The circumstances I am about to relate to you have truth to recommend them.
They happened to myself, and my recollection of them is as vivid as if they had
taken place only yesterday Twenty years, however, have gone by since that night.
During those twenty years I have told the story to but one other person. I tell
it now with a reluctance which I find it difficult to overcome. All I entreat,
meanwhile, is that you will abstain from forcing your own conclusions upon me. I
want nothing explained away I desire no arguments. My mind on this subject is
quite made up, and, having the testimony of my own senses to rely upon, I prefer
to abide by it.
Well! It was just twenty years ago, and within a day or two of the end of
the grouse season. I had been out all day with my gun, and had no sport to
speak of. The wind was due east; the month, December; the place, a bleak wide
moor in the far north of England. And I had lost my way It was not a pleasant
place in which to lose one’s way, with the first feathery flakes of a coming
snowstorm just fluttering down upon the heather, and the leaden evening closing
in all around. I shaded my eyes with my hand, and stared anxiously into the
gathering darkness, where the purple moorland melted into a range of low hills,
some ten or twelve miles distant. Not the faintest smoke-wreath, not the tiniest
cultivated patch, or fence, or sheep-track, met my eyes in any direction. There
was nothing for it but to walk on, and take my chance of finding what shelter I
could, by the way So I shouldered my gun again, and pushed wearily forward; for
I had been on foot since an hour after daybreak, and had eaten nothing since
breakfast.

Meanwhile, the snow began to come down with ominous steadiness, and the wind
fell. After this, the cold became more intense, and the night came rapidly up.
As for me, my prospects darkened with the darkening sky, and my heart grew heavy
as I thought how my young wife was already watching for me through the window of
our little inn parlour, and thought of all the suffering in store for her
throughout this weary night. We had been married four months, and, having spent
our autumn in the Highlands, were now lodging in a remote little village
situated just on the verge of the great English moorlands. We were very much in
love, and, of course, very happy This morning, when we parted, she had implored
me to return before dusk, and I had promised her that I would. What would I not
have given to have kept my word!
Even now, weary as I was, I felt that with a supper, an hour’s rest, and a
guide, I might still get back to her before midnight, if only guide and shelter
could be found.
And all this time, the snow fell and the night thickened. 1 stopped and
shouted every now and then, but my shouts seemed only to make the silence
deeper. Then a vague sense of uneasiness came upon me, and I began to remember
stories of travellers who had walked on and on in the falling snow until,
wearied out, they were fain to lie down and sleep their lives away Would it be
possible, I asked myself, to keep on thus through all the long dark night? Would
there not come a time when my limbs must fail, and my resolution give way? When
I, too, must sleep the sleep of death. Death! I shuddered. How hard to die just
now, when life lay all so bright before me! How hard for my darling, whose whole
loving heart but that thought was not to be borne! To banish it, I shouted
again, louder and longer, and then listened eagerly. Was my shout answered, or
did I only fancy that I heard a far-off cry? I halloed again, and again the echo
followed. Then a wavering speck of light came suddenly out of the dark,
shifting, disappearing, growing momentarily nearer and brighter. Running towards
it at full speed, I found myself, to my great joy, face to face with an old man
and a lantern.
‘Thank God!’ was the exclamation that burst involuntarily from my lips.
Blinking and frowning, he lifted his lantern and peered into my face.
‘What for?’ growled he, sulkily.
‘Well-for you. I began to fear I should be lost in the snow.
‘Eh, then, folks do get cast away hereabout fra’ time to time, an’ what’s to
hinder you from bein’ cast away likewise, if the Lord’s so minded?’
‘If the Lord is so minded that you and I shall be lost together, friend, we
must submit,’ I replied; ‘but I don’t mean to be lost without you. How far am I
now from Dwolding?’
A gude twenty mile, more or less.’ And the nearest village?’
‘The nearest village is Wyke, an’ that’s twelve mile t’other side.’
‘Where do you live, then?’
‘Out yonder,’ said he, with a vague jerk of the lantern.
‘You’re going home, I presume?’
‘Maybe I am.’
‘Then I’m going with you.’
The old man shook his head, and rubbed his nose reflectively with the handle
of the lantern.
‘It ain’t o’ no use,’ growled he. ‘He ‘ont let you in-not he.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ I replied, briskly. ‘Who is He?’
‘The master.’
‘Who is the master?’
‘That’s nowt to you,’ was the unceremonious reply.
‘Well, well; you lead the way, and I’ll engage that the master shall give me
shelter and a supper tonight.’
‘Eh, you can try him!’ muttered my reluctant guide; and, still shaking his
head, he hobbled, gnome-like, away through the falling snow A large mass loomed
up presently out of the darkness, and a huge dog rushed out, barking furiously.
‘Is this the house?’ I asked.
‘Ay, it’s the house. Down, Bey!’ And he fumbled in his pocket for the key.
I drew up close behind him, prepared to lose no chance of entrance, and saw
in the little circle of light shed by the lantern that the door was heavily
studded with iron nails, like the door of a prison. In another minute he had
turned the key and I had pushed past him into the house.
Once inside, I looked round with curiosity, and found myself in a great
raftered hall, which served, apparently, a variety of uses. One end was piled to
the roof with corn, like a barn. The other was stored with floursacks,
agricultural implements, casks, and all kinds of miscellaneous lumber; while
from the beams overhead hung rows of hams, flitches, and bunches of dried herbs
for winter use. In the centre of the floor stood some huge object gauntly
dressed in a dingy wrapping-cloth, and reaching half way to the rafters. Lifting
a corner of this cloth, I saw, to my surprise, a telescope of very considerable
size, mounted on a rude movable platform, with four small wheels. The tube was
made of painted wood, bound round with bands of metal rudely fashioned; the
speculum, so far as I could estimate its size in the dim light, measured at
least fifteen inches in diameter. While I was yet examining the instrument; and
asking myself whether it was not the work of some self-taught optician, a bell
rang sharply.
‘That’s for you,’ said my guide, with a malicious grin. ‘Yonder’s his room.
He pointed to a low black door at the opposite side of the hall. I crossed
over, rapped somewhat loudly, and went in, without waiting for an invitation. A
huge, white-haired old man rose from a table covered with books and papers, and
confronted me sternly
‘Who are you?’ said he. ‘How came you here? What do you want?’
‘James Murray, barrister-at-law On foot across the moor. Meat, drink, and
sleep.’
He bent his bushy brows into a portentous frown.
‘Mine is not a house of entertainment,’ he said, haughtily. ‘Jacob, how
dared you admit this stranger?’
‘I didn’t admit him,’ grumbled the old man. ‘He followed me over the muir,
and shouldered his way in before me. I’m no match for six foot two.’
‘And pray, sir, by what right have you forced an entrance into my house?’
‘The same by which I should have clung to your boat, if I were drowning. The
right of self-preservation.’
‘Self-preservation?’
‘There’s an inch of snow on the ground already,’ I replied, briefly; ‘and it
would be deep enough to cover my body before daybreak.’
He strode to the window, pulled aside a heavy black curtain, and looked out.
‘It is true,’ he said. ‘You can stay, if you choose, till morning. Jacob,
serve the supper.’
With this he waved me to a seat, resumed his own, and became at once
absorbed in the studies from which I had disturbed him.
I placed my gun in a corner, drew a chair to the hearth, and examined my
quarters at leisure. Smaller and less incongruous in its arrangements than the
hall, this room contained, nevertheless, much to awaken my curiosity. The floor
was carpetless. The whitewashed walls were in parts scrawled over with strange
diagrams, and in others covered with shelves crowded with philosophical
instruments, the uses of many of which were unknown to me. On one side of the
fireplace, stood a bookcase filled with dingy folios; on the other, a small
organ, fantastically decorated with painted carvings of medieval saints and
devils. Through the half-opened door of a cupboard at the further end of the
room, I saw a long array of geological specimens, surgical preparations,
crucibles, retorts, and jars of chemicals; while on the mantelshelf beside me,
amid a number of small objects, stood a model of the solar system, a small
galvanic battery, and a microscope. Every chair had its burden. Every corner was
heaped high with books. The very floor was littered over with maps, casts,
papers, tracings, and learned lumber of all conceivable kinds.
I stared about me with an amazement increased by every fresh object upon
which my eyes chanced to rest. So strange a room I had never seen yet seemed it
stranger still, to find such a room in a lone farmhouse amid those wild and
solitary moors! Over and over again, I looked from my host to his surroundings,
and from his surroundings back to my host, asking myself who and what he could
be? His head was singularly fine; but it was more the head of a poet than of a
philosopher. Broad in the temples, prominent over the eyes, and clothed with a
rough profusion of
perfectly white hair, it had all the ideality and much of the ruggedness
that characterises the head of Louis von Beethoven. There were the same deep
lines about the mouth, and the same stern furrows in the brow There was the same
concentration of expression. While I was yet observing him, the door opened, and
Jacob brought in the supper. His master then closed his book, rose, and with
more courtesy of manner than he had yet shown, invited me to the table.
A dish of ham and eggs, a loaf of brown bread, and a bottle of admirable
sherry, were placed before me.
‘I have but the homeliest farmhouse fare to offer you, sir,’ said my
entertainer. ‘Your appetite, I trust, will make up for the deficiencies of our
larder.’
I had already fallen upon the viands, and now protested, with the enthusiasm
of a starving sportsman, that I had never eaten anything so delicious.
He bowed stiffly, and sat down to his own supper, which consisted,
primitively, of a jug of milk and a basin of porridge. We ate in silence, and,
when we had done, Jacob removed the tray. I then drew my chair back to the
fireside. My host, somewhat to my surprise, did the same, and turning abruptly
towards me, said:
‘Sir, I have lived here in strict retirement for three-and-twenty years.
During that time, I have not seen as many strange faces, and I have not read a
single newspaper. You are the first stranger who has crossed my threshold for
more than four years. Will you favour me with a few words of information
respecting that outer world from which I have parted company so long?’
‘Pray interrogate me,’ I replied. ‘I am heartily at your service.’
He bent his head in acknowledgment, leaned forward, with his elbows resting
on his knees and his chin supported in the palms of his hands; stared fixedly
into the fire; and proceeded to question me.
His inquiries related chiefly to scientific matters, with the later progress
of which, as applied to the practical purposes of life, he was almost wholly
unacquainted. No student of science myself, I replied as well as my slight
information permitted; but the task was far from easy, and I was much relieved
when, passing from interrogation to discussion, he began pouring forth his own
conclusions upon the facts which I had been attempting to place before him. He
talked, and I listened spellbound. He talked till I believe he almost forgot my
presence, and only thought aloud. I had never heard anything like it then; I
have never heard anything like it since. Familiar with all systems of all
philosophies, subtle in analysis, bold in generalisation, he poured forth his
thoughts in an uninterrupted stream, and, still leaning forward in the same
moody attitude with his eyes fixed upon the fire, wandered from topic to topic,
from speculation to speculation, like an inspired dreamer. From practical
science to mental philosophy; from electricity in the wire to electricity in the
nerve; from Watts to Mesmer, from Mesmer to Reichenbach, from Reichenbach to
Swedenborg, Spinoza, Condillac, Descartes, Berkeley, Aristotle, Plato, and the
Magi and mystics of the East, were transitions which, however bewildering in
their variety and scope, seemed easy and harmonious upon his lips as sequences
in music. 13y-and-by-I forget now by what link of conjecture or illustration-he
passed on to that field which lies beyond the boundary line of even conjectural
philosophy, and reaches no man knows whither. He spoke of the soul and its
aspirations; of the spirit and its powers; of second sight; of prophecy; of
those phenomena which, under the names of ghosts, spectres, and supernatural
appearances, have been denied by the sceptics and attested by the credulous, of
all ages.
‘The world,’ he said, ‘grows hourly more and more sceptical of all that lies
beyond its own narrow radius; and our men of science foster the fatal tendency.
They condemn as fable all that resists experiment. They reject as false all that
cannot be brought to the test of the laboratory or the dissecting-room. Against
what superstition have they waged so long and obstinate a war, as against the
belief in apparitions? And yet what superstition has maintained its hold upon
the minds of men so long and so firmly? Show me any fact in physics, in history,
in archeology, which is supported by testimony so wide and so various. Attested
by all races of men, in all ages, and in all climates, by the soberest sages of
antiquity, by the rudest savage of today, by the Christian, the Pagan, the
Pantheist, the Materialist, this phenomenon is treated as a nursery tale by the
philosophers of our century. Circumstantial evidence weighs with them as a
feather in the balance. The comparison of causes with effects, however valuable
in physical science, is put aside as worthless and unreliable. The evidence of
competent witnesses, however conclusive in a court of justice, counts for
nothing. He who pauses before he pronounces, is condemned as a trifler. He who
believes, is a dreamer or a fool.’
He spoke with bitterness, and, having said thus, relapsed for some minutes
into silence. Presently he raised his head from his hands, and added, with an
altered voice and manner,
‘I, sir, paused, investigated, believed, and was not ashamed to state my
convictions to the world. I, too, was branded as a visionary, held up to
ridicule by my contemporaries, and hooted from that field of science in which I
had laboured with honour during all the best years of my life. These things
happened just three-and-twenty years ago. Since then, I
have lived as you see me living now, and the world has forgotten me, as I
have forgotten the world. You have my history.’
‘It is a very sad one,’ I murmured, scarcely knowing what to answer.
‘It is a very, common one,’ he replied. ‘I have only suffered for the truth,
as many a better and wiser man has suffered before me.
He rose, as if desirous of ending the conversation, and went over to the
window
‘It has ceased snowing,’ he observed, as he dropped the curtain, and came
back to the fireside.
‘Ceased!’ I exclaimed, starting eagerly to my feet. ‘Oh, if it were only
possible-but no! it is hopeless. Even if I could find my way across the moor, I
could not walk twenty miles tonight.’
‘Walk twenty miles tonight!’ repeated my host. ‘What are you thinking of?’
‘Of my wife,’ I replied, impatiently. ‘Of my young wife, who does not know
that I have lost my way, and who is at this moment breaking her heart with
suspense and terror.’
‘Where is she?’
At Dwolding, twenty miles away.’
‘At Dwolding,’ he echoed, thoughtfully. ‘Yes, the distance, it is true, is
twenty miles; but-are you so very anxious to save the next six or eight hours?’
‘So very, very anxious, that I would give ten guineas at this moment for a
guide and a horse.’
‘Your wish can be gratified at a less costly rate,’ said he, smiling. ‘The
night mail from the north, which changes horses at Dwolding, passes within five
miles of this spot, and will be due at a certain cross-road in about an hour and
a quarter. If Jacob were to go with you across the moor, and put you into the
old coach-road, you could find your way, I suppose, to where it joins the new
one?’
‘Easily-gladly.’
He smiled again, rang the bell, gave the old servant his directions, and,
taking a bottle of whisky and a wineglass from the cupboard in which he kept his
chemicals, said:
‘The snow lies deep, and it will be difficult walking tonight on the moor. A
glass of usquebaugh before you start?’
I would have declined the spirit, but he pressed it on me, and I drank it.
It went down my throat like liquid flame, and almost took my breath away.
‘It is strong,’ he said; ‘but it will help to keep out the cold. And now you
have no moments to spare. Good night!’
I thanked him for his hospitality, and would have shaken hands, but that he
had turned away before I could finish my sentence. In another minute I had
traversed the hall, Jacob had locked the outer door behind me, and we were out
on the wide white moor.
Although the wind had fallen, it was still bitterly cold. Not a star
glimmered in the black vault overhead Not a sound, save the rapid crunching of
the snow beneath our feet, disturbed the heavy stillness of the night. Jacob,
not too well pleased With his mission, shambled on before in sullen silence, his
lantern in h~5 hand, and his shadow at his feet. I followed, with my gun over my
shoulder, as little inclined for conversation as himself. My thoughts were full
of my late host. His voice yet rang in my ears. His eloquence yet held my
imagination captive. I remember to this day, with surprise, how my over-excited
brain retained whole sentences and parts of sentences, troops of brilliant
images, and fragments of splendid reasoning, in the very words in which he had
uttered them. Musing thus over what I had heard, and striving to recall a lost
link here and there, I strode on at the heels of my guide, absorbed and
unobservant. Presently-at the end, as it seemed to me, of only a few minutes-he
came to a sudden halt, and said:
‘Yon’s your road. Keep the stone fence to your right hand, and you can’t
fail of the way.
‘This, then, is the old coach-road?’ Ay, ’tis the old coach-road.’
‘And how far do I go, before I reach the cross-roads?’ ‘Nigh upon three
mile.’
I pulled out my purse, and he became more communicative.
The roads a fair road enough,’ said he, ‘for foot passengers; but ’twas over
steep and narrow for the northern traffic. You’ll mind where the parapets broken
away, close again the sign-post It’s never been mended since the accident,’
‘What accident?’
‘Eh, the night mail pitched right over into the valley below-a gude fifty
feet an’ more-just at the worst bit o’ road in the whole county.’
Horrible! Were many lives lost?’
‘All. Four were found dead, and t’other two died next morning.’
‘How long is it since this happened?’
‘Just nine year.’
‘Near the sign-post, you say? I will bear it in mind. Good night.’
‘Gude night, sir, and thankee.’ Jacob pocketed his half-crown, made a faint
pretence of touching his hat, and trudged back by the way he had come.
I watched the light of his lantern till it quite disappeared, and then
turned to pursue my way alone. This was no longer matter of the slightest
difficulty, for, despite the dead darkness overhead, the line of stone fence
showed distinctly enough against the pale gleam of the snow How silent it seemed
now, with only my footsteps to listen to; how silent and how solitary! A strange
disagreeable sense of loneliness stole over me. I walked faster. I hummed a
fragment of a tune. I cast up enormous sums in my head, and accumulated them at
compound interest. I did my best, in short, to forget the startling speculations
to which I had but just been listening, and, to some extent, I succeeded.
Meanwhile the night air seemed to become colder and colder, and though I
walked fast I found it impossible to keep myself warm. My feet were like ice. I
lost sensation in my hands, and grasped my gun mechanically I even breathed with
difficulty, as though, instead of traversing a quiet north country highway, I
were scaling the uppermost heights of some gigantic Alp. This last symptom
became presently so distressing, that I was forced to stop for a few minutes,
and lean against the stone fence. As I did so, I chanced to look back up the
road, and there, to my infinite relief, I saw a distant point of light, like the
gleam of an approaching lantern. I at first concluded that Jacob had retraced
his steps and followed me; but even as the conjecture presented itself, a second
light flashed into sight-a light evidently parallel with the first, and
approaching at the same rate of motion. It needed no second thought to show me
that these must be the carriage-lamps of some private vehicle, though it seemed
strange that any private vehicle should take a road professedly disused and
dangerous.
There could be no doubt, however, of the fact, for the lamps grew larger and
brighter every moment, and I even fancied I could already see the dark outline
of the carriage between them. It was coming up very fast, and quite noiselessly,
the snow being nearly a foot deep under the wheels.
And now the body of the vehicle became distinctly visible behind the lamps.
It looked strangely lofty. A sudden suspicion flashed upon me. Was it possible
that I had passed the cross-roads in the dark without observing the sign-post,
and could this be the very coach which I had come to meet?
No need to ask myself that question a second time, for here it came round
the bend of the road, guard and driver, one outside passenger, and four steaming
greys, all wrapped in a soft haze of light, through which the lamps blazed out,
like a pair of fiery meteors.
I jumped forward, waved my hat, and shouted. The mail came down at full
speed, and passed me. For a moment I feared that I had not been seen or heard,
but it was only for a moment. The coachman pulled up; the guard, muffled to the
eyes in capes and comforters, and apparently sound asleep in the rumble, neither
answered my hail nor made the slightest effort to dismount; the outside
passenger did not even turn his head. I opened the door for myself, and looked
in. There were but three travellers inside, so I stepped in, shut the door,
slipped into the vacant corner and congratulated myself on my good fortune.
The atmosphere of the coach seemed, if possible, colder than that of the
outer air, and was pervaded by a singularly damp and disagreeable smell. I
looked round at my fellow-passengers. They were all three, men, and all silent.
They did not seem to be asleep, but each leaned back in his corner of the
vehicle, as if absorbed in his own reflections. I attempted to open a
conversation.
‘How intensely cold it is tonight,’ I said, addressing my opposite
neighbour.
He lifted his head, looked at me, but made no reply.
‘The winter,’ I added, ‘seems to have begun in earnest.’
Although the corner, in which he sat was so dim that I could distinguish
none of his features very clearly, I saw that his eyes were still turned full
upon me. And yet he answered never a word.
At any other time I should have felt, and perhaps expressed, some annoyance,
but at the moment I felt too ill to do either. The icy coldness of the night air
had struck a chill to my very marrow, and the strange smell inside the coach was
affecting me with an intolerable nausea. I shivered from head to foot, and,
turning to my left-hand neighbour, asked if he had any objection to an open
window?
He neither spoke nor stirred.
I repeated the question somewhat more loudly, but with the same result. Then
I lost patience, and let the sash down. As I did so the leather strap broke in
my hand’, and I observed that the glass was covered with a thick coat of mildew,
the accumulation, apparently, of years. My attention being thus drawn to the
condition of the coach, I examined it more narrowly, and saw by the uncertain
light of the outer lamps that it was in [he last stage of dilapidation. Every
part of it was not only out of repair, but in a condition of decay. The sashes
splintered at a touch. The leather fittings were crusted over with mould, and
literally rotting from the woodwork. The floor was almost breaking away beneath
my feet. The whole machine, in short, was foul with damp, and had evidently been
dragged from some outhouse in which it had been mouldering away for years, to do
another day or two of duty on the road.
I turned to the third passenger, whom I had not yet addressed, and hazarded
one more remark.
‘This coach,’ I said, ‘is in a deplorable condition. The regular mail, I
suppose, is under repair?’
He moved his head slowly, and looked me in the face, without speaking a
word. I shall never forget that look while I live. I turned cold at heart under
it. I turn cold at heart even now when I recall it. His eyes glowed with a fiery
unnatural lustre. His face was livid as the face of a corpse. His bloodless lips
were drawn back as if in the agony of death, and showed the gleaming teeth
between.
The words that I was about to utter died upon my lips, and a strange
horror-a dreadful horror-came upon me. My sight had by this time become used to
the gloom of the coach, and I could see with tolerable distinctness. I turned to
my opposite neighbour. He, too, was looking at me, with the same startling
pallor in his face, and the same stony glitter in his eyes. I passed my hand
across my brow I turned to the passenger on the seat beside my own, and saw-oh
Heaven! how shall I describe what I saw? I saw that he was no living man-that
none of them were living, men, like myself! A pale phosphorescent light-the
light of putrefaction-played upon their awful faces; upon their hair, dank with
the dews of the grave; upon their clothes, earth-stained and dropping to pieces;
upon their hands, which were as the hands of corpses long buried. Only their
eyes, their terrible eyes, were living; and those eyes were all turned
menacingly upon me!
A shriek of terror, a wild unintelligible cry for help and mercy, burst from
my lips as I flung myself against the door, and strove in vain to open it.
In that single instant, brief and vivid as a landscape beheld in the flash
of summer lightning, I saw the moon shining down through a rift of stormy
cloud-the ghastly sign-post rearing its warning finger by the wayside-the broken
parapet-the plunging horses-the black gulf below Then, the coach reeled like a
ship at sea. Then, came a mighty crash-a sense of crushing pain-and then,
darkness.

It seemed as if years had gone by when I awoke one morning from a deep
sleep, and found my wife watching by my bedside. I will pass over the’ scene
that ensued, and give you, in half a dozen words, the tale she told me with
tears of thanksgiving. I had fallen over a precipice, close against the junction
of the old coach-road and the new, and had only been saved from certain death by
lighting upon a deep snowdrift that had accumulated at the foot of the rock
beneath. In this snowdrift I was discovered at daybreak, by a couple of
shepherds, who carried me to the nearest shelter, and brought a surgeon to my
aid. The surgeon found me in a state of raving delirium, with a broken arm and a
compound fracture of the skull. The letters in my pocket-book showed my name and
address; my wife was summoned to nurse me; and, thanks to youth and a fine
constitution, I came out of danger at last. The place of my fall, I need
scarcely say, was precisely that at which a frightful accident had happened to
the north mail nine years before.
I never told my wife the fearful events which I have just related to you. I
told the surgeon who attended me; but he treated the whole adventure as a mere
dream born of the fever in my brain. We discussed the question over and over
again, until we found that we could discuss it with temper no longer, and then
we dropped it. Others may form what conclusions they please-I know that twenty
years ago I was the fourth inside passenger in that Phantom Coach.

Source : classichorrorstories

Fannie Poteet sat cross-legged on her Uncle John’s front porch; her favorite rag doll clutched under one arm. The late afternoon sun shone through the leaves of the giant oak tree, casting its flickering light on the cabin. This golden motion of light entranced the child and she sat with her face turned upward, as if hypnotized. The steady hum of conversation flowed from inside of the cabin.

“Ellen, I’m sure happy that you came to church with us today. Why don’t you spend the night? It’s getting awfully late and it will be dark before you make it home.”

“I’ll be fine Sally,” replied Fannie’s mother. “Anyhow, you know how Lige is about his supper. I left plenty for him and the boys on the back of the stove, but he’ll want Fannie and me home. Besides, he’ll want to hear if Sam Bosworth’s wife managed to drag him into church.”

The laughter that followed her mother’s statement broke the child’s musings and she stood up, pulled her dress over the protruding petticoat, and stepped inside.

“Get your shawl Fannie. When the sun goes down, it’ll get chilly.”

As the little girl went to the chair by the fireplace to retrieve her wrap, her uncle came in from the back with a lantern.

“You’ll need this Ellen. The wick is new and I’ve filled it up for you.”

“I appreciate it Johnny,” Ellen said. “I’ll have Lige bring it back when he goes to town next week.”

Ellen kissed her younger brother good-bye and hugged Sally gently. Patting her sister-in-law on her swollen belly, she said,” I’ll be back at the end of the month. Don’t be lifting anything heavy. If that queasy feeling keeps bothering you, brew some of that mint tea I left in the kitchen. Lord knows I’ve never seen a baby keep its mammy so sick as much as this one has. It’s a boy for sure.”

Upon hearing this, Fannie frowned. She was the youngest in her family, and the only girl. After living with four brothers, she had prayed fervently to God every night for Him to let her aunt have a girl. The only other comfort she had was the pretty rag doll that her mother had made for her. Tucking the doll under her left arm and gathering the shawl with the same hand, she stood waiting patiently. Aunt Sally kissed her lightly on the cheek and squeezed Fannie gently. “If I have a girl, I hope that she will be as sweet as you,” her aunt whispered. Uncle John patted her on the head and said, “Bye Punkin. When that old momma cat has her kittens, I’ll give you the pick of the litter.”

This brought a smile to Fannie’s face and swept away the darkening thoughts of boys.

Ellen secured her own shawl about her shoulders and tossing one side around and over again, picked up the lantern, which had already been lit. Taking Fannie’s right hand, the pair proceeded on the three-mile trek back home. Heavy rains during the last week had left the dirt road virtually impassable for anyone on foot. Ellen and her daughter would return home the way they had come, by following the railroad track. The track was about one half mile above the road. It wound and wound around the mountains and through the valleys carrying the coal and lumber, which had been harvested from the land. Once on the track, they proceeded in the direction of their own home. Ellen began to tell Fannie about the trains and all of the distant places they went to. The little girl loved hearing her mother’s stories of all the big cities far away. She had been to town only a few times and had never traveled outside of Wise County. Fannie remembered her papa talking about his brother Jack.

Uncle Jack had left the county, as well as the state of Virginia. He was in a faraway place called Cuba, fighting for a man called Roosevelt. She wondered what kind of place Cuba was, and if it was anything like home.

The sun’s last rays were sinking behind the tree-studded mountains. Shadows rose ominously from the dense woods on both sides of the track. Rustling sounds from the brush caused Fannie to jump, but her mother’s soothing voice calmed her fears.

“It’s all right Child; just foxes and possums.”

A hoot owl’s mournful cry floated out of the encroaching darkness and Fannie tightened her grip on her mother’s hand.

Finally, night enveloped the landscape, and all that could be seen was the warm glow of the lantern and the shadow of the figures behind it. It was a moonless night, and the faint glow of a few stars faded in between the moving clouds. Fannie tripped over the chunks of gravel scattered between the ties and Ellen realized that her daughter was tired.

“We’ll rest awhile child. My guess is that we have less than a mile to go.”

Ellen set the lantern down and the weary travelers attempted to get comfortable sitting on the rail.

“Mammy, it’s so scary in the dark. Will God watch over us and protect us?”

“Yes, Fannie. Remember what that new young preacher said in church today. The Good Lord is always with you, and when you need His strength, call out His name. Better still, do what I do.”

“What’s that mammy?”

“Well,” Ellen said, stroking her daughter’s hair,” I sing one of my favorite hymns.”

While contemplating her mother’s advice, Fannie was distracted by a sound. The sound came from the direction they had traveled from, and the girl’s eyes peered into the ink like darkness. It was very faint, but unlike the other noises she had grown used to along the way. The slow methodic sound was someone walking, and coming in their direction.

“Mammy, do you hear that?”

“Hear what child?”

Fannie moved closer to her mother and said, “It’s somebody else coming!”

Ellen gave her daughter a comforting hug and replied,” You’re just imagining things Fannie. We’ve rested enough. Let’s get on home. Your papa will be worried.”

Ellen picked up the lantern, took Fannie’s hand, and the two resumed their journey. After a while, the sound that had unnerved the little girl began again. This time the steps were more distinct, and definitely closer. The distant ringing of heavy boots echoed in the dark.

“Mammy, I hear it again!”

“Hush child.”

Ellen swung the lantern around.

“See, there’s nothing there.”

Fannie secured the grip on her mother’s hand and clutched her rag doll tightly. The hoot owl continued its call in the distance, and the night breeze rustled the leaves in the trees.

“The air sure smells like rain,” said Ellen. “The wind is picking up a mite too. We’ll be home soon, little girl. Yonder is the last bend.”

Fannie found comfort in her mother’s voice, but in the darkness behind them, the steps rang louder. It was the sound of boots, heavy hobnail boots.

“Mammy, it’s getting closer!”

Ellen swung the lantern around again and said, “Child, there’s nothing out there. Tell you what; let’s sing “Precious Lord”.

Fannie joined in with her mother, but her voice quivered with fear as the heavy steps came closer and closer. She couldn’t understand why her mother seemed oblivious to the sound.

Ellen’s singing grew louder, and up ahead the warm glow of light from their own home glimmered down the side and through the trees. A dog barking in the distance brought the singing to an abrupt end.

“See child, we’re almost home. Tinker will be running up to meet us. Big old Tinker. He’s chased mountain lions before. He’ll see us safely home.”

“Let’s hurry then Mammy. Can’t you hear? It’s closer and I’m scared. Let’s run!”

“All right child, but see, I’m telling you there’s nothing there.”

Ellen made another sweep around with the lantern and as they proceeded she cried out, “Here Tinker! Come on boy!”

The dog raced up the path leading to the track and the two nearly collided with him as they stepped down on the familiar trail to home.

“Ellen, is that you?”

Fannie’s heart filled with joy as her father’s voice rang out of the darkness.

“Yes Lige. I’m sorry we’re so late. I’m afraid I walked a bit fast for this child. She’s worn out.”

Elijah picked up his daughter and carried her the rest of the way home. Once inside of the cabin, Ellen helped Fannie undress and gently tucked her in bed.

The comforting sounds of her parents’ voices drifted from the kitchen. Even the snores of her brothers in the back made her smile and be thankful that she and her mother were safe and sound. Before closing her eyes, her mother’s voice rang in her ears.

“Lige, I heard the steps. I didn’t want to frighten the child. I kept singing and swinging the lantern around and telling her there was nothing to be afraid of. But Lige, just before we got off the tracks, I turned the lantern around one last time. That’s when I saw what was following us. I saw the figure of a man. A man without a head!”

Source : eastoftheweb

The chateau into which my valet had ventured to make forcible entrance, rather than permit me, in my desperately wounded condition, to pass a night in the open air, was one of those piles of commingled gloom and grandeur which have so long frowned among the Appennines, not less in fact than in the fancy of Mrs. Radcliffe. To all appearance it had been temporarily and very lately abandoned. We established ourselves in one of the smallest and least sumptuously furnished apartments. It lay in a remote turret of the building. Its decorations were rich, yet tattered and antique. Its walls were hung with tapestry and bedecked with manifold and multiform armorial trophies, together with an unusually great number of very spirited modern paintings in frames of rich golden arabesque. In these paintings, which depended from the walls not only in their main surfaces, but in very many nooks which the bizarre architecture of the chateau rendered necessary- in these paintings my incipient delirium, perhaps, had caused me to take deep interest; so that I bade Pedro to close the heavy shutters of the room- since it was already night- to light the tongues of a tall candelabrum which stood by the head of my bed- and to throw open far and wide the fringed curtains of black velvet which enveloped the bed itself. I wished all this done that I might resign myself, if not to sleep, at least alternately to the contemplation of these pictures, and the perusal of a small volume which had been found upon the pillow, and which purported to criticise and describe them.

Long – long I read – and devoutly, devotedly I gazed. Rapidly and gloriously the hours flew by and the deep midnight came. The position of the candelabrum displeased me, and outreaching my hand with difficulty, rather than disturb my slumbering valet, I placed it so as to throw its rays more fully upon the book.

But the action produced an effect altogether unanticipated. The rays of the numerous candles (for there were many) now fell within a niche of the room which had hitherto been thrown into deep shade by one of the bed-posts. I thus saw in vivid light a picture all unnoticed before. It was the portrait of a young girl just ripening into womanhood. I glanced at the painting hurriedly, and then closed my eyes. Why I did this was not at first apparent even to my own perception. But while my lids remained thus shut, I ran over in my mind my reason for so shutting them. It was an impulsive movement to gain time for thought- to make sure that my vision had not deceived me- to calm and subdue my fancy for a more sober and more certain gaze. In a very few moments I again looked fixedly at the painting.

That I now saw aright I could not and would not doubt; for the first flashing of the candles upon that canvas had seemed to dissipate the dreamy stupor which was stealing over my senses, and to startle me at once into waking life.

The portrait, I have already said, was that of a young girl. It was a mere head and shoulders, done in what is technically termed a vignette manner; much in the style of the favorite heads of Sully. The arms, the bosom, and even the ends of the radiant hair melted imperceptibly into the vague yet deep shadow which formed the back-ground of the whole. The frame was oval, richly gilded and filigreed in Moresque. As a thing of art nothing could be more admirable than the painting itself. But it could have been neither the execution of the work, nor the immortal beauty of the countenance, which had so suddenly and so vehemently moved me. Least of all, could it have been that my fancy, shaken from its half slumber, had mistaken the head for that of a living person. I saw at once that the peculiarities of the design, of the vignetting, and of the frame, must have instantly dispelled such idea- must have prevented even its momentary entertainment. Thinking earnestly upon these points, I remained, for an hour perhaps, half sitting, half reclining, with my vision riveted upon the portrait. At length, satisfied with the true secret of its effect, I fell back within the bed. I had found the spell of the picture in an absolute life-likeliness of expression, which, at first startling, finally confounded, subdued, and appalled me. With deep and reverent awe I replaced the candelabrum in its former position. The cause of my deep agitation being thus shut from view, I sought eagerly the volume which discussed the paintings and their histories. Turning to the number which designated the oval portrait, I there read the vague and quaint words which follow:

“She was a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee. And evil was the hour when she saw, and loved, and wedded the painter. He, passionate, studious, austere, and having already a bride in his Art; she a maiden of rarest beauty, and not more lovely than full of glee; all light and smiles, and frolicsome as the young fawn; loving and cherishing all things; hating only the Art which was her rival; dreading only the pallet and brushes and other untoward instruments which deprived her of the countenance of her lover. It was thus a terrible thing for this lady to hear the painter speak of his desire to pourtray even his young bride. But she was humble and obedient, and sat meekly for many weeks in the dark, high turret-chamber where the light dripped upon the pale canvas only from overhead. But he, the painter, took glory in his work, which went on from hour to hour, and from day to day. And be was a passionate, and wild, and moody man, who became lost in reveries; so that he would not see that the light which fell so ghastly in that lone turret withered the health and the spirits of his bride, who pined visibly to all but him. Yet she smiled on and still on, uncomplainingly, because she saw that the painter (who had high renown) took a fervid and burning pleasure in his task, and wrought day and night to depict her who so loved him, yet who grew daily more dispirited and weak. And in sooth some who beheld the portrait spoke of its resemblance in low words, as of a mighty marvel, and a proof not less of the power of the painter than of his deep love for her whom he depicted so surpassingly well. But at length, as the labor drew nearer to its conclusion, there were admitted none into the turret; for the painter had grown wild with the ardor of his work, and turned his eyes from canvas merely, even to regard the countenance of his wife. And he would not see that the tints which he spread upon the canvas were drawn from the cheeks of her who sate beside him. And when many weeks bad passed, and but little remained to do, save one brush upon the mouth and one tint upon the eye, the spirit of the lady again flickered up as the flame within the socket of the lamp. And then the brush was given, and then the tint was placed; and, for one moment, the painter stood entranced before the work which he had wrought; but in the next, while he yet gazed, he grew tremulous and very pallid, and aghast, and crying with a loud voice, ‘This is indeed Life itself!’ turned suddenly to regard his beloved:- She was dead!

Source : eastoftheweb

Visitors to the city usually take in Charles Bridge as their first port of call. The bridge is lined with the stone statues of saints, making tourists feel that they are being watched as they make their way to the other side. But according to local legend, one of these saints wasn’t dead at the time he was changed into a statue. The story goes that in the 14th Century, St. John of Nepomuk had just taken confession from Queen Johanna, King Wenceslas’s IV’s wife. When the saint refused to divulge to the king exactly what was confessed, the king had the priest tortured before he was thrown off the bridge and left to die. His ghost is said to have walked the bridge for 300 years, until the 17th century, when it was frozen and placed into a statue. Touching the statue is said to keep any secret safe and secure.

Although St. John’s ghost no longer haunts the bridge, people familiar with the story are extremely wary of crossing the area at midnight, for the ghosts of ten lords, executed in the Middle Ages, are said to appear singing sad songs, possibly aiming to scare anybody away from the bridge if they happen to be in the vicinity around midnight. A water goblin is also said to haunt the area under the bridge. This entity has a terrifying propensity towards eating the souls of those who jump off the bridge and those that drown in the Vlatva River.

Prague Castle is the city’s most popular tourist attraction. It was once the home of Emperor Charles IV and his four wives in the 1600’s, and is still occupied to this day. The Castle is like a labyrinth connecting several buildings, cathedrals and courtyards. The crypts in the castle are still open today for those willing to venture into the deep, dark, and dusty lower levels where the ghosts of the wives are said to argue amongst themselves during the night.

Not far away from Prague Castle is the Old Royal Castle, where two Catholic governors were thrown out of a high window to fall to their deaths in 1618 by a Protestant leader. This incident sparked off the Thirty Years War. The angry ghosts of the governors are said to haunt the area, seeking vengeance for the offences committed against them.

Josefov, the former Jewish Ghetto area of Prague, and where the great writer Franz Kafka once lived, is reputed to be haunted by the ghosts of Rabbi Loew and the Golem of Prague. In the early 16th Century, when the Jews incurred a notorious reputation for murdering Christian children, Rabbi Loew decided to create the Golem – the so-called “Jewish Frankenstein” – a figure moulded from the clay of the Vltava River, to help save the Jewish population. Rabbi Loew bought the figure to life by reciting Hebrew incantations, and then let the figure loose into the local community. The Golem grew bigger and bigger, until finally the Emperor pleaded with the Rabbi to destroy him. However, the Rabbi was reluctant to do so, as it had saved the Jews from many attacks. Instead, he placed the figurine in the attic of the New World Synagogue where it still stands. Loew forbade anybody from ever going into the attic, and even the Nazis could not penetrate this area of the Synagogue.

Strahov Monastery has two picturesque gothic towers that dominate the city skyline. It is also said to be haunted. The ghost is reported to be that of a poor woman who resided in the area around the time of the plague. As her children died, one after the other, from the pestilence, she used what few coins she had to ring the chapel bells. When she died, the bells continued to ring out, and on dark, moonless nights a hymn dedicated to Mary is said to be heard long after everyone has left the chapel.

Prague offers some walking ‘Ghost Tours’ of its haunted attractions. It is the perfect place for some haunting weekends. Among the scary stuff on offer are evening tours under the cover of darkness to tourists looking for ghostly sightings, or just wanting to experience the somewhat spooky history of Prague. These tours concentrate on Prague’s most haunted area of the Old Town. You will wander through the streets and narrow alleyways learning all about the mythical and ghostly beings that are said to haunt the city. The Old Town is thought to date back to the 11th century and has many ancient churches and buildings in the location. Many residents and tour guides will be able to regale you with various spooky stories about the ghosts that are said to wander through the haunted places of this beautiful Eastern Europe city

If you ever take a trip to Prague, you will probably feel some kind of spiritual force as you travel through its quaint gothic streets. Some people might say that there is a very good reason that Prague is almost always depicted as a city of baddies in action movies – the city has a mysterious and extremely violent past, and they do say that some things never change!

Over the years, there have been many reports of all kinds of ghostly sightings and other paranormal phenomena. With its narrow streets and alleyways, not to mention its fascinating crypts and cellars – many of which are situated beneath popular shops, pubs and restaurants – Chester can certainly offer a compelling record of well-documented ghosts, hauntings, apparitions, spooks and poltergeists from almost every century across two thousand years.

Below are just some of the places in Chester that are said to harbour various ghosts and poltergeists:

1. Thornton’s Chocolate Shop, Eastgate Street – Three ghosts are said to haunt this shop: a poltergeist known as “Sarah,” who was jilted on her wedding day, and is the best known spirit in Chester. She is said to move objects and shove people when they are on the stairs; the ghost of a large jovial-looking man dressed in an apron, who has been seen in various parts of the building; and finally, the third paranormal entity is described as an “insubstantial, almost invisible, male spirit.”

2. W.H. Samuel’s, Foregate Street – This jeweller’s store is reputed to be haunted by a ghost called “George.” Staff working there have experienced many strange things, which they attribute to this entity known as George.

3. Watergates Crypt, Watergate Street – The ghost of a long dead seaman is said to roam around this wine bar.

4. Watergate Row – The ghost of a faceless cowled monk has been seen here by a mother and daughter living in an old house there.

5. Ye Olde King’s Head, Lower Bridge Street – A spectral child is said to haunt this old pub, in particular bedroom no. 4.

6. Bookland, Bridge Street – This popular bookstore is said to be haunted by the ghost of a Victorian apprentice boy, who fell on stone steps at the back of the medieval crypt. The boy’s spirit has also been experienced upstairs in the tea room.

7. Boot Inn, Eastgate Row North – This was once Chester’s most notorious brothel. It is claimed by staff and customers that ghostly female moans and laughter occasionally resonate through the pub.

8. The Bingo Hall, Brook Street – An entity known as “Old George” is said to walk this building. Inexplicable thumps and crashes have been heard up in the attic, and a shape in a tweed jacket has been seen on the balcony, but vanishes when approached by anybody.

9. The Pied Bull, Northgate Street – Said to be one of the most haunted pubs in Britain, The Pied Bull was the subject of an investigation by the TV show Whines and Spirits, which is presented by Most Haunted’s Karl Beattie and Stuart Torevell. Ghosts are said to haunt the 12 rooms, and the pub’s cellar is said to be spookiest place, with staff refusing to even venture down there!

10. 13 Watergate Street – A typical example of a poltergeist haunting. Brushes, cards, kettles and glass vases all move by themselves, phenomena that has been experienced by various customers.

(Hi Webmaster…. Here is a Genuine untouched photograph taken in 1959 or 1960 with a true story to go with it. I have researched steam fishing (trawling) from Scarborough and the last one to sail from there was in 1954……interesting if not spooky.

This story begins a half century ago in an English east coast fishing town, where, set back from a high cliff edge and almost lost among so many others, there is a small private hotel. It is a late August evening.

The panoramic view from the cliff edge should include the beach, the old town, a crowded harbour and the bay beyond, but is instead the upper surface of a dense cloud from which only the topmasts of boats and the tallest of the town’s chimneys protrude. The view upwards is of a large darkening sky.

But we forget; in the centre of our picture is the town’s lighthouse, its broad base is lost in the fog, but its lantern can be seen clear enough and the light cast from it; a narrow beam moving from left to right over the silent bay; a guiding light intended to reach out over the dark water for a helmsman to steer by. Now it is skimming over the surface of the fog, but is of no real consequence. It is redundant. Its job is done. All the fishing boats are back; safely secured to the quayside and to each other; some head to head and overlapping; others bound side by side, as if in inseparable friendship.

They have evocative names, these brave and cared for vessels, behind which lie unspoken aspirations or dreams; Bountiful … Our Nancy … Friendship … Patricia Dee … Two Sisters … ; And as the last of their engines stops, a contented silence falls, to distort time and distance.

A solitary seabird; a Fulmar, skims past in silence and on stiff wings towards an invisible roosting ledge beneath the castle walls and to a grumbled welcome from its partner.

With this, the last of the towns’ fishermen is safe ashore; and in the silences between the long mournful growls from the foghorn, the sound of footsteps and laughter can be heard floating up from the narrow streets and from the open doors of the town’s many taverns and low waves can be heard lapping against some distant obstacle and breaking softly onto broad wide sands, where only a few hours ago, children, and lovers, splashed barefoot and carefree on the restless margin between land and sea.

An idyllic scene; but look there; far out in the bay, or where the bay might be if it were visible. No not so far out, but far enough; there is a light of sorts, a dim glow in the fog. Could it be another boat, its lights dimmed and diffused by the fog.

We must wait for the next passing of the beam to see if there is a tell-tale mast.

Here it comes …

Yes; there is something. There, in line with the far headland. But there is no mast, or light, only a dark space as perfectly round as a whirlpool; a deep pool in which only a darkened and silent vessel could hide.

The light has passed and we must fix our gaze once more on the spot and wait, with patience for the light to make another sweep. And when it does, there is nothing, only the slow, almost indiscernible, rippling of the fog.

The next day

In the morning the fret is lying some many miles distance out to sea. Burned back from the thankful shore by the summer sun. Early risers are taking advantage of an almost deserted beach and just offshore a crab boat is making its way from marker to marker. And, in the sunlit dining room of our hotel, nine guests have finished breakfast and are about to go their separate ways.

A studious man who sits alone and is in his later years, will shoulder a canvas bag and tramp down the coast in search of semi precious stones; Cornelians.

A young art student, who is here with his friend, will make his way down to the harbour, clutching his sketchbook and easel, to make a drawing or two of the picturesque fishing boats. There is a cash prize offered by the art school for the best work done over the summer holiday.

His friend, who is sitting at the same table; he will pay his respects to his Grand-mama who now lives alone in retirement not so far away. And he will convey love to her from his Papa and Mama.

The two girls, who sit with perfect deportment at a table set in the middle of the room, will – according to their two plainly dressed, elegant guardians ‘… attend to their studies in the for-noon; only venturing onto the beach in the warmth of the afternoon, where, if they do well in their studies, they might take part in the day’s sand castle building competition. The two young men might assist if should they find themselves free.

For the young men, not so long out of ordinary school, it was more instruction than request.

As for the young couple who sit eyes to eyes in the bay window and hold hands under the table … they will do ‘nothing really’ and be contented.

In the Old Harbour

There is a vessel lying close by the lighthouse, but hidden from common view by the sturdy stone wall of the old harbour. She is a treat for any artist’s eye; an old steam fisherman and all her gear is seized like stone; even the levers, cylinders, con-rods and gearing of her huge steam winch look as if they had not moved in years. And the windows of her tall wheelhouse; they are so caked with salt spray, neither curiosity or sunlight could begin to penetrate them. She is a derelict that has lain here for months if not years; an old trawler out of place and out of time, time that has covered it from stem to stern in rust of every colour, with barely a fleck of paint remaining.

The best view is looking back almost straight at the wheelhouse from the boats fore deck. It is a view against the light, which is not good. But there is an area of deep shade cast from the lighthouse, and it is here, on the slanting deck, that our artist sets up his easel. And with his back to the base of the foremast he opens his sketchbook and begins his drawing.

It is quite cool here in the shade and our artist is thankful to have the use of a new waterproof jacket. It is not really new; only new to him; given, or to be more accurate, impressed on him by the landlady of his ‘diggings’; it had belonged to her dear late husband. He too enjoyed drawing and passing time hanging around the harbour and watching the comings and goings of the many boats. He had brought it back from a jumble sale, or similar, at the fishermen’s mission. He was always bringing things back from there; bits of maritime bric-a-brac and sea stories told to him by retired fishermen who, with their bodies ruined by work at sea, now have little or nothing better to do.

She had known it would suit the young man and that it would fit him perfectly; and it did, and as it was windproof and waterproof, and looked quite like a leather jacket, he was pleased to accept it. Its only fault was that it was grey, a colour that belonged to the past; like this old boat.

The age of steam fishing had ended long ago, during world war two, and this old vessel was built long before that, probably before world war one, and as far as could be seen she had not been updated since; with all her fittings still of iron based metal or tarnished bronze. And one, no doubt, with tales to tell of terrifying high seas, lost fishing gear, ice, encounters with enemy ships, mines, dive bombers and U-boats.

There are huge enamelled lanterns, slung between the fore-mast and the wheelhouse, which once afforded light for the men to work, gutting and cleaning and packing their catch. They have gas mantels, fed via long rubber tubes from somewhere unseen behind the wheelhouse.

It is when our artist is drawing those interesting lamps, there reflectors, and the long taught wire that holds them, with great care; his artists eye darting between them and the paper, constantly judging each curved shape in relation to the next and against the straight wheelhouse with its blank windows, when, and in a moment, all that he has drawn is suddenly totally wrong.

The lamps have moved; the one that was just a moment ago close over his head, is in that instant out of his view, even outboard of the ships side and is swinging back wildly threatening to break loose from its wire and strike him over his head. A fire bucket breaks loose from somewhere unseen and rattles across the after deck;

Our terrified artist cowers; his head bowed; his arms crossed over his head. His easel, his book, his drawing and his pencil fly to who knows where.

The rusty hulk has come alive and is rolling back and forth to the sounds of squelching, scraping and groaning. Terrifying sounds only brought to an eventual end by a fearful shudder that travels from stem to stern and back again; and back again; and back again; and with each successive shock flakes of rust from somewhere high up on the foremast, shower down like confetti.

It has held its pose for long enough against the pressure and has resolved to float on the rising tide.

Our artist, unsteady on the moving deck, recovers his easel, and his drawing, and sits back where he was under the mast. Here to catch his breath and continue his drawing, but the sun is burning straight into his eyes. He can’t see a thing. As for his drawing; it’s not quite as he wished it to be, it is short of some detail, like the builder’s plate that should reveal the vessel’s name, but his only pencil is lost to time among the rusty cables and chains.

It is time to call it a day; to leave the old hulk alone with its imagined memories; to find a stationers, or an art shop, and then a milk bar for a hot coffee. He can always come back tomorrow.

He buys a new pencil, and at the milk bar the young artist hangs up his ‘new’ jacket on the hat and coat stand, props his easel in the space intended for umbrellas, and between sips of reviving frothy espresso he reviews his drawing; It is not at all bad, with areas that surprise him. Could he really draw like this, and this well? If only he’d had a little more time.

He looks at his watch. The sun will have moved around by now. And there’s a little over an hour before he has to meet up with his friend, the two schoolmarm types and those ‘posh’ girls. There is easily time to bob back to the harbour.

But when he gets there, the old hulk has gone. He looks everywhere, and then stands for some time gazing in disbelief at the vacant berth, asking himself how it could be possible for the hulk to have been towed away in such a short time and without leaving a single trace. But it had happened. And on the way back to the Hotel, via the milk bar, he makes a small detour to a spot where he can see for thirty miles or more straight out to sea; and many miles to the north and the south. There is a cloud far out on the horizon, probably the fog bank of last night far; lots of small boats inshore; The Coronia pleasure craft about half a mile out to sea and between her and the fog bank there is nothing.

There is no steam trawler to be seen. But close by, on the crowded beach he can see his art school friend; and close by him and on a collision course, the ladies in their long dark cover-up clothes; and next to them, two straw boaters with the girls underneath. He turns and runs the few yards to the hotel; drops his easel and his sketch book in the lobby, and runs, clutching his coat, down the winding path to arrive on the beach and by his friend’s side; just in time.

A surprise

The girls turn out to be great companions; interesting and dammed good looking to boot, making the afternoon unexpectedly full of pleasant diversions and the sand castles the four build together are splendid. One has a high tower with a room at the very top to represent a chapel; it has a single window that looks out over the sea; the other has the deepest moat that beach has ever seen and impregnable fortifications. Both are, of course, built to the girls’ instructions and are a real hit.

The girl’s protective guardians are happy too, and after a little pleading allow their ‘presumed’ fragile charges to ride on the donkeys … ‘as long as they don’t go too fast and the young men stay in close attendance.

The donkey ride is a true spectacle, the proprietor admitting, with great pride that none of his patrons in over 40 years had looked so serene or as beautiful. He had selected his two best donkeys. And later the girls are allowed to walk back to the hotel in the care of the two young men.

It is a walk with its own pleasant surprise, for when catching their breath at a secluded rose garden, cut into the cliff, the charm of their charges overcomes the young men’s half knowledge that the girls are too young, or too posh, or something else far less tangible, to kiss.

Time passes

The fog returns that evening and the next and the next; and the days between are warm and sunny; and each morning the hotel proprietor enquires as to the activities of the day:

The fossil hunter guy is to add to his hoard of tiny semi precious stones.

The young men will do their own thing … hanging around the harbour and exploring in the mornings, and as they quite like the girl’s now they will entertain them in the afternoons; not always under the close eye of the ‘eagles’.

And the ‘Smiths? They will do their ‘… nothing really’ and be content to have little or nothing tangible to show for it. And they will miss the odd breakfast.

Time passes

The young artist has temporarily forgotten ‘the case of the disappearing ship’: and then he sees it again and this time he is with his friend. It is the last evening of their holiday and they are on a late evening ‘sun down cruise’

There is dancing to live music on the Coronia’s boat deck and two local girls to dance with. Their little ship has stopped beam on to the shore, so all aboard can admire the sunset over the castle and the town.

It is supposed to be romantic, but the company is wrong, so it isn’t, and the two excuse themselves from their partners, duck through the engine room, where they stop for a little while to admire the immaculate engines, then go back on deck.

They are on the seaward side and the old fishing boat is lying as still as still between them and the horizon; illuminated orange in the sunset. There are no lights; no men on deck or visible in the wheelhouse; no whisper of exhaust steam or shimmer of heat from her stack and not a trace of a wake from beneath her counter stern, or evidence of an anchor.

The artist and his friend know it is impossible to photograph such things; others have tried or have faked them and been ridiculed. True the photographs will be poor, if they ‘come out’ at all as the light is all but gone; there will be ‘loads of camera shake’, even though their ship’s engines are the smoothest running straight sixes ever built. And their ship is rolling a little in the swell.

The two friends agree; there is ‘no chance, but with the luck they had enjoyed over the last few days … still worth a try’; he selects B for Bulb, and holds open the shutter; then he winds the film onto the next frame and presses again, this time holding it open a little longer.

And when the film ‘comes back’ from processing there is no print; everything else has come out beautifully … including those of the two girls riding on the donkeys and the one of ‘his’ girl in which she looks ‘like a film star’.

It would be years later when our artist uncovers the negatives.

The holiday is over

In the morning the young men, unused to packing, are late for breakfast and miss wishing a last goodbye to their ‘girls’. But it does not matter; no goodbye spoken in the light of day could follow the unforgetable of the previous evening. And in the lobby and about to leave; our artist collects the easel he had abandoned on that first day and recovers his sketch book from underneath the hall table.

Embarassed by a little dust the landlady takes it from him and disappears. She is away a little while; and the young artist, concerned, leaves his friend to guard their bags to find her sitting at a table; his sketch book open in front of her; her figures tenderly caressing the exposed surface of the paper. It is as if she is newly blind and attempting for the very first time to read the code. But there is no impression of any kind, only soft pencil marks on paper.

She is startled, and after exchanged polite embarrassed apologies; she explains: ‘… the drawing is exactly like one that her dear, late, husband once made … it had been years ago now … the young man must have found the same old photograph in the town library … he was often there on rainy days, researching this or that …’.

The artist says nothing. And in her own time, and without another word being spoken, the dear lady passes him his sketchbook.

In the afternoon there is a change of occupants and that same evening the town is once more inundated by that shallow fog; only the topmasts of fishing boats and the tallest of the town’s chimneys protrude into a darkening sky, and when the last engine in the harbour is shut down silence returns.

Low waves can be heard lapping softly onto the wide sands, and if you were to listen really carefully you might hear embedded in that gentle lapping, the sea’s recorded memories: The sound of footsteps splashing on that eternal restless margin between land and sea; the rattle of a steam winch; the calling out of prices bid for this catch of fish, or that. And other memories; the laughter of the young and carefree: the weeping of the careless and the love of those unwillingly apart in life, but welded together for eternity.

And out in the bay there are diffused glowing lights; now here and now there; electrical discharges within the fog that dance across the bay, from crab pot marker flag to crab pot marker flag. It is St. Elmo’s fire. And far out at sea; where the sky might meet the sea, a silent storm is lighting up the eastern sky.

Thirty Years Later

Our artist returns to stand on the same cliff top. while his dear wife pays her respects to her Aunt who lives in retirement nearby.

The view includes a beach bathed in sunlight and full of holiday makers; the mostly very young are running in and out of the sea and pretending to be frightened by the tiny waves; others, not quite so young are playing ball games, or walking hand in hand on the margin between land and sea, while adults are supervising or baking in the sun. There are donkeys giving rides to children and here and there, there are castles made real in sand.

A passenger vessel sounds three blasts on its horn and emerges stern first from the harbour; its deck full of tippers with delighted faces. This brave vessel served at Dunkirk and was once named The Regal Lady, she is now Coronia 2. It turns its head towards the horizon, wallowing in its own wake; its single engine on standby, while a speed boat roars past, then, with a burst of power, it moves out across the bay, turns towards the north and is lost to view behind the castle headland.

He returns his eyes to the beach and among all the colour sees two darkly dressed ladies; They are sitting alone next to one of few open spaces as if they are reserving it for someone. There is something compelling about them, and he goes down onto the sands to seek them out. They are reading while being guardians of two magnificent sand castles. one has a tall tower with a single window set high up overlooking the sea, the other has huge strong fortifications and the deepest moat he has seen in thirty years.

And at the donkey rides, the one with the larger animals, there is huge excitement and two beautiful girls riding side by side.

Old houses and ancient, crumbling castles are not the only places where ghosts have been reported. Over the years, there have also been many cases of spirits haunting major department stores, and even corner shops.

As Webmaster of this site, I personally can relate some quite spooky incidents where apparent ghostly activity has been experienced in a shop. A few years ago, my mum worked in a confectioners in Birkenhead. With it being a very old shop, it was said to have a resident ghost. My mum soon found out that the stories were true.

One day, when she was serving in the shop, two old ladies came in, and they walked up to the end of the counter to look at the cakes on display. My mum was at the other end at the till. On top of the counter was a large straw tray, which was used to display packets of batches. As the other assistant was taking hot pasties out of the oven, my mum had just finished serving a customer and was putting the money into the till when suddenly, without any visible cause whatsoever, the tray got lifted up off the counter and thrown at her shoulder. The tray then crashed to the floor and all the packets of batches fell onto the floor. The two old ladies that were in the shop looked on in utter shock and disbelief, and declared that it wasn’t them as they were standing at the other end of the shop. Furthermore, my mum’s work colleague said that she too had witnessed what had happened, and shook her head in disbelief also. My mum had no explanation for this strange incident, but it was just one of many more incidents she experienced in the shop, including serviettes flying around in the air after they had all been neatly put in the window, crisp packets getting dropped on the floor on their own, and different items mysteriously going missing.

One of the most creepy incidents in this cake shop happened to the manageress, who told the story to my mum. She used to go to the shop early in the morning to prepare everything for the opening at nine o’clock. As she was putting the trays of cakes into the racks, ready to put on small trays later, she had a feeling she was being watched. She looked over her shoulder . . . and there, standing in the doorway of the shop, was a tall, handsome, young man, dressed in a boiler suit, and he just stood there, staring at her silently. Her immediate thought was that it was a customer, so she told him to hang on a minute while she finished putting the cakes into the racks. When she turned back around a few seconds later, the man had vanished. She then went cold as she realised something: how could this man possibly have entered the shop, when the door was locked? Thinking that he might have gained access through the back entry, she went out there to check, but discovered that the padlocks were all still on the door. Again, she could not explain this incident, and therefore decided that it must have been a spirit.

The Toys ‘R’ Us store in Sunnyvale, California, has a long history of being haunted by a ghost called “Johnny Johnston,” said to be a disappointed lover who bled to death after a farm accident, and store workers have reported seeing strange things happening, such as rag dolls and toy trucks leaping off shelves, balls bouncing down the aisles, children’s books falling out of racks, and baby swings moving on their own. The shop’s staff have tried to find a logical explanation for all these incidents, but just can’t. The store has been featured on the TV show That’s Incredible and other programmes. A Hollywood scriptwriter for the movie Toys spent two nights there doing research. Psychic Sylvia Browne held a seance in the store in 1978 and has since been back a few times.

An Asda store in Pwllheli is said to be haunted by the ghost of a long-haired man in a trench coat. The apparition has often been seen by staff in various parts of the store.

The Marks & Spencer store in Church Street, Liverpool, is said to be haunted by the ghost of a woman from the 1930′s called “Lulu”. This spirit often appears on the top floors of the store, and she carries a soda syphon, which she has occasionally squirted at people! The other ghost said to haunt the store is that of a man called Billy McMullen, a 22-year-old junior porter who suffered a tragic violent death at the Compton Hotel (the building that once occuped the site) in March 1877, after fooling around in the hotel’s lift.

Another Liverpool retail site which has garnered something of a reputation for ghostly activity is the old Owen Owen building, which now houses Tesco Metro. Back in the 1970′s, an Owen Owen female sales assistant saw a tall distinguished-looking gentleman dressed in Victorian clothing as she worked in an upstairs room. In another incident, a young man serving in one of the departments saw and felt a hand on his shoulder. As he turned around, he was shocked to see that the hand had no arm or body attached. A customer also witnessed this eerie apparition. When a medium visited the Owen Owen store soon after it closed, she determined that there were at least seven spirits haunting the building, all from different eras. A security guard also had a strange experience whilst working there during a refurbishment prior to occupation by another firm. He soon discovered the place was haunted when he did his rounds. On one occasion the security officer found a strange pair of scissors lying on the floor, and when he examined them, they looked blackened and quite old. He put them in his rucksack, but the next morning, when he reached home, the scissors had mysteriously vanished. The guard and some of his workmates used a the Ouija board at the haunted building one night, and a word that the men didn’t understand came through: GORSUCH. The guards laughed at the word. They didn’t know that in the 19th century, a barber named John Gorsuch had his premises on Parker Street. This would probably explain the scissors that had appeared in the building.

In Hereford, there have been quite a few retail stores where ghostly activity has been witnessed. For instance, at the Sainsbury’s store – a very modern building which, as such, would be the last place you would expect to be haunted – the ghost of an old lady has been seen many times by staff. She does a lot of waving and smiling at people. One morning, at 4am, a member of staff came in to open the store, and he saw the old lady as he was unlocking the fire exits. The old lady was standing there waving at him, her appearance so clear that the man waved back thinking it was a customer – only to suddenly realize that it was 4 am in the morning and no one was in there shopping! When the man approached the lady to ask her to leave the store, she simply disappeared into thin air. A similar story was when the manager once saw the old lady in the periphery of her vision. The manager asked her to go and do something, under the misconception that it was just a member of staff. After this, a member of staff popped her head around the corner and asked the manager who she was speaking to. The manager looked to where she saw the old lady, only to find that she had vanished. The staff who work in Sainsbury’s say that there is a presence and a feeling of being watched. However, the ghost does seem to be a nice, friendly spirit. Sainsbury’s supermarket was built on the old Barton Railway Station. In 1934, a G. V Bennett was in charge. The station was used for goods as well.

The Boots store, situated on Hereford’s High Street, has some ghost stories that are very creepy. One evening, when the shop was empty, somebody saw a dark figure in the basement. On another occasion, there were two members of staff in the building, and they witnessed the fire drill being set off by unseen hands. The store was checked immediately, but no one else was present in the building at the time of the incident. If ghostly activity is really behind these incidents, then it is not surprising as the building has been around for many years and has had different uses. In 1879 this building was two different shops: a Thomas Frederick Hawkins was a Printer and Stationer, and a Mrs. Harriet Reeves was a Watchmaker. The place was also occupied by Marks and Spencer in 1934.

The Primark store, situated on Hereford’s busy Widemarsh Street, has crowds of customers shopping there daily. But for a building that is so modern, it really is surprising to find a ghost story and so much history here. The building is known to stand on the site of where the Black Swan hotel previously was. A graveyard previously occupied the site before the Black Swan was built. The store itself is very large, and the front of the shop is said to be the oldest part. The old co-op store was previously at this part of the store, Above is the stock room and cash office, and it is in these two rooms that the ghost of a smartly dressed man has been seen wandering around on numerous occasions. The staff have christened him “Freddie,” and he has been sighted wearing a blue shirt and trousers. One member of staff who had a first hand account of the ghost was so upset and traumatised by her encounter that she left her job altogether. It is also believed that this ghostly man travels through the shops next to Primark. The Paperway shop, which is one shop down, also has a ghostly man in their shop who occasionally visits, and he is seen wearing the same clothing. The man could be from the old co-op store, as the staff uniform was blue. The dress shop one door away from Primark on the left also has a ghost of a man in the basement so it could be that the same ghost is travelling in between all three of these shops. When the site was the Black Swan hotel, it had a reputation of being one of the City’s best pubs and coaches left the inn daily travelling to Liverpool in 1834, the inn had many landlord’s over duration, Thomas Jones was victualler in 1822 and in 1909 a Thomas Owen was head of the inn, the Black Swan also had air raid shelters provided in the basement.

Thornton’s chocolate shop in Eastgate Street, Chester, is said to be haunted by a ghost called Sarah, who hung herself after being jilted on her wedding day. Sarah wreaks most of her unearthly havoc in the top floor front room and in the cellar. However, her ghost has also manifested in other parts of the shop. Although she is never seen, she has been heard coming down the stairs singing a strange song and holding out her hands, as if lifting up a long dress to facilitate her descent. She once pushed an American tourist down the stairs. She once frightened an electrician who came to read the meter in the cellar. During Valentine’s Day 1991, Sarah got upset over the display in the shop and scattered the heart-shaped boxes of chocolates all over the floor. However, the ordinary boxes of chocolates were left undisturbed. An exorcism held in 1965 dispelled Sarah’s poltergeist-like antics for a while. However, she has apparently returned, and still creates ghostly disturbances in the shop right to this day.

Ghost hunting and paranormal investigations are becoming increasingly popular with amateur ghost hunters, in part due to the easy access of information on the internet and current television shows about hauntings. Since the spirit of Halloween revolves around the souls of the dead returning to earth to haunt the living, Halloween night is considering a “prime time” for hunting ghosts. It’s an annual right of passage for both amateur and professional ghost hunters to be out in full gear that night.

Ghost Hunt – going to a location that may or may not be haunted and trying to capture them on film (video and/or photos). A graveyard late at night is the number one place to start.

Ghost Investigation – going to a known haunted place and recording data (video, photos, audio and temperatures), taking notes, interviews and other evidence to prove/disprove the haunting and existence of ghosts.

For many the quest is to seek out allegedly haunted locations, authenticate evidence of ghosts, do research and conduct investigations into paranormal activity. Among ghost hunters, some are also devotees of urban exploration, a growing hobby where enthusiasts venture into abandoned structures such as hospitals, asylums, and sanatoriums. The more experienced hunters investigate and document reports of ghosts, hauntings and paranormal activity; where as many of the amateur ghost hunters are just out to have fun.

The definition of a “haunting” is a recurring presence of a ghost, demon, or similar supernatural being at a specific place. Old houses, hotels, restaurants, pubs, prisons, cemeteries and graveyards are the most common haunted places. Belief in hauntings and ghosts spans the world and is recorded throughout history in legends and ghost stories.

There are five primary types of hauntings:

1. Intelligent – may be a ghost or demon. The entity is aware of its surroundings, including living people who may be present.
2. Residual – the entity does not seem to be aware of any living beings and performs the same repetitive act (often the reenactment of a tragic event).
3. Benevolent – a ghost that seeks to help or protect the living sometimes from an evil spirit.
4. Malevolent – ghost or demon that seeks to inflict harm on the living.
5. Benign – entity that is either unconcerned about the living or unaware of their presence.

What better time of year than Halloween to check out some of the “hauntings” in your neck of the woods! Whether you’re a more experienced paranormal investigator or just out for a night of ghost hunting, the souls of the dead are waiting for you on Halloween night. Good luck and happy haunting!

Anna Bradford is an author and blogger for Halloween Express where you’ll find the absolute largest selection of Halloween costumes and costume accessories available anywhere. Halloween Express is the exclusive retailer for the Tom Arma line of Kids Costumes and Toddler Costumes.

I’ve always felt eerie things in my house. My female dog sometimes barks at certain places in the house, usually in the kitchen and at the stairs, but no one’s ever there. I saw someone in the kitchen once but I thought I imagined it because when I turned around to check, there was nobody. Sometimes I go downstairs (we live in a two-storey house) and my dog is sitting in front of the stairs in the living room looking at them, and she seems relieved when she sees me. When I try to get her back into the kitchen where she should be (we don’t allow her to be in the living room in case she breaks something), she refuses to go. She usually listens to me so it freaks me out when she acts like this. Other times she sits in a corner far from the kitchen and if I call her she doesn’t move- she just looks at me, and if I go near her she seems happy. That’s also weird because she always comes to me when I call her so I can tell there’s something wrong. I once took a photo of the stairs and I could clearly see a figure sitting on them. My mom has fallen from those stairs a million times, my dog refuses to climb them up, and my friend feels like someone will try to push her off every time she climbs them up.

Another day, during the summer, I was having a weird dream. In this dream, I woke up lying on the right-hand side of my bed, my body facing the wall but my eyes looking at the door in front of the bed (I never lie with my body facing the wall and I always close my door and nor my mom or brother open it cause they know I get mad). It was dark, and there were noises. I wanted them to stop but they did not. Suddenly a woman in a white dress passed right in front of my door. I was terrified, wishing she wouldn’t come inside the room. Then I woke up.

By the time I’d opened my eyes I could tell it was morning but nonetheless, too early for anyone to be awake. My body was facing the wall and my eyes staring at the door which was wide open… Wait, what? Yes, my door was open. My body was at the same position as in my dream, and I was staring outside the door just like in my dream. Only difference, it was morning.

Ok, so last winter I woke up during the night at 3 o’clock (I always check the time because I tend to wake up every night!) and I just couldn’t go back to sleep. I had this strange feeling and I was cold. It was raining outside so the sound was calming me down. After an hour or maybe more I finally started falling asleep. As soon as my eyes fell shut I suddenly realized I couldn’t breathe! I felt paralyzed. When I opened my eyes I saw a creature sitting over the blankets on my chest! It was trying to kill me! I’ve never seen anything like this and during my struggle to push it away I could tell it was looking at me, but I wasn’t able to see any facial features. It was brown or gray, not big at size, with a large head and uncanny skin. I don’t know how I did it but I somehow fought my paralysis and pushed the blankets and the creature away! I immediately switched on the table light besides me and sat on my bed staring at my room. There was nothing! I sat like that for half an hour not knowing what to do and trying to understand what I had just been through. The following day I researched the whole thing and found out that there is a male demon called ‘incubus’ which crawls in women’s beds, lies on their sleeping bodies and tries to strangle them or have sexual intercourse with them! I was so shocked and I never actually knew about creatures like that before so I could not have been affected by something I’d read or seen!

Another experience I had was once again during nighttime, around 3 o’clock. It seemed I was having a bad nightmare because I woke up lying in a very weird position and was quite shocked. I was facing the ceiling, my hands spread wide open. I kept staring at the ceiling for a while, trying to calm myself from the nightmare which I couldn’t even remember, and then I looked toward where my closet is. And I froze. I saw a figure which I thought was a man’s, staring at me. He/it was tall and handsome with his/its head slightly inclined, reminding me of a psychopath. I couldn’t see any of his/its facial features but I was sure he/it was staring at me. I found myself just staring back. After a while, feeling lost in time, he just started fading away… and disappeared. I then sat on my bed and once again stared all over the room. I was 100% awake… This was not a dream. I looked at the clock again and it was around 4 o’clock. Then I went back to sleep, just like that. Next morning I told my friend (who has experienced paranormal phenomenon, too), and she told me in shock that at approximately 4 o’clock that night she woke up and saw a man’s figure sitting in her chair!

On Christmas Day, my family and I would go to my uncle’s house for dinner. My mom would wake me up in the morning so that I’d get ready for the trip, so this year I knew that my mom would come and wake me up when it was time. So when I woke up earlier than usual, I thought I should sleep some more until it was time for me to get up. I was half asleep when I felt a hand tickling me and caressing my face and a voice telling me to “get up”. I thought it was my mom because that was how she usually woke me up. I turned around half asleep murmuring “yeah, okay mom”, but when I opened my eyes there was nobody in the room. I could swear it felt so real. I got up and saw that my mom was still sleeping in her room.

Source:ghostsandstories.com

In my past I’ve had a few demon related events, but nothing this intense and direct. Last night I fell asleep a little bit after midnight.

Dream 1

It started out normal and I knew I was dreaming. I was with some guy and he started acting weird and morphing shapes. It started to get weird and scary so I tried to wake myself up. Then I saw myself laying in bed, I thought I was awake and I heard my dog begging to get up on my bed. I reached my arm down to get her but she wouldn’t come to me. Then I felt something on top of me, violently humping me. I tried to push it off but I could barely move. Then more evil spirits (maybe demons?) came and were trying to get inside me. I couldn’t move so I began screaming bloody murder for my mom and brother. But then I realized no sound was coming out even though I could feel my throat burning. I was trying to get out of bed but the demons were pulling me back. I made it to the doorway and uttered a scream. My brother came down the stairs and was trying to shake it out of me. I thought I woke up, but after a minute everything began twisting back and I saw myself laying in bed again with the demons trying to get inside me. The same thing happened and I made it to the doorway and my brother came again and tried shaking it out of me. While he did I saw glimpses of my real room cause I was starting to wake up but the demons were pulling me back in so I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Finally my eyes opened wide. I was awake. I looked at the time and it was only 12:45. Freaked out, I sat up and read the bible until 3 am when I coaxed myself back into sleeping cause I had to go to school the next day.

Dream 2

Just after 3 am I fell asleep. Once I again I knew I was sleeping and began to dream. The first part of the dream I kept on re-living the same scene over and over but in different places so I saw it in different perspectives. I’ll describe the scene. I was in an auditorium type building. It had a balcony and rows of seats beneath it. I don’t really remember the stage or if there was one. There were “good” and “bad” people there. The “good” people were hiding in the balcony and looking down on the bad people silently making plans to escape. I only remember two “bad” people. An adult and a little girl. I don’t remember if the adult was a woman or a man.

The first time in the scene I was on the balcony sitting behind my brother, I tried to ask what was going on but he just looked at me with a straight face and put his finger over his mouth to tell me to be quiet. Then I just looked down at the adult holding the child. After a minute or so the little girl pointed behind her to the back of the building. Then the scene restarted and I was hanging from the balcony. I was scared someone would see me but I don’t think they did. Same thing happened. Then it restarted again and I was in the back row of the auditorium. I remember seeing more bad people at this point, but don’t really know what’s going on. The scene keeps restarting and each time I’m a row closer to the little girl and the adult. The last time it restarted I was directly behind them terrified they were going to see me, but it was dark. Then when the little girl pointed behind her she was pointing right at me. The adult looked right at me, but didn’t see me. Now that I think about it I’m not sure if the adult was human, it had a dark evil looking face. The main reason I find this dream significant is because with every time the scene restarted I felt overwhelmed with feelings of understanding, I understood why the bad people were bad and why the good people were good.

Then all of the sudden I’m at my “house” (but it doesn’t look like my house at all). Then I look out my window and notice something in the neighbors window but think nothing of it. Then all of the sudden I see the demons rushing out of the neighbors windows and I try to wake myself up again because I’m scared. Once again, I see myself laying in bed, paralyzed. I can feel one on top of me, this time I don’t think its trying to have sex with me. I’m trying to sit up and push it off me but I cant at all. More come and are trying to get inside me. I still cant scream but I woke up faster this time than before. I woke up about 3:45. I thought it was weird how the dream was about the same length as the other one.

Now the freakiest part. I’m fully awake laying in my bed scared to go back to sleep. Then I started hearing strange crackling/scratching noises coming from my ceiling. I laid there listening to it carefully trying to determine if it was my imagination, rain, or something else. It definitely wasn’t my imagination, I listened for at least two straight minutes of weird noises.I could hear light rain, but there was a distinct difference between the crackling/scratching noises and rain drops and it couldn’t be rain anyway because my room is downstairs so the ceiling is the floor of the living room. Then I heard footsteps coming from the living room above me. I got so freaked out I said out loud, “I rebuke you in the name of Jesus Christ,” and it stopped instantly. Not even kidding, I couldn’t hear a thing besides light rain tinkling on my house. I started crying because I was so freaked out and scared. Then I prayed until I fell asleep around 5:00 which is usually the time I wake up. I had strange dreams but I wont go into detail cause they weren’t significant and there weren’t any demons this time. I woke up at 10:00 and went to school late.

My main question is this sleep paralysis or a demon encounter? or something different? I don’t know. if anyone can help or offer any advice it would be very much appreciated. Also, a few months ago I had a dream a lot like this, but instead of demons I was falling out of reality or life, into the space between heaven/hell and the earth. I could see everyone around me but couldn’t move or make a sound. It was one of the worst feelings I had ever felt. and like this dream it reoccurred several times in one night, but it didn’t keep me up all night.

Source:ghostsandstories.com