by Colin Wilson
When Joe Pritchard came hack, his mother-in-law had gone home. In bed, later, Jean Pritchard was unable to sleep. Even with both windows open, the room was too warm. She slipped out of bed and went on to the landing. She had moved the painting materials out from Diane’s bedroom. Everything was silent. She felt in the atmosphere the typical chill that she would later come to know so well. In the half-light that came from the street lamp outside, she could see something moving in the corner of the landing, something that swayed and rustled. She switched on the landing light. As she did so, something flew past her face, missing it by a fraction of an inch; she identified it later as a paint brush. It was followed by the paste bucket which hit the opposite wall of the landing and scattered paste on the carpet. In the dim light, she could now see what was moving. It was a long strip of wallpaper, which had been lying in a roll against the wall. Now it was standing on end, and swaying like a cobra. Because there was obviously no one holding it, she took courage and made a grab for it. The paper fluttered gently to the floor. At the same moment, the carpet sweeper flew up into the air, and began to swing around as if being used as a club by an invisible giant. Too breathless to scream, Jean Pritchard fell on all fours, and scrambled back into her own bedroom. A roll of wallpaper followed her, and hit the door. At last, she managed to scream. Joe sat up in bed shouting, “What’s happening?” Phillip and Diane appeared from their bedrooms in their nightclothes. As they stood there, paint brushes and other materials began to fly around. One of them missed Diane’s head by a fraction of an inch. Another struck her on the shoulder. Her father shouted, “Don’t stand there!” And Diane said with astonishment: “It didn’t hurt.” Her surprise was understandable; the brush looked as if it had been moving fast enough to knock her over; yet it had merely given her a tap.
Then they realized the invisible intruder had moved into Diane’s bedroom. Phillip, staring in astonishment through the doorway, watched the wooden pelmet above the bedroom window be torn out of the wall—although it was held in by two-inch screws—and fly out of the window. They heard it hit the path below. With a burst of anger Joe Pritchard slammed Diane’s bedroom door. From inside the bedroom, they could hear bangs and thumps. As Diane reached out to touch the door handle, Joe Pritchard shouted: “Don’t touch it.” Diane withdrew her hand and, as if in response, there was a loud thump on the other side of the door.
Diane spent the night in her parent’s room. They locked their doors. It was a pointless measure, but it gave them some feeling of security.
The poltergeist is basically a mad practical joker; the mentality seems to be that of an idiot child. What they seem to want is attention; but it is difficult to see why. In a few cases they have communicated—either by raps or direct voice—but as often as not their statements lack coherence.
Yet even an absurd practical joke conveys something of the essence of the personality of its perpetrator—something as indefinable yet as definite as a tone of voice. And the Pritchards soon began to develop this sense of their unseen lodger as a definite individual. No doubt this also explains why, throughout nine months of chaos, they stuck grimly to their home, and declined all suggestions that they ought to think about moving. Their sense of territoriality was outraged by this intruder, and they had no intention of leaving him in possession of the field.
So in spite of the nerve-wracking nature of the disturbances, life with the ghost—“Mr. Nobody,” they called him (Jean Pritchard later christened him “Fred”)—settled into a kind of routine. He seldom paid a visit during the day—possibly because Diane was at school. The racket would usually start up around bedtime—a series of loud bangs, not unlike a child beating on a big drum. Ornaments would levitate and fly across the room. The lights would go out, and when they looked in the cupboard under the stairs the main switch would be turned off. On one occasion, Mrs. Pritchard carefully taped it in the “on” position with insulating tape; half an hour later, the lights were off again, and the tape had simply vanished.
At a fairly early stage in the proceedings, Phillip made the suggestion that the spirit might be exorcised. That struck them all as an inspired idea, and Vic Kelly contacted a local vicar, the Reverend Davy. Mr. Davy explained that exorcism was not something that could be done at a moment’s notice. He would need permission from the bishop. And since there had been a number of cases in which exorcists had been strongly criticized for making things worse, the bishop might well refuse. At all events, he agreed to call around on the following Thursday evening at seven o’clock. The family felt relieved; it was a comfort to think that they would be receiving professional advice, so to speak.
Jean Pritchard had prepared sandwiches and tea, and Marie and Vic Kelly had been invited over. They sat talking, describing what had been happening, and Mr. Davy told them something about the service of exorcism. Neither he nor they were aware that poltergeists cannot be exorcised—one of Allan Kardec’s ghostly informants told him they treated exorcism with contempt. But at least the vicar’s presence seemed to restrain Mr. Nobody. After an hour and a half, there had been no kind of disturbance, not even a rap. For the first time, Jean Pritchard began to wish the poltergeist would oblige with one of his jokes. Mr. Davy finally looked at his watch and said he ought to be getting home. Jean Pritchard said: “I’m sorry we’ve dragged you all this way for nothing.”
And as she spoke, the house resounded to loud thumps that came from overhead. And a small brass candlestick jumped off the mantelpiece on to the floor.
“There,” said Jean Pritchard.
Mr. Davy looked thoughtfully at the candlestick. “I think I know what your problem is. Subsidence.”
“But subsidence,” said Marie, “can only make things fall. And—”
The other candlestick rose up from the shelf, floated across in front of the vicar’s nose, then dropped to the floor.
“Do you think that’s subsidence?”
There was a tremendous crash from the next room, one of those spectacular sounds like a piece of heavy furniture falling through the ceiling. They all rushed into the lounge.
Scattered all over the carpet was every cup, saucer and plate from the china cupboard. Yet not a single one was broken, or even cracked.
Mr. Davy was convinced. He gave it as his opinion that there was “something evil” in the house, and advised them to move. Jean Pritchard said she wouldn’t dream of moving—why should she be driven out of her home by a ghost? The vicar warned her that it might cause real damage—not just to property, but to people. His comment revealed an ignorance of the habits of the poltergeist: in no case on record have they been known to cause grievous bodily harm, although their bites, slaps and blows have occasionally driven their victims to despair—as in the case of John Bell.
Mr. Davy left, and the poltergeist proceeded to demonstrate that it had no intention of doing serious harm. Diane was on her way up to bed when the lights went out. She stood there in the hall, which was dimly lit by the street lamp, which shone through the frosted glass on the front door. Mr. Pritchard was looking for the torch to look in the main cupboard. As Diane stood there, a huge shadow appeared on the wall, and the atmosphere became icy. The hall stand—a heavy piece of furniture made of oak—floated up into the air and moved toward her. She tripped and went backwards on the stairs, and the stand pressed down on her. So did an electric sewing machine that had been on it. She tried to push it away, but it was unbudgeable; it might have weighed a ton. Yet it was not pressing down on her with all its weight—merely holding her pinned to the stairs. She was too breathless to scream.
The lights came on, and Diane found her voice and yelled. The family rushed out into the hall, and her mother tried to drag the stand off her. It was impossible; it was simply being held in position by a force that was stronger than she was. Phillip and Jean Pritchard began to heave on it, but it made no difference. Diane was whimpering. Mrs. Pritchard advised her to lie still and try to relax—at least it was now clear she was not being crushe
d to death. And as soon as she relaxed, Diane felt a change in the force holding her down. She said: “Now try,” and as they pulled, the stand came off her. So did the electric sewing machine. Yet, oddly enough, neither had bruised her.
Mrs. Pritchard helped Diane up to bed. She was shaken, but not frightened—she seemed to sense that the thing meant her no real harm. But it had not yet finished with her. As soon as her bedroom light was out, the bedclothes were pulled off the bed, and landed in the corner of the room. The room itself had become icy cold. She had a strong sense there was someone else there with her, although the light from the landing revealed no one. Then her mattress shot into the air like a magic carpet in the Arabian Nights and she found herself on the floor, with the mattress on top of her. It all happened in about a second.
That night it happened four more times. Each time she found herself on the floor with the mattress on top of her, yet was still unhurt.
The Pontefract poltergeist seemed to be a creature of moods. It could be inventive, as when it filled the lounge with falling chalk dust. It could be destructive, as when it caused the grandmother clock to hurtle down the stairs, and shatter like a bomb in the hall. And it could be oddly seductive, as when it signaled its presence with a most delightful scent—a perfume like some heavily scented flower. But mostly it made a racket, like the phantom drummer of Tedworth. It could be heard several streets away. The Pritchards made a tape recording of it, and it sounds like someone frantically knocking for admittance; you expect to hear a voice yell, “Let me in.”
In September 1968, two young reporters came to call; they represented two local papers. I have the two press cuttings in front of me as I write. “Pontefract Poltergeist is Back” announces the Yorkshire Evening Post and the story begins: “Mr. Nobody” has turned up at the home of forty-two-year-old Mrs. Jean Pritchard, of East Drive, Pontefract, for the first time in three years (in fact, it was two). The Pontefract and Castleford Express announces: “Invisible hands ‘Rock’ family.” And it goes on to describe the destruction of the grandmother clock, and how Diane was repeatedly thrown out of bed. It also mentions that when Phillip tried to record the noises, the plug was pulled out of his tape recorder. “Meanwhile,” the story ends, “the Pritchards’ home has become quite an attraction for amateur ghost hunters. Several people have knocked on the door and asked if they can stay the night to listen to the ghost.”
The Pritchards’ home had become known as “the haunted house.” A neighbor heard a bus driver announcing to his passengers: “That’s the haunted house,” as they stopped outside. A group of students from Leeds asked permission to camp in the front garden, but Mrs. Pritchard refused. But in the warm weather, people slept on the huge, round grass verge in front of the Pritchards’ home, and “Mr. Nobody” usually obliged them with his assortment of bangs and crashes. Miners on their way to work in the early hours of the morning used to stand by the fence and listen to the phantom drummer.
Not long after the disturbances began, Jean Pritchard bumped into an acquaintance named Rene Holden (Vic Kelly’s sister) in the High Street. Remembering she had a reputation for being a “bit psychic,” she told her what had been happening. When Mrs. Holden said she was not afraid of ghosts, Jean invited her along to see for herself.
The next day, she paid her first visit to the house. Jean Pritchard took her upstairs and showed her the chaos that “Fred” could create in a matter of minutes. The three bedrooms looked as if burglars had been through them. Bedclothes lay in heaps, drawers were pulled open and their contents lying around the rooms, and chairs were upside down. Jean explained that she’d tidied up all three rooms only half an hour before.
Jean Pritchard was glad to have somebody to talk to. The two of them took to one another immediately, and Mrs. Holden was to witness most of the events that took place over the next nine months. On that first evening, the poltergeist was on its best behavior. Jean Pritchard invited Rene to return on the following Saturday to have something to eat.
Mrs. Scholes was staying at East Drive that weekend, but she was feeling ill, and spent most of the time in her room. Joe Pritchard had gone out to the local pub with some friends. When Rene Holden arrived, Jean was making chicken sandwiches, with a bird that was still warm from the oven. Rene helped her to make the sandwiches.
As they stood there in the kitchen, the lights suddenly went out. Jean said: “It’s starting.” “I know,” said Rene, “I can feel it.” A moment later, the lights went on again. “That’s odd,” said Jean, “it usually makes us put them on.”
The sandwiches and the teapot were placed on a tray and carried through into the lounge. Phillip and Diane were already sitting there, watching television.
Before they could start eating, the lights went out again, there was a rushing noise like a blast of wind, and objects began to fly around in the darkness. The room had suddenly gone very cold. They all noticed a pattering noise on the window, like someone gently tapping.
When they got the lights on again, the room was chaotic, with ornaments and cushions all over the floor. The sandwich plate was still on the table, but it was empty. And, at first sight the sandwiches seemed to have vanished completely. Then Jean Pritchard noticed a few of them lying behind the television. She picked one of them up. “What is it?” said Mrs. Holden, observing Jean’s odd expression. “Look,” said Jean, holding out the sandwich, “something’s eaten it!” A huge bite had been taken out of the sandwich and there were teeth marks visible on the bread. Whoever had bitten it had enormous teeth.
Mrs. Holden asked if she could keep the sandwich as a memento. In fact, she wanted it as evidence to show anybody who thought her story sounded mad. She wrapped up the sandwich and put it in her handbag. But a few days later it had disintegrated into crumbs.
Mrs. Holden described another visit to the Pritchards’ home the following weekend. The Pritchards had invited her to a local Working Mens’ Club for a Ladies Night, and Mrs. Holden had had her hair set.
Afterwards, she went back to East Drive with the Pritchards for a coffee. As she sat there, the lights all went out. Things started flying around the room, and the racket was suddenly deafening. At the same time, Rene Holden felt as if her hair was swarming with tiny small creatures—perhaps ants. A cushion hit her in the face. When Joe Pritchard turned on the main switch a few moments later, everything in the room was upside down. Ornaments lay on the floor, chairs had been overturned, even the pictures had come off the walls.
Mrs. Holden made some interesting and relevant suggestions about the poltergeist. The children were both suffering from some stomach ailment, and it became worse whenever the poltergeist appeared. Diane described it as “feeling twisted up inside.” Mrs. Holden was convinced that the poltergeist was drawing energy from the solar plexus of the children. She also made the interesting suggestion that it might be able to draw energy from the underground stream that flowed beneath the house.
It was Mrs. Holden who made the sensible suggestion that they should try and communicate with Mr. Nobody. Many poltergeists seem to have a definite desire to explain themselves. The Pritchards’ visitant proved to be an exception. The Pritchards stood out in the hall, with their hands joined together, and tried concentrating to see if they could persuade the poltergeist to manifest itself. It did precisely that. There was a sound like a loud wind rushing down the stairs and then over the top of the banisters came a shower of objects: bedding, boxes, ornaments, mattresses, apparently every movable object in the upper part of the house.
One snowy evening, Joe Pritchard’s sister Maude Peerce arrived at the house. She had decided that it was time to come and investigate the poltergeist in person. And it was clear that her attitude toward the “haunting” was skeptical. She felt there was something undignified about all the publicity. “There’s got to be a logical explanation for everything—you’ve just got to look for it.” Her idea of a logical explanation was that Phillip and Diane were having a joke at everybody’s expense. Joe Pr
itchard became mildly annoyed and told her she didn’t know what she was talking about. Phillip and Diane were indignant, but too polite to be rude.
As they sat there, the room suddenly became cold, and Jean Pritchard had the familiar sensation that the poltergeist was around. Then the lights went out. Aunt Maude was sitting in the chair by the kitchen fire, and its red glow gave enough light to see what was happening. First of all, the refrigerator door swung open. A jug of milk floated out, sailed across the kitchen until it was poised above Aunt Maude’s head, then tilted and slowly deluged her in milk. She jumped to her feet, spluttering. Jean found her way to the cupboard under the stairs, and the lights came on again. Aunt Maude pointed. “It was those kids!”
“No it wasn’t,” said Jean Pritchard, “they stood by me all the time.” She began to mop up the milk from the floor and the chair. Aunt Maude refused to be convinced. Why had the lights gone out before it happened? Clearly because somebody had no wish to be seen playing tricks.
Aunt Maude was very angry. Jean could understand her anger—she was soaked in milk. “Look, why don’t you stay the night and see or yourself?”
“All right, I will,” said Aunt Maude. She removed her hat and coat, then looked around for her gloves. She could only find one. “Don’t worry,” said Jean Pritchard, “it will turn up. Things always do.”
They moved into the lounge. The lights went out again, and there was a violent banging sound. Aunt Maude yelled indignantly. Then the lights were turned on again, the chairs had been turned upside down and the electric fire pulled out of the fireplace. The contents of the refrigerator were strewn around the room, including a string of sausages. The children burst into shrieks of laughter, and Aunt Maude became more irritable than ever. “What keeps happening to the lights?”