On Thursday, the perfect antidote to having been back in work 3 days and already having a paddy & flouncing off to shut myself in the Ladies, was a late night date with an alleged poltergeist.
Took no notice of Bman’s suggestion that I borrow the overalls he bought as a Halloween costume once and strap the old Vax to my back like Peter Venkman but I did get oiled up with protective sage. Packed a wicca wand (AKA ‘a twig’ according to Bman), secreted pagan runic symbols about my person; a torch, and then my friend and I set off for the Chequerfields Estate in PonteCarlo.
I ain’t afraid of no ghosts
Arriving a little early, we repaired to the nearest pub and I won’t lie, after initial trepidation, I could quite easily have puffed off the haunted house and stayed in there.
We were greeted at the door by a bunch of grubby middle-aged workmen, huddled together having a fag on the doorstep. The bar was devoid of life but another fella soon stuck his head out of the back room and advised us in an extremely broad South Yorkshire twang that we should get ourselves “raaand yon fire int back room lass to waaaarm thesels afore yer gon to yon honted arrrs”. (I doubt I can do their dulcet tones justice in written form, but I’ll try). He rubbed his legs in a Vic Reeves style (to demonstrate us being warmed by the fire I presume). We were immediately entranced, entertained and reduced to girlish giggles. These guys were not shy in striking up conversation.
I was referred to as “tha blond un oer thar” we were advised that we “best get waaarmed up cuz yon honted arrrs’d be cald” and it was intimated that “y’ull be back ere screaming wi’in ten minutes” as they coaxed us nearer to them.
Imagine our amusement when ‘Ghost Town’ by The Specials came on, as the young barman must have hurriedly stuck his ghostly themed mix tape on. Followed closely by ‘Ghostbusters’. His imagination must’ve run out as any further spooky themed songs were not forthcoming. I might send him one of my Halloween party mix CDs.
One of our new friends ‘Int milk brilliant!’ told us he was a medium as well as a plasterer as he slated Derek Acorah. His other mate was by far the most entertaining as he piped up with the classic statement of, “I’m sick of yon cunt anyhow!” When questioned as to who he meant, he replied “Fuckin’ black monk twat up theyer!” He also chuntered that he wanted to know if “You know, ghosts n that – do they still have a cock and breasts?” I asked why they wouldn’t, but he had no answer. He also wanted to know if when ghosts “moan’n that, is it a sexual thing?” I assured him that I’d ask later on. I did ask why a big fella like him hadn’t gone in there himself to ask these questions. Apparently the Black Monk wouldn’t let him in. “Knob ont door wunt work lass even though it weren’t locked”. I did suggest it might’ve been a pull not push situation, which his friends laughed at but he didn’t. He went off on a tangent then, chuntering anew into his pint.
Once we’d mopped up the lime & soda that between us, we’d spilled, guffawing with laughter, further interrogation was required. Tall tales aplenty of taking girls upstairs at the house (this seduction tactic doesn’t work apparently) and anecdotes of the natives plying film crews with “Brandy, Whisky ‘n’lot” down in Ray’s drinking shed then sending them back into the house to be freaked out by their own distorted senses.
We were assured that “Carol nex’dower is a lovely woman” and that she’d only recently asked for her ceiling to be plastered as there “were an hole wi mist commin art ‘n that”.
I was quite loathe to leave when the time came but, by their reckoning, we’d shortly be back, quaking in our boots. I did point out that as mothers who also worked in the teaching profession, it was unlikely that a monk or spectral child would scare us off that easily.
Bring it on dead MoFos. Give it your best shot.
We arrived at the unassuming semi-detached house and were introduced to our fellow investigators and given a few housekeeping rules. We were shown some ghosthunting tech and before long were all in an upstairs room, stood in the dark and waiting for shit to happen.
No joy from the man showing us around when he called out. Nothing from my friend. either I had a go and the tech behind me lit up like a Jean Michel Jarre concert and the lady beside me said she was freezing but only down the side that was next to me.
I wasn’t entirely surprised. The fuckers seems to like me. What can I say. I’m like a magnet for oddity.
The ‘rempod’ on the landing was beeping away. This was supposedly ‘Fred’ the Black Monk. I’m not convinced that was his actual name or that he was there at all, but the little gadget kept up with it’s beeping and magically stopped when our guide asked ‘Fred’ to back off. We left ‘Phil’s flashing balls’ on the floor as something to play with for the resident spirits and my friend dangled a bell (to be referred to all night as the ‘bellend’) in the kitchen.
We then had a go at sitting in pairs in the various rooms while the others watched on the CCTV cameras in the sanctuary of the kitchen, with the light on. We were told that as we sat in the young boy’s room, there was a plethora of ‘orbs’ and light anomalies around us that then went through the wall and around the feet of the pair sat in the next room. More’s the pity that we couldn’t review this footage for ourselves because it wasn’t actually recording.
It would seem that these anomalies were quite evident around me when others watched us on the camera as we wandered around the house by torchlight. I said it was probably nits or those nargles that are in Harry Potter. Just call me PigPen, Luna Lovegood or Doris Stokes – whichever.
At the foot of the stairs – the scene of the incident where the young girl in the house was allegedly pulled up the stairs by an unseen force (and Karl Beattie of ‘Most Haunted’, was pulled up the stairs by a clearly seen washing line) – we tried a bit of glass work on a table. I thought it impolite at this early stage to ask any of the questions we’d been asked to pass on from our friends at the pub about cocks and tits, so we stuck to the standard “Is there anybody there?” No! was the clear answer to that. Or at least nobody who wanted to play with us.
We then tried a bit of table tipping in the lounge with a girl from Scarborough and her male friend from New Zealand. The hideous curtains did nothing for our nerves in the pitch dark. The white flowers looking like floating heads. There was a rocking chair in the corner (the most terrifying piece of furniture anyone can ever have in their house) and a high backed chair allegedly favoured by the spirit of an old lady.
Nothing much was occurring until the double doors screening us off from the kitchen suddenly pushed open. This caused my friend to leap at me like Scooby jumping into Shaggy’s arms, then push me infront of her like a human shield. as I yelled “FUCK ME!!” (as an expletive not a command) and Kiwi man shouted “MOTHERFUCKER!” and our guide crashed into the room demanding to know what the hell was going on.
Once we’d stopped nervously laughing, we carried on calling out, with little success but the door seemed to try and open again. My scientific mind and common sense prevailed and this was soon debunked as the other group moving about, causing a sucking backdraft that was making the door try and open.
We then had a tea and toilet break and after being told that people rarely went into the coal (glory) hole, where the father of the family had been locked in and attacked by unseen hands. Naturally we went straight in. Neither of us were locked in or molested.
Typical. Rebuffed… even by a dead monk.
We sat for while a group upstairs and listening to a spirit box. Heard sort of a male voice but no discernible words. We heard a few thumps and bangs from downstairs which we had no explanation for. We also used an ‘Alice Box app’ which throws up random words from its data base purportedly from the spiritual ether. We should perhaps have written them down but I do remember we got the words:- Fist, Bike, Headstone, Hull, Pat, Know, Sultry, Carpet, Already, Stool, Appear, Sally, Adultery and when asked if it could tell us any of our names, the closest we got was Fit, Linger and Mark. Sadly we got nothing as entertaining as ‘Satan is good. Satan is our pal’ or the classic, ‘Mary loves Dick’. Then the battery drained on the spirit box so we jacked that in and headed back downstairs.
We then all joined together to use a planchett in the kitchen area. Despite only being able to ask Yes/No questions of this little wheeled device I was assured that it wasn’t the same as a Ouija board. (It was though).
The questioning commenced with one side of the table being for Yes. The other for No. The planchett began to rotate in the middle of the table as our fingertips were on it.
Are you a spirit from this house? – No.
Did you come with one the people here tonight? – Yes.
Can you go to the person you came with tonight? (It came to me) At which point I muttered, “Oh For Fucks Sake!”
Are you here to look after this lady you came with? – No. Again with “For fucks sake” and “What’s the point of you then? If you aint here to look after me. Fuck off!”
Our invisible friend was then asked as to whether there was a queen on the throne or not – Yes.
Did she go to the Christmas party at Sandringham with her mother? – Yes (???)
Phil then decided that we were talking to a spirit who was messing with us and lying and that I had nothing to worry about (I wasn’t in the least bit concerned to be honest, more amused than anything).
Some further questioning appeared to establish that we were then talking to the lady who died in the high backed chair.
“What’s your name love?” someone asked. At which point we were like “Erm, yes or no questions remember!” After a fair bit of spelling out the alphabet and our planchett trundling between Yes and No (by it’s very definition thus becoming a ouija board). It spelled out the name ‘Olive’ who seemingly did not mind us being there or that we sat in her chair, as long as nobody slept in it.
Not knowing or trusting anyone in the group other than my friend, I remained decidedly skeptical and will need a hell of a lot more proof than a bit of banging about on the stairs, some vague questioning and some orbs before I commit to believing the authenticity of this place.
Would go again though, for further investigation, if only to go to the Chequerfield Pub before and afterwards and hopefully get full access to Ray’s legendary drinking shed.
I haven’t done this event justice by a long shot. There were too many ‘You had to be there’ moments. If I could have CCTV footage or Facebook livestreamed our chat in the pub, I would’ve done. It was comic gold, like something from The Fast Show or League of Gentlemen (“We didn’t burn her!”)
Suffice to say that I haven’t laughed so much in ages. It was great and I loved it, particularly due to my partner in ghostbusting crime (even though she did throw me to the wolves when we thought Yon cunt Fred was coming through the door). Next day at work we were both almost delirious with sleep deprivation but considering the working day I had, the spaced-out hysteria probably helped me to remain calm.
Can’t wait for next time. We’re going to Abbey House Museum in Leeds in June with the queen of screams herself -Yvette Fielding of Most Haunted. I’ll need to outdo her with the big eyes though for the nightvision shots.
Ciao MoFos Xx