by Colin Wilson
A well-known psychic named Andrew Jackson Davis visited the Phelps home, and put forward a theory very similar to that of Mrs. Crowe. He said that the phenomena were caused by “magnetism” and by “electricity,” the magnetism attracting objects towards the boy and girl, the electricity causing them to fly in the opposite direction. But Davis—the author of a bestselling work of “spirit dictation” called The Principles of Nature, also agreed that there were spirits present—he claimed to have seen five of them.
The poltergeist—or poltergeists—became increasingly destructive. Pieces of paper burst into flame, although always where they could be seen; sometimes, the ashes of burnt papers were found in drawers. All kinds of objects were smashed—Phelps estimated that the poltergeist had done about two hundred dollars’ worth of damage. And the poltergeist also attacked the eldest girl, Anna. A reporter was sitting with the mother and daughter when the girl shouted that someone had pinched her; they rolled up her sleeve and found a severe fresh pinch mark on her arm. On another occasion, there was a loud smacking noise, and a red mark appeared on her face.
In October 1851, more than a year after the disturbances began, the mother and children went off to Pennsylvania and stayed there until the following spring. The poltergeist did not follow them; and when they returned to Stratford, nothing more happened.
It seems fairly clear that the Reverend Phelps made a mistake in attracting the attention of spirits to his home by holding the séance; they discovered that there were two excellent mediums in the house, and the result was one of the most spectacular cases of poltergeist disturbance on record. The assertion by one of the “spirits”’ that he was a French clerk, now in hell, need not be taken too seriously; another observer, the Reverend John Mitchell, also communicated with the “spirits” by means of raps, and received insulting replies in bad language. The Phelps poltergeists seem to have been the usual crowd of invisible juvenile delinquents.
[1]. I have given more precise details of these in my book Mysteries.
[2]. Light magazine for December 1889 contained a far longer account.
[3]. Cock Lane and Common Sense, pp. 110–113.
[4]. The story is retold by E. J. Dingwall in Very Peculiar People, 1950.
[5]. Thurston, chapter III.
[6]. See chapter 6.
[7]. The Poltergeist Down the Centuries.
four
The Black Monk
of Pontefract
If the Phelps haunting is the classic American poltergeist, then the classic British case is certainly the Black Monk of Pontefract. The strange thing is that this remarkable case was never officially investigated—or even recorded—and that it came so close to being forgotten. At the time it occurred—in the late 1960s—it caused much local excitement and was reported in the newspapers; but when the haunting stopped, interest faded. Almost ten years later, a young amateur historian—with a special interest in the Cluniac monks of Pontefract—heard about the case and decided to investigate. What he uncovered in the local newspapers sounded almost too good to be true: poltergeist phenomena apparently caused by the ghost of a Cluniac monk who had been hanged for rape in the time of Henry the Eighth. The historian called on the Pritchard family, who still lived in the house where the phenomena had taken place, and listened to their accounts of the haunting. He talked to relatives and friends and neighbors, and to the local vicar and the mayor and the Member of Parliament who had witnessed some of the phenomena. All this convinced him that this was more than an interesting footnote to an essay on the Priory of St. John the Evangelist. He telephoned me, outlined the story, and suggested that it might make a sensational book along the lines of The Amityville Horror. I drove up to Yorkshire, interviewed the witnesses, and decided that it would be pointless to dramatize it; the facts themselves are already as sensational as anything in the recorded history of poltergeist hauntings.
Pontefract is an ancient town that dates back to Roman times—the name means “broken bridge” in Latin. Although connected to Leeds and Doncaster by motorway, it still retains an air of belonging to the nineteenth century—the kind of place J. B. Priestley loves to evoke in novels like The Good Companions.
If you stand outside the church of All Saints, a few yards from the ruins of the old priory and the castle, you can look across to the housing estate of Chequerfields on the opposite hilltop—the hill that was once the site of the gallows. But if you try to find your way there without a map—as I did—you are likely to get lost in the maze of pleasant little tree-lined back streets with grass verges and neat front gardens. Number 30 East Drive stands on a corner, and on the top of the hill, close to the site of the old gallows. It also stands on the place where there was once a bridge over a small stream.
In August 1966, the family at 30 East Drive consisted of Jean and Joe Pritchard, their son Phillip, aged fifteen, and their daughter Diane, twelve. During the week of the Bank Holiday, the family went on holiday to Devon, leaving Mrs. Pritchard’s mother, Mrs. Sarah Scholes, in charge. Phillip had decided to stay behind; he had reached the age when holidays with the family lose their attraction.
Thursday was a sunny day, and Phillip took a book into the garden. Mrs. Scholes sat on the settee, knitting a cardigan. She was surprised that Phillip could sit in the garden; the room struck her as unusually chilly. Then, at about eleven-thirty, there was a sudden gust of wind that rattled all the windows and made the back door slam. Phillip came into the house, and Mrs. Scholes said: “Is there a wind getting up?” “No. It’s quite calm out there.”
He went into the kitchen to make himself a cup of coffee, and tea for his grandmother. Ten minutes later, he opened the door of the lounge, and stood staring. Mrs. Scholes was absorbed in her knitting; and all around her, floating gently down through the air, was a grey-white powder, like chalk dust. Mrs. Scholes was so absorbed in her knitting that she had not even noticed it. Then she looked up, and saw Phillip through the fine white haze. She said accusingly: “What have you been up to?”
“Nothing. I’ve been in the kitchen all the time. What is it?”
They both looked up at the ceiling—the obvious explanation seemed to be that its whitewash was disintegrating. In fact, the ceiling had been recently papered. And now as Phillip looked more closely, he became aware of another curious fact. The top half of the room was perfectly clear; the falling powder started on a level below his head. And when Mrs. Scholes stood up, her own head rose above the top of the falling powder like an airplane above the clouds.
Mrs. Scholes was in no way alarmed, merely baffled. There had to be some natural explanation. Perhaps it had all blown in through the window. She decided to go and consult her daughter, Marie Kelly, who lived opposite. Marie stared in astonishment as her mother came in “looking like a snowman,” and crossed the road to the Pritchards’ home. The powder was still falling, and it had no apparent source. It now formed a fine white layer on the furniture, and on the polished sideboard. The cup of tea which Phillip had brought in for his grandmother was covered with a white film. Mrs. Kelly stared at it for a few minutes, then said: “We’d better get it cleaned up.” She went into the kitchen, and her foot skidded. There was a large pool of water on the kitchen floor. She called: “Are you sure you haven’t had an accident? This place is flooded.” The old lady said irritably: “I’m not senile yet.”’
Mrs. Kelly took a floorcloth from the cupboard under the sink, and mopped up the water. Then, as she squeezed out the cloth in the sink, she noticed another pool on the linoleum. She stooped and mopped it up. As she did so, she noticed another patch. It took her a few seconds to grasp that new pools of water seemed to be forming as fast as she mopped them up.
The obvious explanation was that the water was coming up through the linoleum. Mrs. Kelly took hold of a corner, and pulled it back. The floor underneath was perfectly dry.
Fortunately, no doubt, neither of the two women had the least idea that creating pools of water is one of the stranger habits
of the poltergeist. No one knows quite how or why. Guy Playfair, who has investigated many cases, believes that the water is some kind of condensation of the energy used by the poltergeist, and his explanation is as plausible as any. The pools have one oddity; they have a neat outline, as if they had been poured on the floor from a jug held immediately above its surface—no splashing, and none of the bold streaks that come from pouring water from a height. You might almost suppose the poltergeist was a small animal urinating on the floor. When I went to the Pritchards’ home in 1980, the first thing I asked about was the shape of the pools of water. Just as I had expected, they were rather neat little puddles.
The only peculiarity about this first manifestation in East Drive was that the poltergeist was causing a miniature snowstorm in the lounge while the pools of water formed in the kitchen next door. The East Drive poltergeist also played tricks with the water supply. When the taps were turned on, and the toilet was flushed, a greenish foam rushed out.
The next-door neighbor, Enid Pritchard (married to Joe Pritchard’s brother) had heard the commotion, and came in to see if she could help. She found the stop-cock under the sink and turned it off. It made no difference. The pools of water continued to appear. So Mrs. Kelly—who had to go home to make her husband’s lunch—rang the water board and explained that number 30 was having a flood. They promised to send someone around immediately after lunch.
By the time the man arrived, the powder had stopped falling in the lounge, and with the help of a duster and a dust-pan, the place had been restored to normal. But the pools of water were still appearing on the kitchen floor. The man from the water board was little more than a youth, but he seemed to know his business. He lifted the linoleum and checked that the surface of the floor was dry—this ruled out the possibility of a burst pipe under the floor. Next he examined the drains, and poked down them with a flexible metal rod, to check that there were no fractures in the pipes; again, the result was negative. Then he came back into the kitchen, surveyed the pools of water, scratched his head, and suggested that it might be some kind of condensation, due to the clammy weather. The others were too polite to say what they thought of this suggestion—that week had been exceptionally dry—and the man went off to report the problem to his superiors. And about an hour later, the pools of water stopped appearing. Mrs. Kelly and Mrs. Pritchard returned to their respective homes. And Mrs. Scholes returned to her knitting.
At about seven that evening, Mrs. Scholes was watching television when Phillip said: “Grandma, it’s happening again.”
The working surface at the side of the kitchen sink was covered with sugar and dry tea leaves. And, as they watched, the button of the tea dispenser above the sink went in of its own accord, and more tea showered down. And as they gaped at it, the button went gently in and out, and tea cascaded down on to the draining board. It went on until the dispenser was empty; and even then, the button continued to go in and out. When Mrs. Scholes found her voice, she shouted “Stop it!” and Phillip, who thought he was being accused, said indignantly: “I can’t—it’s doing it on its own!”
As he spoke, there was a crash from the hallway. They looked at one another, both pale, wondering if the intruder was about to reveal himself. Opening the door was a little like a nightmare—expecting to see something horrible. But the hall beyond was empty. As they stood staring, the hall light went on with a click, and they both jumped. They went down the corridor, to the foot of the stairs. They then saw what had made the noise. A plant that normally stood at the foot of the stairs was now halfway up them—minus its pot. The pot was on the landing above.
Another sound made them jump. It was coming from the kitchen. They found that the crockery cupboard was shaking and vibrating, as if someone was locked inside and trying to get out, Phillip went and wrenched open the door. Immediately, the vibrations stopped. At the same time, another loud banging noise started up somewhere in the house. It was not a particularly alarming noise; in fact, Mrs. Scholes had heard it a few hours earlier, and assumed that May Mountain’s husband was doing a little home carpentry on the other side of the dividing wall. Now, as she observed the sudden chill in the atmosphere, she connected it with the other strange events. She said: “I’m going to get Marie.” And Phillip said: “I’ll come with you.” He had no intention of being left there alone.
Mrs. Kelly went back with them, and as soon as she stepped into the kitchen, she knew it was not her mother’s imagination. The crockery cupboard was shaking again, and the cups and plates inside were rattling. If the cupboard had been on the dividing wall, they might have assumed that the Pritchard’s next door were somehow causing it. But it was on the end wall of the house—nothing beyond it but the garden.
Mrs. Scholes went next door, and asked May Mountain if she had been making banging noises. She looked at her in astonishment and said: “We thought it was you.”
By the time Mrs. Scholes got back, the noises had stopped, and Marie Kelly had made a cup of tea. They sat and talked until nine-thirty, then Marie said she’d better get back home. She told them to come across the road if anything further happened. But they all hoped it was over for the night.
Phillip went off to bed. Mrs. Scholes decided that she needed a good night’s rest, and also went upstairs. She went into Phillip’s bedroom to kiss him goodnight. As she did so, she realized he was staring over her shoulder with wide eyes. The wardrobe in the corner of the room was tottering and swaying like a drunken man.
Mrs. Scholes said: “Phillip, get dressed, quick. We’re going.”
Half an hour later, they were tucked up in the spare beds in Mrs. Kelly’s house. For them this particular poltergeist episode was at an end.
But Marie Kelly and her husband Vic had lost all desire for sleep. Vic Kelly had not bothered to go and investigate earlier, convinced that there was a natural explanation. Now he decided it was time to get professional advice; he telephoned the police station, and told his story. When the police car arrived ten minutes later, Vic and Marie Kelly went out to meet them. An inspector named Taylor was accompanied by two uniformed constables. The five of them went into number 30, where everything seemed normal, and the policemen began a methodical search of the house. They went through every room, peered under beds, examined windows for signs of entry, and finally agreed that there was no sign of an intruder. They went back to the station, and the Kellys went back into their own home.
Vic Kelly was still not happy. As he and Marie sat discussing the events, and she again described the falling powder, the pools of water, the rattling cupboard, Vic said: “What about your friend Mr. O’Donald? He’s interested in ghosts isn’t he?”
It was almost midnight, but neither of them felt like sleeping. They walked up the street, and observed that Mr. O’Donald’s downstairs light was still on. They knocked on his front door and explained their problem; without hesitation, Mr. O’Donald went for his coat.
From the ghost-hunter’s point of view, the situation at number 30 looked promising. As they entered the house, they were met by a blast of cold air—they described it as like walking into a refrigerator. But now they were hoping for manifestations, the ghost refused to oblige. So they sat in the lounge, and Mr. O’Donald explained to them the distinction between ghosts and poltergeists—that the poltergeist was supposed to be a manifestation of someone’s unconscious mind—in this case, probably Phillip’s.
“In that case,” said Vic Kelly, “we’re wasting our time sitting here. He’s in our house.”
At 1:45, Mr. O’Donald yawned, and said he agreed they were wasting their time. If it was a poltergeist, it would no doubt signal its presence on the morrow. “They do funny things. They’re very fond of tearing up photographs, I believe.” He said goodnight and left. But as Marie and Vic Kelly were about to lock the door behind them, they heard a crash. They switched on the lights. On the floor of the lounge there were two small oil paintings, lying face downward. Glass was shattered, and a print in a frame—the wed
ding photograph of Jean and Joe Pritchard had been slashed from end to end, as if with a sharp knife. The poltergeist had apparently overheard Mr. O’Donald.
When Phillip and Mrs. Scholes returned to the house the next afternoon, all was quiet. It was still quiet when Joe and Jean Pritchard returned on Saturday afternoon. Between them, Phillip and Mrs. Scholes related the events of two days before, and Joe Pritchard listened with astonishment, and clearly suspected that they were exaggerating. “What kind of knocks?” And as if in reply, there came three loud, distinct bangs, followed by a rattling of the window frames as a cold wind blew through the house. Then there was silence again, and the temperature returned to normal. The poltergeist had said goodbye for the time being.
Two years passed. Phillip left school and went to work in his father’s pet shop in the town. Diane had turned into a pretty teenager with blond hair and a good complexion. Mrs. Scholes, now seventy-two, spent most weekends with the Pritchards. Perhaps the approach of the August Bank Holiday reminded her of the events of two years ago; at all events, she began to talk again about the “haunting.” Joe Pritchard found the subject tiresome, and was discouraging.
Jean Pritchard had decided to redecorate Diane’s bedroom. One afternoon, she broke off to go and make tea. She and her mother drank it in the kitchen. Mrs. Scholes reverted to the topic that was obviously troubling her. “I keep hearing noises.” Jean Pritchard said: “Well I haven’t, and I’m in the house practically all the time.”
“Didn’t you hear something then?”
“No,” said Jean Pritchard, and went out into the hall. She stopped and stared. At the foot of the stairs, there was the counterpane from her bed. It had not been there ten minutes earlier, when she came down to make tea. And no one had been out into the hall. She took it back upstairs and put it on her bed. Then she went back to her decorating. A few moments later, there was a loud crash. When she looked down the stairs, she saw that another counterpane was lying in the hall, this time the one from Phillip’s bed. And the crash had been made by the fall of a number of plant pots, which were upended on the carpet. There was soil everywhere. In the kitchen, Mrs. Scholes was in tears. She said: “I told you. It’s starting again.”