Tag: Halloween ghostly

Featured

The Library

‘Is all that we see or seem but a dream within a dream.’ Edgar Allan Poe.

This ghostly tale was shared with me by an older lady that I met in a local coffee shop named Eva.

I was researching some haunting stories when she told me she had a tale to tell.

This is how the story goes:

It was a particularly cold and wet autumn late afternoon. Eva mulched her way through the ember red, orange and brown leaves as she made her way from school over the road opposite the church. She wiped her feet before entering this quiet space.

Musty smells of the books leaked into the air. She lifted the heavy wooden flap on the desk. Then she took her place to categorise and stamp the books.

On the far side, towards the window sat a man, dressed in his suit and tie of the day. The crackle of his tabloid broke the silence and the creaking of his chair added to the noise. The young lady nearby also broke the silence when she slapped her hard back cover shut.

It was a fairly quiet evening amongst those wishing to spend time within this space.

A whimpering wind yowled around this old building. The building was constructed around 1901. It broke the motto of ‘Hush, so as not to disturb the reader‘ written on a plaque taking pride of place above the desk.

Eva had a fascination for the written word. She always became lost within the books. When she inquired about an after school position and was accepted, she was delighted.

St James’s building was also known as Gorton Library. It was situated on Cambert Lane. This lane was formerly Church Lane as it led to the school and the church on the bend.

It was now the 1970’s. Many locals were dismayed. The city council had drawn up plans to redevelop and modernise the Gorton Cross Street area. A demolition order had been put in place. As many of the old terrace houses and the shops were in dire need of repair.

Eva stamped the date within the front cover of the book for an elderly gentleman. She then took out the ticket to file it away. This ensured prompt returns. Books were sometimes not returned on time. She and her colleague attempted to collect the penny fines from those who had forgotten. Not an easy task she thought. Borrowers from all ages and walks of life would push open the heavy oak doors to browse their favorite genres.

Just around 9.00pm the senior librarian ushered the last borrower out of the building. Then, she proceeded to make sure all was in order for the next day. Eva’s last job for the evening was to close and lock the large oak doors. She also needed to file away the small pile of books left on the desk.

As she filed the book that caught her eye, she noticed it was a leather-bound one with fancy gold writing. It was a music book. ‘The New Musical Educator, volume 4.’ To her right, she noticed someone was still in the aisle of the bookshelves. A girl no older than nine or ten was perusing a book an aisle down.

It was the girls attire that struck her. A navy blue sailors dress with white trimmings. A thick heavy hem that had been turned up so as to be lengthened as the girl grew taller. she wore black stockings, with buttoned up creased leather ankle boots. Ringlets of chestnut hair tumbled around her shoulders, graced by a flower clipping back her fringe.

The pale face of the girl turned towards Eva, a sad melancholy look gazed from the girls eyes.

Eva was taken back. This child, dressed as someone from her grandmother’s childhood, stood silently. Eva moved towards her. As just then the figure sublimely and otherworldly glided away and evaporated before her eyes.

As she, the girl just like an illusion disappeared. Eva unnerved, cautiously made her way to the spot where the girl had been standing. A book was slightly jutting out from the reference section upon the shelf. Inquisitively, she took the volume from the shelf and noticed the corner of a page was folded.

The book spoke of unsolved crimes within the Manchester area. The page read:

‘On the afternoon of October 26th 1905, roughly around 3.00pm. Brian Sullivan was walking his dog through St James’s Church within the Gorton area of Manchester. when his dog started to become disturbed, sniffing and pawing at a collapsed old grave. The grave had collapsed by around twenty or thirty inches that lead to the tomb.To his horror, he kneeled down and peered into the abyss below. As soon as his eyes became accustomed to the darkness, he slowly made out the form of a young girl. One of her leather boots was missing as were one of her stockings. The other stocking laddered and ripped, exposed her pale white skin.’

On calling the authorities, her body was transferred to the local mortuary. There, they discovered that the nail from her index finger on her right hand had been torn right off. This was conclusive that she had put up a fight of sorts. She was partially clothed with her other stocking stuffed into her mouth. The poor girl suffered prolific injuries to her head. She also had injuries to the lower parts of her body. Her dress was torn and disarranged and there had clearly been a sexual assault prior to her strangulation.

The person responsible for her murder was never found. However, the locals reignited rumours from 1888, known as ‘The autumn of fear.’ This was reminiscent of the ripper murders in London.

Nobody knows for sure. Lilly’s poor body was interred within St James cemetery, at peace with her grandparents.

An only child too. Her poor mother went weeping every day to her grave. She never got over her child being taken so violently and abruptly.

Poor Lilly was laid to rest.

Meanwhile, the council as they exhumed these graves disclosed their plan to build new social housing upon the newly dug hallowed ground.

Julie Modla Author of the series: A Fool’s Journey, To Dance with a Devil and The Temperance Tale.

https://www.amazon.co.uk/Dance-Devil-Fools-Journey/dp/B08FP1SVKF

Ghost Light

It is said, that in every theatre there are ghosts and shadows from the past. Performers, dancers, musicians and entertainers. Happy times, where the lights go out and the curtain rises.

Eric Cartwright had served his time in the Royal Navy for his King and country as an engineer, a young man with dedication, who could turn his hand to anything.

For the last thirty years or so, he had taken employment as the caretaker and maintenance man, for a local Davenport Theatre.

He could certainly entertain many a young or old sceptic, with his tales of shadowy presences and his encounters, on a lonely shift at night.

When the dancers and actors had left through the heavy stone steps to meet their fans at the stage door. Eric’s job was to check the building, to make sure all was secure. He never quite got used to descending into the bowels of the dark dingy passageways into the nocturnal pit under the stage. The dank air chilled him to the bone every time, as the knocking old pipes clanked within the dusk.

He would methodically check, that everywhere was safe and secure. Without looking behind him, or casting a glance over his shoulder, he would make his way to the open theatre.

Rows and rows of empty seats, some within the light of the stage, the rest encased in the blackness. Never straining his eyes into the dark as he didn’t pursue what his eyes didn’t see.

He worked well on his own. Proud to be the one the production team and the theatre goers relied on. A very proud cog within the large clock. Oiling the mechanism, as the musicians, scriptwriters, opera singers and conductors could count on him for their premiers.

He neither acknowledged nor dismissed what his senses spoke to him, at times, as his skin would crawl and his hairs would stand on end. Especially when a door, would suddenly close shut unexpectedly.

Thoughts of those spirits around him never left his brain.

Whether you believe, or whether you do not, does not concern me. I’m just conveying to you his story. He would tell you that there is nothing more unsettling, than the chill, that rises up within your spine, when working in a place that should be so full of life.

Performers, playing out to an audience. Tragedies, actors, memorising and channelling the scripts of Shakespeare, Romans and the Greeks. Plays, over 2000 years old. Brought to life. A connection, a medium between the there, and the now.

Stills and skills of a bygone age, memories, like photographs, captured in time.

Glimpses of nocturnal shadows, hiding behind veils. Returning, while those who sleep, relive their glory, on the stage.

The tradition of the ghost light, steeped in its history, back to the time of gas lit venues. Dim lights were left on during the night, to relieve pressure on the gas valves.

Moving forward in time to Eric Cartwright’s employment there, the lights were still very important, but now a floor light, left on to shine on the stage, whilst the theatre slept, and the doors were closed until morning.

It is said that this was to enable the navigator of the stage, to search for the lighting control console, without the misfortune of stumbling over props, or worse still, falling into the orchestral pit.

Some spoke of the ghost lights as being left on for some nocturnal thespians. As dusk fell, ghostly beings would return to the stage, and re enact their final performances.

Balconies were permanently left open, for ghostly guests to view these nightly performances.

As a naval apprentice, the rule of thumb was never to whistle whilst on ship. The same applied to the stage, neither on, nor off. As this would bring bad luck. Eric respected this superstition and applied it. Never to upset those who were there, or not, performing their roles.

His heavy key ring jangled. His eyes lowered as he locked up for the night. Not one to look at the lamp, nor the surrounding areas of the stage. Not one to stare, his eyes not wanting to graze the empty chairs. Respect for the nocturnal visitors. They too, avoiding his gaze, a mutual admiration for the key holder.

No need. As usual the chill followed, as Eric’s ears detected the faint sound of a bow grazing the strings, as the haunting melody of a Cello akin to that of the human voice, moved sorrowfully and beautifully through the auditorium.

The door closed on these theatrics as Eric walked the grey, wet flags to his lonely empty house.

Proud to keep these souls safe, within his theatre of dreams.

Julie Modla

https://www.audible.co.uk/search?searchAuthor=Julie+Modla

https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/19445198.Julie_Modla