Budding 11-year old ghost story writer – please take a look…

pilot2
A pupil of mine has just begun to write ghost stories and science-fiction.

I’m very impressed with his work so far and feel that it would give him the confidence he needs as a budding writer if he had a few bloggers taking a look at his work – and possibly ‘liking’ it too!

His latest effort, Sweet Bird of Truth (aka ‘Ghost Pilot’, a play script) is in its early stages but it looks to be taking shape nicely.

The page can be found here:

http://zachswordattacks.wordpress.com/2013/05/07/sweet-bird-of-truth-aka-ghost-pilot-by-zach-11-years-old/

Thank you kindly!

Regards, Paul

The Haunted Bungalows of India

boocheekara, an Indian ghost

Once again I am astounded at how much ghostlore from foreign shores has been lost over the years. Whilst I am familiar with the Indian bhoot, I am completely ignorant of the boocheekara – an apparition – and a term which frequents the following article from an 1883 edition of ‘The Graphic’. The piece tells us much about the haunting of Indian bungalows by boocheekara et al and what fine distant cousins of the British ghost they are! (Note: Due to the poor quality of the original newspaper scan, I have hand-typed the article and must apologise for any typos that have crept in.)

From The Graphic, 1883

The haunted bungalows of India

The notion of Indian houses being haunted is, on first thought, rather ridiculous. Nevertheless, there is scarcely a station in Hindustan which has not its haunted bungalow, or, at the very least, some old house in which the demon of pestilence has taken up his abode. This goes to show that houses need not be of any great age to suit a ghostly occupant, for there are few houses of any great antiquity in India; but it must be confessed that, when a ghost once selects a bungalow for his castle, it is the very mischief to get him out of it, even with the aid of priest, book, and candle. Nor is this self-determination the only peculiarity of Indian ghosts. They appear to the appalled beholders by sunlight as well as by night, and are apparently indifferent to the time of day whenever it suits them to revisit the earth. A curious and very well authenticated instance of this disregard of the hour is that of the ‘afternoon ghost’, which punctually appears at sunset in a certain house in Madras.

On the Poonamalee Road in that town there is an old tumble-down sort of bungalow, in which no one cares to dwell because of an apparition which is credibly said to appear there of an evening as regularly as clockwork. Military men, clergymen, and others, have testified to the fact of this singular apparition’s appearance; and the story is so well known in Madras, and has been so often discussed, that it may perhaps be set down as one of the best authenticated ghost stories on record. Continue reading

An invitation to a haunting

silky

I invite you to the preliminary scenes of a haunting. It is one as traditional as that told about many houses in old England; ancestral mansions that gloomily cast their shadows upon the land. But unlike my peers, I do not cast ignorant doubt upon all such ghostly occupations for I have witnessed my own; and, in time I have come to listen to the stories of our haunted island with a much more receptive ear.

A carriage has driven its way forth across the Dales and now passes through the streets of Ilkley.

“It is just out of the town, madam,” said the driver of the coach to its occupant. “You will be there in less than half an hour.”

“You are quite sure,” asked the young lady, “you know Denton House?”

“Know the Hall? I should say so!” was the confident reply. “We’ll be there soon enough.”

Miss Barton said no more. She resumed her seat in the vehicle, reassured. Her drive had already lasted some hours; the road was not in first-rate condition. She was only eighteen years of age, and, though not inclined to be timid or nervous, was afraid that the coachman had lost his way.

She was about to visit her friends, relatives of the former owner of the Hall, named Montague.

Pondering upon her reception, and anticipating the ball that was to be given a day or two after her arrival, Miss Barton sat quietly in her coach, and before long was rewarded for her patience by the sight of the house.

It is an old Elizabethan mansion — for it exists still — standing on rising ground and solidly built. It possesses three gables, the walls being much overgrown with ivy. Many of the windows, Miss Barton remarked, looked like embrasures, while the massive appearance of the embattled chimneys seemed to impart to the house the character of a castle. There were and may still, be traces of the moat, the side of which forms the terrace and orchard. The venerable trees were inhabited by a colony of rooks. Continue reading