#Paranormal Wednesday - Pickwick Poltergeist

Photo courtesy of Google Maps

The “Pickwick Poltergeist” house in the Toxteth neighborhood in Liverpool, England is up for sale. The three-bedroom terraced house is currently for rent at £91 a week, and is said to be haunted by a violent ghost, known as the Pickwick poltergeist.

Significant paranormal activity situated around the house goes back as far as the 1800's. The poltergeist not only haunts this particular property, but various houses on the street. Decades of reports, accompanied by the often violent nature of the poltergeist, have been documented.

In one instance, a landlady was reportedly lifted out of her bed by an unseen force, while the house of her neighbor was shaken by violent vibrations. Other incidents include doors slamming and objects flying across the room. Tenants report "feeling uneasy" and that the house is constantly cold.

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I tried to find historical information on the area to see if something out of the ordinary had happened, which might explain the haunting. I couldn't find a specific event, but I was able to find Toxteth Park Cemetery's death records of people who lived on Pickwick Street from 1870 to 2000. There were a lot of deaths. It made me wonder if the "poltergeist" activity was a collective energy, or one death in particular. Here's what I found: 

Keep in mind, these are the deaths of people who lived at what is basically a 2 block area of terraced homes.

1870-1879 26 deaths

1880-1889 51 deaths  

1890-1899 54 deaths 

1900-1909 33 deaths 

1910-1919 44 deaths 

1920-1929 16 deaths

1930-1939 17 deaths

1940-1949 6 deaths 

1950-1959 7 deaths

1960-1969 2 deaths

1970-1979 3 deaths

1980-1989 1 death

1990-1999 1 death

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*Total: 261 deaths within a 130 year period

           109 of those were an infant or child

Of note: On Dombey Street, which is one street over (a similar 2 block stretch, and also worker housing at the time) there were 162 deaths during the same 130 year period. Significantly lower, and no reports of poltergeist activity on that street. Makes you wonder.

*The first death reported on Pickwick Street was on April 13, 1871. Catherine Newton was listed as a 56 year old "wife." Her husband, Thos Newton, died on February 10, 1880.

*The first death recorded at 62 Pickwick Street (the place up for sale) was on December 16, 1897. Eliza Ann Watts was 18 years old and listed as a "spinster." Her parents, Ellen and George, died at the same location in 1916 and 1926.

Thoughtful Thursday - Church for Sale

Photo reposted from Smithsgore

My husband came across this church for sale last weekend. It's no longer used as a church, so for £70,000, you can own a grade II property north of Yorkshire Dales and turn it into whatever you wish.

Knowing how much I love this particular area of England, my husband "jokingly" asked if we should buy it and move. He's a British citizen and I've mentioned (more than once) if he were to ever considered moving back, he'd hear no protests from me.

Usually, I find churches contain too much residual energy to consider living in one. And while I'm not particularly religious, the thought of turning a church into residential property seems disrespectful. But this one calls to me. Why? Because I'm working on a novel with an abandoned church as a key component. It's located in a pasture just like this one...in the heart of Yorkshire Dales. My husband didn't know that, by the way.  He knows I'm working on a new book, but I never tell him details until the book is "done." So literally, it's as if someone plucked the church from my brain and put it up for sale. Coincidence? Most likely.

I have to say however, the place intrigues me.

#Paranormal Wednesday-Cottage of Butterfly Wings

Continuing with my flash fiction month... The photos this week are my own--I had the stories in my head when I took them. I took this particular photo in a cottage we stayed at in Cumbria, England. The cottage had been built in 1693 and I fell in love with it. As to the photo--I found the butterfly in a closed-up larder. Initially, I thought the butterfly was dead. My daughter poked at it and the poor thing flopped this way and that, seemingly lifeless. But for some reason (I'm actually afraid of butterflies) I felt compelled to keep checking on it. By the next day, it started to move and I opened the window and let it out. A strange miracle, I guess.

Cottage of Butterfly Wings

The butterfly lay dead on the window sill. The room had been closed up for some time. It had taken all her effort to open the door, and she was greeted with a small, empty space made of stone. A single, closed window overlooked the garden. The stone was cold under her hands and the dead butterfly lay upon it.

She had listened to the desperation in the woman's voice for the past hour. Forgotten but still present, the voice echoed throughout the cottage, sticking in the corners like residue. Flashes of the woman's life had come to her: once in the garden (it was bitterly cold that winter) once in the bedroom (her domain, choose the other room to sleep in) and the strongest one at the back door (Mary? Where are you, child? Mary!).  The strongest one bothered her the most.

The woman's ghostly presence had been persistent. It had lingered alongside of her as she moved from room to room. Do not disturb my things. This is my house, not yours. Once she reached the back door, the screaming would start again. Mary? Where are you, child? Mary!  The woman would forget her altogether, caught up in her own desperation.

The butterfly remained lifeless and she halfheartedly poked at it. She suspected the child had drowned, though there were no ponds or streams around that she knew of. The child had long, blonde hair. She liked to run and play in the sunshine. She was always laughing and getting into things. She wore a long, white dress and leather shoes. These thoughts came to her like heartbeats.

The space around her became silent. The woman wanted her to remember. Remember the child I lost.

She blew on the butterfly's wings and the insect began to stir.

#Paranormal Wednesday-Phone Box of the Dead

The photos this week are my own. I had the stories in my head when I took them. This particular story came to me complete with music. Hit play (down at the bottom) and read on...

Phone Box of the Dead

The door wouldn't budge. Desperate, she pounded on it. Peering down the empty alleyway, she was doubtful anyone would be coming by soon. It was late and the shops had been closed for hours. Outside the phone box, the night was still.

She rooted in her purse for a coin and came up empty-handed. "Figures," she murmured.  She could call 999. But this hardly ranked as an emergency, the door to the phone box was merely stuck. She pushed on it again to no avail. An icy breeze slipped through the cracks, chilling her to the core. Her breath plumed in the night air.

A distant sound of music broke the silence. Mournful, the music threaded its way down the alleyway.

Pressing against the glass, she tried to see where the music was coming from. Maybe a car or someone's iPhone?  "Hello?" she called. Thank God. I thought I'd be trapped here all night.

The movement began far at the end of the dark alleyway. Mere glimpses at first; the curl of a fingertip and the flash of pale skin. But slowly, the movement coagulated into something tangible. A form emerged from the darkness like a moth from its cocoon, followed by another, and another. Moving in slow motion, they drifted with the music in an unspoken unity.

Bare feet skimmed over puddles of rain, leaving not a trace. Vestiges of cloaks, tattered like spiderwebs, clung to what was left of their ghostly bodies. The music increased in tempo. The procession danced in joyless abandon as they continued past her, their faces contorted in sadness and despair.

"What the hell?" she murmured.

A tall, shadowed figure trailed in their wake. Gently guiding those that strayed off the path, he seemed to be herding them towards their destination.

She backed up as far as she could inside the phone box. Hoping the door remained stuck, she jammed it shut with her foot. He didn't seem to notice her, at least she didn't think he did. The others continued in their unearthly procession. The icy breeze continued to blow through the cracks of the phone box, bringing with it the smell of stone, decay and ashes.

The tall figure's stride was seemingly pensive. Shadows curled around his feet like smoke. His cloak dragged behind him with a tangible heaviness. Walking past the phone box, he kept his distance.

She was about to breathe a sigh of relief...when he suddenly turned to face her.


The Music

#Paranormal Wednesday-Lowther Castle

This past May, I was fortunate enough to take a vacation to England to do some hiking and castle hopping. One place that stuck with me was the Lowther Castle & Gardens in Cumbria, England.

A preservation society is working at restoration, so we were unable to go inside the castle itself. However, they allowed us to roam the grounds, and since it was off-season, we were the only ones there.

pic 1

In one section towards the back woods--I was hit with a very uncomfortable feeling (pic one). I felt like I was being scrutinized by someone who was very agitated by my presence. I don't usually get spooked by things like that, but I checked over my shoulder more than once, because it felt like they were seething with anger.

pic 2

The feeling persisted as I continued into the woods (pic 2), and became more disjointed (for lack of a better term) until it finally stopped. I looked back and saw a scowling dark-haired man with a narrow face, standing by the structure in pic 3. He  was wearing a black three-piece suit from the 18th century. Nobody else saw him and yes--I know that sounds weird, but it is what it is. 

pic 3

I came away from the experience feeling like I'd trespassed; not only onto somebody's land, but into somebody's past.

This was one of many experiences I had in England, which isn't surprising. The country is steeped in history and abundant with historical places.


On a lark, I decided to Google Lowther Castle to see if anyone else who visited had the same experience. I was surprised by what I found. (I don't know why stuff like this surprises me, but it always does.) To sum it up: visitors have reported feeling ‘a horrible sensation’ at the Iris Garden and old garden shed in the woodlands. I looked further into history and found the following:

The castle is said to be haunted by Sir James Lowther, an eccentric member of the Lowther family. 'Wicked Jimmy,' as he was better known, had a thing for speed and used to whip his horses into a frenzy. In 1784, Sir James inherited the estate and entered into an arranged marriage. Unhappy in his relationship, he fell in love with the daughter of one of his tenant farmers. Because of her social standing however, she was kept as his mistress. Tragically, the girl fell ill and died. James became mentally unhinged and unable to accept her death. He kept her body in his bed, and dressed her daily. He even went so far as to seat her at the dinner table. When the stench of decay became too much to bear, he had her body moved to a nearby local hall. There, he placed her in a glass-lidded coffin where he could see and visit her. She was finally buried at Paddington Cemetery in London. Sir James returned to Lowther castle where he fell into a deep depression; a totally broken man.

So, what does this all mean in relation to my experience? Did I encounter 'Wicked Jimmy,' or someone else? I found a picture of Sir James and, in all honesty, the person I saw looked more like his employee, John Wordsworth. John died being owed almost £5,000 in earnings. He would have every right to be agitated and angry, much like the person I saw.  Regardless of which man I saw haunting the woods at Lowther Castle, it was an interesting experience.

#FolkloreThursday - Ursula Sontheil (Mother Shipton)

Public domain photo

Mother Shipton was said to have been an English soothsayer and prophetess from the 15th-16th century. The story goes like this:

Ursula Sontheil (1488 - 1561) was born in a cave beside the river Nidd in North Yorkshire, England. Some reports say that her mother gave her up to live in a convent, while others say the woman died in childbirth. Ursula's father was unknown.

The child exhibited prophetic and psychic abilities from an early age. Fostered by woman who lived on the outskirts of town, many stories were told of her odd childhood. In one, Ursula and her crib went missing from the house. When the villagers were called upon to look for her, they were attacked by supernatural forces. Ursula was eventually discovered in her crib half-way up the chimney, unharmed.

At 24 years old, she married a local carpenter and became a village prophetess and healer. To avoid persecution for the crime of witchcraft, she wrote her prophecies in rhyme and verse. Her fame soon spread and she became known as Mother Shipton. In 1559 she wrote an epic poem that would become famous down through the ages.
Many of her visions came true within her own lifetime and in subsequent centuries, including these:

The dissolution of the Catholic Church under Henry VIII
The fall of Cardinal Wolsey
The untimely death of Henry’s son Edward VI
The reign of “Bloody” Mary I
The ascent of Queen Elizabeth to the throne of England
The Great Fire of London in 1666
The defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588
The advent of modern technology.
Her own death in 1561.

Many of her prophecies were composed by others after her death. The most famous version was published by Richard Head in 1641. Head later admitted to inventing almost all Shipton's biographical details. Since 1641 there have been more than 50 different published editions of her poems.

Gleaning the real from myth and folklore in this case is difficult. Her original poetry is difficult to find and supposedly kept from being viewed by the public. With the passage of time and lack of historical evidence, there is debate as to whether she existed at all. Village wise-women certainly existed and were called upon for simple cures and herbal remedies. It's not a stretch of the imagination that there may have been one who was famed in her local area for having exceptional powers. Regardless, the real truth about Mother Shipton will probably never be known. 

On Vacation...

I had all my blogger posts scheduled for when I was on vacation. Apparently, Blogger decided not to auto-publish any of them. Soooo, my vacation blog posts will be posted this week, lol

My UK vacation was wonderful and I was sad to leave.

Our cottage was absolutely awesome. I highly recommend this place if you're looking for a historical country cottage in the Cumbria region.

Ona Ash, High Bankhill, England

Castlerigg Stone Circle, Keswick, England

Caerlaverock Castle, Dumfries, Scotland
Second time I've visited this castle--one of my favorites