Wetter than an otter's pocket

We have a TV program over here in the UK called ‘MostHaunted’; I think that I've mentioned it before.  For those who don’t feel like clicking on that link, it’s about a group of friends and family who travel to old castles and pubs and disused military installations and try to interact with the spirits of the departed.  The sort of program that, if it were to have been made in the USA for instance, would have to have the words ‘For entertainment purposes only’ written in large, friendly letters somewhere in the titles, so that none of the viewers had to deal with any uncomfortable ideas or suddenly have the urge to ‘try this at home’. (Believe it or not, I've spoken to one of the cast of the show about this very subject – I shan't name-drop which one*, because I'm not like that, but she says that she hates that whole ‘For entertainment only’ thing)

The Most Haunted team

Anyway, last night, I had a dream where I was some minor member of the team, on an investigation (I'm a bit of a fanboy of the program, so this was only a matter of time I suppose – and if one of the production team are listening, I really wouldn't mind tagging along one night – you could do a ‘no-name blogger special', you've already got the Internet presence after all.) – But the odd thing was, I remembered it when I woke up.  So, in true Robert Louis Stevenson style, I wrote it down. We also have/had very similar moustaches you know, Stevenson and I, but that’s neither here nor there.

Bear in mind that it was a dream, so the details aren't going to be factual or accurate, and I've added some bits so that it makes a little more sense. I suppose I could have embellished it a bit more and saved it to be next years’ Christmas Ghost Story, but I’d probably have forgotten it. I hope you like it.

-oOo-

The minibus that the hotel had found for us was older than I was. I remember turning to Stuart, pointing to a hole surrounded by rust at the bottom of the door, and shaking my head, but he just shrugged and carried on resignedly loading the gear on to the rear seats as if to say ‘Yeah, but what’re you gonna do?’.  It was starting to get dark, but at least the rain had finally stopped.  Normally, we’d get there nice and early set up in the daylight, take a few readings, set up the radio mics and suchlike.  But our shiny new crew-bus had decided that that was all way to easy and had thrown a strop, as well as some vitally important part of the engine.  The guy in the garage said that the part had to come all the way from Germany, and it would be a couple of days at least, so that was nice.

Once we were loaded, the trip around the ring-road did little to lift our spirits, we’d hit Leeds’ rush-hour and everyone and their brother was wanting to go the same way as us.  At least it gave me some time to think about the job.  It was only my third gig with the team and I was still very much ‘back-room’ staff. I wasn't ruggedly handsome enough to be in front of the cameras I suppose; it didn't help that I wasn't much of a screamer either, so I had limited entertainment value – I’d had enough contact with disembodied voices and doors opening and closing on their own in my own home to let it shock me in a damp, disused factory by the river in Heckmondwike, which was lucky really, as that was exactly where we were heading.  We’d got the call a few weeks before, from the PR team of a development company that was converting said factory into flats. They asked us if we’d like to work on something a bit more ‘current’ than we’d normally been used to.  It seemed that they’d been excavating one of the buildings to see if the foundations were up to the change of use they were going to put them through and had found some strange ladder-shaped configuration of rotting railway sleepers about a metre down.  Then the County Archaeologist had somehow got wind of it and had wanted the chance to take a look before they all got dug up. Everything was going well until they found the first body and they'd had to call the coroner. The bodies weren't recent, probably dating from about when the factory was built, but their numbers, and the method of their burial was very odd.  They’d found seventeen bodies so far: two adults – A man and a woman, and fifteen children all of similar ages.  They were lying peacefully, no sign of foul-play or struggle, wrapped in the remains of Hessian sacks that were all neatly tied at the top with leather thonging. They had been laid to rest in the spaces between the rungs of the ‘ladder’; it’d given the construction guys quite a shock when they first found them, But it wasn't until the bodies had been taken away for reburial that things really started to get strange.  It was as if someone had opened the  ‘I-Spy book of Hauntings’ at page one and started ticking things off in order. 

There were cold spots, which you’d probably expect in a Victorian factory next to a river. The same could be said for the unexplained draughts and rattling doors.  Then the reports of half seen shadows and disappearing lunchboxes had started, then someone claimed that he had been reaching behind him for a hammer when someone had gently placed it into his hand, although he was the only person in the room.  It all came to a head when the Yorkshire Evening Post ran a story from a builder who had left the job after being followed around for his entire shift by the sound of giggling children.

I think the developers thought that getting us involved would give them a bit of positive publicity, maybe they were right, I don’t know much about that side of things.  The house I live in is haunted and I manage OK. Maybe they thought they’d get some free publicity.  When we got to site, the rain had just started again, you could see the mist of it blowing past the floodlights that were spread around.  A man wearing a hard-hat and a hi-viz jacket waved us through the gate and we parked up next to the other, working crew-bus that the talent had used to get there earlier in the day and made our way over to the group, who were huddled under ‘Most Haunted’ branded golfing umbrellas and looking into a hole.

“So, that’s where you found them?” Yvette asked the foreman who was desperately trying to look comfortable for the camera.

“Yes,” he replied, “we’ve extended the trench, but those seventeen… people were all we found. We’ve just had the go-ahead to remove the wood and check the foundations.”

“Well, we’ll do our best to find out why they’re still here and hopefully help them to cross over,” she turned dramatically, straight to camera, “on tonight’s Most Haunted.  OK, cut there, we’ll add the sting and that’ll do it I think.” Then she turned to me, somewhat less dramatically, “We’re set up in that building over there, the Foreman said it has all the mod-cons, which means it has a working kettle and a jar of instant coffee. Did you remember to bring the milk?” she took a sip from a large Starbucks takeaway mug.

I smiled and nodded, then started unpacking the gear from the van.  The room that she’d indicated turned out to be an old machine shop that had had most of the heavy machinery removed.  The walls were red-brick under a coating of grease and the steel tables were all welded to the floor.  It took me the best part of an hour to set up the desk and connect all the wiring and I was still hunched under the desk when Karl walked in.  He kicked the sole of my boot to get my attention and I cracked my head on the underside of the table whilst cursing his ancestry in Klingon.

“Oops, sorry mate. Just been talking to one of the site security guys.  It seems that the next building down the river is a bit of a ‘hotspot’ at the minute.  We want to setup some lights and stuff in there, but there’s no juice. Can you throw a cable down there?”

“Yeah Boss, no problem, I’ve got a reel in the van.”

I rubbed the growing lump on my head as he went outside and I muttered something unsavoury under my breath.  Grabbing the cable, I wandered down towards the building Karl had mentioned, bumping into Yvette, who was sheltered under an umbrella, looking down into the oily river below.

“Thinking about going for a swim?” I asked, trying to attract her attention without actually using the words ‘Can you move out of the way, because this reel of cable is really heavy.’

“No, I was just wondering why they were there, why they were buried and then had a factory built on top of them, why they were in sacks?”

“Cheaper than coffins,” I replied, “perhaps you’ll get to ask them later?”

She smiled and nodded, still looking into the water. She blinked and turned to me as if she’d just remembered something, “Let me show you where we need lighting.”

My million candlepower torch showed that the building was very much like the one we’d set up camp in.  A couple of the skylights were broken, letting the steady stream of rain make growing puddles on the floor. A bramble bush had made its way inside through a half-opened fire door and some of the heavier, cast iron framed machine tools were still there – More expensive for the previous owners to move than they were worth.  The main difference was the sound of a steadily ringing telephone.  I pointed at Yvette, putting my thumb and little finger up to the side of my head with a questioning expression.  She shook her head in response.  The sound echoed off the damp brick walls, making it sound like it was coming from everywhere at once. We crept around the darkened room, tripping over the corners of lifting tiles, the sound getting louder as we headed away from the door and towards the furthest corner.  Even when there was no further to go, the ringing still sounded wrong somehow, like it was muffled or I was wearing earmuffs.  But it was still urgent, the ringing bells demanding to be answered. I scanned the torch backwards and forwards over the wall, but saw nothing except a single 1940’s metal sign, advertising that ‘Careless talk costs lives’ with a child-like drawing of a busy train carriage.  I gently touched the sign and pulled my finger away with a yelp as it vibrated at the same time as the phone rang.

“It’s behind there,” I whispered, as I took a screwdriver from my belt and slid it behind the sign, easily levering the rusty screws from the brickwork.

In an alcove, completely covered by the sign, was what seemed to be an old army field telephone with a mouldering canvas cover.  I tipped my head towards it and pointed again at Yvette, who shook her head and took a step back. The phone rang another four times before I plucked up enough courage to pick it up. At first I could just hear the wind, then faintly, but getting louder as if the person on the other end was getting closer, I heard a calm, male voice.

“Tell them it’s all right, I’m the first one here, but it’s all right. They shouldn’t be scared.”

Then the line went dead.  I lowered the handset, constantly looking at it as if I expected it to turn into a snake in my hand at any moment.  When I put it back onto the cradle I realised that the braided cord coming from the box ended abruptly in a knot of corroded copper wires about an inch away.  There didn’t even appear to be a cable that the phone could have been connected to in the past.  Then the realisation hit me just as the phone began to ring again...

*  *cough* It was Yvette that told me *cough*

A bit of a flash - The Good Old Days

I realised that I'd not written a story for a while, so here's some flash that I knocked up in my lunch-hour.

The Good Old Days

We’d only been in the house for three days when my son stopped eating breakfast.

“Eat up,” I’d say, “it’s marmalade, your favourite.”

He’d yawn and look at me with bleary eyes. “I’m too tired to eat.”

My wife said that it was the new house, the change of surroundings, the quiet country air after the bustle of the city – That he’d be fine after he’d settled.  I wasn’t so sure. 

He shook his head when I asked his why he couldn’t sleep, he seemed almost embarrassed.  I wondered if puberty had hit him early and he was ‘keeping himself awake’ into the small hours.

Over the next weeks things got worse, we had a call from his teacher to say that he’d been behaving oddly.  I immediately assumed that she was going to tell me that he’d been falling asleep – but it seemed that he was using words that you wouldn’t expect such a young child to know and that he had developed some strong opinions on subjects that he probably shouldn’t have encountered. I asked her for examples, she talked uncomfortably about things like population control.

I mulled it over for the whole afternoon until he got home and demanded a ‘sammidge’ from his mother.

Once he’d been fed, I called him over and got him to sit down on the sofa next to me. “I had a call from your teacher today.”

He stopped eating and looked up at me.

“She said that you’re very clever, you have some very adult ideas.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, looking past me for the TV remote.

“She wonders where you get them from.” I tried to sound as matter of fact as I could, not wanting him to think he was doing anything wrong.

“You know, from the guys.” He looked at me out of the corner of his eyes.

“At school?”

“No… in my room. They wake me up talking to each other every night – But sometimes they ask what I think.  I don’t always understand what they mean. They say the world used to be different, fewer people.  They call it the good old days.”

“Are they outside your window?”

“They sit on my rug.”

“Are you scared?”

“I can’t really see them clearly, they’re kinda fuzzy.”

My mother had been ‘sensitive’, she could see things that other people couldn’t. I wondered if her gift had skipped a generation. “Maybe you should ask them to leave you alone?”

He shrugged and started watching cartoons.

I awoke with a start, according to the clock on my bedside table it was 03:47.  My wife’s gentle snores were the only sound, until the bedroom door slowly opened.  My son’s pale face stared at me from the darkened landing and he slowly entered the room; his eyes never leaving mine.  He crept along the side of the bed, quietly so as not to wake his mother, and leaned down to whisper in my ear.

“Why did he tell us to go away?”

Escalation

I woke up this morning at about 04:30, about an hour and twenty before the alarm went off.  You know that feeling when you wake up, but you don't know why?  You look around to see what's different, if there's the smell of smoke, or a man with a big knife standing at the bottom of your bed.

The light was on and my wife's side of the bed was empty and cold.

Now, I snore, I've been told that I sound a little bit like someone slowly cutting their way through through a particularly bad-tempered goose using a rubber hacksaw.  So my first thought was that the better half had decamped to the comfy sofa on the lounge.  After donning my least scandalously gusseted pyjama bottoms, I forayed into the bowels of Dandy Towers.  Past the stables I went, listening to the hypnotic droning of the Alicorns as they slept and down through the kitchens where I startled cook as she stirred the morning's kedgeree, humming one of the tuneful yet haunting throat-yodels of her people.

But despite a damn-hard looking, she was no-where to be found.  Until that is, I took my search to the windy battlements.  The top floor of the Towers is the sole domain of the Mini & Micro Dandies and even a seasoned explorer such as myself thinks twice before entering into it. Luckily, as I reached the bottom of their grand staircase and started to ascend, I met the Mehmsahib and the Mini-Dandy coming the other way.

There was an expression of concern on the face of the former, and one of fading panic on the latter. Also, they were carrying sufficient bedclothes for an impromptue bivouac in the Library.

Mrs Dandy indicated that she had everything under control and that I should retire to my bed.  I considered her advice and chose to wholeheartedly ignore it and sally-forth into a line of questioning of positively Sherlockian proportions, 'What's happened then?' I asked her.

'There's been an escalation.' She replied.

Now, all joking aside, regular readers will know that Dandy Towers is haunted by my late Mother.  It's nothing new, our previous stately pile was similarly blessed, you've probably read the story about the time the Mini-Dandy met her Grandmother, despite her having inconveniently died some fifteen years previously.

Still fewer of you will have heard the tale of Piper, our second ghost.  Actually, so few of you might have heard that, that I may as well retell it here.

I think it was last year when it started, odd things happened that made you do a double take.  You would hear doors close, despite the fact that you had already closed them moments previously yourself. There would be noises that you could easily convince yourself were footsteps, that could have just as easily have been the wind, or the house settling. It was unnerving, but nothing more.

Then the whispering and the giggling started.  Those are noises that it's more difficult to explain away. The Mini Dandy started hearing people call her name behind her, almost out of earshot.  Then doorhandles started turning of their own accord (which let me tell you, puts the wind right up you the first few times you experience it.) And she then began to say 'Bye!' to the Mini Dandy whenever she left the top floor and came downstairs.

Then she started shouting 'Mum!' and 'Dad!' (Also pretty perculiar when the entire family's sat in the lounge watching TV and someone calls your name from downstairs) And that's about where we were until last night.

Oh, no, I tell a lie, the Mini Dandy's bedroom door opened recently and she asked who was there.  The little girls's voice saying 'It's me.' was not exactly what she expected.

Anyway, back to the escalation.

For a few days, my daughter had felt like she was being watched.  Not the normal type of being watched that she was used to, by my dead Mother and ghost Piper, this was different.  She said that it felt like a man.  Of course, we all automatically assumed that it would probably be her Grandfather, who passed away earlier this year.  And she didn't feel as if there was any threat or anything like that, it was just somehow 'different'

Last night, she went to bed wearing a new necklace, one that I had bought her.  She awoke just after 4:00 to briefly see it hanging in the air in front of her face, before it was snatched away, to be found laid out perfectly on the floor over the other side of the room.

She was a little shaken.

As you can probably imagine.

I'm still trying to think what I should do next, the Micro Dandy's Godparents know the County Exorcist, maybe we should seek his advice?

Or some kind of roving, freelance Medium, specialising in ectoplasmic hoovering?

I'll keep you in the loop.

Christmas Ghost Story

Those of you who've been with The Chimping Dandy since last year will remember that around this time, I told you a ghost story, and said that it was going to become a bit of a tradition.

Well here's this year's, unlike the last one, this is made up, a fake, completely from one's imagination.

Most of it at least.

-oOo-

THE TRAIN NOW STANDING.

The tea was awful, but then the tea here was always awful.  He looked down into the grey-white mug and despite the milk he'd put in, he could still see the bottom. How was it possible for something that came out of a steaming kettle to be so weak and tepid? He pushed it away, disgusted.

He was alone, apart from Ranjit, the small Indian gentleman behind the counter who was busying himself by wiping the cutlery from the tray with a tea-towel.

'I was expecting it to be busier tonight,' He looked up at the man, who smiled and stopped his polishing, 'with it being Christmas Eve.'

'Yes, there are usually more people trying to hurry home.  Maybe there is not the same pressure this year? Many people do not feel so Christmassy.' He looked out into the late afternoon darkness, 'Although the rush hour has not really started yet.'

It was true, it wasn't even four O'Clock yet, but the gathering clouds were already conspiring with the winter's lack of daylight to darken the view from the station cafeteria's long windows.  He rose from his seat and looked out onto the platform.  In one direction, he could see the empty ticket office, in the other, the platform lights reflected off the steel rails as they curved away into the distance. 'Here it comes.' He announced flatly to the air, as the first blobs of the forecasted torrential rain plastered itself against the glass.  He released a deep sigh, which fogged the window and momentarily obscured his reflection.

He drew a smiley face, grinned to himself halfheartedly, and then wiped it away just as the heavy beads of condensation started to make it look as if it were crying.

Sitting down again, he asked Ranjit for another tea.  Ranjit raised an eyebrow and pointed at the mug that was already on his table. 'Ah, yes, of course.' He lifted the tea, swallowed its milk-warm load with considered indifference and gestured with the empty mug.  He smiled and shook his head. 'My wife says that one day you will turn into a mug of tea Mr Dullahan.'

He was just about to reply when the metal framed door swung open and a woman walked in, she was in her mid-forties with a once pretty face and long blonde hair, with a confused look, she stared at the ticket in her hand.

'Are you alright?'

She looked at him with reddened eyes and noticed his freshly pressed, blue serge, railway uniform, 'I'm trying to get home., I usually drive you see.'

He reached out towards her ticket, 'May I?' He made a show of reading the destination and nodded, sagely. 'You're in luck, yours is the next train at this platform. And, we are currently serving complimentary tea and coffee, as it's Christmas.' He leaned in close and whispered, 'But if I were you, I'd stick to the coffee.'

She smiled, thanked him and took back her ticket.

The door opened for a second time just as he was raising his cup to his lips.  This time it was a young man carrying a small bunch of flowers, Dullahan looked at the label on the cellophane wrapper and, as he saw the logo of a popular chain of petrol stations, he tutted quietly to himself.  'Come in sir please, you're letting the rain in. May I see your ticket?'

He shook his head, as if waking from a daydream, peered at the door and absently let go of the handle.  It swung slowly shut, the wiry plastic brush screwed to its base making curved muddy lines on the tiled floor.

'Here,' he said, thrusting the small piece of card at the railwayman. 'Never been on a train before, going to my girlfriend's house, her parents are away for Christmas.' He gave Dullahan a theatrically knowing wink, which he returned, in kind, along with his ticket.

'Help yourself to a hot drink sir, a Christmas present from... the Management.'

'Got any lager?  Been out with the lads at lunchtime, had a proper skinful, could probably fit another one in though.' His smile slowly changed to a frown of puzzlement, 'It's funny though, I don't feel as drunk as I did a minute ago.'

'I'm sorry sir, just tea and coffee although, there might be some soup, I can ask...'

But the young man had sat down and was looking closely at his ticket, his lips slowly moving as his finger traced out the few lines of words.

'Mr Dullahan sir, it's nearly time.' Ranjit was pointing at the round white plastic clock on the wall. He checked his watch, the second hand moving in exact time with the clock.

'Ladies and gentlemen, you train will be arriving at the platform directly outside in precisely five minutes, though you should all have more than enough time to finish your drinks.  Please make sure you have all of your belongings with you.' He looked at the bunch of flowers that had fallen from the table and were now lying forgotten on the floor next to the young man who was scratching his head with his ticket. Exhaling through his nose he shook his head and went back to his own table.

There was barely two minutes to go when the door opened for the last time.  There was a bustle as a young family tried to force their way through the doorway all together.  They stood for a second, shaking the rain from their bedraggled Santa hats. 'It's blowing a gale out there!' He grinned at Dullahan and offered him the four tickets, 'Could you tell me how long we have to wait?'

He took the tickets, and without even looking at them said, 'Your train will be here any second, right outside.' Gesturing at the rain-lashed platform, he offered them the traditional free hot drink and looked down at the two children who were probably both no more than five years old. 'Would you like a glass of orange?'

The little boy looked up at him seriously as if it were the most difficult question he had ever been asked, then looked at his Mother, who shrugged, then nodded with a smile. 'Yes please, can my sister have one too?'

Dullahan gave the order to Ranjit, who poured out two small beakers of juice and handed them back with a the beginnings tear in his eye.

The boy took his and immediately started to drink it thirstily. The little girl was not so keen, she held onto her soaking wet teddy bear so hard that she started to wring the rain from it, and shifted uneasily behind her Mother.

'Are you... Are you looking forward to Christmas?' Dullahan faltered, but the little girl nodded.

'We're going to see Grandma, she's not very well.' She grabbed a handful of her Mother's skirt and covered her face.

'Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.' He looked at her Father, whose face told the story of exactly how ill her Grandmother was.' He looked in his notebook, ran his finger down a list of names and smiled weakly. 'You'll be seeing her very soon, I'm sure.'

'It was raining... There was a lorry...' Whispered the man, looking down at his children through eyes filled with such love. 'I... Tried...'

'I know you did,' Sighed Dullahan quietly, as he put a gentle hand of the man's shoulder, 'but you don't need to worry about that any more, the train's here now.'

They all looked through the window, outside was a huge steam train, it's shiny black bulk almost glowing in the rain.

'All aboard.' intoned Dullahan, and he slowly lifted his arms, palms upwards.  One by one, the six passengers faded from view until he was left alone apart from Ranjit and a scant bunch of petrol station flowers.

'Cup of tea?' Offered Ranjit.  He nodded emptily and sat down to wait for his next passengers.

We create them, we haunt ourselves.

So, here's a first, a blog post published at the weekend.  I mean, I don't do that,  I write the Blog, in my head on the way to work, copy it out between doing desperately important IT stuff during the morning and post it in my lunch break at work.

This should only be a short one though, it's more of an update than a full blog...

Do you remember, Last Christmas, I recounted the story about how my wonderful daughter, the Mini-Dandy met my Mother for the first time?

My Mother with the false eye, that had done her best to scar my childhood with her ocular tomfoolery?

The one who, at the time my daughter met her, had had the audacity to have died ten years previously?

Yeah, that one.

So, those of you who've read my book, Mumblings of an Irate Pangolin, (Which some clearing house is knocking out for £6.96 now, the barstewards) will know that my Mother seems to have followed us to our new house. It's taken her a number of years, but she's resurfaced.

For those of you who haven't read it, this is what page 55 has to say:

-oOo-

And recently, some eleven years later, although we’ve moved house, my Daughter has started complaining that she can hear whispering, as if someone were talking very quietly behind her.  The only word that she can actually make out is her own name.

She’s not particularly worried, she described the smell that sometimes accompanies the whispering to me – It’s Sandalwood by Yardley, one of my dead Mother’s favourite scents.

-oOo-

So, The Mini-Dandy is, in some way, in contact with the spirit of her dead Grandmother.  It's a big universe, I don't profess to know how any of it works.  But recently, it's escalated, there are hand-prints appearing, and scratches on peoples backs.

The handle on my bedroom door has been 'tried' whist I was stood next to it, I opened the door virtually instantaneously and the landing was empty, not once, but a number of times

Oh, and footsteps... Lots of footsteps... Those of you who who know me in 'the real world' will be saying stuff like 'But what about your dog? or your cat? aren't they supposed to be sensitive to that sort of thing?'  The cat's hardly in the house nowadays, unless its asleep within four feet of one of us.  And the dog?  Well, I'm not saying that He's stupid, but I've had coughing fits that I would trust more to guard my house.

We've tried 'speaking out' to her, it's not worked so far... The footsteps and the 'trying' of door handles continues.

Which is odd, because it worked last time.

Which means that this is different in some way. 

Maybe it's not even her

Right in the Ghoulies

Well, Friday was a busy day wasn't it Children?

I wrote a Blog that was a bit divisive, about a sensitive subject, from my personal viewpoint.  It went straight in at No. 2 in the most popular Blogs ever by The Chimping Dandy (Completely failing to knock the whole shattering pigeon story off the number 1 slot of course - Glad to see you guys have got your priorities straight) and helped to power May 2013 to the second most monthly pageviews ever - Only got 208 views to go to take it rocketing to the top though - there's always hope... You know what to do.

Anyway, back to normal now - Let's be a bit more inclusive, I'm going to talk about a subject that can't possibly divide people.  no-one takes it seriously - there aren't huge groups of sometimes slightly unstable types going to gatherings of like minded people, no banners, no secret handshakes, no wandering around disused buildings in the dead of night hoping to make contact with shadowy individuals. No massive amounts of senseless death.

Cock!

Actually there's all of those things.

I'm talking about the paranormal and the investigation thereof.

Longtime readers will know, and dippers (What I've now decided to call people who just read odd posts every once in a while, on the toilet perhaps) might have spotted, that whenever I mention my Mother, I qualify it by saying whether she was dead or alive at the time of the particular story.

And for the few people left in the Blogoshpere who don't know why, HERE's the story of my Daughter meeting my Mother for the first time, despite the fact that she'd been dead for a number of years.

So, it would be safe to say that I believe that some spark of consciousness can continue to exist after death. I mean, it makes a certain amount of sense (to me at least) what with the whole thing about what makes us, us, being a collection of electrical impulses trapped in the 3lb of mush that we keeps stored between our ears. Maybe with the right atmospheric conditions, those impulses can get transferred into the ether - I don't know, obviously, I'm pulling this out of my butt... But it's not impossible... So little is nowadays isn't it - what with the advent of the microwave and nanotechnology and suchlike.

This also explains the traditional 'Country House' type  ghosts, those ones that are forever cursed to follow the same route they did the night they died, moaning and clanking chains and looking for their lost babies and generally making a nuisance of themselves.  Their 'spark' is released into the ether, but gets trapped by the fabric of the building - Maybe there's a certain mixture of crystals or ores in the stones that record the spark and replay it in the manner of a cheap Taiwanese VCR.

This in turn fits in well with those, oh so popular in the 1970's, ghostly legions of Roman Legionaires that wander through country pubs and what-have-you, but have the audacity to be cut off at the torso by the floor - So it looks like they're wading through the concrete.  Then the owner of the building finds out that the floor's been raised by two feet and the Legionaries are marching at the level of the old floor.

So far, so spooky, but ultimately believable - As long as you have a stretchy imagination.

In fairness, I'm not wholly convinced about the whole 'Don't realise that they're dead' type things - But I suppose, thinking about it, it's not that huge a jump.  Maybe this 'Etheric copying' (Copyright Chimping Dandy 2013) isn't foolproof, and occasionally too much, or too little of the 'spark' gets transferred - You could use that to justify the angry spirit / poltergeist thaing too I suppose.  If there's supposed to be enough of you left to hold an understandable conversation with a small child, imagine the frustration if you still 'exist' somehow, but you can't communicate with anyone - Then imagine that there's enough of you left to realise that you're going to be like that for eternity.  Doesn't bear thinking about does it?

-oOo-

Then we've got those people who investigate the Rum & Uncanny for fun and profit.

There used to be a group of paranormal hunter types just down the road from me, they based their shenanigens from a semi with a high walled garden and had a website that had a few pictures of them in various dark rooms (And slightly more photos of them at various social events) - But they never actually displayed anything of a really ghostly nature, despite all of their night-vision cameras and EMF scanners, allegedly they ran a good ghost tour - Which I think was very brave of them as they had to compete in the same market with the wonderful Mr Richard Felix (Of whos Father's record stall in Derby Market Hall, I am proud to say I was a regular customer - in the 80's at least - Mainly because I fancied a girl on the Fruit & Veg stall opposite, but that's another story.) and his Haunted Derby / Derby Gaol tomfoolery.

You can't think about Richard Felix, without thinking about one time most popular woman on Television, Yvette Fielding... Who is great. And, with Husband Karl, has brought Paranormal Investigation to the masses.

Who hasn't seen Most Haunted?  Really?  That many of you?  Blimey! Go Google it or something, buy a box-set of the DVDs - Maybe Series 6 - Part 2, That features my local haunted house (Elvaston Castle)

If you ever watched Living, or Sky Living or whatever it's called this week you will have seen Most Haunted, at one time it was the only decent show on the entire channel and myself and Mrs Dandy were addicts.  It had it all, night-vision, history, believers, skeptics, stone throwing, table tapping, Ouija boards, orbs, and my most favourite thing ever in the world, is the consistent, regular as clockwork, reaction of Yvette's cousin Stuart to anything that could be misconstrued as even slightly paranormal.  Things such as plumbing noises, wind, spiders, darkness and on occasion, his own digestive system, would regularly sent him into a panic that started with a stream of expletives, continued via frenzied running through darkened corridors, and usually seemed to end with him banging his head off something and having to be rushed to hospital.

Sounds like I'm taking the p*ss?

Well, I'm not - I genuinely enjoyed it - It's one of the few shows that I would completely suspend my disbelief for.  If they produced a Stuart Torevell Teddy-Bear, I would seriously consider buying one.  Especially if it had a pull-cord that made it scream and spout fruity Anglo-Saxon invective, and you could buy a head bandage for it.

And that's before we even start getting into the antics (if you'll pardon the pun) of Mr Derek Acorah.  Seriously, he's too easy a target even for me, but if you get bored, and want to see his greatest work, go to YouTube and search for 'Derek Acorah Mary'

Mad as a Badger... Brilliant!


I include a photograph of 'The Brown Lady' of Raynham Hall - Not only because it's one of the UK's most famous ghosts, but it makes my link have a cool 'ghostey' image when I post it to FaceBook - Hey, kids, I'm nothing if not honest... And mercenary!

Whistle, and She'll come to you my Girl

As Christmas has many associated traditions, I thought I'd reel some of them out in a 'Good Gods, what should I drone on about today' Kinda way.

The first one that I would like to have at is the Christmas Ghost Story. In the past, the BBC have done a cracking job of adapting the works of MR James (And others) into stories in the style of those told by the older generation, to the younger generation around open fire when the only lighting was provided by stuttering candles.

I present to you my own family Christmas Ghost story, a true account where names have not been changed, as no-one is truly innocent, are they?

it was the winter of 2002, we were a smaller family then - just the three of us. My Daughter was an accomplished talker and had quite a vivid imagination, despite only being three years old. She would often hold long conversations with her toys, posing them around a tea-service or arranging an improptue picnic for them.

Her mode of conversation was very adult, she would ask Piglet a question and politely give him time to reply, nod sagely and move to the next stuffed animal or doll, to see what their opinion on the situation was. This was the rule, rather than the exception and was thought to be quite 'cute' or even precocious by any assembled onlookers.

One afternoon, when Mrs Dandy went upstairs to collect her after her regular nap, she heard our daughter laughing and having one of her conversations, the gaps where she would normally wait for her toys to reply were slightly, but noticibly, longer. It also sounded like the toys were asking the questions, and my Daughter was the one doing the answering.

When the chat seemed to have reached it's natural conclusion, Mrs Dandy entered the room to see our daughter sat on the bed, alone. Alone in this case meaning no other toys, not the treasured Piglet or any of her other plushy inner circle.

"Who were you talking to Baby?"

"The Lady." she replied, in a completely disinterested tone.

"Which Lady?"

"Don't know, just the Lady, what's for Dinner?"

This was talked about for a couple of days as an odd occurance, but nothing really came of it and the assumption was made that 'The Lady' was an imaginary friend, based on a half remembered character from a Disney Cartoon or a Narnia book.

A few weeks later, we decided to make a photo-wall in the dining room, with family pictures from the past fifty or so years. The project took some time, with photos being printed then framed and mounted on the wall. I walked into the dining room one day to see my daughter staring at the pictures.

"Who's that?" I asked, pointing at a picture of her

"Me!" she shouted, excitedly

"OK, who's that?" I pointed at a picture of my Brother

"Unca Pete! - Who's that?" She asked, turning the game around and pointing at a picture of Mrs Dandy.

"That's Mummy!"

"Who's that?"

"That's MY Mummy" I replied, preparing to tell some stories of my youth.

"No, silly Daddy, that's The Lady!"

"Which Lady, Baby?"

"The Lady," In a tone that implied that I was quite possibly the stupidest person on the entire planet, "That comes and talks to me in my bedroom!"

I should probably explain that my Mother had died of cancer some fifteen years previously.

After some small amount of coaxing, my daughter told me that 'The Lady' regularly visited her and would ask if everone was alright and if she was happy. So far, so spooky, but that's not where the story ends.

As the identity of The Lady had now been established, a strange pall fell over the house, everyone seemed to be treading slightly lighter, a room you would normally walk through without turning on the light became a study in moving shadows and half-seen figures. Every creak of floorboards from the first floor was met with a strained silence to see if it evolved into footsteps.

As escalations go, the next 'stage' of the experience was strange, but for anyone who knew my mother, completely understandable.

My Daughter was (and still is) a reasonably sound sleeper, once she was asleep nothing short of a tactical nuclear strike would wake her up. Mrs Dandy often used 'Naptime' as a couple of hours that could be spent on housework that was otherwise difficult with a toddler in tow, such as dusting upstairs. One afternoon, she decided to try vacuuming, knowing that she wouldn't wake our daughter up.

I think she managed to use the vacuum for around fifteen seconds before it turned itself off, not at the vacuum, but at the switch on the socket. It took her some time to realise that that was what had happened as she assumed that something was loose, or the machine itself had overheated. The switch was turned back on and cleaning commenced for another few seconds until it was turned off again by the unseen hands.

My wife put down the vacuum, took a deep breath and turned to address the empty air:

"Look, Grandma Dandy, I'm not going to wake her up, everything is fine, we don't mind you visiting, but let me get on with my work"

The silence was deafening, which made the roar of the vacuum turning itself back on all the more of a shock.

After that The Lady's visits became less and less frequent, we think that she visited my Son a couple of times from things he's mentioned in conversation - But not to the extent that she did with my Daughter.

She did always say that she wanted a Grand-Daughter though.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, adieu.

Just looking through some old emails and found my 'Goodbye' letter to my previous colleagues.

(Please note, this was sent to friends within the company and not to anyone in the management team - I can do professionalism sometimes you know!)

Thought you lot might find it funny.

So, that was my last shift for the unstoppable global technological supergiant that is [My previous employer].

 

Cool.

 

It was quiet, but then you’d expect that I guess, with the first part of the Helpdesk transfer to India now being completed.

 

Firstly I’d like to say that on the whole, the past sixteen months or so (apart from anything involving actual work or being able to pay my bills of course) has been, at worst bearable and at best, uproariously funny.

 

The people I’ve worked with have been a mixed bag, mostly mad as badgers (But in a good way) a couple certifiably psychotic, and still fewer with their heads so far up their respective poop-chutes that it’s a wonder they don’t jump to another dimension every time they break wind.

 

OK, so this is the part where, traditionally, I should rail against all the injustices that I believe have been visited upon me without fear of retribution…

 

Well, here’s the turn-up for the books – I’m not going to. It’s pointless, we all know about the history of ill considered, knee jerk reactionary, short-sighted, parochial decisions that have been made on a more and more regular basis over the past six months or so. We’ve all received the same morale-sapping, draconian, divisive emails. And if any of us had cared enough for it really to have been a ‘showstopper’ as our colleagues over the pond might say, then we would have stood up and tried to do something about it or at least voted with our feet.

 

Instead, let’s remember some of the good times:

 

The night the drunken old guy got in and urinated down the stairs before the Police arrived.

 

The ghost of the cute little girl upstairs (Now I’m not sure that anyone who hasn’t worked the nightshift has ever experienced her) but you can often hear her running around up there in the early hours of the morning – And it’s quite an experience the first time you get woken up by her giggling or tugging on your shoe if you’ve fallen asleep on the sofas in reception during your break. (And as of last night we have two new believers).

 

The vending machines with the undocumented gamble feature – I don’t mean the gamble you take that there’s actually anything in the vending machine when you come on shift and the shops are closed (Same applying to tea, coffee and/or milk) – But the gamble when you put your money in and it either eats it then sits there looking at you with that ‘Come at me Bro’ expression on its readout, or the crisps (because it’s invariably crisps) get stuck against the glass and you spend your next 60p using another bag of crisps (bag price 49p) from the row above to try and knock them down.

 

So, time to sign off because I’m starting to bore myself, and I’ve got a lot longer attention span than most of you.

 

I’d just like to take this time to thank [My Manager] for doing the best job he could be expected to do with the tools he was allowed to use (and finally agreeing to put me out of everyone’s misery) and [The Customer Services Manager] for reminding me on several occasions of the importance of not indiscriminately murdering your workmates with a blunt instrument.

 

I’m not going to send everyone an individual ‘I liked you because..’ message, because I’d probably forget someone, and there’s the whole thinking of nice things to say about everyone issue, which most of you by now, will know that I’m not particularly good at.

 

Good luck to the Helpdesk team and Luke, I hope you make a go of your new positions within the group (P.S. Luke, my Dad – Who spent a lot of time in Germany after the War - advises using this formal, traditional German greeting every time you meet someone new “können Sie mir helfen? Ich habe meine Hoden in der Küche Schublade gefangen”)

 

It’s time for me to go now, but let me leave you with my one and only regret…

 

I only ever got to see one of you completely naked (and if that single, completely true statement, doesn’t put the rumour mill into overdrive, I don’t know what will)

 

Please feel free to keep in touch using the details below, connect to me on Facebook, use smoke-signals, carrier pigeons or an Ouija board – Whichever makes you happy.