Ghost stories from Scotland and England

Berry Pomeroy Castle

Huge beech trees tower over this rambling ruin of a castle that perches on a cliff edge above a thickly wooded ravine. It was built in the late 15th century and was the seat of the Pomeroy’s an ancient Baronial family who arrived in Devon at the time of the Norman Conquest. In 1547 the Castle was purchased by Edward Seymour, first Duke of Somerset uncle of Edward V1 and Protector of England. Following his execution in 1552 his eldest son Edward headed for a new life in Devon and built the splendid manor house the gaunt, hollow shell of which still stands surrounded by the original castles outer defences.

A ghostly blue lady has been seen drifting among the melancholic ruins. She is reputed to have been a member of the Pomeroy family who had a child by her own father and in her shame strangled the unfortunate baby. She has been sighted in the Castle grounds beckoning to startled onlookers. Some visitors have heard the sound of doors being mysteriously slammed, despite the fact that there are no doors here whilst others have been disturbed by the sound of a baby’s heart rending cries accompanied by a decided drop in temperature.

But the eeriest part of this eeriest of ruins has to be the 15th century Margaret Tower where a twisting stone staircase spirals down into a dank, dark dungeon where a feeling a dreadful foreboding hangs heavy in the chill air and where the moss covered walls cackle with atmosphere.

It was here that the beautiful Margaret Pomeroy was imprisoned by her less alluring sister Lady Eelana when the two fell in love with the same man. Determined that Margaret's good looks would not steal her love from her, Elana allowed her sibling to starve to death in the cramped confines of this claustrophobic little dungeon. But on certain nights of the year, when the full moon bathes the grey walls in its ethereal glow, Lady Margaret's ghost rises from her prison and, resplendent in flowing white robe drifts through the still night calling upon anyone who sees her to follow into her subterranean cell where those who accept will be rewarded with either death or insanity.

Dartmoor

It was while visiting the Duchy Hotel in Princetown (now a visitors centre), that Sir Arthur Conan Doyle heard tales of the spectral hound that is said to haunt the rough and remote moor land thereabouts. When he also learnt of a notorious local character named Squire Cabell, a huntsman who supposedly sold his soul to the devil he was inspired to weave the two legends together and create what is perhaps Sherlock Holmes’s most famous and spine-chilling adventure The Hound of the Baskervilles.

Squire Cabell’s tomb can still be seen outside Buckfastleigh Church in the porch specially constructed for him, where a huge stone slab is meant keep its occupant from wandering. Local tradition states that a pack of spectral black hounds have been heard howling around his burial chamber and that the evil squire himself frequently escapes from his stone prison and leads his baying hounds on a phantom hunt about the district. Baskerville was the name of the name of the pony trap driver who brought Conan Doyle to Princetown.

The Hairy Hands

Travelling along the B3212 from Princetown to Two Bridges you pass through remote and desolate moor land and can feel a sense of trepidation even on the brightest of summer days. In June 1921 the medical officer of nearby Dartmoor Prison was rising his motorcycle along this stretch of road when, as he descended the hill where a little bridge takes the road over the East Dart he suddenly swerved causing his motorbike to crash killing him instantly. Not long afterwards an army officer suffered a similar accident at more or less the same spot but survived and was able to reveal that a pair of large muscular and very hairy hands had seized hold of his own forcing him into his almost fatal swerve. A couple who had parked their caravan near to the spot had a similar encounter when the wife woke to find a big hairy hand clawing its way up the outside window. She had the presence of mind to make the sign of the cross whereupon the demonic digits disappeared.

Jay’s Grave

At the side of the road that runs between Heatree Cross and Hound Tor you come across one of Dartmoor's most poignant monuments, the wayside grave of Kitty Jay. She is said to have been a poor workhouse orphan who having been deserted by her lover hanged herself. In those days a suicide could not rest in consecrated ground but had to be buried at a cross roads with a stake driven through the heart. Kitty’s bones were re-discovered in 1860 by a road mender named James Bryant and re-buried in their present location. From that day forth fresh flowers would be mysteriously appear upon the grave and no –one ever discovered who was responsible. Even when snow lay thick upon the ground the flowers would appear each morning yet no footprints were ever discovered leading to or from her resting place. More startling are the reports of a footless, ghostly figure that has often been seen floating over the grave.

Buckland Abbey- Drakes Drum.

Nestling amidst peaceful woodlands the isolated, remote and picturesque buildings posses an air of timeless tranquillity. In 1582 Sir Francis Drake purchased the converted Abbey and it would remain in the possession of his family through the bloodline of his brother Thomas until 1948 when it came into the possession of the National Trust.

Although the Abbey is rumoured to be haunted by weird and writhing figures and spectral monastic chanting not to mention Drake himself who, because he invoked satanic aid to complete his alterations to the Abbey within only three nights, has been condemned to drive a hearse drawn by headless horses along the nearby Tavistock Road.

But it is the late 16th Century side drum displayed as “Drake’s Drum” that really captures the imagination . Drums were often used aboard ship to call the sailors to action, accompany floggings or sound the death march for burials at sea. The one displayed at Buckland is emblazoned with the Drake family’s coat of arms and may be one of thirteen purchased in 1595 for use on Drakes last voyage.

He died from dysentery on the morning of 28th January 1596 and his body “being put into a Coffin of Lead was let down into the sea”. The drum may have may have sounded its mournful tattoo as the coffin disappeared from view.

In the 19th century the legend arose that the spirit of Drake lived on in his drum and that its beat would sound out whenever England was in danger. Many said that the drum was heard to roll on the eve of the battle of Trafalgar and even claimed that Nelson was Drake re-incarnate. It was heard again at Scapa Flow on midsummer's day 1919 before the German Navy scuttled their fleet to retain honour in defeat. A silver replica of his drum beaten on the deck of HMS Devonshire to rally support during a fleet regatta supposedly caused a metaphysical intervention from an offended Drake which saw a collision with the harbour wall; unexplained fires aboard the ship and a telegraphophiost falling to his death. Fearful of further repercussions the officers disposed of the replica and all was once more peaceful.

The Jamaica Inn.

Bolventor. Cornwall.

With its den of bloodthirsty bars, themed museums and well stocked gift shops Jamaica Inn is a veritable Daphne Du Murier theme park. Yet the actual inn with its dark, low beams, sturdy wooden furniture and blazing log fire is cosy and welcoming.

In the late 18th century a sailor drinking here was asked by a stranger to step outside to conduct some business in private. Taking a final sip from his tankard the sailor duly followed. His lifeless body was discovered the next morning and, though the killers identity was never discovered, the sailors troubled wraith has returned time and again no doubt hoping to drain the last dregs from his unfinished tankard!! He is most often seen sitting on he low wall outside the inn, a solitary figure in old fashioned sailors garb who never moves or speaks, but sits watching and waiting but for what, no-one knows.

Dozmary Pool.

Nr. Bolventor. Cornwall.

Few roads venture into the barren wilderness of Bodmin Moor’s windswept hinterland. The eerie remnants of pre-historic villages litter the haunting landscape. Celtic crosses lean wearily against the bleak Haunted Britain. Dozmary Pool.and unforgiving terrain, as mysterious stone circles huddle together, jealously guarding their ancient secrets. Long abandoned mine- buildings, stand gaunt against the skyline, their dark silhouettes often enveloped in thick white mists that swirl about the hollow ruins, lending them a sinister, ghostly air. It is a brooding, fearsome place and you feel its demonic influence the moment you set foot on its sodden carpet of swampy tussocks.

At the heart of the moor, ripple the dark, leaden waters of the sullen Dozmary pool, to the rock strewn banks of which, Sir Belvedere is said to have brought the dying King Arthur.

St Bartholomew’s Church – Warleggan

The tiny village of Warleggan is lonely, isolated and remote. It’s atmospheric and pretty church has an air of neglect about it yet is set in some of the most beautiful countryside in Cornwall.

In 1931 the Rev. F.W. Densham arrived to take up what must be one of the most tumultuous incumbencies Haunted Cornwall. Warleggan Church.in the parishes history. Aged sixty-one years old his autocratic, eccentric behaviour so alienated his parishioners that within a year they had petitioned the Bishop of Truro to have their Vicar removed. When this failed they boycotted his services causing the Rev Densham to observe wryly “They all come to me in the end. I conduct all their funerals”!

Each Sunday he would conduct services for none existent congregations often, it is rumoured, placing card- board cut outs in the pews and setting out memorial cards inscribed with the names of past vicars. Following the service he would note in the register week after week “ No fog, no wind, no rain, no congregation”.

He died in 1953 two days after Life Magazine had sent a photographer to record his weekly service sans congregation but his ghost oft returns to wander the overgrown pathway that links the serene though neglected church with the rectory next door from where he had succeeded in alienating his entire parish.