Ghosts In London

Waikato Times, Volume 111, Issue 18630, 7 May 1932, Page 11 (Supplement)

Ghosts In London

LONDON’S ghosts (If wo are to believe all we are told) are like its people—a strange mixture, with a ■liberal sprinkling of the rare and unconventional. The orthodox type abounds,-of course: ghosts in old-time costume that walk through walls and up and down stairs, ghosts that have hollow, mocking laughs, ghosts that grope at one’s neck with bony fingers and try to strangle. Holland House, Kensington, has even beep credited with the most spectacular type of all—the bloody ghost that carries its head under its arm and is of noble lineage, having once called itself the first Lord Holland. But it is the unconventional spooks that make Mr Elliott O’DdnneH's "Ghosts of London" such entertaining company for the witching hour when the fire is low, and the announcer with the golden voice has said "Good night, everybody, Good night I" Take your choice 1

Tho Right Spirit. A house in Jones Street, Mayfair, is said to bo haunted by a spirit which tempts people to drink. People of the most abstemious habits who 'stay there for any '"'length of time, says Mr O’Donnell, invariably become obsessed with the mania. The house, in fact, has seen a whole series of drunken tenants. The British Museum is haunted by a cough, and Mr O’Donnell has himself heard it. He had been looking at the mummy of Kateblt, one-time priestess at the College of Amen (Amun) Ra at Thebes. Suddenly he heard a cough immediately behind him. No one was there. Then he heard another cough, and later, while descending the staircase, a third "almost in my ear.’’ He has not cared to visit the Oriental Department since; a spectral cough can indeed be disconcerting even to one who finds almost as many ghosts in London as there are policemen and writes of them so graphically.

The Ghost-Maid. At a house in the Buckingham Palace Road there is said to be a ghost which is apparently that of a repentant maidservant, for its particular task is to light fires, sweep carpets, dust the furniture, and put the kettle on. The tenant, a Miss Stanhope, told Mr O’Donnell that she often heard sounds in . the kitchen as of someone moving the fire irons and cleaning the range. One morning she crept down and saw the ghost-maid actually performing the humble task, and exclaimed: “Who are you—why are you here?" whereupon "Hie girl turned round, and Miss Stanhope saw her face for tho ilrst time. It was ghastly white and tho large dark eyes had such a mad glitter in llicin that Miss Stanhope sprang back in alarm. The girl then got up and, with a horrible grin, crept towards Miss Stanhope, who shrieked with terror. Fortunately at this juncture there was the sound of a key being inserted in the front door of the flat, and, upon .Miss Stanhope’s woman entering, the strange girl turned round and ran into the back kitchen, closing the door behind her . . Her woman marched to the back ’ kitchen door, opened it, and looked inside. No one was there, and there is no way out, save through a skylight, twelve feet from the floor.” Perhaps this ghost-maid did not approve of her mistress. Ghosts certainly have their likes and dislikes; is there, not an impression of a human foot in the stone of one of Ithe cloisters of ‘Old Christ’s Hospital, supposed to have been caused by the ghost of a beadle’s wife stamping angrily when addressed- by some living person in an unbcadlelikc fashion? We expect old houses to be haunted sometimes with the delicate music of a spinet. A friend of Mr O’Donnell's was once looking over an empty house in Black friars when she heard the music, unmistakably, followed by sounds of a struggle, a piercing scream, a heavy thud, and "a noise like someone being choked to death.”

Syncopated Music.

But modern Jazz! Well, there Is a house at Ealing, of all suburbs in the world, iij which *‘a lady who spent most of her evenings at London night clubs recently died. The night after her funer.al, sounds of syncopated music and dancing were heard proceeding from the room In which she breathed her last, and these sounds are rumoured to have been heard there, periodically, ever Sll There is no possibility, apparently, of the lady in question having failed to switch off the wireless dance band before she breathed her last; it is not even suggested that she had a receiving set. Just—enigma.

Orthordox, Rare, Unconventional.

Th® Phantom Bird

(Trevor Allen in John o’ London.)

Zoological ghosts figure also in Mr 0 Donnell’s remarkable narrative. A sentry pacing the yard in front of the Jewel House at the Tower once saw a creature creeping towards him in the moonlight with a horrible glitter in its eyes." It was a bear, an enormous bear! Paralysed with fear, he struck at it furiously with his bayonet. The bayonet passed right through it and hit the wall. The bear, unharmed, came on. With a wild shriek of terror the sentry fell to the ground in a fit. That was over a centurv before the birth of the popular musichall ditty with the refrain: "It’s a bear, it’s a bear, it’s a bear I"

Another doughty fighter, a Captain this time, took a room in an apartment house, fell asleep, but was soon “awakened by a noise like the flapping of wings, and a sensation of extreme coldness. He sat up and saw. just in front of him, ‘an immense black bird, with outstretched wings, and red eyes flashing as if with fire.’ It made vicious pecks at him, which he had great difficulty in parrying. Snatching up a pillow, he hit at it, but it always got out of his way, and he never once succeeded In touching it.” The Captain tried hard—but he didn t get the bird; not that time, anyway. In a third case the ghostly visitant was a dog. A film artist named Dickson encountered it several times on the stair 3 of the Motley Club in Soho, and offered it biscuits and meat in vain. Eventually he aimed a slight blow at it with his stick. “The stick passed right through the dog, which at once faded away Into nothingness, leaving Dickson amazed and aghast. He narrated the story to me himself one night at the club, and introduced me to another film artist, who also testified to having seen the dog.” Mr O’Donnell mentions some interesting open-air ghosts, Including a phantom boat that Is sometimes seen passing under Westminster Bridge, a headless woman in St. James’s Park, a Man in Dress Clothes in the Green Park, Cromwell in fled Lion Square, a Devil Tree feared by tramps and down-and-outs In Hyde Park, and a tall woman in mourning who periodically falls off Blackfriars Bridge.

Seven Days In Sucoesslon. This last, was seen by a postman. Off came his coat, and he was about to jump in after her when a policeman stopped him: — “Put on your coat again,” he said, catching him by tho arm. “It is no use your jumping in. What you saw was no living person—it was a ghost. If you had been on the bridge at this hour yesterday morning, you would have seen the same thing, and, in all probability, it will happen again to-morrow.” It - did.

“Well,” the same policeman, who was standing by observed,-“didn't I tell you so? I’ve seen her do the same thing, at the same hour, for seven consecutive mornings. I’m told it won't happen again (it’s what they call periodical haunting) for a good many years, and I’m truly thankful for that, as it’s a bit trying to one’s nerves.” The politeness of the London policeman is proverbial, and this one was no exception. Perhaps the most terrible ordeal was that of a septuagenarian artist friend of MJr O’Donnell’s in a house in an old square in Highbury, for he saw not one grim ghost, but two. The first was an aged woman wearing an expression of “hopeless, utter despair and ghastly, speechless horror, blended together and concentrated in the effort of listening.” The door opened slowly, very slowly. The woman shrank back. . .

Tho Door Banged! The second was a hunchback Kvlth a dreadfully repulsive face: "misshapen nose, that looked as if it had been broken in a fight; loose, sensual lips; brutal, wolfish jaws; light eyes, illuminated with an expression of deadly, sinister determination. . . . and stair by stair, with a snake-like crawling movement, he drew nearer to Mr Stock.” In one hairy hand, by the way, the monster carried a newly-sharpened tableknife.

Tho artist saw him open the door, confront the other ghost, who wore a morning gown of white cambric, his face was shining with evil joy. Alas!—“just as the hunchback entered the room and advanced with devilish slowness on his shrieking victim, a gust of wind blew the door to with a loud bang; and upon Mr Stock throwing It open . . . he found the room just as usual.”

Yes, Mr O’Donnell gives generous measure. Whether you believe all he tells you or not Is your affair.