Tag: Willoughby Bedford

and then there were none

by Willoughby Bedford/John Riley

Here’s a little something you may not have heard about. It is an unexplained mystery that the people here at the ghostly world have been looking into, asking me to visit the North Yorkshire coast and report.

As before, the usual arrangements made and people and places checked out. So, let me tell you of a case, witnessed by several staff members at a company near the lovely seaside town of Whitby, UK.

I’ve been able to speak with several people, some of them a little long in the tooth but able to recall the events that took place back in 2015.

The incident concerns a Miss Doreen Moore, who worked at a handling company inputting data, mainly loyalty card applications.

She worked alongside a group of fellow workers. There were six colleagues on Doreen’s table.

I managed to speak with four of the group, meeting them along with others who remember the case. I have to say not everyone was keen to be involved or lend his or her name to this journal. So, carrying out their wishes, I have altered the names of the people speaking with me.

From what I have ascertained, Doreen was a quiet lady, around 40 years of age, lived locally and well thought of amongst her peers. She worked full time, whereas many of the other staff members tended to be part time.

Elsie, Susan, Denise and Bridget told me, her colleagues on the same desk, the incident had happened on the evening of the 2nd October 2015.

At the end of their work shift, they gathered up their belongings as normal and headed off to the car park.

The evening staff were arriving and I have managed to speak with a few of them who remember seeing the sports car turn up, apparently quite distinctive and with a head turning noisy exhaust. They remember it parking up in view over by the back wall and seeing a man step out of it.

Doreen’s colleagues remember outside on the steps a young man meeting her.

“We just waited on the steps,” said Elsie, “curious, like we would be, at seeing this good-looking man.”
“I remember Doreen looked surprised when seeing him,” added Susan.
“I thought she’d a toy boy,” laughed Bridget. “Well we all thought he was someone special the way she looked at him, all coy and stuff.”

“Anyway,” continued Elsie, “she went with him to his parked car. Very flash car, we couldn’t believe it. She’d kept him quiet.”

All four laughed, and then Elsie spoke again.

“Normally Doreen walks to work, she only lives a few streets away. And we’d all heard him say he’d come to pick her up and take her home.

“Anyway, we are a nosy lot, kept watching them. Proper gentleman opened and held the car door for her getting in. My Ernie wouldn’t do that, sets off before I’ve time to belt up.”

Denise chipped in. “You know thinking back over it, I still get goose bumps, remember that strange stillness while we were waiting for them to drive off. We were stood, like we couldn’t move, just waiting.”

Susan steps forward. “We were waiting for them, so we could wave them off. Bit of a laugh really, as if we now know who her secret lover is. But they didn’t drive off, it was so still as well there, like as if just before a thunder storm, the air, very close.”

Elsie speaks. “We saw them get in the car but it just went on a bit too long. Didn’t start up the car and the way the light of the evening seemed to fade so quickly, even the car seem to stand out in an eerie way? The air was so close. We had that moment between us; we were kinda of worried at this point. Not that we thought things were going on in the car.” She looked knowingly at Bridget. She continues. “We felt we needed to check everything was okay. We knew something didn’t feel right.”

“So we set off and walked over to the car.” Susan says. “When we got to it and looked inside. The car was empty.”

“We never had that car out of our sights,” Elsie insisting. “We saw them get in it, expected it to pull away but it didn’t and that strange stillness and eeriness had us check everything was okay. None of us could believe it. They’d just vanished.”

Of course, such an incident did lead to investigations; the case remains open according to the police records. The ladies did tell me that lots of official looking type people started taking an interest in their experience. However, they got the impression that the true story would never be published in the local or national newspapers.

The incident did have an effect on those women and I further checked some of the other people in the office starting their shift, particular those sat by the window if they had seen anything of the car. A few of them remember the car and seeing the man open the door for his passenger. They remember the car not moving off and just thought it might have broken down. But they never did see anybody get out of it, saw Elsie and the others going up to it. They had wondered about it and remembered Elsie with the others coming back in the office agitated.

The car wasn’t there the next day when they clocked in for work. It had been talked about amongst them for days later. They remember the storm and it had led to a power cut on their terminals.

One further aside to add into the case was that Elsie and Bridget remember something happening in the high street where they live. Both of them on separate occasions recall walking down the street when a man just pop out of the crowd and pointed a camera in their faces taking a snapshot of them. He then ran off before either had time to ask what was going on. Both Susan and Denise haven’t yet been subjected to any such experience.

So, I’ll leave you all to ponder on that one and await any comments you wish to share. Until the next time I wish you all safe passage through your life.

-end-

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Ghostly cries on Whitesand Bay

Well I’ve got myself here, I’m in Cornwall one of the most haunted places in the country. I’m at Whitesand Bay, 1 mile north of Lands End along some perilous minor roads off the A30.

I’m on my own in this remote spot. Around this place is a rocky coastline and out to sea a beautiful yellow golden sunset. There is the hint of a northerly wind and the daylight now fading makes it an ideal place to tell the tale of Jan Tregeagle’s soul, doomed and tormented for the sins he committed during his life.

You’ll forgive me a minute while I take a bite out of this lovely looking Cornish pasty and a drink from my thermos flask. Delicious.

Tregeagle was an unpopular local magistrate at about the time of early 1600. A stern man certainly not liked, he managed to use his position to build a considerable fortune. When he died his body was interned at St Breock’s churchyard and stories soon built up about his terrible past ways.

Now it came to pass that Tregeagle summoned from the grave to be witness against a debtor at Bodmin Court.

How about that then, how did that work?

Well, once raised his spirit could no longer lay at rest. The priests and exorcists had no success in their rituals so decided to set Tregeagle tasks, impossible tasks so that his soul would be safe from the Devil. Tregeagle set a task of weaving ropes from sand at Gwenvor Cove and there he remains in a continuous struggle to this day.

When the autumn gales blow from a northerly direction to destroy his work Tregeagle’s soul cries in desperation, anguish and rage that can be heard today reverberating across Whitesand Bay.

You know there’s a little bit of time to take a walk and get a feel for this place. Funny how in the moment a thought can come to the forefront of the mind. You do get that impression of someone watching you and not that much of a distance away.

I’d say, in a strange way someone’s following and only a couple of strides behind. Silly, that I check, half expecting to see someone. There’s no one there of course, still, brings a chill and a feeling of vulnerability, that there are things that know they can’t be seen. No matter, time to move, the light is fading fast.

You’ll excuse me for the moment it’s been a long day. Until the next time, I’ll take my leave and catch up with you all on another journey through the ghostly world. I think for the moment I’d like to be back sharing the company of others…

-end-

by Willoughby Bedford/John Riley

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Willoughby Bedford calls in at a séance

Well, we instructed to wear black, a colour to wash out the life of you this time of year. Oh, and remove all jewellery and as for mobile phones, or anything electronic, concealed or otherwise, they had to be packed up in black trash bags, provided at the ticket desk and then left in an open office near the building’s entrance.

I must say I felt somewhat conspicuous amongst what was mostly a queue of ladies in their black evening gowns. I had a thought. The ensemble did look like a line-up of witches.

So once we had passed through a rather energetic security frisk by Jason, we sent and ushered into the hall. I found my way to a good seat only whisked off it, something to do with the balance of energies; anyway, they moved me to the back. I did have a good view of the cabinet on the dais. It looked like a tepee tent erected from a kit bought at Millets, with black canvas covering the frame and an opening at the front with an armchair in the middle of the den.

So for tonight, ladies and gentlemen, we were here to witness a séance.

The very efficient Ruby, with a pitch in her voice intoning of danger to the medium through loud noise, from any of us, or, if leaving for the bathroom, could result in damage to the medium while under trance conditions. So please attend to your lavatory needs before we start because we lock the doors until the séance completed.

Apparently, we told of an episode earlier in the year, when an audience member fell off his chair, it broke. Our spiritual medium had suffered nosebleeds for 2 weeks!

We had to be careful because ectoplasm could occur and all our electronic and metal objects had to be safely black bin-bagged and put way from the séance room. Tough for those with these tongue studs. The Goth lady at the side of me was unable to remove hers and told to keep her mouth shut for her own safety.

The lights dimmed and presented to us was spiritual trance medium Karen from Plymouth, resembling a member of the Black Light Theatre of Prague, save for her face she was head to toe in black lycra.

Once seated, with red lights the only illumination directed at her face, she prepared herself. With a quick rendition of, she’ll be coming ‘round the mountains led by Ruby to raise the energy we were granted an audience with the other side…

So what was it like?

After all the preparation, the procedure, the waiting I witnessed Karen talk with affected voice and take questions, make observations about this world and the next, a place apparently with many dimensions.

She seemed to change her voice register, dropping octaves, as you do when trying to do an impression of a man with a deep voice. The little girl’s voice was particular ear piecing, and a few of the ladies hearing aids started to whistle, due to feed back, and caused them much irritation.

A man got some healing on his back by just answering a few questions, which I felt were rather common universal statements. I’m being too hard perhaps.

Two hours passed so quickly and the Pièce de résistance, the star turn, apparently some famous spiritual medium from the Victorian age came through, and yes, there was a gasp of sheer delight from the regular followers of Karen, at being witness to an audience with what I suppose was a surprise guest to top the bill!

Well, now sat at the desk writing up my notes, what do I make of it. Do I think we had communication from the other side? I think not, but you are free to make up your own minds about trance mediumship. I witnessed a performance for entertainment value. I’m struck by how many Native Americans seem to show up, as well as famous people. Never seem to be the ordinary type of person who born, lived and died, did so facing those common issues we all deal with on this journey through life.

Does your Willoughby think there is an afterlife? Ha-ha well I’d like to think so, that yours truly can still get out and about being nosy, finding out about one’s reality when 6 feet under!

-end-

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Scrying with Hot Wax

Willoughby Bedford Journal investigating folklore and superstitions

I took a few weeks off, and before heading back home I stopped at the Lancashire seaside town, Morecambe. Do you know their Winter Gardens Theatre, apparently it is haunted.

I walked for miles along the very clean and flat promenade even caught the sun on my face, but not where I’d been wearing my sun glasses. That evening it felt odd when complete strangers broke into uncontrollable belly laughs on first meeting me, they can’t look me in the face! Not quite panda eyes, but you get the implication.

Anyway, I did a spot of scrying with a local psychic group kind enough to welcome me.

Roger and Marge showed me what to do. Apparently with some candle tea lights, left to burn and turned to liquid wax, a stack of white paper plates bought for the occasion by the ever resourceful Hyacinth, we lined up to splat wax on the plates.

Marge showed us what to do, taking the tea light and quickly turning it over so that the wax plopped onto the plate forming a random pattern. No order to it, no, straight over to trust the powers that be to show a message within the solidified form.

We were to pair up and read our plates and see what we made of the wax shapes. Then, give a reading and hopefully receive positive feedback from an ability to see messages within the mess.

However, Brendan quite an excitable lad by the look of him, went for his tea light eyed previously and hoping no one would take it which was the case. He made a lunge for it. Caught unaware of how hot it was to the touch.

Brendan yelped, flinging hot liquid wax not on a plate but on Marge’s dress, the newly painted wall, picture frame, polished table, carpet even catching Hyacinth’s spaniel’s fluffy ears.

I couldn’t resist and said the shape on the wall looks like a right mess! Nobody was laughing at my face.

-end-

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Mary Bateman, Yorkshire’s other witch

Willoughby Bedford Journal investigating folklore and superstitions

Mary Bateman, well no, I’m not here to meet her but to find out about her, she was born sometime around 1768. And yes, I know, I look old but certainly not that old! She was born possibly near the town of Thirsk, North Yorkshire.

Mary Bateman, Yorkshire’s other witch; not to be confused with witch Mother Shipton over at Knaresborough. Mrs Bateman was one of the last women to be convicted and hanged for witchcraft in 1809.

Well versed in the black arts she was instructed by travelling folk in herbal medicine and soothsaying. She acquired a husband who soon discovered his wife’s mystical powers matched her rather dubious criminal tendencies. It is alleged she charged audiences a penny to see eggs produced by her hen that were inscribed with the words, Jesus is coming.

She instructed a wealthy cloth merchant from Leeds to give her four guineas to rid his wife of evil spirits. Mary took the money and said she would sew it into the bed linen of his wife to ward off the spirits. She also gave the merchant puddings to feed upon and unknown to the couple she had laced the puddings with arsenic.

The wife died in agony, the merchant escaping such a fate was told by Mary that his wife had died because he had not followed the instructions to the letter.

It was only when the merchant discovered what was sown into the bed linen, cabbage leaves, he pressed charges and the arsenic laced puddings were discovered.

Not successful in talking her way out of the court case by claiming she was pregnant the court would hear none of it.

Mary Bateman was executed at York Castle after which her body was given over to Leeds Infirmary for dissection. It was reported that the hospital authorities placed the body on public display, to draw in the crowds and sell pieces of the witch’s skin as souvenirs.

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The Burnsall Fairies

Willoughby Bedford’s Journal – investigating superstition and folklore

I managed to catch up with Albert Clifton in the small village of Burnsall, 6 miles north of Skipton. The area is surrounded by beautiful countryside and the little B roads that criss-cross the area take you around what is home to many a pixie and fairy haunt.

Albert took me to see Elbolton Hill which is supposedly a haunt of fairies. I must say it all reminds me of the tale of the Cottingley fairies. We sit down with a hot sun on our backs and Albert tells the tale.

It seems that a local man of these parts found himself on his way home after frequenting his local inn. Well he caught sight and started watching a group of the little folk enjoying themselves in the moonlight. The creatures were a dancing and celebrating. So the local man kept himself quiet while he watched with excitement at what was before him. But in his excitement he did forget himself and yelled out in broad Yorkshire dialect. “Na’ then, Ah’ll sing a song if tha loikes.”

Well the fairies were furious at his interruption and beat him so soundly that he was bruised for days afterwards. Apparently this is what the little folk do if disturbed. The man claimed to tell everyone who questioned him what he’d seen and how he’d ended up so battered and bruised?

I kept my thoughts to myself. Albert’s eyes were a glinting. Bruised, I bet he met with an accident rolling down this hill after one too many of the strong Yorkshire brew they serve in these parts.

now you’ll excuse me while I make on call on a certain individual about an overdue borrowed book, yes my Edgar Allan Poe’s book, Valentine Heart!

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