Ghosts at Christmas Read online

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  Dickinson was certain it was Thompson whom he had seen, and, furthermore, he had the note in his order book to prove it. As the elderly Mr Thompson was in distress, Dickinson asked him to call back a week later, whereupon they could clear this matter up. Mr Thompson agreed. A week passed and Mr Thompson returned to the store and spoke with Dickinson again. What he said was most astounding. In the week leading up to J.T. Thompson’s death he had been taken seriously ill. Soon he became delirious and was unable to speak any sense whatsoever. He had ranted incoherently about his ‘photograph’ and insisted he would not be happy until he had it. On Friday afternoon his father had gone to Newcastle to retrieve the picture, and this was when Miss Simon had first encountered the elderly man.

  Upset at not being able to get his son’s picture for him, he returned home and informed him. The following day, at 2 p.m., J.T. Thompson died. He had not left the house, simply because he was unable to do so, and his family also stayed by his bedside in the days leading up to his death. However, the note in the order book, combined with the testimony of the witnesses – James Dickinson and a young assistant who had been removing the grille from the door when Thompson had entered – left no doubt that J.T. Thompson had been in the store that Saturday morning in an attempt to pick up his photograph. And yet there was a multitude of witnesses who testified that, at the time the man had supposedly visited Dickinson’s shop in Grainger Street, he was actually on his deathbed and passed away just a few hours later.

  William T. Stead, a North Tyneside man who was deeply interested in spiritualism and the paranormal, thoroughly investigated the incident and refers to this anomalous sighting as a ‘thought-body’. Nowadays a ‘thought-body’ is better known to researchers as a ‘crisis apparition’. A crisis apparition is, theoretically, the ‘ghost’ of a living person who desperately needs to take care of some unfinished business before they move on. If they are physically incapable of doing it themselves, then they may project a ‘psychic’ double to perform their errand for them. This most certainly seems to be the case here.

  I will leave the last words to Mr W.T. Stead:

  We may turn it which way we please, there is no hypothesis which will fit the facts except the assumption that there is such a thing as a Thought Body, capable of locomotion and speech, which can transfer itself wherever it pleases, clothing itself with whatever clothes it desires to wear, which are phantasmal like itself. Short of that hypothesis, I do not see any explanation possible; and yet, if we admit that hypothesis, what an immense vista of possibilities is opened up to our view!

  THE TOBY CARVERY COACH AND FOUR, SOUTH TYNESIDE

  The Toby Carvery is a public house with a long and fascinating history. Formerly known as the Britannia Inn, this South Tyneside pub is thought to be one of the oldest drinking establishments in this particular region. Standing proud at the junction of Boldon Lane and Sunderland Road, this ancient old-world pub is a large and steadfast building, reminiscent of the old fortresses and castles.

  The Toby Carvery was originally built as a coaching inn some time in the seventeenth century. An original stone fireplace in the pub is inscribed with a date of 1675. However, there is evidence that may suggest that an earlier building – also an inn – stood on the site prior to this building. This earlier alehouse may date back as far as the English Civil War.

  The Toby Carvery has a wonderful, cosy atmosphere; however, it also has a reputation for being haunted. In 2001 Mike Hallowell was shown around the pub by the landlord, who told him many interesting ghost tales attached to the place. One story in particular caught my attention …

  In one of the rooms, which is now used for storage, it appears that a member of staff happened to take a momentary glance out of the window onto the avenue outside and was flabbergasted to see a phantom coach and horses silently glide by.

  A customer at the Toby Carvery told Mike a similar story, alleging that his cousin had seen another coach and horses (or perhaps it was the same one as the aforementioned coach and four) pull up next to the Toby Carvery one Christmas Eve, before promptly pulling away again and riding off into the distance.

  THE WHITE LADY OF CROOK HALL, DURHAM

  Just north of Durham City lies the enchanting Crook Hall. It is a short walk from the city centre and stands in majestic surroundings next to the River Wear. This thirteenth-century house provides a dramatic and atmospheric backdrop to its stunning gardens, making it a place of total serenity and extreme beauty.

  The Hall was origin
ally built on land that once belonged to Sidgate Manor and was named after Peter Croke, who owned the land back in the early fourteenth century. Nowadays the Hall is the home of the Bell family, who open the house and gardens to the public so that everyone can experience its natural charm and grandeur.

  The building has three sections which date from three different periods. The medieval hall was built around 1208, although the solar wing, by all accounts, has long disappeared. The hall, with its tall stone walls and high roof, provides a magnificent taste of medieval life. Next we have the Jacobean manor house, which was built in 1671. Complete with a circular turret and old-world furniture, combined with the smell of the crackling wood on the open fire, this section of the Hall really does take the visitor back in time. Then we have the Georgian house. Towering three storeys high and adorned with climbing ivy, this section of the house was built by Henry Hopper of the Hopper family of Shincliffe when they purchased the property in 1736.

  The house is accompanied by five acres of land with an abundance of beautifully cultivated themed gardens, such as the Shakespeare Garden, which is full of plants that would have been around in the days of the great man himself. Other gardens include the Secret Garden, the Georgian Walled Garden, the Silver and White Garden, the Woodland and Solar Wing Garden, the Cathedral Garden and many more. Decked out with plants and trees including roses, magnolia, azalias, lilac, cherry, plum and apple trees, rhododendrons, hedging, ferns, grapevines and a variety of vegetables, these gardens have been described by gardener and television presenter Alan Titchmarsh as ‘a tapestry of colourful blooms’, and they are a wonder to behold, no matter what time of the year you chose to visit. There is also a Moat Pool, a pond, and a fantastic maze in the meadow close to the main entrance – brilliant for adults and children alike. But where are the ghosts, I hear you ask.

  Well, back in 1463, Cuthbert Billingham inherited Crook Hall and eventually left it to his grandson, John, after his death in or around 1508. Cuthbert Billingham had a niece, and she is the woman thought to be the resident ghost of Crook Hall. Known as the White Lady, she has been observed by many folk as she silently meanders through the house. The ghost of Crook Hall has been well known for many years now and her presence has stirred up much interest within the local paranormal community. Her ghost is seen every now and again, but more often than not, she is felt. The best chance to see the White Lady – in full apparitional form, I am told – is on St Thomas’s Eve (20 December) each year. On that particular date, five days before Christmas, she is said to silently float down the ancient wooden staircase that is housed in the circular turret of the Jacobean manor house, her last recorded sighting being not that long ago.

  During my visit there, I met Crook Hall’s owners, Maggie and Keith Bell, and spoke to them in great detail about their ghost. Keith then took me on a tour of the house and showed me exactly where in the property the ghost is seen, including the area on the old stairwell. He then diverted my attention to a notice on the wall next to where the old stairwell is situated that tells the visitor all about the White Lady. With kind permission from Keith and Maggie, I am able to reproduce the notice:

  These ancient stairs, perhaps the oldest in County Durham, are haunted by the White Lady. She was the Niece of Cuthbert Billingham, who inherited Crook Hall. He quarrelled with the citizens of Durham and in his rage, cut off their water supply. There have been numerous sightings of the White Lady over the centuries. She is usually said to glide silently and gently down the stairs, although on one occasion, she was reported to thoroughly alarm guests who had been invited to Crook Hall for a ball by a rather more dramatic appearance. A banquet had been laid out in the medieval hall, but as the guests moved into the Screen’s Passage, they heard a soft rustle followed by a loud crash. When they looked into the hall they found that the tables had been overturned, destroying the banquet. A further rustle and a glimpse of a white figure convinced them that this was the work of the White lady.

  One wonders if the banquet was a Christmas banquet? I wouldn’t be surprised if it was. A wonderful anecdote of the Crook Hall ghost to say the least, but one wonders why she chose to ruin the party, after all, she is usually such a benign soul. I have recounted this tale in a lot more detail in my book Haunted Durham (The History Press, 2010) which, incidentally, includes my own personal experience of a ‘strange happening’ during my visit there … but, because this ghost has most certainly got a Christmas connection, I feel it also has a rightful place within these pages too. I must now personally thank Keith and Maggie Bell, to whom we all owe our sincere thanks for keeping the wonderful spirit of Crook Hall well and truly alive for us all to see and enjoy. Long may she walk its ancient passages and halls.

  THE HAND OF GLORY, SCOTCH CORNER, NORTH YORKSHIRE

  The Old Spital Inn was situated near Scotch Corner in North Yorkshire. The pub, which is now long gone, was, by all accounts, a spit and sawdust kind of place where you would not want to spend the night, especially if you were travelling alone. The ghost tale that is attached to the old pub, and indeed, the area itself, is an eerie one and is aptly named the ‘hand of glory’.

  One Christmas, back in the 1700s, a fierce winter storm closed in on the area known as Scotch Corner. The storm lasted for days on end, with temperatures almost matching those in the Antarctic, and blizzards so thick one could barley tolerate being outside for more that five minutes at a time. The Old Spital Inn was a lot less busy than it would have been as local people dared not venture out from their homes during the storm; nevertheless, the bedrooms were all fully occupied by guests who had arrived before the storm. Now, the guests were literally snowed in and unable to leave.

  After spending a night in the establishment’s bar – having nothing else better to do – the guests drank their remaining pints of ale and then made their way back to their rooms to sleep off their drunken stupors. After the bar had been closed up, and everyone was fast asleep in their beds, the landlord of the inn and his family retired to their quarters for a well-deserved rest. The only individual left downstairs at this point was the cook. She was left to tidy up the premises and generally make things ‘all well and good’ for the next day. After finishing her duties, she sat down by the roaring fire in the kitchen with a nightcap and warmed herself in front of the orange-red flames that danced and crackled in the huge fireplace.

  Sitting there relaxing, her eyes began to slowly close. Suddenly, there came a ferocious banging from the front door of the inn. She rose with a start, and rushed to see who on earth could be knocking at such a late hour, and in such treacherous conditions too. When she opened the huge oak door, she was astonished to see before her an elderly lady, standing shivering and trembling in the icy-winds. It was obvious to the cook that this old woman was in dire need of some help, so without further-ado, she brought her inside the premises and wrapped her up in a thick blanket. Frozen through, the old lady explained that she was a homeless soul and needed somewhere to sleep for the night.

  The cook informed her that the inn was full, but, being a kindly soul, she provided a space in the kitchen for her and gave her blankets to lie on so that she could spend the night near the roaring fire. After the makeshift bed was prepared, the cook bade the woman goodnight and began to prepare to turn in herself. As she was about to leave the kitchen to venture to her own room, she noticed something rather strange. Under the old woman’s clothes she noticed that she had on a pair of man’s trousers. After pulling the door to, leaving a small gap between the door and its frame, she suspiciously peeked through the slight gap to see what the old woman would do next.

  It seems the frail and frozen old lady was not what she appeared to be. She was, in fact, a man. The cook watched in horror as this man crawled across the floor of the kitchen until he reached the huge oak table. There, he reached into his inside pocket and pulled out a withered and almost skeletal human hand. The cook was now frightened out of her wits, but, very much intrigued by what was going on, she kept watchin
g. The impostor precariously balanced the grim relic upon a candlestick and then produced a small bottle. He removed its cork and poured the contents onto the tip of each finger. Then he lit each finger one by one. Four fingers were now burning away furiously, but the fifth digit would not light.

  The cook realised that the lighted fingers on the hand were a symbol of how many permanent residents of the inn were fast asleep. The reason the fifth digit on the hand had not lit was because the cook was still awake! The cook ran upstairs to awaken the innkeeper and his family, but all attempts to shake them from their slumbers proved fruitless. It seems that the magic spell that the imposter had utilised proved too good. The cook realised that as long as the fingers were burning on the ‘hand of glory’ those affected by its spell would stay asleep. They would not wake until the flames were extinguished.

  By now the villain had opened the inn door and let in his gang of vagabonds. They busied themselves ransacking the place and stealing just about everything they could get their hands on. The cook knew that the only way to break the spell was to put out the flaming fingers of the hand. She had remembered that an old wives’ tale once stipulated that ‘to put out demon flames one must use “blue”’. Blue, for those who don’t know, is an expression for the use of ‘skimmed milk’.

  By now the robbers had left the kitchen area and the burning hand was unattended. This was her chance. She rushed into the kitchen frantically looking around for a jug of milk. Much to her dismay, she could not locate it. In a desperate attempt, she picked up a jug of ale and cast it over the flames, the fires still burned. Then she quickly filled a pail of water and threw it on to the hand, but still the flames continued to burn relentlessly. By now she was in a complete state and it would only be another minute or two before the robbers would return.