When I was a very young army Stigbob I was stationed in a castle that was reputed to be haunted. There was reportedly a spooky phantom piper who was supposed to walk up and down on one of the battlements in misty weather.
One misty night in the early hours slow footsteps were heard from the battlement and the Sergeant thought it was a wheeze to send me to check it out.
So off I popped armed to the teeth with a cheap torch made by the lowest of three bidders. As I got closer I could hear regular wet slapping sounds just like footsteps make on damp flagstones. Slowly I could make out vague shapes through the fog none of them moving but the footsteps now sounded really close.
Then I noticed the rope on the flagpole had stretched with the mist soaking it and was now slack enough to slap against the pole in the wind sounding just like bootsteps in the sound deadening effect of thick mist.
More like all countries these days...and that is what's really scary about it... The fact that Samhain is not the same as Hallowe'en is neither here nor there to them, monetarise all the feasts!
When I was a very young army Stigbob I was stationed in a castle that was reputed to be haunted. There was reportedly a spooky phantom piper who was supposed to walk up and down on one of the battlements in misty weather.
One misty night in the early hours slow footsteps were heard from the battlement and the Sergeant thought it was a wheeze to send me to check it out.
So off I popped armed to the teeth with a cheap torch made by the lowest of three bidders. As I got closer I could hear regular wet slapping sounds just like footsteps make on damp flagstones. Slowly I could make out vague shapes through the fog none of them moving but the footsteps now sounded really close.
Then I noticed the rope on the flagpole had stretched with the mist soaking it and was now slack enough to slap against the pole in the wind sounding just like bootsteps in the sound deadening effect of thick mist.
I had an aunt who lived in a top floor flat in Glasgow. She had to repaint the steps leading up to her floor and, being clever, went down painting every other step so she could get back up again. When she got to the bottom and turned around to go back up and paint the others she noticed there were footsteps going up to her flat in the wet paint!
I was raised in rural North Yorkshire, and there was this one stretch of road which ran from Byland Abbey to Oldstead which was rumoured widely to be haunted.
If you want to drive it for yourself, go to this Google maps link, turn left past The Abbey Inn and drive on to Oldstead.
Byland Abbey itself is well known for its medieval ghost stories, but my tale begins on a dark, snowy Christmas Eve in 1986. I'd not been driving long, and my girlfriend at the time had asked me to come and pick her up after her evening shift from the Black Swan at Oldstead where she worked as a waitress, and take her home to Wass.
Light snow was falling as I approached the Abbey, the waning moon feebly illuminating the ruined rose window at the end of the nave. I turned onto the Oldstead road, and had got about half way down when my car's engine suddenly failed, and I rolled to a halt. This wasn't particularly unusual, it was a cold night and that Fiesta often broke down, so I got out and lifted the bonnet.
As I was standing there in the falling snow, looking at the engine and wondering what was wrong, I started to feel uneasy. Not about my situation, or whether I'd ever get the damned car running again, but because I had the distinct impression that someone was watching me. Bear in mind this is an infrequently-travelled road in a remote part of North Yorkshire, it's about ten o'clock at night on Christmas Eve, and all God-fearing souls should have been warm and snug at home or in the pub, so I turned round slowly and spied what I took to be a man, standing some way off in one of the fields bordering the road. He was very obviously looking directly at me, but because of the snow, and the distance, and the waning moon, the most I could see of him was his long black coat, and what I took to be a large hat, or possibly the hood of his coat. Of his face I could see nothing, but I had that certainty that comes with rising unease that he was considering me intently.
My throat tightened as I peered back at him through snow that was falling heavier now. Keeping one eye on him, I moved back round the car, picked up the wheel lock from the rear passenger footwell, and hopped over the fence into the field. He didn't move, just stood there coolly watching me, and as the snow continued to fall, I walked slowly towards him, making sure of my footing over that rutted field. To this day, I don't know why I thought it would be a good idea to get closer to this dark and baleful presence standing in that remote field, but curiosity had, I suppose, got the better of my fear, and I walked on, the distance closing with every step.
At this point the snow really started coming down, and the moon disappeared, and I lost sight of him. Walking on, I came to the point where I believed he had been standing, but there was no sign of him. Suddenly, something caught my eye - a flicker of darkness at the corner of my vision. I spun round, heart pounding, raising the wheel lock...
and found myself staring at a rather tatty looking scarecrow, gazing off toward the road I'd come from.
Needless to say, once I'd got the car started again and feeling like Christendom's greatest fool, I picked my girlfriend up from work, took her home, and never said a word about it to her or anyone else.
