GHOST ENCOUNTERS- HEAVEN & HELL -

The Ghost Hunter Case Files

MARGO WILLIAMSEdited and produced by Nick Hammond

CONTENTS

Foreword 1

1 Brading Town 3

2 The Departed Arrive 17

3 Buried Treasure 32

4 Ouija & Riot 42

5 Poltergeists & Paradise 46

6 St. George’s Church, Arreton 56

7 Of Death & Dried Flowers 59

8 All Saint’s Church, Newchurch 68

9 Old St. Boniface Church, Bonchurch 70

10 Rose Wilkins & Zara Boswell 76

11 Tower Hill 86

12 St. Paul’s Cathedral 95

13 Tyburn Tree 109

14 All Saints Church, Godshill 114

15 The Hare & Hounds Inn 119

Conclusion 123

Appendix 125

About the Editor 127

Bibliography 128

CHAPTER ONE

BRADING TOWN- SWEET & SOUR MURDER -

THE OLD RECTORY MANSION beside Saint Mary’s church is the Isle of Wight’s most famous haunted building. Its rooms are said to be home to the ghost of a murdered Frenchman who cursed the house

until his bones were taken back to his native land. They were, but no one wanted them, and some say this rejection simply made the haunting worse. Many intrepid ghost-hunters have attempted to stay the night in this building, and one room in particular on the first floor; then speak of ghostly footsteps, rattling handles and terrifying screams. Some have even seen a tall dark figure glide into the room and straight through the wall. At such moments the name Louis de Rochefort is mentioned and thoughts turn to murder.

Some people have named the Isle of Wight ‘Ghost Island’ which is a scary thought indeed for it raises fascinating questions: are those people who live on the island more likely to become ghosts? Or do ghosts choose to visit the Isle of Wight after death; does Charon the boatman also ferry those who wish it,

The haunted Old Rectory Mansion, Brading, Isle of Wight

CHAPTER TWO

THE DEPARTED ARRIVE

HOW did this ghost thing start? I am often asked. Although I have had unusual gifts people call psychic since childhood this ability developed during my middle years; and when it did, it came as a surprise. It

started one April morning in my 50s. Busy in the kitchen doing chores with a dishcloth I heard a woman say, “My name is Jane.” I turned to see who had spoken, for I was not expecting visitors but there was no one else in the kitchen. I assumed it must be the radio in the other room where my husband Walter was sitting.

“My name is Jane!” said the woman again, more insistently. I put down the dishcloth, dried my hands and walked into the hall but no

one was there either. I looked in the front room; Walter sat alone reading. There was no sound from the radio. “Who was that?” I asked him.

“Who was who?” he replied.“She said, ‘My name is Jane,’ she said it twice.”“I heard no one.”How strange, I thought and returned to the kitchen.“My name is Jane,” said the woman as clear as if she stood beside me. “My

name is Jane…” and next I heard her reciting what sounded like a poem. Immediately I ran to pick up a scrap of paper and something with which to write, for Jane was reciting a poem. I kept a pencil and a pile of scrap paper useful for shopping lists on the kitchen mantelpiece; and I suddenly felt a great urge to write, as if my hand had a mind of its own. I hardly realised what I was doing but my hand was moving at great speed writing in tiny script, and the following appeared upon the paper:

“…My name is Jane and long ago I loved to write in verse,But my parents bid me wed a man who made my life a curse.Each year I was brought to bed with another babe that died,I felt so weak and miserable I very often cried.My house stood in a country town not far from the sea,The garden was so full of flowers, and one large oaken tree.When I was only thirty-eight I left my earthly life,I was not sorry, really, as all was stress and strife.

CHAPTER THREE

BURIED TREASURE

I became accustomed to Mary and Jane’s virtually permanent presence though Jane did not speak in verse after she had told me the full story of her life. She would give me a sensible prose answer to any difficult

question. Yes, I did ask if she could help in picking the football results so I could win the Pools but she explained she was not allowed to do that sort of thing and would not even if she could, which she could not. But she and Jane did lead us to buried treasures.

Various other ghosts remained for a few hours or days, but some stayed longer and offered suggestions or gave advice generally about decisions that occurred in daily life; each identifying him or herself with a characteristic phrase from their own life experiences. A merchant seaman named Captain Bennett would sign out reminding me to “Stay in calm waters”; and a Victorian soldier named John Powell urged me to “March on”; and Mary always told us to “Spiral high” when life’s challenges seemed especially difficult. These four were not content to merely drift around in the home, they got to work making good use of this strange gift that had come to us.

One springtime evening Walter and I were with a friend, Carolyn Morgan, and I heard John Powell suggest we: “...Go to the church near where the stone is long, it is something to do with the fifth George.” We decided the message referred to Mottistone church, as about fifteen minutes walk from there and high up on the downs is a megalith known as the Longstone, the only megalith known to date on the Isle of Wight, and quite a distance from where I lived. We needed a car to get there, and as we did not have one Carolyn suggested she drove us there during the following day in hers. We gladly accepted the chance of a lift and next morning set off together, accompanied by her nephew Robin. None of us had any idea how important that day was going to be, or what a dramatic change there would be in our way of thinking from that day forth.

It was a sunny spring morning as we drove along the roads westward across the island until we arrived at the village church at Mottistone beside the old governor’s mansion. We parked the car near the church and passed through the lich gate, then into the churchyard. I cleared my mind of all thoughts, to listen or look. Inside the church I felt a feeling of intense cold creep over me where I sat on the front pew, my companions behind me. In the musty hush

CHAPTER FOUR

OUIJA & RIOT

WALTER had gathered enough evidence to present his findings to fellow scientists at London’s Imperial College of Science and Technology. It was a conference event oddly titled: ‘Physics, Biosciences

and Experiential Aspects of Psi-Energetic Phenomena’. In the positive appreciation that accompanied the conclusion of his presentation, a number of scientists in the audience invited me to their laboratory to be wired so they could understand this difference in my hearing and why it is so sensitive. Walter was talking to an eminent university academic from Edinburgh, Doctor John Beloff who expressed great interest in Walter’s research, so much so that he asked to come and study me for a few days. Walter accepted with enthusiasm for immediately there was an opportunity for both men to independently test my gift. One of the ghosts Walter was investigating, and was having difficulty proving, had been a student at the academic’s own university. The ghostly student provided identifying clues including the fact he had lodgings in the house of a ‘Mistress Murray’.

The ghosts who visited me in my house were described as ‘drop-ins’, and those who investigate such cases prefer evidence of obscure persons, and the more difficult it is to obtain verifying information strengthens the case because it is impossible to have read beforehand about that individual; the information given could only have come from a ghost.

The problem for Walter was that the student had said he was alive in the 1800s. Walter could not prove Mistress Murray’s existence, as there were no public records with such information; but being a member of the university teaching staff, Beloff would have access to its archives even back to the 1800s. Walter asked if he would look into this case; in particular which boarding houses were on its lists. Within days he discovered that there was such a woman who ran a boarding house for students; the dates were correct, so too her name Mistress Murray. Beloff admitted there was absolutely no way I could have known of this woman. He seemed excited over the discovery, and this added to his enthusiasm which was obvious when he arrived on the island. During his stay he met some of the women with whom I worked in these ghostly experiences: these were Jenny Gibbons, Carolyn Morgan and Mrs Stafford, wife of a local Methodist Minister whom Mary had helped locate

CHAPTER FIVE

VENTNOR- OF POLTERGEISTS & PARADISE -

DURING THE WINTER I was called in to a hotel in Bonchurch, then known as Peacock Vane, to remove a poltergeist. The kitchen was a place of fear and mayhem: fridges turned off at night, and gas

rings turned on; spoons clattered around the work surfaces and kitchen staff were terrified to be alone in the place. The manageress contacted me; she slept in the building, and night after night was woken and frightened as objects were moved around and dropped. The last occasion was a picture thrown across the room.

When called to a building to investigate a poltergeist my first question is to ask the occupants if there are young people living in, and if there is more significant stress and tension than normal. For the strange effect known as a poltergeist is more often the manifestation of stress in a remarkable way, and especially by young people. Ghosts are different, but sometimes it is easy to confuse the two for their effects can be similar.

This lovely building is one of the most beautiful of Victorian villas in Bonchurch with balconies and canopies. Outside is a scene of peace and beauty, inside and especially at night it was mayhem. But it was not a poltergeist, it was a ghost who had suffered stress enough to make her want to take it out on the

The former Peacock Vane hotel, Bonchurch, Isle of Wight

CHAPTER SIX

ST GEORGE’S CHURCH ARRETON- THE CUPBOARD OF DEATH -

IT IS also a hellishly scary fact of death that a person can end up haunting an object. Bad enough to be stuck with a beloved possession but a hated one must be so much worse. It does happen, and did so for a teetotal pastor

who was attached to a pair of duelling pistols and unhappily forced to suffer the indignity of car boot sales until he arrived at his destination ornamenting the bar in a noisy Berkshire pub. I have found countless others lost but attached to coins and pieces of jewellery; and even, on occasion, furniture. Sarah had suffocated in a cupboard and found herself haunting Arreton church.

We found her quite by chance for it was the most unlikely of places. I had been showing a visiting friend from the mainland around historic buildings and had felt drawn to a large old cupboard at the back of the church. I sensed a presence yet at that particular time could do nothing about it. During the following week I kept thinking about it and so asked a friend, Jenny Gibbons, if she would take Walter and me back there. Next day the three of us arrived at

Arreton Church, Isle of Wight

CHAPTER SEVEN

OF DEATH & DRIED FLOWERS

MARY Anning told me that along the broken road at Blackgang I would find another spirit who would speak. Again I asked Carolyn if she would accompany Walter and me to help this trapped soul.

Some two years or so before, the cliffs had fallen into the sea carrying with them several homes and part of the road; all that was left was a rough track with rocks, rubble and trees leaning at crazy angles on either side. We drove as far as possible, then left the car and walked on along the track, though no ghost spoke nor was there any feeling of a presence. We reached the furthest point of the main track, stopped and having admired the sea view for a few moments, I received this short message:

“...In the Old Testament it says that an altar should be made and incense burnt on it. That’s what we tried to do. I thought of Sharon; I had only just met her. My name is Ben. So much to say, but so weak.”

It occurred to me we were too far away, that’s why the voice was so faint. I read the message several times over trying to deduce something about the man. We wandered slowly back along the remains of what was once a well-tarred road looking for anything resembling an altar. We had nearly got back to the car when we stopped, together as if someone had halted us all, and turned to face the steep cliffs that towered high above. Great boulders and rocks were all we could see, but some twenty-five yards up stood a massive flat-topped boulder which looked as if it had been cut to resemble an altar, but had fallen; it tilted sharply downwards. We left the track and pushed through brambles, to scramble up over the rough terrain until we reached the altar rock. “This must be it,” I said. So we clustered around it sitting uncomfortably, then again my pencil flew across the paper as the man spoke:

“The rock has tumbled,” he said, his voice now clear and close. “We lit our incense and prayed that one day we would all come back. We went into a souvenir shop and bought three little trinkets, the nearest things we could find to the Star of David. Then we wrapped them up and put them

CHAPTER EIGHT

ALL SAINTS, NEWCHURCH- THE WORLD’S WEIRDEST HAUNTING? -

WE RESCUED individuals and occasionally pairs but I didn’t ever imagine I could help an entire group trapped together. They were found haunting a graveyard behind Newchurch village church. In

the summertime the area is filled with wild flowers and busy insects but in the winter it can be bleak and cold; and so much more depressing for a ghost dressed in Victorian outdoor finery fit for a summer’s afternoon butterfly collecting. It was in the graveyard I heard Mildred’s educated voice. She had been appointed spokesperson for the group, and I could picture the others gathered around her armed with nets, summer hats and dresses and eager anticipation of release from their collective doom.

“…We all came here to net butterflies,” said Mildred. “It was the thing to do in my day. I suggested it. We kept them pinned to a cork until they died. How cruel we were. There was Robert and James, Timothy and Muriel. I am Mildred. I enjoyed it, but now am trapped by my cruelty. The others also are here.”

All Saints church, Newchurch. Isle of Wight.

CHAPTER NINE

OLD ST. BONIFACE CHURCH- HEAVEN OR HELL? -

EASTWARD of the Peacock Vane hotel in Bonchurch village stands the old church of Saint Boniface. It is a peaceful idyll for most of the year, far from busy roads but during winter months when graves

and ground are a mass of fallen oak leaves and acorns, the roar of the sea is enough to wake the dead; though perhaps not enough to disturb the two ghosts resident in this church.

Local legend claims the old church is named in honour of Boniface, the second of two saints to visit the Isle of Wight. It is said he came to inspect the scene where Wilfrid had administered baptism to the last of Britain’s pagans. In preparation for his own imminent mission work in the wilderness of the continent, Boniface ventured on southward into this wild sea-swept region of the Undercliff. According to legend he found a prominent rock from which he preached to the fisher-folk; but it was not until many centuries later this church was founded to commemorate that occasion. It is however one of the world’s smallest houses of God at a mere sixteen metres long, by four wide. The vast

Bonchurch old church, Isle of Wight

CHAPTER TEN

ROSE WILKINS & ZARA BOSWELL- TO HEAVEN & BACK AGAIN -

ROSE was the name of a ghostly child suicide. She told me her surname, Wilkins but it would have been impossible to identify her, or confirm her existence; Rose’s small sooty mark would not be found anywhere

in historical document. When most people die, almost all trace of their life is lost, like a sunken vessel in the deep ocean; perhaps only name and a date is left of their contribution to the world’s ongoing drama. Little Rose came to share the story of her short life; for a few hours during a winter day. I had paper and pencil ready, and I would like to say I smelled a waft of a stolen fragrance but I didn’t; nor did Walter discover any trace of her existence in his research, in fact he didn’t even attempt to do so. But she offered clues here and there as to how her life was: and how a hellish moment unexpectedly led to a temporary heaven. I include her case because Rose deserves a biography, in memoriam.

Walter’s limited research revealed that an old herbal remedy for burns, of which Rose described to me, was indeed chestnut leaves. She also mentioned Hungary water, which we discovered was an oil of rosemary distilled with alcohol, which ladies used like eau-de-cologne. The word ‘tazza’ puzzled us, but we found it was a term for a cup shaped like a saucer with a fancy base-like foot; and ‘bibelots’ were small trinkets and oddments. By her use of language she was an intelligent and articulate child whose misfortune it was to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

“…Two lives I had, one before my eleventh birthday, the second after it,” she said to me one winter’s day. “My mother had been ill for a long time and I knew not my father. Mother had told me he had been thrown from his horse and broken his neck on the way to wed her. All he had left her was the unborn babe in her womb.

We had lived a frugal life, as her relatives had turned her away. She called herself Mrs Wilkins but I did not know whether Wilkins was our real name or not. My mother was obviously a woman with some education but would not talk about her past, but taught me my letters when I was very young. She studied the magic of herbs and could cure most ailments with her brews

CHAPTER ELEVEN

TOWER HILL- HELL ON EARTH -

THIS NOTORIOUS venue beside the Tower of London has long since lost its gory attraction but no passing of years nor deluge of rain can wash from Tower Hill the bloody stain upon this piece of ground. For

nearly three hundred years this was London’s premier site of death in the city. The lucky ones were beheaded, the rest were not so fortunate.

An execution within the walls of the Tower of London was a private affair with a few select spectators present but to be put to death on Tower Hill, now renamed Trinity Gardens, was altogether different: it was public entertainment. An execution could draw crowds of thousands, some of whom still have not left the scene. For all those upon the scaffold All Hallows church was the last sight they saw before the pain began. As slowly, the blade carved through

All Hallows Church from the site of the scaffold on Tower Hill, London

CHAPTER TWELVE

SAINT PAUL’S CATHEDRAL- SARAH WILKES’ MIRACLE -

WITH THIS WORK I do feel an obligation to make use of my gifts in these old places of past human suffering, like Tower Hill but pure curiosity led me from that hellish place to seek the hallowed

sanctity inside one of our great temples of Heaven. A short distance upriver from Tower Hill is Saint Paul’s Cathedral. During World War Two when bombs rained down upon the city of London, few people expected Saint Paul’s to survive the Blitz but each sunrise it remained, while all around was flattened to rubble and fire. ‘Miracle, miracle! God has protected it!’ said the clergy. Its preservation truly was extraordinary for this cathedral had rarely experienced good fortune from above. Disaster has visited Saint Paul’s with frightening regularity. This is the third cathedral to have been built on the site.

In 1667 it received its consecration in a solemn ceremony which coincided with a time of national thanksgiving for peace in Europe. Since that day Saint Paul’s Cathedral was adopted by the armed forces, and some celebrated warriors have been laid to rest in its vaults alongside others who are remembered for sacrificing their life during battles old and recent, on land, sea and air; and from countries who have come to the aid of Britain in her times of need. This has brought a dignity to Saint Paul’s which has eclipsed the sin-soiled reputation of its past.

Even though the sky-scraping steel and glass towers of commerce now dwarf Christopher Wren’s masterpiece, it still is impressive. Different to its predecessors insofar as there is no giant spire but a ball and lantern crowning the famous dome; the façade is built on Classical lines with columns and a frieze like a temple. Rising on either side are twin ornamental towers and standing between them is the proud but be-pigeoned figure of Saint Paul gazing open mouthed over the fume-filled streets of London. Inside, its interior is awesome; its overwhelming heights glitter like a jewel box created for a gargantuan god. Vast decorated arches, great rings and crescent shapes traverse the ceilings high above; breathtaking mosaics of glass cube and gold paint are beaded onto surface and embellished with colour. Some have described its effect as gaudy but it certainly is a riot of artistic effort. Depicted on the ceilings is an army of angels, some carrying swords others carrying lances, or trumpets and scrolls;

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

MARBLE ARCH- TYBURN TREE -

FOR A GHOST there cannot be a worse fate than to end up haunting the old Tyburn Gallows in West London. The former site of public execution is now Marble Arch, one of the busiest, noisiest places on

earth; there is no ceasing of traffic flow by night and day.The gallows site is marked only by a memorial plaque on a traffic island

almost lost amongst the vast surrounding cityscape. Below ground there is a warren of concrete subways filled most days with sleeping bundles of homeless humanity attracted to the dry underworld. Buckets and caps stand open and ready for any loose change a passer-by might care to donate. The precise location of the huge triangular gallows is not certain but historians think it stood near to where the arch now stands. In 1759 it was removed to make way for a turnpike gatehouse after which moving gallows were erected. Various sites have been suggested such as 49, Connaught Square and a house in Upper Bryanston Street where, in the year 1873, a large brickwork pillar and socket were discovered. Another possible site is Connaught Place where piles

Marble Arch, London

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

ALL SAINTS GODSHILL- THE MAGIC STONES MYSTERY -

THE FAMOUS ISLE OF WIGHT village of Godshill is as mysterious as it is picturesque. The village sits at the heart of the island, its pretty cottages and gardens captivate the imagination of all who visit; with

olde worlde charm and legendary tales of magic moving stones and fairies. In the parish church of All Saints visitors and residents alike have seen a misty shape drift across the nave and vanish through the wall. Some people believe it is the ghost of one-eyed Sir Richard Worsley whose restless soul seeks the memorial his wife should have given him, but neglected so to do.

All Saints church stands perched on the summit of the small hill that rises from the centre of the village. Clustered round it are some of the parish’s oldest buildings which in ensemble create a picture postcard scene of perfection. The church dates to Norman times when it was owned by the monastery of Lyre in France, though all that remains of this original is a single stone capital to mark their conquest of the island and the coming of Norman monks. Historians believe the church stands upon the site of a religious shrine from the island’s

All Saints Church, Godshill, Isle of Wight

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

THE HARE & HOUNDS- JUST DESSERTS IN HELL’S KITCHEN -

THE MANAGER of one of the island’s best pub restaurants contacted me to go and remove the angry presence in his kitchen. He said if I was successful and his new chef was persuaded to stay, then he would

let me choose whatever I wanted from the menu, for free. It seemed a good deal. I have never sought to make money from these gifts, for I have feared losing them if I did. Sometimes the payment is a free meal in a great restaurant. The manager explained that chefs and kitchen staff rarely stayed long in his employment because of a ghostly presence in the kitchen. Some days it was hell in there; things flying through the air, objects thrown. Most believed it was the ghost of Michael Morey airing his grievance that his skull had become a bar room object d’art; and the gibbet beam on which he was hanged in chains in 1737 for murder was pinpricked with postcard mementoes of happy times in far away places. ‘Wish You Were Here’s’ which Michael didn’t find amusing, and so took it out in the kitchens where sharp knives were always to be found.

Every day of every year the Hare & Hounds Inn is busy with people, locals

The fabulous Hare & Hounds Inn, Isle of Wight