor is really bad. It rises in clouds under our running feet. It had to come from in here. It’s a ward, with one bed, but this time the restraints are on the bedposts. Someone was strapped down here.
“Hello, did you call out just now?”
We wait in the deepening silence, until a shuffling in the corridor outside draws us out. It sounds like footsteps, dragging this time. They’re coming closer. Aim your flashlights down the corridor. What is that? It looks like a scarecrow wearing a lab coat. Is it someone’s idea of a sick joke, except…it’s moving? It’s a man or what once was a man. Tendrils of lank hair hang from a head that’s nothing more than a skull. The cheeks are sunken, the eyes dark, sightless hollows.
“Back away,” I whisper, but find you have already done so.
I’m doing the same, not taking my eyes off the advancing figure until I reach the stairs and then I’m running.
“Thanks for waiting for me. It’s no use looking shamefaced now. I was alone with that thing. Still, never mind, we’ve survived, though some of you look a little pale.”
We shouldn’t have been surprised by what we saw. The very air within warns that it’s a place of unrest. It surrounds you with a feeling of pain and hopelessness that can never be exorcised. We won’t be coming back here again.
It’s really cold tonight, hard to be its summer here. I’m delighted you are all here and I’m looking forward to our little ghost hunting adventure. Someone suggested that we split into groups, but I don’t feel that’s wise as I know the layout of the place and some of the floors are rotten and dangerous. What do you think of the place so far? The broken windows give it a menacing look, I know and the fading light makes eerie shadows flit across the walls, but believe me, what’s inside is much worse. I told you about the type of patient who was cared for here, the outcasts, and the unwanted. Echoes of their suffering are said to haunt the rooms and corridors, but try not to panic if you hear or see anything and whatever you do, stay close together. Got your flashlights? OK, let’s go.
Be careful, the steps leading up to the main door are littered with broken glass and bits of fallen masonry. I don’t see the point of a lock, with the condition of the window anyone could climb inside, but the owners insisted. Hold the light on it while I try to open it. Someone give me a hand, its rusted solid. Great, that did it, we’re in. The smell of damp and rotten wood is overpowering and the hallway floor is covered in a layer of dust and dead leaves. The thud of the door closing, cutting us off from the outside world, sounded very final. Let’s move on. The downstairs is made up mostly of admission and doctor’s offices, so our best plan is to start on the first floor. We can come back later to the basement. Keep in by the wall as we climb the stairs; the banisters are broken in places and the wood is likely to snap. This is where most of the wards were, but there are some in the basement. These, I believe were for the most dangerous cases and we will explore them later. Look how the damp glistens on the drab, green walls and there are strange-looking fungi growing through cracks in the floor. Be careful not to slip on them. The corridor here is a maze of old hospital trolleys and broken bits of furniture. It is so dark, even though the sun has not yet set. There are shadows everywhere, can you see them? They move like wraiths in the beam of the flashlights. Christ, that made me jump, a door slammed further along the corridor. Is one of you crying? No, did you hear it too? Someone is definitely crying. It’s down this way, come on. What’s wrong? Some of you are leaving. That’s fine, this isn’t for everyone. Can you find your way out or do you need me to guide you? Ok, see you later.
Our numbers are diminished, but let’s soldier on. There was a doctor working here over forty years ago and he had a reputation for terrible cruelty. Many of the patients had no one to care what happened to them, so he was allowed free rein when it came to some of his more unconventional treatments; well, not treatments as such, more experiments. Was that a sigh, perhaps, one of those of suffered at his hands is listening? This is where we thought we heard to crying coming from. It’s a four bed ward and look’ the covers are still in place. It looks like it was abandoned in a rush.
“Hello, is anyone there?”
The silence is deep as we wait for a reply.
“What, what did you see?”
Something is crawling out from under one of the beds; a black shadow that seems to be growing in substance, taking shape as it crawls up from the floor. OK, back away; this is not something we want to confront. One would expect the spirits trapped here to be those of the patients, but there’s something about this thing, something evil. Don’t run, watch where you’re going.
I expected everyone to be gone when I got back downstairs, but there are still three of you here. Do you want to explore the basement or should we leave it for another night?
As a prelude to tonight’s visit to the asylum, I’ve decided to tell you a bit about it, so you know what you’re letting yourself in for. The building itself is set over three levels, with a basement that once housed the treatment room and mortuary. The locals complain that it should have been demolished years ago, but its owners are either undecided or don’t have the money to do anything with it. Now and then a newspaper article will appear, as a former inmate recalls the horror of what they suffered there.
Like all abandoned buildings with a sinister reputation, it holds a strange fascination for the local children and it is through them I have learned much the history of the place. It took some effort to sieve through their stories and separate fact from fiction. It seems, and I’ve heard this from adults not the children, that the asylum catered for the most extreme cases, from mental illness to mutilations and terrible birth defects. The children grew pale as they whispered tales of the terrible things they’d seen there, even though the building was abandoned long before they were born. Their voices become choked with fear as they tell of the man with no face and the one with a trunk for a nose. They talk of strange figures and screams heard in the dead of night.
I will admit there is an air of menace about the place. On the day I first went there it was overcast, the sky grey and swollen with the promise of rain. It didn’t help that the wind blew through the empty corridors and sounded like the cry of a broken-heart child. So that’s what we’re up against tonight. I have permission from the owners for us to explore, though they take no responsibility for anything that happens to us while we’re there. Anyway, there will be a good crowd, so far sixteen of you want to come along. I’ll meet you back here at 9 p.m. It’s a damp, miserable day and the sun should start to set about then. Until tonight.
Have you recovered from our trip to the church? I hope so as I’ve planned to visit the haunted asylum tomorrow night. Contact me and let me know if you want to come along, or should I say, if you dare? I’m not going alone, it’s an old building with a sinister reputation and I’ve been advised to take someone with me, so I won’t go until I hear from you.
Over the next few days I’m going to take you on a journey into the most eerie places I know. I’ll start with one you might find the least threatening and if you decide to come alone, we’ll move on from there. It’s not for the faint-hearted, so be warned.
The church stands in the middle of a small village, close to the road, but bordered on all sides by pines trees that have run wild and now shadow the path to the main door. It was abandoned over twenty years ago. No one seems to know why, or else they’re not telling. The windows are broken, though small, sharp bits of coloured shards still cling to the strips of lead that once threaded through the ornate, stained-glass. Weeds sprout from between broken slabs lining the path; we must choose out steps with care. This is not the sort of place one would want to fall and lie injured, not as twilight draws in and the world of spirits comes to life.
Ivy snakes up the walls and crawls through every crack and opening. The windows can do nothing to stop its advance, but stare with silent, sightless eyes. The bell seems to be missing in the old tower; it’s hard to tell now the light is fading. Shall we go inside? OK, I’ll go first, but keep close and stop being such a baby.
That was some groan, wasn’t it, when I pushed against the door just now? It set my teeth on edge. Come back here, it was just the rusty hinges protesting the intrusion. Stay behind me, if you must. It’s dark in here, but the porch is small and the window smaller still. It’ll get brighter once we’re inside. The glass is still intact in the inside doors. Did you notice how the silence seemed to surge at us when we stepped inside? The ordinary, everyday sounds of traffic ceased once the door closed behind us and that’s weird because the windows are all broken. It’s as though some invisible barrier formed and now it’s just us and God, and let’s face it, he’s holding all the cards. Listen to how loud our footsteps are on the dusty tiled floor. There are other sounds, listen, soft scurrying, probably just mice or rats. Can you smell that? It’s something above the usual smell of candle wax. Take a sniff; it’s got a rotten butcher-shop smell, something I can’t quite put my finger on.
The altar is shrouded in shadow and many of the pews are still standing. Let your hand glide along their scarred wooden backs as we pass. It’s getting darker and I forgot to bring a flashlight. Stop holding on to my arm so tight, there’s nothing there. I can’t hear anything, other than the night breeze. What did you hear? I didn’t hear a groan, but you’re right about the shadows on the altar. They do seem to be moving in a strange way and that smell is getting worse. OK, we’ll leave, if you want, but I’m telling you now, you’re not coming to the asylum with me tomorrow night, not unless you stop being such a scardy cat.
gemmamawdsley 