Larian Studios Forums General Chat Chat (Anything) Uncle Tatters is a Ghost

OK, everybody, I've thought about this for several weeks and finally I am going
to let you in on a little secret. My uncle Tatters is a ghost and he is dying to
meet all of you.

Meet Uncle Tatters



Uncle Tatters tells me that he and his friends have alot of great stories to tell
about their favorite haunting places.

I think it would be great if all of you would share with us some of the ghost
stories that you have heard, maybe some that you have read, or some that you
have found on the net.



Come on in, have a seat, and stay awhile. Uncle Tatters has a story to tell. Be
careful though, the chair you choose may not be empty.

Shan <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/alien.gif" alt="" /> <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/smile.gif" alt="" />

AHHHHHHHHHHH!

Lews screams, pulls out a sub-machine gun, shoots it at the ghost. Screams again, pulls out laser gun ( E-11 for those who like Star Wars <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/tongue.gif" alt="" />) and shoots it. Screams, runs out the door, jumps into car/suv, drives away at 500 mph, goes over cliff, it explodes.

Re-load level. Game Over. Re-loead level. Game over. Re-load level.

Uncle Tatters' story:

Branscombe's Loaf and Cheese --- Dartmoor

There is a small granite capped hill, high on Sourton Common and close to don
Reservoir, called Branscombe's Loaf. By chance, or a 'slice' of good luck, it
has a lovely little story to explain its origin.

In the late thirteenth century Walter Bronescombe or Branscombe was Bishop of
Exeter. His diocese stretched across the length and breadth of Devon and
Cornwall and, from time to time, he had to travel around the area.

Now, on one particular occasion, whilst accompanied by his chaplain, he strayed
from the King Way, the road from Okehampton to Tavistock, and became lost in the
mist. As the time passed by and the mist persisted, the Bishop and his chaplain
developed hunger pangs and, as one is wont to say in these circumstances,
declared they "would give anything for a bite to eat". Miraculously, to their
profound relief, a stranger materialized out of the mist and approached them.
The old man, with a skeletal face and frame, produced some bread and cheese. The
Bishop was just about to accept this kind offering when the chaplain let out a
warning yell. He had spotted that the moorman's foot was cloven, absolute proof
that it was the Evil One Himself confronting them. The uneaten bread and cheese
dropped to the ground and immediately turned into the rocks of that name today.

The mist duly lifted and the Bishop and his chaplain went on their way none the
worse for wear, still with rumbling tummies, but infinitely grateful that they
hadn't been obliged to pay the ultimate price for the devilish waiter service.

Shan <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/alien.gif" alt="" /> <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/smile.gif" alt="" />

Another story from Uncle Tatters:

Cutty Dyer -- Dartmoor

The ancient stannary and borderland town off Ashburton possesses its own evil
little sprite that appears in the shape of Cutty Dyer. He is easy to find as he
lives near King's Bridge in the centre of the town. For many generations a visit
by him was threatened to naughty children who didn't mend their ways, but
misbehaving children were not his sole clients - he was particularly active
against those folk who drank too much. He would eagerly waylay anyone in a state
of alcoholic stupor as they staggered home. At best they could expect to be thrown
into the River Ashburn but at worst this evil little sprite would cut their
throats, drink their blood and then throw them into the river!

In the Middle Ages an image or statue of St Christopher, patron saint of
travellers, stood beside the river to help travellers when the Ashburn was in
flood. Possibly a drunken reveller destroyed it which turned the image into this
large, red-eyed watersprite - 'Cutty' being a derivative of St Christopher and a
'Dyer' is defined as a scoundrel of the deepest dye - so beware.'


Hey, Jurak, you and Gal had better be careful with all that drinking. I would
hate to find your bodies thrown in the river with your heads cut off. Oh well,
I guess I could tell the tale to Uncle Tatters and then he would have a new
story to tell. <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/devil.gif" alt="" />

Shan <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/alien.gif" alt="" /> <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/smile.gif" alt="" />

A Very Scary Doll

Can a doll haunt a house?
Take Robert, a large doll that for many years inhabited the Artist House in Key West, an island off the southern tip of Florida. The Artist House is a bed and I breakfast establishment, a place to relax, but some patrons have had anything but relaxing times there. The owner, Ed Cox, tells of a young German woman who stayed in the front bedroom, and who was terrified.

"The more you go up that staircase, the worse the feeling is," she said. The front bedroom was the place where the doll had been kept for many years. A plumber working at the Artist House insisted that he heard the doll giggle, and that he found it sitting in different spots when no one was around to move it. Did it move itself?

Owner Cox tells of other disturbances in the house Ñ of pictures that fly off the walls, for example. He once saw the door of a book cabinet spring open for no visible reason. Sometimes doors won't open. Sometimes they open when they shouldn't.

Who is Robert, and what could he be up to?

Robert was the doll of Robert Gene Otto, an artist who lived in the house all his life. When Gene, as he was called, was given the doll he was five years old. It was the custom around 1900 to give a child a doll that looked like him. Robert the doll is the size of a child. He has human hair, and buttons for eyes. Gene used to dress the doll in his own clothes. He also gave it his first name.

Myrt Reuter, who owned the house after Gene died, cared for Robert as though he were a human being. "It has different kinds of clothes," she said. "It was in a pixie outfit when I got him. Now I have Gene's little sailor suit on him.

"I've been told," she said, "that when Gene did anything mean or hateful he always blamed it on the doll." Myrt Reuter tells of renting the house to a law student one winter. She says, "He told this story that the doll was voodoo and it locked him up in the attic." Was that true? Possibly. But it is a fact that many people have reported strange experiences in the house, whether or not Robert was causing them.

Enid Hoffnan, who has written books about the Hawaiian mystical tradition, Huna, suspects that what is going on with Robert is what the Hawaiians call Mana. "Mana," she says, "carries ideas. It can be stored in certain things, wood and silk in particular. It flows in ways that are hard for us to understand. The doll has possibly infected the atmosphere of the house."

Gene had been a bad-tempered person all his life. The doll had been his "mirror image." A lot of his personality had gone into the dollÑall the evil thoughts and actions. Possibly Gene's anger is living on after his death, through Robert.

Tsel <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/eek.gif" alt="" />

The Old Victorian House

The 'instances' began to occur soon after my parents, myself and four
brothers moved into an old Victorian House in a small town in Iowa. The
house was rather dilapidated, long since shed its former glory with its
peeling paint. But it suited my parents' pockets and with such a large
family the four bedrooms had great appeal.
All too soon we learned if we wanted to live in the house with some semblance
of peace we had best delegate what we call the 'back bedroom' in that you had to pass
through another bedroom to get to it, to an unseen inhabitant that
stocked the night in agitated frustration if you dare to venture into her room.

When we first moved in, the back bedroom, unlike the rest of the house
retained a vintage of it past. Filled with treasures that would fancy any
child's delight. A beautiful bedroom set, complete with vanity and an
ornate wardrobe closet, filled with clothes and finery that would suggest
that a 'lady' had once occupied the room. We kids, loved to play in that
room well my parents undertook the job of renovating the house.

The first instances that denoted a unseen presence in the house was an odd
patterned sound heard late in the night. Sort of a shuffle-shuffle-knock
across the creaking wood floors upstairs. This was always followed by our
dog's sudden agitation. Laying at the foot of the stairs, he'd twitch his
ears, then bare his teeth and begin to growl as if he saw someone standing
at the top of the stairs. An investigation would reveal no one was there.

As the weeks progressed, other things began to occur. Little nuances that
more often than not pointed the finger at the five child occupants. Lights
left on. The water in the kitchen sink would be found running full blast
in the morning and on occasion the front door would be found standing wide
open when my father distinctly recalled locking the door before he retired.

The shuffling sound became more pronounced, occurring nightly. My parents
bedroom, located on the first floor, would often awaken to the noise,
thinking they had arrant children up and about, my father would stomp up
the stairs prepared to seek justice only to find all five of them tucked
away. Fast asleep.

My father, still convinced it was a child at play, decided to stay up late
one night in hopes of surprising the culprit or culprits. I can not credit
this part of the story, beyond the fact that my father was of a very
serious nature, from the old school that ruled the child with a rod.

At the first sound of the shuffle, my father moved quietly up the stairs,
in hopes of catching the culprit by surprise. As it turns out he was the
one who was surprised. For all his children were still fast asleep. But
something. Someone was awake. The details he described later, denoting
that they had set his hairs standing on end was that the door to the back
bedroom, yet occupied and still filled with the previous owners effects,
lay open.

Sitting at the top of the stairs, my father peered into the
front bedroom where three of his child lay fast asleep, transfixed as he
watched the dresser drawers slid open, only to be shoved shut, then the
mattress springs of the old metal bed shook, as if unseen fingers thought
to wake the children.

My parents, seeking the why or what of it began to dig into it the history
of the house. They knew that there had been only one owner. A women who
had lived well into her eighties. What they didn't know was that she had
died in the house, fell down the stairs and broke her neck.

The back bedroom, had been her bedroom. The furnishings and personal effects hers as well.
And even more disturbing, was the fact that she had in the last
few years of her life become a recluse and a shut in and as such always
wore slippers upon her feet and walked with the assistance of a cane.
Thus explained the mystery of the odd patterned shuffle-shuffle knock across the creaking floor.

The first thing that my father did was to lock the back bedroom. In
essence, sealing it off. An unavowed promise to leave her 'stuff' and
domain alone in the hopes that she would offers us the same courtesy. In
the following six years that we lived in the house, she was rarely
meddlesome or agitated, though her presence was still noted on occasion by
the shuffle-shuffle-knock across the creaking floor. She did have her days
thought.

A few instances I clearly recall was an occasion in the dead of
winter that my parent awoke to the cold in the middle of the night only to
find that once again the front door had been left ajar and in the wake of a
snow storm, three inches of snow cover the entire dining room. We'd would
awaken to find the Christmas tree light blaring into the otherwise
blackness of the living room when my parents clearly recalled unplugging
them.

And on occasion, we'd still find the water facet in the kitchen
running full blast. On these rare occasions, it is interesting to note
that the back bedroom door, her bedroom door, would always be found unlock
and ajar.

Great stories Tsel and Gal. Thanks for sharing them with us. Now here is another
one of Uncle Tatters' stories.



Come my children pull up a chair and give a listen. Uncle Tatters has another
tale for you. *waits for Shan's friends to get chairs and move in close.* Shhhhh,
your talking and give a listen. This old ghost doesn't have all night. <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/eek.gif" alt="" />

Army of the Dead

A laundress, newly moved to Charleston following the Civil War, found herself
awakened at the stroke of twelve each night by the rumble of heavy wheels
passing in the street. But she lived on a dead end street, and had no
explanation for the noise. Her husband would not allow her to look out the
window when she heard the sounds, telling her to leave well enough alone.
Finally, she asked the woman who washed at the tub next to hers. The woman said:
"What you are hearing is the Army of the Dead. They are Confederate soldiers who
died in hospital without knowing that the war was over. Each night, they rise
from their graves and go to reinforce Lee in Virginia to strengthen the weakened
Southern forces."

The next night, the laundress slipped out of bed to watch the Army of the Dead
pass. She stood spell-bound by the window as a gray fog rolled passed. Within
the fog, she could see the shapes of horses, and could hear gruff human voices
and the rumble of canons being dragged through the street, followed by the sound
of marching feet. Foot soldiers, horsemen, ambulances, wagons and canons passed
before her eyes, all shrouded in gray. After what seemed like hours, she heard a
far off bugle blast, and then silence.

When the laundress came out of her daze, she found one of her arms was
paralyzed. She has never done a full days washing since. <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/eek.gif" alt="" />

Shan <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/alien.gif" alt="" /> <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/eek.gif" alt="" />

Milk bottles

She was just another poor, bedraggled woman, struggling to feed her family. He
saw them all the time, their faces careworn, and blank. The Depression had
created hundreds of them. He was one of the lucky ones who still had his grocery
and money coming in to feed his family.

She came one day to his shop, carrying two empty milk bottles, and wordlessly
placed them on the counter in front of him. He took the empties and replaced
them with full bottles, saying: "Ten cents, please."

She did not reply. She just took the bottles and left the shop. He might have
gone after her to demand his money, or called the police, but he did neither.
Her need was in her face, and he always felt a little guilty at being one of the
lucky ones with money and a job. She was probably one of the migrant workers, he
decided.

She was back the next day with two empty milk bottles. He replaced them will
full bottles and watched as she hurried out the door. She looked so worried that
he wondered if she had a job at all. If she came back, he would offer her a
part-time position cleaning the store.

She came again the next morning, and exchanged her empty bottles for full
without saying a word. He tried to talk to her, to ask if she wanted a job, but
she practically ran from the store with the milk. Her urgency worried him. He
followed, wondering what he could do to help.

To his surprise, she headed away from the migrant camp outside of town. She went
instead to the graveyard by the river. As he watched, she hurried up to a stone
marker and then disappeared into the ground. He rubbed his eyes, not believing
his eyes. Then he heard the muffled cry of a baby. It was coming from the ground
underneath the stone marker where the woman had disappeared!

He ran back to the store and phoned the police. Within minutes, the graveyard
was swarming with people, and the workers started digging up the grave. When the
casket was opened, the store owner saw the woman who had visited his store lying
dead within it. In her arms, she held a small baby and two full milk bottles.
The baby was still alive.

Shan <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/alien.gif" alt="" /> <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/smile.gif" alt="" />

Phone Call from Beyond

Mammoth Cave National Park, in Kentucky, contains perhaps the most famous collection of caves in the world. According to people who work there as guides, and according to at least some of the 2 million tourists who visit the caves each year, there are ghosts in those caverns.

The most convincing witnesses might well be members of the Cave Research Foundation, which numbers some 650 scientists who investigate caves all over the United States. Their headquarters are at Mammoth Cave Park. Most CRF members are professors at universities, not the sort of people who make up stories about ghostly experiences. But things happen. As one CRF member put it:

"We're a bunch of hard-nosed people. Most of us who have these experiences are not believers in ghosts, ordinarily. We just describe the facts and let others decide."

Two CRF members who had a chilling experience are Dr. Will White, a professor of Geochemistry at Pennsylvania State University, and Dr. George Deike, a government scientist. They were investigating Crystal Cave, which is no longer open to the public. However, it had once been open to the tourists and there was an old Army field telephone down in the cave.

"I guess they used it", White says, "to let the guides know some people were coming, tell them to wake up."

On this day, White and Deike, on their way through the cave to do some geological exploration, were walking by this ancient, broken down telephone - when suddenly, it rang!

The two scientists were too startled, perhaps too fearful, to stop. They kept walking down the passageway.

White says "When we got about 200 feet farther on, the phone rang again! We looked at each other for a moment, then we ran back. I picked up the old phone and answered. It was one of those old fashioned Army phones with the butterfly switch on it.

"What I heard sounded like a phone sounds when it is off the hook and there are people in the room. You hear the sound of voices, but you can't tell what they are saying. I said hello, or something like that. And on the other end there's a startled gasp. And that was all. No one responded. The line was now dead."

Astonished, the two scientists noticed that the phone was attached to a rusty, twisted phone line. The traced it back to the mouth of the cave and to a weathered shack that had once been the ticket office. But the phone line ended there. It was attached to nothing!

Had Dr. White heard the sounds of another world?

Tsel <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/eek.gif" alt="" />

No. Kids playing a joke in the office <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/winkwink.gif" alt="" /> I'm very skeptical on this sort of thing <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/tongue.gif" alt="" />

Oh no, it can't be true. Lews a skeptic, I can't believe it. Hmmmmmm, guess I
will have to ask Uncle Tatters to pay him a visit. <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/eek.gif" alt="" />

"Oh, Uncle Tatters......."

Shan <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/eek.gif" alt="" />

Location: Utica Mills (Utica Covered Bridge) - Maryland

There is a covered bridge near Thurmont, The river beneath the bridge is a spot
that local kids used as a swimming hole. A young boy drowned in the deep water a
long time ago. People reported that his ghost haunts the bridge. The bridge was
restored by the State of Maryland so it has changed a bit. The unhappy ghost of
the drowned boy lingers on. People have reported seeing a glowing apparition
crawling out of the water and up the side of the bank. Sometimes people have heard
ghostly cries for help that echo up and down the stream and through the picnic
grove. But the most chilling events occur on the bridge itself. The bridge is
small and only one car at a time can pass. Even on the bright sunny days, the
interior is the bridge is covered in shadows. At night the bridge is very spooky.

One evening a couple was returning home from Frederick. When their car approached
the bridge, they noticed a thick fog rising from the river. The driver turned on
his headlights to dim so that he could see better. About halfway over the bridge
the car's headlights caught the figure of a young boy and his hair and clothes
were dripping wet. The driver slammed on his brakes and the car slid to a stop on
the wet planking, after apparently striking the boy. The driver jumped from his
vehicle and fell to his knees and looked under the car. No one was there. The
driver got the eerie feeling that he was being watched and he turned to look
toward the rear of the car. The boy that he had just hit was standing there,
watching him with blank and staring eyes. The man started to speak, and the boy
slowly faded away into the darkness.

Shan <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/eek.gif" alt="" />

Shadows in the Dark

I am no expert in the field of the paranormal or of how ones mind works
in certain situations. I am, however a believer that things aren’t
always as they appear and that there are other "powers" that influence
our lives. This story takes place around ’89 or ’90 on a warm summer
night.
I was playing in a rock band at the time. Our rehearsal building was
located at the home of our singers’ parents. They lived up a dirt road
about a half-mile from the main road. A very quiet secluded area. Our
singer, Kevin, had told me stories of things that had happened in that
area. For instance, one night he and his girlfriend and several other
people were all hanging out and talking outside at his parents’ pool.
His girlfriend had been staring into the woods for quite some time. He
had asked her what was wrong but she wouldn’t answer. She began
walking into the woods and when Kevin started to follow her, she began
to run. He had a rough time following her. He lost site of her for
several minutes and when he finally found her, she was laying against a
tree, crying. He asked what was wrong and why she had gone into the
woods. Her answer was, "There was a head, a face, and it was telling
me to follow, so I did." He asked her whose face she had seen and she
told him it was his.
Believe that or not. Here is my part of the story. I was there and I
can tell you it is real. There is no history I can give, such as
people dying in this place or anywhere nearby.
I was at rehearsal with the rest of the band. My girlfriend at the
time came to watch, as she usually did. When we finished, we all sat
outside, smoking cigarettes and talking. We weren’t drinking that that
night and none of us were into taking drugs. Kevin told everyone the
story of his spooked ex-girlfriend and talked about other places in the
area that were reported to "haunted". We were all in a spooky kind of
mood and it was dark so we decided to follow an old well road up the
hill opposite where Kevin’s ex had her experience. As we reached the
end of the road, there was an oil tank and the pipeline from the well
that fed the tank. We were just standing around, I guess waiting for
something to happen, when we got more than we bargained for. I was
standing behind my girlfriend with my arms around her when I felt her
body suddenly go stiff. I looked at her face and she was staring,
wide-eyed, straight ahead into the woods. I looked in that direction
and saw several "figures" moving just behind the tree line. I couldn’t
make them out to be people, more like shadows. It was pretty dark but
these shadows were much darker than they should have been. It appeared
as though one of them was coming toward us out of the woods but as it
came out of the trees, it was gone. I was still holding her and
suddenly, the air around got extremely cold. I remember instantly
getting chills. My girlfriend shivered as the air temperature dropped.
In the next second, the air returned to normal, warm as before. My
girlfriend did not stop shivering. The spell seemed to break and I
turned and looked at Kevin. His eyes were also wide but he was staring
at us. We turned and left very quickly. I took Amy to the car and put
a jacket around her. She was still shivering and had not yet spoken a
word. I stood outside the car and asked Kevin what he had seen. He
had also seen the shadows and had seen the one turn to come out of the
trees and then disappear. However he had seen something that we could
not have seen. As we felt the cold air around us, Kevin had seen the
shadow suddenly reappear around us. He said that we were engulfed in
the shadow and had almost disappeared from sight. That was enough for
me to hear. It took me several hours to get Amy to calm down enough to
talk about what we had seen, or rather, felt. Amy had felt great
sadness in the cold air that surrounded us. She described it as a lost
child’s sadness. I had felt something more like jealousy mixed with
fear. Whatever it was, we did not go back there. We talked about it
many times trying to understand it but I don’t think there is much to
understand.

(Is the person who is known as I, Uncle Tatters here?)

Tsel <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/eek.gif" alt="" />

The Ghost

The train rumbled around him as he adjusted the throttle. The night shift was
always the toughest, in the engineer's mind. He had rumbled through Timpas a few
minutes ago and was on his way to Thatcher. Not a bad stretch of road, and there
was no better train in the entire Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad.

He stretched a bit and yawned, trying to stay alert. And then he gasped. The
lights had picked up the figure of a beautiful woman with long red-gold hair and
wonderful blue eyes standing near the tracks. Too near! He sounded his horn to
warn her away. And then he realized that the light was shining right through
her. She was a ghost!

She stepped into the center of the track, laughing and beautiful. She
disappeared seconds before the train rushed through her. And then she was there,
in the engine cab next to him. The scent of roses filled the air. He stared at
the ghostly vision, bewitched by her beauty. With an enticing smile, she wrapped
ghostly arms about his neck and kissed him. And was gone.

Dazed (and disappointed!), the engineer finished the run to Thatcher in a
trance, completely forgetting to stop at the station. The fireman had to pour
water on his head to snap him out of it.

The engineer decided not to tell anyone about the ghost, fearing for his job.
But he was plagued by curiousity. Finally, he confided the story to a close
friend who was a fellow engineer. To his surprise, the friend had heard about
the ghost before. The ghost's appearance on the train was by no means uncommon.
No one knew who the woman had been in life. But she always appeared on that
stretch of track after dark, beckoning to the men on the railroad crew with a
bewitching smile. Sometimes, said his friend, sometimes she would come right
onto the train!

"Better not tell your wife about it," his friend advised.

The engineer never did.

Shan <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/eek.gif" alt="" />

This is a story Uncle Tatters loves to tell.



You can't get out

One dark, windy night, the town drunk was meandering his way home after the bar
closed. Somehow he got turned around and ended up walking through the churchyard
instead of taking the road home.

The wind picked up and he thought he could hear a voice calling his name.
Suddenly, the ground opened up in front of him, and he fell down, down into an
open grave! He could hear the voice clearer now, calling to him. He knew it was
the devil, coming for him just like the preacher said, on account of him being
the town drunk.

The hole was very deep and inside it was pitch black. His eyes adjusted to the
darkness after a few moments, and he made out a form sitting in the darkness
with him. It called his name, and he scrambled away in fear, trying to climb out
of that terrible grave. Then the figure spoke. "You can't get out," it said.

The drunk gave a shout of pure terror and leapt straight up more than six feet.
He caught the edge of the hole in his hands, scrambled out, and ran for home as
fast as he could go.

Inside the open grave, his neighbor Charlie sighed in resignation. He'd fallen
into the hole a few minutes before his friend and had thought that together they
might help each other climb out. Now he was going to have to wait until morning
and get the mortician to bring him a ladder.

<img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/think.gif" alt="" /> Hmmmmm, wonder if this story was about Jurak. <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/biggrin.gif" alt="" />

Shan <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/smile.gif" alt="" />

The Ghosts of Ringwood Manor

Ringwood Manor you say? A lovely old house. But no place, my child, to go on a
dark night with no moon. Built in the 1700's, the original house was a
collection of smaller buildings patched together to create a Manor. The current
Manor House was built by Martin Ryerson in 1807.

Ringwood Manor was the home of General Erskine, who ran the Iron Works. General
Erskine was a Geographer and Surveyor-General for General George Washington
during the Revolutionary War. What does that mean? It means, dear, that he made
maps. General Erskine died of pneumonia during the war and was buried at the
Manor.

Ringwood Manor overlooks a small pond. It is surrounded by truly lovely grounds,
which are perfect for a ramble - in the daytime.

But at night…

Well, love, it is at night that the ghost's walk.

Where? My, you are a curious child! Well, there are three different places that
are said to be haunted. If you wander the halls of the Manor House at night, you
might meet the ghost of a housemaid who haunts a small bedroom on the second
floor. They say she was beaten to death in this room. Whether there is any truth
to it, I don't know. But my friends tell me they have heard noises coming from
the empty room - footsteps, sounds of heavy objects dropping, soft crying. And
they keep finding the bedroom door ajar and the bed rumpled.

The other ghosts? Well, back behind the Manor pond is the grave where General
Erskine is buried. The local people are afraid to come to this place because at
dusk General Erskine can be seen sitting on his grave gazing across the pond.

And it is said there is an unmarked grave filled with the remains of French
soldiers who fought with Rochambeau during the Revolutionary War. During the
day, all you can see is a depression in the grass near the General's grave. But
after dark, the dead come to the Manor pond to walk along the shore. Sometimes,
you can hear soft, sad voices speaking in French.

So go ahead and visit Ringwood Manor. Ramble its lovely grounds and explore all
you want. Just be sure to be home before dark.

Shan <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/eek.gif" alt="" />

The Cut-off

The devil was in the Mississippi River that night. You could feel it with every
eddy swirling against the helm of the boat. You could hear it in every jangle of
the bell. You could see it in the dim light of the lantern as it tried to pierce
the swirling fog. You could sense it in the sound of the chugging engine. The
devil was in the river. It was a bad night to be out in a paddleboat. But he had
sworn when he set out that nothing could make him turn back.

No other pilot dared brave the Mississippi that night. They were all huddled in
the tavern, gossiping. After an evening of listening to their empty boasts, he
had made one himself. He knew the Mississippi River so well that he could guide
his paddleboat on his run even through the thickness of the night's fog. When
the other pilots heard his boast, they laughed and told him he would be back
before midnight. He had grown angry at their jeers, and had sworn in front of
them all that he would not turn back this night for any reason, should the Devil
bar the way!

The paddle wheeler was rocking oddly under the strange eddies of the river. But
he knew every turn and guided her along despite the fog. He was almost to
Raccourci when he saw shore where no shore had ever been before.

He turned the boat this way and that. It could not be! The river ran straight
through on this branch. He had guided his paddleboat through this place a
hundred times.

But the devil must have been listening at the tavern and had heard his boast,
for the Mississippi had shifted! He swore every curse he knew, and kept
searching for a way through. He had vowed to complete his run without turning
back and he was determined to carry out his vow. He would never go back. Never!
He would stay there until daybreak, and beyond if need be.

Suddenly, the paddleboat gave a massive jerk. The engine stalled. The boat
shuddered and overturned. When the fog lifted the next day, they found his
paddleboat sunk to the bottom with a gaping hole in its side, and the pilot
drowned.

On foggy nights, you can still hear the ring of the bell, the sound of the
engine and the curses of the ghost captain trying to complete his run.

Shan <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/alien.gif" alt="" /> <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/smile.gif" alt="" />

The Ghost Tor Rider

Between Powder Mills and Two Bridges the B3212 passes below an eminent pile of
rocks called Crockern Tor. This point is close to the centre of Dartmoor and was
used from 1305 to 1749 for open air meetings of the "Tinners" or Stannary
Parliament (Stannum is Latin for tin). The tor was chosen because it was about an
equal distance for the twenty four representatives who were sent from the four
Stannary towns situated in each corner or "quarter" of the moor. They might well
have had an uninvited member joining them at their twice yearly meetings for "Old
Crockern" favoured dark nights for his adventures across Dartmoor. This mysterious
horseman had a skeleton steed and was a truly frightening sight to behold.

It is believed that he may well have been associated with the Wisht Hounds as
their "kennel" in Wiatman's Wood lies just over the hill from Crocker Tor. Nobody
knows who this mysterious rider is or why he haunts this tor and surrounding moor.

Shan <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/alien.gif" alt="" /> <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/smile.gif" alt="" />

And guess what everybody? <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/biggrin.gif" alt="" /> <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/evilgrin1.gif" alt="" />

I think it is time for another story from Uncle Tatters. I hadn't visited him in
a while. Got busy with other things and poor Uncle Tatters had to make do for
himself. He told me that his old house had been very lonely and asked me if I
would sit and talk with him a while. How could I refuse that Uncle of mine, so
I sat down in a big old chair near the fire and he sat in the other. As we talked
he asked if I would like to hear a story. Guess you can all guess my answer since
I love ghost stories so much? Well here is the story he told me. It come from
the Isle of Wight. Ummm, that place sounds familiar. <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/smile.gif" alt="" />

ARRETON MANOR

The pleasant lanes and roads around Arreton are well known by the holiday maker
and local alike for their peace and tranquillity. And the Arreton Valley hosts
one of the finest examples of English Manor houses.

The manor was acquired in 1050 by Edward the Confessor and it is recorded as
being there long before this. The church owned it at one time and it was under
the care of an abbot along with a community of monks.

The manor looks peaceful enough but under this roof there have been many dark
deeds.

One particular room that opens from the great hall a silvery grey figure has
been seen and it is believed to be the host of a monk that once lived here when
the manor was in the hands of the church. The sighting is also accompanied by a
smell of incense and there is the sound of chanting.

Count Slade de Pomeroy was once the owner of the manor and it is recorded that
he often woke to the sound of tapping on the door to his bedroom. He is reported
to have said that he had ignored it as if he opened the door there would be
nothing there.

But one time he did in fact open the door and was shoved back by unseen hands,
his housekeeper who was there at the time said that she had seen two monks enter
the room and one of them had pushed him from the doorway.

Many years later a guest at the manor who had no idea of these sightings noticed
a small room leading from a landing, opposite was another larger room. The
visitor had an uncomfortable feeling and she turned pale and became
disorientated so much that she could no longer stay. She said a sense of
foreboding had overwhelmed her and also had the feeling of being watched

Later the count related another story concerning the landing. James and Thomas
who were the two older brothers of Mrs Barnaby Leigh once fought a duel to
determine which one of them would inherit the property. One of the brothers was
killed and three days later the other brother died from wounds he had received.

The title to Arreton Manor did lie with Barnaby Leigh during the reign of
Elizabeth Ist, and he was known as a wealthy man.

It is also recorded that when he lay on his death bed his son John smothered him
with a pillow so as to gain the inheritance. But on looking up after doing this
dastardly deed, John, noticed Annabel, his younger sister standing there
watching, and in his panic he dragged her upstairs and threw her to her death
from the highest window.

It is said that there is an area in the room that is permanently cold and the
ghost of little Annabel is often seen and heard in the grounds of the manor.
Many times it is said that she is calling out "Mamma, Mamma".

The house is often open to the public and on occasions there have been reports
of a sighting and one particular time a little girl told her mother she had been
trying to make friends with a girl in blue but she disappeared through a brick
wall.

Oh, great now I wish I had gone there while we were on the Isel of Wight. I
might have seen some real live ghosts. <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/biggrin.gif" alt="" />

Shan <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/alien.gif" alt="" /> <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/smile.gif" alt="" />

You people scare me... now I don't dare to get out of the house anymore. <img src="/ubbthreads/images/graemlins/eek.gif" alt="" />