It’s midnight in the dark and cold Hall and the earth walkers are snoring gently under their blankets, apart from old William whose snores sound like the pained grunting of a sheep giving birth.
And you’re frightened of us?< We barely make a noise and are almost completely invisible, so just what is there to be scared of? The witching hour of midnight, when we all come out to scare the living daylights out of you; just where did that idea come from? We are here all the time, watching. We don’t sleep, as there is no need too. And consider, the worst time to try and get your attention would be when you are dead to the world, asleep. Add it up! Night is a calmer, quieter time so you may see a flicker of us or hear a passing whisper, when in the day, all would go unnoticed. I have to state though, (after watching many a paranormal programme in the company of young Charles) that in photographs, we do NOT appear as orbs or mist (check your camera lens for dusk specks and finger smudges, light rays etc...It’s not us!). I have seen the rare shot of someone from upstairs, caught fuzzily present in the frame but our forms vibrate so differently to yours, the earth’s light cannot give us a static shape. So don’t bother. Take a look at my selfie... You can see us but then again, you can’t. Besides all of that, we don’t want to scare you. Well, most of us don’t.
O Captain! My Captain!
As I am enjoying my writing now (nothing bad has happened to me up here, no punishment, as yet, for my rule breaking) and I am in the mood to tell you the Captain’s story. It’s a difficult tale but an interesting one. He was born by the name of Henry Johnson in 1615 in Ganton. In 1650, after working on a farm he joined the Parliamentary army (with Oliver Cromwell) and rose up the ranks to commander for his leadership and good judgement. The crucible of combat was his life blood. He was a man of the people, his men were his family.
He met her in 1658 on a visit to the Legards (then the owners of the house). She appeared at the table with a tray of steaming pigeon pie and his heart was lost. Martha Baker was her name. Oh, yes, Baker… daughter of the guttersnipe housekeeper. He barely touched his pie. Next day he slipped her a badly written note asking her to meet him in the garden at midnight (so romantic but this is his telling of it). Night fell and his heart beat faster on hearing footsteps in the darkness. He lifted his lamp to catch sight of Martha’s beautiful face approaching, only to find the grisly visage of Mrs Baker scowling back at him. She informed him that her daughter was meant for a better class of man than him, a mere farmers boy and disappeared back off into the darkness of the hall.