Ghost Tales

I was with the Hatfield's, a retired couple who'd ploughed their savings into a small bungalow in the sticks and enjoy a simple life of growing their own vegetables and making candles. Mr Hatfield is convinced a major sun flare will soon hit the UK and plunge the place into a grimy darkness, hence the candle making business.

Mr Hatfield shifted his heavy weight towards the edge of the chair. Ever the attendant host he enquired, "would you care for another cup of tea, Willoughby?"
"I wouldn't say no."
"I take it you mean yes then?" Mr Hatfield waited in anticipation of a straight answer.
There was just the pair of them in the room with me; Mrs Hatfield had looked down to the floor.
"Yes, and may I have another of those biscuits?"
"Yes, help yourself Willoughby, they were bought for you." He raised his voice towards Mrs Hatfield. "He's having another biscuit."
She squinted in my direction, trying I think to locate the sound of me crunching at the peanut bake biscuit. Mr Hatfield had declined my offer to help with the tea as he was at pains to show that his spiritual burden didn't restrict his bulk from getting out of his chair to make a fresh brew.

Mr Hatfield is a spiritual medium and practising tarot as a sideline. He attends the local spiritualist church close to Chelmsford and claims himself to feel the pain of those he sits for. At one session, he told me about suddenly having a rope pulled tight around his neck while reading for a sprightly 90-year-old woman. She concerned herself at trying to place, out of the five suicides in her family, which one it was but was unable to do so not able to understand the croaks from Mr Hatfield's predicament. Mr Hatfield said it really choked him and was something of an annoyance to Mrs Hatfield; he was unable to speak for a week! Mrs Hatfield unfortunately is partially sighted and almost deaf.
"There we go. I've brought us another fresh pot." He skirted around the seats and rested the tray down on the table between us both. "Did you enjoy Danbury, Willoughby?"
"Yes, I did, thank you," taking the cup offered.
"There's a ghostly tale I'll recount to you, bit of a history lesson."
I somehow felt from this retired schoolteacher I was due this lesson.
"Seems we've to go back to an entry in 1653 and the Walsingham Historia Anglicana informing us the Devil appeared in the church at Danbury."
Mr Hatfield held my gaze as if anticipating a response.
"This article references an event in 1402 at the church of St John the Baptist when the Devil in the likeness of Gerry Fryer broke down the steeple, scattered the chancel then atop the altar leaped from side to side."
Mr Hatfield was wide-eyed at the telling of this tale, not so Mrs Hatfield who let a wide yawn slip. Mr Hatfield dismissed his wife's sign of apathy and leaning forward in his chair continued with the ghostly tale.
"As the Devil in the disguise of Gerry Fryer took his leave he passed between the legs of a parishioner. Guess what Willoughby?" He sunk back into his chair, taking a moment to savour the anticipation. "The parishioner contracted a disease; his feet and parts of his legs became black!"
I didn't know what to say. Mrs Hatfield broke the silence.
"Who's the other man sat next to Willoughby?"

And finally –
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