THE HOUSE WITH BLACK SHUTTERS, a tale of torment

house of torment

When I was a boy almost all the folk, especially in Romsey, where I was brought up, believed in ghosts. Those that worked the breweries, the corn mills, the iron and jam makers’ works, the leather board and paper mills all had stories to tell. My mother believed in them; I believed in them; everybody believed in them. I have run many a mile from my own shadow and returned home with a certainty that I was followed the entire way.

Now, among the countless mysteries of the surrounding country there was one that seemed to torment my mind, possessing me deep into the night, far beyond the limits of its estate: an old brick house, with black shutters, said to be haunted, situated on the top of the hill.

No one ever saw the shutters open, nor even a light, except in the turret, where it burned every night without ceasing.

Any time after dark, especially after midnight, a spectre could be seen, moving to and fro, sometimes beckoning its long fingers or waving its arms toward the roadside. Rest assured that that was always a signal for the lonely wayfarer to flee for his life.

In consequence of these nocturnal manifestations the main road had about grown over with weeds, and it was indeed a stout-hearted man that would not go out of his way rather than pass the house with the black shutters in the middle of the night.

All kinds of stories were afloat about the strange noises heard at night and the rattling of chains. The place was declared to be alive with evil spirits, unrestful souls returned to make the living perform some unfinished deed, or perchance vent its wrath upon the occupants for some crime committed there.

The owner was rich, but a sort of recluse, and the house seemed to be kept practically closed. He had but one tie on earth, a beautiful young daughter, who had been sent away to school.

One day she returned to be married. Continue reading

Freaky Folk Tales featured in The Paranormal Press…

Paranormal Press

I’m delighted to announce that I have an interview featured in the 17th Edition of the Paranormal Press, a publication by Haunted Southampton. My sincerest thanks goes to Pete Collins for this opportunity. The whole publication can be read here:

Paranormal Press – Issue 17

The Box-Room

The Box-Room, a ghost story set in Fair Oak, Hampshire

A dear friend of mine, named Wilson was several years ago curate-in-charge of St Thomas in the village of Fair Oak, Hampshire and when he invited me to spend my six weeks’ vacation with him I gladly accepted. I found that he occupied a little cottage standing by itself, his only companions being his housekeeper and a rough-haired terrier, Jock. The wind howled and screamed around the house on the evening of my arrival, and the rain came down in torrents. It became so rough that the chimney crashed through the roof on to the bed where we two were sleeping, and we had to make up a bed on the floor of a small box-room, which, my friend laughingly told me, was haunted.

I was not at all displeased at this announcement, for I was hard-headed enough for any ghost and was glad that there was a chance of meeting one of those individuals. During the evening my friend, Wilson, was called away to an old parishioner, who was very ill and was expecting death. I went up the steps leading to the box-room, which only contained a small window high up, and got into the bed surrounded by old biscuit tins and other odds and ends. I was just dozing off when I heard a shuffling and saw the dog at the top of the stairs. It began to moan most dismally. I coaxed him, but he stood quite still. I put my hand out to him and was alarmed to encounter an animal as stiff as wood, with hair standing up like the hair on an angry cat’s tail. His eyes were glaring fixedly at the window, and looking round I saw just under the window the figure of a man dressed in sailor uniform. The shirt was wide open, and over the heart was a terrible gash, the chest and clothes being covered with blood.

It was the most awful moment of my life, and I did not know what to do. As I gazed at him, horror-stricken, he beckoned to me and put his finger into his horrible wound. He beckoned again, and, pulling myself together, I went towards him. I stumbled and knew nothing more until some hours afterwards the housekeeper found me covered in blood from a gash in the cheek. I carry the marks of that to this day.

I had come to stay for six weeks, but when the experience came vividly back to me I decided to pack up and go the same day. When my friend came back I told him of my resolve. At first he laughed, but seeing I was in earnest, he said “You’ve seen something in the box-room.”

I admitted that I had, but did not tell him what.

Shortly afterwards, I received a letter from my friend, saying that the old parishioner he had been called to see had since made a remarkable statement to him.

“Mr. Wilson,” he said. “I felt so wicked the other night that I could not tell you the story that has made my life a burden, and made me so unhappy that I could not even die. Forty years ago I was employed with another man in making excavations for the foundations of the cottage in which you live. We came across the body of a man dressed as a naval seaman, with a deep gash in his chest. Round his neck he wore a beautiful golden crucifix. We buried the body and sold the crucifix dividing the money. But the affair troubled both of us, and we bricked his body up in the walls of your house. My dying wish, sir, is that you will find the body and give it a Christian burial.”

I wrote back at once begging my friend to pull down the wall of the box-room, and telling him I would wager my life that they would find the body under the window.

And so they did. They found the body in a standing position under the window, in the middle of the thick wall, and they buried him with Church ceremony. The old man died just a few minutes after the funeral.