Are Poltergeists ‘ghosts in solid form’? Are they tangible, three-ixdimensional entities? Though able to cause noises, do they, too, make sounds when in impact with non-resisting bodies? Some of these queries are answered in the following adventure I had when I was very young, proving, I think, that Poltergeists can indeed solidify themselves on occasion.
My very first ‘ghost’ was made of cardboard. I will hasten to explain that it was the ‘property’ spectre of a three-act psychic play, The Sceptic, which I wrote and produced1 when I was still a schoolboy. Of course I took the principal part myself, and I am sure I played the hero with considerable histrionic verve!
The reason I mention my early attempt at portraying the paranormal is because The Sceptic was the dramatised record of a remarkable experience that befell me when I investigated my first haunted house.
As a member of an old Shropshire family, I spent nearly all my holidays and school vacations in a little village—in fact, a hamlet—which I will call Parton Magna. In Parton Magna is the old Manor House, circa A.D. 1600. It had been purchased by a retired canon of the Church of England, and his wife. There were rumours that the place was haunted—but popular tradition provides a ghost for every old country house, especially if a tragedy has taken place within it.
Within a very few weeks of the canon’s settling down with his household in their new home, reports were received of curious happenings in the stables and out-buildings. Though fastened securely overnight, stable doors were found ajar in the morning. Animals were discovered untethered and wandering; pans of milk were overturned in the dairy, and utensils scattered about. The woodshed received the attentions of the nocturnal visitant nearly every night. Piles of logs neatly stacked were found scattered in the morning, in spite of the fact that the door of the shed was kept locked. The manifestations in the woodshed became so frequent and troublesome that it was decided to keep watch. This was done on several evenings, a farm-hand secreting himself behind a stack of logs. Upon every occasion when a watch was kept on the wood, nothing happened inside the shed. On those nights when the shed was watched from within, pebbles were flung on to the corrugated iron roofing, the noise they made rolling down the metal being plainly heard. Then a watch was kept both inside and outside of the shed, but no one was seen, though the pebbles were heard as before. Here is another Poltergeist case running true to type.
The disturbances around the house continued with unabated vigour week after week until even local interest waned somewhat. Then, quite suddenly, they almost ceased, the disturbing entity transferring its activities to the inside of the mansion, which I will now describe.
The Manor House was built for comfort, though it has been restored at various times. From the large hall a wide staircase leads to a landing. At the top of the stairs (of which there are about fifteen—but I am speaking from memory) is, or was, a solid oak gate placed across to prevent dogs from roaming over the whole house. The staircase I have mentioned leads to the more important rooms opening out of a short gallery.
The first indication received by the canon and his family that the entity had turned its attention to the interior of the house was a soft pattering sound, as of a child’s bare feet running up and down the wide passage or gallery. The noises were at first taken to be those caused by a large bird or small animal out of the fields; a watch was kept, but investigation proved fruitless. These same noises were heard night after night, but nothing could be discovered. Then the maids began complaining that the kitchen utensils were being disturbed, usually during their absence, in the daytime especially. Pots and pans would fall off shelves for no ascertainable reason when a maid was within a few feet of them, but always when her back was turned. I do not remember its being proved that a person actually saw a phenomenal happening of any description, though many were heard. Another curious circumstance connected with this case was the disturbing entity’s fondness for raking out the fires during the night. The danger of fire from this cause was so obvious that, before retiring to rest, the canon’s wife had water poured on the dying embers.
Like every old country house worthy of the name, the Manor, Parton Magna, had a history, which at the period of my story was being sedulously discussed by the villagers. The story is that the house was built by a rich recluse who, through an unfortunate love affair, decided to retire from the world and its disappointments. A niece, who acted as chatelaine, looked after the old man and managed his servants. One night, some few years after their settlement at the Manor House, the recluse became suddenly demented, went to his niece’s apartment, and, with almost superhuman strength, strangled the girl in bed. He then left the house, spent the night in the neighbouring woods, and at daybreak threw himself into the river that runs through the fields near the house. The legend, like the Poltergeist, also runs true to type. Like most traditions, there is a grain of truth in the story, the fact being that many years previously a girl named Mary Hulse had died at the Manor under suspicious circumstances.
It can be imagined that the canon’s health was suffering under the anxiety caused by the disturbing events I have recorded above, and he was persuaded to leave the house for at least a short period. This was in the early autumn. On my way back to school for the Michaelmas term I broke my journey at Parton Magna in order to stay with our friends, who then made me acquainted with the state of affairs at the Manor House; in fact, it was the principal topic of conversation. The canon and his household had by then vacated their home temporarily, the premises being looked after by the wife of one of the cowmen. What really drove the family out was the fact that the nocturnal noises were becoming greater; in particular, a steady thump, thump (as of someone in heavy boots stamping about the house), disturbing the rest of the inmates night after night. I decided I would investigate and invited a boy friend to join me in the adventure.
I must confess that I had not the slightest idea what we were going to do, or going to see, or what I ought to take with me in the way of apparatus. But the last question was very soon settled because all I had with me was a 1⁄4-plate ‘Lancaster’ stand camera. On the morning of the adventure I cycled into the nearest town and bought some magnesium powder, a bell switch, a hank of flex wire, two Daniell’s batteries and some sulphuric acid. A big hole was made in my term’s pocket money! In the afternoon I assembled my batteries and switch and prepared the flash powder by means of which I hoped to photograph—something! So that there should be no unwillingness on the part of the magnesium to go off at the psychological moment, I extracted the white smokeless gunpowder from four or five sporting cartridges and mixed it with the magnesium powder. By a lucky chance I had with me a delicate chemical balance that I was taking back to school. With the weights was a platinum wire ‘rider’, which I inserted in the electrical circuit in order to ignite the magnesium flash-powder. With the above-mentioned impedimenta, a box of matches, some candles, a stable lantern, a piece of chalk, a ball of string, a box of rapid plates, a parcel of food, the camera and accessories and (forbidden luxury!) some cigarettes, we bade a tender farewell to our friends and made our way across the fields to the Manor House, where we arrived at about 9.30 p.m.
The first thing we did when we reached our destination was to search every room and attic, and close and fasten every window. We locked all the doors we could and removed the keys. The doors leading to the exterior of the house were locked, bolted and barred, and chairs or other obstacles piled in front of them. We were determined that no material being should enter without our knowing it. After we had searched every nook and cranny of the building, we established ourselves in the morning-room, locked the door and waited for something—or somebody—to turn up. Our only illumination was the light of the stable lantern which we placed on the table.
At about half-past eleven, when we were beginning to get very sleepy and wishing (though we did not admit it) that we were in our beds, my friend thought he heard a noise in the room overhead (the traditional apartment of the unfortunate Mary Hulse). I, too, had heard a noise, but concluded it was caused by a wandering rodent or the wind. It did not sound an unusual noise. A few minutes later there was a thud in the room above that left nothing to the imagination. It sounded as if someone had stumbled over a chair. I will not attempt to describe our feelings at the discovery that we were not alone in the house: for a moment or so we were almost paralysed with fear. But, remembering what we were there for, we braced up our nerves and waited. Just before midnight we again heard a noise in the room above; it was as if a heavy person were stamping about in clogs. A minute or so later the footfalls sounded as if they had left the room and were traversing the short gallery. Then they approached the head of the stairs, paused at the dog-gate (which we had securely fastened with string), and commenced descending the stairs. We distinctly counted the fifteen thumps corresponding to the number of stairs—and I need hardly mention that our hearts were thumping in unison. ‘It’ seemed to pause in the hall when the bottom of the stairs was reached, and we were wondering what was going to happen next. The fact that only a door intervened between us and the mysterious intruder made us take a lively interest in what its next move would be. We were not kept long in suspense. The entity, having paused in the hall for about three minutes, turned tail and stumped up the stairs again, every step being plainly heard. We again counted the number of thumps, and were satisfied that ‘it’ was at the top of the flight—where again a halt was made at the dog-gate. But no further noise was heard when this gate had been reached. My friend and I waited at the door for a few minutes more, and then we decided to investigate the neighbourhood of the dog-gate and Mary Hulse’s room. But we had barely formed this resolution before we heard the thumps descending the stairs again. With quickened pulse I again counted the fifteen heavy footsteps, which were getting nearer and nearer and louder and louder. There was another pause in the hall, and again the footsteps commenced their upward journey. But by this time the excitement of the adventure was making us bolder; we were acquiring a little of that contempt which is bred by familiarity. We decided to have a look at our quarry, if it were visible, so with my courage in one hand and the camera in the other, I opened the door. My friend was close behind with the stable lantern. By this time the ‘ghost’ was on the fifth stair, but with the opening of the door leading into the hall the noise of its ascent stopped dead.
Realising that the ‘ghost’ was as frightened of meeting us as we were of seeing it (although that is what we had come for), we thought we would again examine the stairs and the upper part of the house. This we did very thoroughly, but found nothing disturbed. The dog-gate was still latched and tied with string. To this day I am wondering whether ‘it’ climbed over the gate (easily accomplished by a mortal), or whether it slipped through the bars. I think we were disappointed at not seeing anything we could photograph, so decided to make an attempt at a flashlight picture if the Poltergeist would descend the stairs again.
For my stand for the flash-powder I utilised some household steps about six feet high which we found in the kitchen. I opened out the steps and placed them about twelve feet from the bottom of the stairs. On the top of the steps, in an old Waterbury watch-case, I placed a heaped-up eggcupful of the magnesium-cww-gunpowder mixture—enough to photograph every ghost in the county! But in my simple enthusiasm I was running no risks of under-exposure. I placed the Daniell’s batteries in the morning-room, and connected them up with the magnesium powder on the steps and the bell-push on the floor of the room, the wire flex entering the room under the door. In the heap of powder I had buried my platinum ‘rider’ which was interposed in the electrical circuit.
The exact position as to where we should photograph the entity presented some difficulty. We were not quite sure what happened to it when it reached the hall, so we decided to make an attempt at photographing it when it was ascending or descending the stairs. We decided on the former position, arguing (which shows how simple we were!) that the ghost would have become less suspicious of us by the time it was on its return journey! I stationed my friend on the seventh or eighth stair (I forget which), and he held a lighted match which I accurately focussed on the ground-glass of my Lancaster Le Méritoire camera, that I placed on one of the treads of the steps. I inserted the dark-slide, withdrew the flap, uncapped the lens, and then all was ready. The whole thing was rather mad, of course, but the reader must remember that we were very young, with no experience of Poltergeist photography.
By the time we had fixed up the camera and examined the connections it was about half-past one. During the time we were moving about the hall not a sound was heard from above-stairs. Having arranged everything to our satisfaction, we returned to the morning-room, locked the door again and extinguished the lantern. Then we lay upon the carpet near the door, with the pear-push in my hand, and commenced our vigil.
It must have been nearly an hour before we heard anything, and again it was from the Mary Hulse room that the noises emanated. The sounds were identical to those we had previously heard: as if someone in clogs were treading heavily. Shortly after, the ‘thumps’ could be heard approaching the dog-gate and again ‘it’ paused at the top of the stairs. The pause was greater than the previous one, and for a minute or so we thought the Poltergeist had come to the end of its journey; but no, it passed over—or through—the dog-gate and commenced stumping down the stairs again. Having reached the hall the visitant stopped, and in my mind’s eye I could picture it examining the arrangements we had made for securing its photograph. Then we thought we heard the steps moved. In order to get the camera square with the stairs I had taken a large book—using it as a set-square—and drawn on the tiled floor a chalk line parallel with the stairs. Exactly against this line I had placed the two front feet of the steps.
During the next five or six minutes we heard no movement in the hall. Then suddenly ‘it’ started its return journey. With our hearts beating wildly and with suppressed excitement, we lay on the floor counting the slow, measured thumps as they ascended the stairs. At the seventh thump I pressed the button of my pear-push and—a most extraordinary thing happened, which is rather difficult to describe on paper. At the moment of the explosion the ghost was so startled that it involuntarily stumbled on the stairs, as we could plainly hear, and then there was silence. At the same moment there was a clattering down the stairs as if the spontaneous disintegration of the disturbing entity had taken place. The flash from the ignition of the powder was so vivid that even the morning-room from which we were directing operations was lit up by the rays coming from under the door, which was rather ill-fitting.
It would be difficult to say who was the more startled—the Poltergeist or myself, and for some moments we did nothing. After our astonishment had subsided somewhat, we opened the door and found the hall filled with a dense white smoke in which we could hardly breathe. We re-capped the camera, relit our lantern, and made a tour of inspection. The first thing we noticed was that the steps were shifted slightly out of the square. Whether ‘it’ moved the steps (as we thought at the time), or whether the shock of the explosion was responsible (which is doubtful), we could not determine. The Waterbury watch-case had disappeared with my platinum ‘rider’, and I have never seen the latter from that day to this. The watch-case we found eventually on the second stair from the bottom. What happened to it was apparently this: through the extremely rapid conversion of the gunpowder and magnesium into gases, and the concavity of the interior periphery of the case tending to retain the gases, the case was converted into a projectile, the very active propellant shooting it towards the stairs (the force of the explosion happening to send it in that direction), which it must have hit at about the spot where the entity was ascending—surely the only recorded instance of a ghost having a watch-case fired at it: it has been suggested that I call this narrative ‘How I “shot” my first Poltergeist’! The sound of the watch-case falling was the rattling noise we heard when we thought we should find our quarry lying in pieces at the foot of the staircase. We immediately developed the plate, but nothing but an over-exposed picture of the staircase was on the negative.
The Manor House continued to be the centre of psychic activity for some months after our curious adventure, but the disturbances became gradually less frequent, and eventually ceased. Fate decreed that some years later I should spend many happy weeks in the house. If sometimes during that period my heart beat faster than its accustomed rate, the cause was not a paranormal one! Suffice it to say that I did not see or hear anything of the alleged spirit of Mary Hulse, though I will candidly admit that I was not looking for her—my interest in the diaphanous maiden having been transferred by that time to one of a much more objective nature!