Ghosts at Christmas (3 page)

The Theatre Royal in Bath is said to be the most haunted theatre in Britain. This beautiful Georgian theatre was built over 200 years ago and is home to a phantom butterfly that flutters around the theatre during performances at Christmas.

The first sighting was around 1948, when a new production was being performed. The dancers in the show were all dressed as butterflies and were doing a ballet number when all of a sudden a butterfly appeared from nowhere and fluttered about the stage, much to the joy and surprise of the audience. Over the years the phantom butterfly has appeared on countless occasions during productions and shows, fluttering around the theatre and then simply disappearing. The butterfly has become something of a good luck charm and is said to appear before certain productions, indicating the show will be a great success.

The theatre is also home to two other ghosts. A lady in a grey dress is said to walk the halls and passageways of the theatre after she killed herself in the 1880s, after discovering that her husband had killed her lover, and the ghost of a doorman in eighteenth-century garb is often seen. No one knows who he is.

Not much is left of Bramber Castle. In fact, apart from infinitesimal traces of the curtain wall in the north-east area of the location, the wall of the gatehouse tower is the only segment of the castle that survives. Rising almost 75ft in height, it stands alone in a secluded beauty spot, surrounded by forest and grassland, not far from the village of Bramber. The word Bramber derives from the Saxon word
Brymmburh
, meaning fortified hill.

The castle was built to safeguard the large port that was situated on the River Adur and continued to do so until the castle was attacked and subsequently destroyed by the Parliamentary forces. William De Breone or Braose owned it during the reign of King John and, after William fell from the king’s favour, John ordered that William’s children should be taken from him and held captive
at Windsor Castle. When William heard that King John’s men were on their way he quickly fled to Ireland with his family, in the hope of a peaceful life, but it was not to be. They were soon captured and returned to Windsor Castle and, as punishment to William (and an effort to deter anyone else from betraying the monarch), the king imprisoned William’s four children and starved them to death.

Of course, local legend claims that the area surrounding the castle and the village is haunted, and it is believed that it is the wretched ghosts of William’s children that haunt the area. They are said to be sad and gaunt-looking as they scramble around the place in search of bread. On Christmas Day they have also been spotted begging for food, although why they appear to beg on 25 December nobody knows.

Devil Dogs or Phantom Hounds are said to roam the country from John O’Groats to Land’s End. Wherever you are in the UK (or abroad for that matter), you can be rest assured that there is a traditional local name for the hell hound that frequents the area. In Scotland ghost dogs are known as the Muckle Black Tyke. In Wales they are Gwyllgi (meaning dog of darkness). In the Midlands the black dog ghost is known as the Hooter, and in Yorkshire it is a Barguest. In Staffordshire it is known locally as Padfoot, while in East Anglia (more specifically Norfolk) it is Black Shuck, or Old Shuck.

In the nineteenth century, a blacksmith by the name of John Carter made the decision to depart from his London home and move to Carlisle, where he had the chance of much better-paid employment with a job that also had good prospects. The chance to better his own life and that of his wife seemed too good to miss, but it was a decision he would later come to regret. The Carter family arrived in Carlisle on Christmas Eve and rented a coach to take them to the nearby village, where they would live. They were hoping to be settled into their new home in time for Yuletide. As the coach, driven by a rather well-dressed gentleman, took off through the countryside, John Carter noticed how incredibly foggy it was becoming.

The fog came in thick and fast, but this didn’t seem to bother the driver, who appeared to have a preference for riding at breakneck speed. At one point the carriage almost careered off the road as it manoeuvred round a sharp corner, but still the coachman used his whip to drive the horse on ever faster. Carter, very much alarmed at this point, shouted for the driver to slow down.

‘Nay, sire! I daren’t! Should I slow the coach now a bad thing will befall us, and no mistake!’

Carter, however, kept shouting at the driver, insisting that he go slower and, eventually, the man agreed, but told the blacksmith that the result would be upon his own head.

Not long after the coach had slowed down, Carter was horror-struck to see a terrible dog-like creature racing alongside the carriage. It was a large, black dog with ‘evil, glowing eyes and a lolling tongue’. Every now and then the hound would rear up on its hind legs and paw at the carriage, as if trying to get inside.

‘Go faster! Go faster!’ cried the terrified blacksmith, as his wife shrieked with fear.

‘Do you see now, sire? Do you see why I did not want to slow down the carriage?’

John Carter could see all too clearly and now fully understood. Now, instead of going slower, he begged the coachman to speed up as much as he could.

Mile after mile the carriage thundered through the Cumbrian countryside and the thick, nauseating fog. On occasions, the spectral dog – for that’s what it was – would fall behind, but only moments later it would, to their horror, catch up again. Eventually the coach approached a river and the driver attempted to guide it over a narrow bridge. Alas, the coach was too wide and became stuck on the bridge, causing the driver to shout, ‘Now we’re done!’ Without hesitation, the howling, slobbering dog began to paw at the carriage door with such strength that it was only a matter of time before it shattered. In desperation, the coach driver cracked his whip at the beast, causing it to fall from the bridge into the frozen river.

The coachman, blacksmith and his wife watched in relief, as the demonic spectre was washed away in the ice-cold current. Eventually the coach was freed from the narrow bridge and continued on its journey. Neither Carter nor his wife ever went near that bridge again, in case they should encounter the ‘hound
from hell’ once more. The driver told the blacksmith and his wife that the phantom dog had roamed the area for generations, and that locals were so frightened of it they were forbidden to mention the beast in public. That was why he set off on the journey with such tremendous speed.

Tales of eerie dogs with glowing eyes are very common indeed, and there are more
bona fide
accounts of phantom black dogs than you may think. Of course, it’s easy to take them all with a pinch of salt, but, who knows, Hooter, Black Shuck, Padfoot, Barguest, whatever he is called, he may be waiting for you, my friend, the next time you decide to venture out on a dark winter’s night.

William T. Stead’s
Real Ghost Stories
(1891) tells the fascinating story of a north-eastern man who was so desperate to see his pictures, which were taken at a photography shop on Grainger Street in Newcastle-upon-Tyne, that he actually went and attempted to pick them up. That doesn’t sound so strange does it? But, he seemingly went to the store and asked for his pictures while he was lying on his death bed 7 miles away! Let me explain …

The story begins on one bitterly cold afternoon in December 1890. Some versions suggest it was on 6 December, while others that it was 16 December. Whatever the actual date, we can be sure that the event occurred during the run up to the Christmas of 1890.

A certain Mr J.T. Thompson arrived at the shop on Grainger Street to have his picture taken by the local and renowned
photographer James Dickinson. Dickinson suggested that, as he was not busy at that moment, Thompson could sit for his photograph there and then, as opposed to arranging another time slot for the sitting.

Thompson was led into the photography studio, promptly shown to his seat, and a selection of six photographs were taken. After the sitting, Thompson left the shop to all intents and purposes a satisfied man. He had chosen one photograph that he liked and had subsequently placed his order.

A few weeks later, on 3 January 1891, James Dickinson arrived at his shop to open for business. It was his first day back after the Christmas and New Year break and he was eager to get started. An employee of Dickinson had telephoned him earlier to explain that he was ill and unable to attend work, resulting in Dickinson arriving at his store one hour earlier than he would have usually done. Had he turned up at his normal time of 9 a.m. instead of 8 a.m., he would have missed his chance of being a key witness in one of Victorian England’s most bewildering ghost encounters.

As Dickinson was preparing for the day to come, a young man entered the shop. ‘Good morning,’ he said. ‘I have come to see if my photograph is ready.’

‘Good morning, sir,’ replied Dickinson, ‘and your name is?’

‘Thompson, J.T. Thompson.’

‘And what is your address?’ asked Dickinson.

‘William Street, Hebburn, Tyne and Wear.’

Dickinson asked the man if he could see his receipt, to which Thompson replied he did not have it with him. However, Thompson had enough identification papers with him to satisfactorily prove to the photographer that he was who he said
he was. Dickinson then asked Thompson if he could come back in a few hours, when his assistant would be in, as he was extremely busy. Thompson replied in the most strange way, saying, ‘Look, I have been travelling all night to get here and I cannot come back.’

Thompson looked wretchedly ill and very tired to say the least; because of this, Dickinson decided to offer him a compromise. But, before Dickinson had a chance to say anything, Thompson had turned around and stormed off.

‘Can I post the picture to you?’ Dickinson asked the man as he left the shop, but he received no answer. Thompson left the shop, slamming the door behind him, and disappeared into Grainger Street. Dickinson decided that he had better do something to appease the man in order to keep his custom. A good customer is a happy customer, so they say, so Dickinson decided that he should post out Thompson’s photograph to his house, without charge for the postage or his picture.

When his other assistant, Miss Simon, arrived for work, Dickinson told her what had occurred and asked her to dig out
Thompson’s ordered photograph and pop it in the post. Miss Simon was puzzled. She explained to Dickinson that an elderly man had visited the shop yesterday (which was the Friday) and had asked about the same photograph. She went on to tell this gentleman that, due to the adverse weather conditions, they were three weeks behind with their work and his pictures would not be ready for another week or so.

Dickinson was now puzzled. If someone had been in on Friday querying the picture, then why would someone else, presumably another family member, be calling in the following day? One would have presumed the elder of the two, who came in first, would have told the other one that the picture was not ready.

Regardless, Dickinson now thought to himself that it was about time this man had his photograph so he set about this task as his main priority. He asked his assistant who was printing Thompson’s order, to which she replied no one was. She pointed to a pile of negatives that had been sitting on the table for almost two weeks and said that Thompson’s picture was in amongst them.

Upon checking the negative, Dickinson was sure that the man in the picture was the same chap who had been in the shop that morning. Although the man had been wearing a top hat and coat when he had called, neither of which he’d worn when the photograph was taken, Dickinson had no difficulty in recognising that it was the same person.

Two days later, Dickinson was in his studio working hard and had still not found the time to complete Thompson’s picture. He decided to get this order out of the way first, and made his way down to the shop to retrieve the negative. Much to his dismay, he could not find it and asked Miss Simon to retrieve it from wherever she had placed it last. Miss Simon eventually found a batch of negatives which contained Thompson’s picture, but, upon collecting them and passing them all to Dickinson, she managed to somehow drop the plates all over the floor.

Every negative plate survived the mishap bar one – yes, you’ve guessed it, Thompson’s plate. Out of a huge collection of glass
plates Thompson’s picture was the only one to be destroyed. The glass negative had broken in two, straight across the sitter’s head. Dickinson asked Miss Simon to write to Mr Thompson and request that he come in for another sitting. ‘And make sure to tell him that we’ll recompense him for his time and trouble,’ he added. (Bear in mind that another five pictures of Thompson were in existence at this time, but it was the one good picture that Thompson had wanted that was smashed. A second sitting was now the only option.)

A few days later, Dickinson was again working in his studio, when he heard his assistant call for him. She announced that a gentleman had arrived to see him about the broken plate. Thinking it was J.T. Thompson, he asked his assistant to send him up to the studio at once for his resit. His assistant’s voice was heard yelling up the stairs once more, ‘You don’t understand, sir. Mr Thompson is dead.’

Dickinson hurried down the stairs into the main shop to be greeted by the elderly chap who had called at the shop the previous Friday. It was Thompson’s father. He confirmed that his son, J.T. Thompson, had recently died at home of an illness. Dickinson commented upon the fact that the illness must have come on very quick and severe, as he only saw him in the shop last week. Thompson’s father replied by saying that he couldn’t possibly have seen him last week because at the time his son was at home, bedridden and at death’s door. In fact, he died on the Saturday afternoon.