30. – – –

– – –


29. the last post

gone on a world cruise they ‘ave, shutting’ up shop n leavin’ me ‘home alone’, as that kid in the film was, home all alone in this drear house with no one to haunt or harass – no job to do – barlow’s gone off to follow ’em (‘cos he’s able to) but i’m stuck ‘ere with not a livin’ nor a dead soul to talk to – ye can’t haunt yerself y’see – there’s no future in it –

and what happens when this happens is this: i go to sleep, i hibernate – and everythin’ stops, shuts down, and next thing i know weeks or months or seasons have passed by and maybe years for all i know –

so now i down tools and have a rest from all the turmoil – how still the furniture is! chairs stay in place, drawers remain closed – how calm the air is! no small fires or water spilled – how silent the walls are! no tapping or scratching or scraping –

this is me last post for maybe a long while – as shakespeare said: ‘our little life is rounded with a sleep’ – so thank ‘ee, god bless, and goodnight!

28. the visit

barlow speaks: “a wartime american b52 bomber plane crashed in a field in southern england in 1943 and the pilot was killed instantly in a ball of flame – the rest of his crew had successfully parachuted out but the pilot, trying to avoid crashing into inhabited areas, stayed in the plane to the last and was killed – meanwhile in winsconsin in america in the middle of the night a little girl of 5 years old was woken up by the sound of her name being called, coming from outside in the front yard – the little girl looked out of her bedroom window and saw her daddy standing by the front door looking up at her and smiling – he waved and blew her a kiss and she thought it strange that her father was in his wartime pilot’s uniform as he never usually wore it when he came home on leave – the little girl excitedly ran to her mother’s room, crying out “daddy’s home, daddy’s home!” but when they opened the front door there was no-one there – the next morning a telegram arrived saying that the pilot had died and gave the time which, the mother realised later on, was the exact time her daughter had woken her up – daddy had come home, if only for the briefest of visits, but he had come home and he’d seen his little girl and he was content –

how to explain this phenomen? there’s a moment at the point of death when the soul is still in the body but it can break free and go anywhere, anywhere that has the strongest connection – often, the nearest and dearest relatives are not aware that they’ve been visited but in the case of the young girl, who was young enough to be ‘aware’ (because remember, some children have psychic abilities, they have ‘imaginary friends’ – not imaginary at all – but they tend to lose these abilities as they grow older), because she had a child’s awareness, this little girl saw her daddy and he saw her – but the mother saw nothing which was maybe a good thing as she’d have been proper spooked while the little girl merely accepted what she saw” –

so barlow told me this tale and explained that such is the way of things – a last visitation can sometimes occur and sometimes be seen –

when my ada died of the cancer, i didn’t see ‘er arter she died ‘cos i was with her at the end in the hospital – she died peacefully as i held her hand n there was no visitation as she could see me there, at the point of her passing, sitting weeping beside her, clutching her hand, tryin’ to hold on for dear life – for dear dear life.

27. the bad guys

barlow asked me the other day: “why aren’t we tormenting the bad guys, fred?” and i thought that this indeed is a fair point as the man and ‘is missus, who we’re persecutin’ daily at this time, are perfectly ordinary nice folk with hardly a bad bone in their bodies – as a couple, they bicker a bit, it’s true, and she’s a non-believer, spirit-wise, which pisses us off no end, but generally speaking she’s an ok lady (barlow thinks she’s very ok) while him, the man, is as dull as ditchwater and quiet as a church mouse apart from the hummin’ which ‘e does all day which drives me to bedlam n beyond –

so why aren’t we polts hauntin’ bad guys is the question – did hitler have ‘is own personal polt? did mussolini? genghis khan? no, sir – not a sausage, not a hint o’ the paranormal activities – i reckon we’d all like some of those money-grabbin’ bankers to be pestered as well, but it don’t seem to ‘appen – the bad, the immoral, the wicked and corrupt miscreants, plain nasty bastards n vile villains – they’re all polt-free zones!

why? you may well ask – why are they immune, eh? well, i’m afraid to tell ‘ee that the answer is none too palatable – the answer is: bad people are strong, and i mean strong of mind, set in their purpose, single-minded in the pursuit of infamy – and we polts can’t get into the minds of strong people – only the weak, depressed or immature minds let us in, welcome us with open arms they do – c’mon in, we’re yours for the takin’!

it ain’t fair, is it? ‘im n ‘is missus – well, ‘e’s weak and a mite dullard (as i’ve said) and she’s an irritable type, highly-strung, easily upset, uptight – all the right elements for occupation!

so, the answer is: if you don’t want us beasties on yer back – butch up! be strong of mind! firm of purpose! resolute n positive! or be wicked as hell, ‘orrible, downright evil, and you’ll be left alone! life ain’t fair, and death ain’t neither!

26. the enfield poltergeist

they was talkin’ about it – ‘im n ‘er – how it’s going to be on the telly – a film about the enfield polt of 1977 and should they watch it as they might learn sommat? – whether it’s all true or not or just fancy? – him sayin’ it could be useful to compare notes, like, and her sayin’ it’s all bunkum – well, i can tell ‘ee, the enfield haunting was ruddy poltergeist textbook – flying objects, furniture movin’, bedclothes ripped off, bodies thrown about, pre-pubescent girls – textbook, textbook, textbook!

it all happened in this quiet suburban street in enfield north london and centred round the 11 year old daughter – the polt, who was called bill, even followed the young thing to her uncle’s once – for a year or so there was the usual catalogue of miseries (most of which barlow and i have inflicted upon our own dear hosts) namely icy draughts, small fires and foul smells (barlow’s speciality!) – these thing all ‘appened at the enfield ‘ouse including the bigger things like drawers openin’, kitchen stuff flyin’ about and heavy furniture shiftin’ – oh, and all the usual knockin’ n tappin’ on walls etc – proper textbook polt activity!

‘ow do i know all this, you may ask? well, i remember it ‘cos in 1977 i was alive n kickin’, in me 60s, and of sound mind n good memory n i recall readin’ all about it in the daily mirror!

then ol’ bill (the polt hauntin’ the enfield abode) starts to speak with his gravelly voice through the wee girl and says he’s bill wilkins who lived in the ‘ouse previous n died of internal bleeding in an armchair – and what’s ‘appened to bill since, you may ask? well, he’s gone all quiet on account of some psychics who visited and calmed ‘im down n now ‘e resides peacefully in the walls n bothers not a livin’ soul –

now, it ‘as ter be said, bringin’ in the exorcists is not always to be recommended as they can stir up a heap of trouble n this is what happened ‘ere when a priest was called in and i tell all about that sorry experience in me diary n it don’t make fer comfy-chair readin’ i can tell ‘ee –

the family in enfield called in the cops who witnessed a chair movin’ of its own accord (bein’ pushed by bill obviously!) and they were mystified but could do nothin’ as ‘no crime had been committed’ – the ‘ol bill was no match for ‘ol bill!

anyway, we’ll see if mr n mrs watch the programme – if they do i’ll watch over their shoulders n give them a nip now n then to remind them of my presence –

oh, and if they ever make a film about me, i know who i’d pick to play yours truly – ruddy george clooney, that’s who!!

25. today i am a rat

catch me if yer can!

catch me if yer can!

sommat came up regardin’ me post about the photo of the grey lady of ‘ampton court and it was this: could i be photographed? and the answer is that in certain circumstances i can be snapped if the camera is quick enough – y’see, if you’ve been followin’ all me posts, you’ll have figured out by now that us polts are heard but rarely, if ever, seen – some pesky mediums can get through the veil and get a glimpse of us, often just a shadow or a dark shape, but generally we’re as invisible as the air you breathe – if you took a photo in our direction, you would get nothin’, maybe a blur if we don’t move swiftly enough, but that’s all – just a blur – so smile, say cheese, and… booger off!

but today i am a rat – reason bein’, i’m still havin’ trouble movin’ freely around this ‘ouse n i’m gettin’ bored with just the upstairs part so i’ve put myself at the liberty of one rattus rattus who lives in the attic – I’m inside his skin n his fur n i inhabit his very bones, so now i can scoot about!

now, i hate rats, always have, but needs must – and at least i can’t see meself in any mirror but i’m aware of these whiskers in me field of vision n i don’t like the smell much neither –
in me new rat guise, i’ve been crawlin’ up the bedclothes at night and nibblin’ the man’s ear – ‘e wakes up n i scuttle downwards n bites ‘is toes – ‘e falls asleep again n i repeats the action – such fun i’m havin’ bein’ a rat! – then i turns me attention to the missus n what i do is this: i nuzzle ‘er neck like it’s ‘er hubby doin’ it, then she wakes up and whoopteedoodle! a giant smelly rat is starin’ ‘er right in the noggin and does she scream!! ha!

there’s a thousand year old chinese buddha statue that’s been x-rayed and in the hollowed-out insides they’ve found the mummified remains of a man thought to be a monk – it’s like me in the rat!

but… no more rodent for me – tomorrer i’ll be back to me ol’ self – freddus freddus!

24. away. with the faeries

the people of the house are away and i am alone in this big ol’ house – barlow is off somewhere or other, been gone a while now – will ‘e ever be back, i wonders? but i am not entirely alone because of the sprites, the tiny faeries, that abide here and in most houses of any age – and no, not at the bottom of the garden as fairytales’d have it, but in the nooks n crannies n eaves n architraves n chimney-stacks, in the beams n plaster n cracks in the wall n the rooting worm-eaten wood of the ancient timbers they live and abide – these hobgoblins who used to be friendly household spirits but have become, thru’ age n bitterness n decrepitness and the wet rot n dry rot n fungus dampness of the old wattle and daub, who have now become wicked and malevolent beings –

there is one called ________________ whose name i knows but cannot repeat here as it will summon me to her to do her bidding as opposed to t’other way round – and this faery is no gossamer-winged delicate flower of a fairy as portrayed in fairybooks n those fake cottenham fairy photos by those slips of young girls, no, ________________ is a wizened troll, hunchbacked bent, wrinkle-faced, teeth-rotten and breath like a sewer farm!

she asks me: “why have you called me?” and i reply “i wanted the company of nymphs and tree-spirits” (these being the elementals of the house and its foundations, the spirits of earth, fire and water) –

then this hag changes before my eyes into the most beautiful female creature i have ever laid eyes upon, apart from my gypsy-love ada and maybe anita ekberg in the fountain scene from ‘la dolce vita’! –

“now you see me, now you don’t” she whispers seductive-like then disappears n there’s this rushing in me ears when suddenly i’m surrounded by spirits n gnomes n sylphs swimmin’ about me head, laughin’ n singin’ – ‘ave ye ever seen those intricate fairy paintings by that fella richard dadd who painted in the 1800s? it was ironic-like that his surname was ‘dadd’ ‘cos of the fact ‘e stabbed his own father thinkin’ ‘e was the devil! – as a consequence, ‘e was diagnosed as bonkers n committed to bedlam n then broadmoor where ‘e ended ‘is days paintin’ these beautiful pictures – and that’s what i call ‘art’ not those childish daubs that yer ‘modern’ painter does (there’s one who just throws paint at the canvas – what a load of pollocks – haha!) –

so anyway, i digress – the faeries keep me in agile company until the key rattles in the front door n that alarm goes beep beep cancel n the old fella n his missus are returned and i’m back in business!

23. ‘ampton court 2

… and so onto more about the ghosts n phantoms of hampton court palace who i’ve now seen with me own eyes havin’ been ‘flown’ there by the much-travelled barlow who i now count as a friend n colleague n fellow polt!

i’ve already mentioned sybil penn n catherine howard – well, there’s also jane seymour, she was henry’s third wife, and she wanders the cobbled courtyard of the clock tower carrying a lighted candle – but she’s not often seen, reason being she only appears on the anniversary of ‘er son’s birth, ‘im being the prince edward – jane died, y’see, only twelve days after the prince’s birth so she goes looking for ‘im – a sad and forlorn figure in a white shift –

whoa, rover! there’s a dog too – ‘ere boy! – he’s to be seen in the ‘wolsey closet’ as it’s called – a small room he’d got trapped in n died there (tho’ why no-one could hear his barking is beyond me as ye can hear it clearly enough echoing down the corridors from time to time) –

in the main public entrance, there’s a galleried area high up and there you might sometimes see a little girl with fair hair wearing a white dress n standing next to ‘er n towering over ‘er is a male figure in red robes with a square hat on his noodle – ladeez n gennlemen, may i introduce to you his eminence cardinal wolsey accompanied by his daughter dorothy who was born out of his ‘noncanonical’ marriage to one joan larke n it looks like joan and the cardinal had a few ‘larks’ as there was a son too by the name of thomas wynter b. 1510 – little dorothy was subsequently adopted then placed in a nunnery but the visitation in hampton court shows a repeated ‘loop’ of wolsey proudly showing young dorothy his newly-built palace – i’d like to speak to them, especially the sweet little mite, but they are not of this world, nor of mine –

lastly there’s the gatekeeper, photographed on video opening and shutting an outside door – he’s dressed in a long cloak and ‘is name is thomas stockley, late of this parish 1681 (history, y’see, history!) – thomas is doomed forever to be closing the doors that people leave open (“born in a barn?” he’s probably thinking!) – but why? as the beachboys song goes ‘god only knows’ (and as god and me are not on speakin’ terms, i don’t have the wherewithal ter ask).

22. hampton court 1

i talked a while back on the subject of the ‘grey lady’ ghost at hampton court palace who was, in life, a royal nurse called sybil penn who tended queen elizabeth the first when she had smallpox, date: 1562 – sybil was a devoted carer but caught the pox ‘erself and died of it while liz got better! – and then i told you how sybil was buried in a nearby churchyard but when the church was rebuilt, ‘er grave was moved so she returns to her old home and roams the corridors or sits sewing at her old spinning wheel –

i told you all that n then i got curious n asked barlow to kindly ‘fly’ me there so’s we could check out the other spiritual inhabitants and as it turned out there’s a whole heavenly host of the blighters marauding about so this might take up more than one of these ‘posts’ so bear with me, ok?

first, there was the persistent sound of a spindle turning which seemed to come from behind a wall of the southwest wing where an old chamber was found and inside, so the legend goes and according to barlow-who-knows-everything, they found an antique spinning wheel which was still spinning as if someone was using it just before it slowed to a halt… well, it was being used allright by one sybil penn, spinning away for dear life, making lord-knows-what for god-knows-who! but she spins away when she’s not roamin’ the halls – i seen ‘er meself n she’s as mad as a hatter, i can tell ye!

barlow takes me to the ‘haunted gallery’ where abides the restless spirit of catherine howard, henry the eighth’s fifth wife – i see ‘er running along the gallery to henry’s quarters anxious to plead for ‘er life as the king has just been delivered of a letter by that puffed-up old pontoon, thomas cranmer, accusing her of infidelity – but she doesn’t get to henry because the guards drag her back kicking n screaming and it’s her wracked screams that are heard and her running figure seen – anyway, it was all to no avail as ‘er ‘ead was chopped off, bish bosh on the block, in 1542 –

this is history, y’see, re-playing itself over and over, and as i’ve said afore, ‘ghosts’ are all about history – the past, not the present – while we poltergeists are about the now (as you’ll have realised what with me postings here n i’ll prove it to ye by declarin’ that today’s date is the 16th of april in the yeare of our lorde n master 2015!) – more to follow next time when i’ll tell ye about a dog, a gatekeeper and the grand old cardinal of wolsey! … till the next time…

21. party pooper!

now, concentrate freddie m’boy, and don’t go ‘off-piste’ (‘scuse my french!) n go a-ramblin’ like yer did the last time – incidentally, did you know there’s a famous street in barcelona called ‘las ramblas’ where you ‘ramble’ along? – ah, there i goes again, digressin’ off the subject in hand of which i intend to talk today: that bein’ the party held t’other night at the house which i, uninvited, unwelcome, went n invaded!

here’s how it went: i’ve said afore ‘ow i can’t stand crowds of hoity-toity people in the house where i resides, not botherin’ nobody (well, not much) n keepin’ meself to meself generally ‘cept when i’m about me business torturin’ the man ‘ere, and sometimes the missus too, bless ‘er ‘eart –

so, on this partickler night, all these blessed people arrive in their giant cars n proceed to make a racket like you wouldn’t believe! – blah blah, yaa yaa etc all at full vol fit to bust yer eardrums n i thought this time i won’t cower away in the deepest hidey-holes of the house but i’ll wander amongst them, unseen-like, and make mischief!

i takes a tactile approach, see. pinching a few ladies’ behinds, but did they react? did they yelp n scream blue murder? no, bloody no they didn’t! i guess they thought it was some cheeky fellow-guest, seems like they enjoyed it or mebbe too pissed to notice! so i ‘tickled their fancy’ instead and you know what they did? just giggled n swigged more chilled white!!

so, i turns me attention to the gentlemen n what i do is breathe hot air down the backs of their necks n it makes ’em so hot they sweat buckets haha – then what i do is brilliant: i makes a stink like rotten eggs behind ’em and they look embarrassed as if to say ‘it weren’t me’!

but you know what? these irritations make not a effin’ jot of difference to the caterwaulin’ of the carousers so i’m about to admit defeat when i gets the idea of turnin’ all the lights off! but all that ‘appens is, they say “oh dear, it’s a power cut!” n the missus lights candles n they all say “oh, how romantic!” so i blows all the candles out n they say “oh, there must be a draught” n they holds out their personal phones with the screens lit, like, to make a light show, n they say “this is such fun!” so i effin’ gives up n climbs quiet into the furthest wall-space – party people 10, party pooper 0!