There’s something scary about looking up
into the darkness at the top of the stairs. It started at my great-grandmother’s
house when I was a little girl. Nothing happened, I was just spooked and the
feeling has always been with me. Our landing light stays on through the night. My
bedtime reading can’t be anything jumpy or thought provoking since ‘The
Amityville Horror’ years ago – the film was bland compared to the book – such stories,
and I enjoy reading them, are good for the afternoon. I accompanied my daughter
to see ‘The Woman In Black’ at the cinema. This film absolutely terrifies me. I
like the story, but I can’t watch it properly, not even on television at home.
“Tell me when this bit’s gone,” she
whispered.
“I can’t, I’m not looking,” I whispered
back, face covered with hands.
Recently, the stage play was on at The
Grand Theatre. I’m told it’s very good and scary. My daughter asked me to go
and I would have done if not for the covid situation, even if I was to spend
two hours staring at my knees in the darkness.
One of the pubs our family had on the
front was a former hotel, full of empty rooms. Most of these rooms were on the
floor above our living accommodation and was out of bounds to me and my friends
for safety reasons. On the same floor as us but separate to our flat was a
corridor of about six former hotel rooms. Two of them were empty until my
paternal grandfather moved in with us for a while and made one a lounge and
another his bedroom. My dad used one for a spirit store (drinks, not ghosts),
one was a guest room where my other grandparents stayed on their frequent
visits and one was Joe’s room. Joe came with the pub. He was a live-in member
of staff, of some very senior years, and when not working, kept himself to
himself apart from watching the Saturday afternoon horse racing on our
television, full volume due to his impaired hearing. Once a week my mother or
Kathy who looked after us all, made him his favourite steak and cow-heel pie. He
was a lovely man and we were sad when he died. I believe he was ninety, or
thereabouts. I would guess it was a couple of years after Joe had passed when
someone played a trick and scared the living daylights out of me. At some point,
I moved into what used to be Joe’s room. The corridor was always a bit dark,
but enough to see my way. One afternoon, as I came out of the room, there was a
white, waiter’s coat floating in the air. I screamed as terror gripped me and my dad
came running from the nearby kitchen. It was all supposed to be in good fun. It
might even have been Halloween. The jacket was on a wire hanger hooked on to a
light-fitting. I recovered, eventually.
For a short time, my father took over The
Old Hall at Sandbach and we moved to live there. I mention it by name because
it was featured on the TV programme ‘Most Haunted’. We were aware of a ghost.
Nothing scary, just a woman in a crinoline dress with her hair piled high. She
vanished as soon as she appeared and always in the restaurant at night. She
wasn’t mentioned in ‘Most Haunted’ but Derek Acorah and his team found plenty
of other paranormal activity that we weren’t aware of or been told about.
When our son was about three years old,
he had what we recognised as night terrors. The first time it happened I was
terrified. It was the middle of the night and his screaming woke me up suddenly.
I was out of bed and in his room in a nano-second, heart pounding. He was
sitting up, unaware of me, staring ahead, screaming and crying. I rocked him,
calmed him down and settled him back to sleep, somehow, while filled with
terror myself. The look of fear in his face unnerved me more than anything,
like he could see something I couldn’t. Luckily, there weren’t many episodes.
With all this in mind, I suppose it’s
odd that I would happily spend a couple of evenings on ghost hunting tours with
my friend. We had a fascinating time at The Grand Theatre in the dark and the
talk from the organiser explained things that had happened to both of us at
separate times on visits to see productions. When the opportunity to do
something similar at the Spanish Hall came up, I was full of enthusiasm.
Unfortunately, some of it was so scary, the experience was overwhelming fear.
My poem, which features in The Dead Good
Poets Haunted Blackpool,
An evening in the Spanish Hall
Fun-time promised for one and all.
Exciting times for you and me,
Paranormal activity!
Hopes and desires, all are risen,
Someone’s speaking, we must listen.
“Enter the rooms with open mind,
And be prepared for what you find.”
The semi-darkness of torch-light,
Anticipation of the night;
Wondering what there might be here
To chill us with delight or fear
We heard a strange and weird sound,
Quiet growling from underground.
Distant laughter, joyful patter,
Ghostly party fun and chatter.
Chink of glasses, bell-like tinkle,
Passing orb gives us a twinkle.
We crept across the ballroom floor
To where we hadn’t been before.
A woman beckoned from her chair.
As we approached, she wasn’t there,
Just vanished, like she’d never been
But we both knew what we had seen.
And later, on the wide stair case
I froze as something touched my face.
I couldn’t scream, I couldn’t shout;
Someone was with me, there’s no doubt
When we sat in the back-stage room
We both smelt dated perfume
Like musky lavender and rose
Stagnant, lingering in repose.
And that mirror! I dared not see
The presence sitting next to me.
I felt their breath upon my cheek
And could not move, too scared to speak!
I must now be most explicit,
Show respect to restless spirits.
Never ridicule, tease or taunt.
It might be you they’ll come to haunt.
PMW 2012
Thanks for reading, Pam x
