Ghosted by a ghost: the black monk of Pontefract

It was August, 1966. In an unassuming house at 30 East Drive, Pontefract, England, Sarah Scholes was watching her 15-year old grandson Philip Pritchard while his parents and sister were away for the holiday week. Though the weather was hot, the house was curiously cold. Then Philip walked into the living room and stopped: There was a fine white dust falling silently from chest-height all around the room. 

30 East Drive.

The pair were very confused. It would make more sense if the dust were drifting down from the ceiling (though not much more, as the house had been recently renovated). But appearing mid-air? Sarah called Philip’s aunt Marie over from where she lived across the street to get a second opinion. Marie did not know where the dust came from, either, but she knew it needed to get cleaned up. She went into the kitchen to get a rag, and slipped in a puddle of water that hadn’t been there a moment before. Grumbling to herself, she mopped the puddle up, only to have another appear. And another.

They called the water company. The water company couldn’t figure out where the puddles were coming from, either. Marie went home, and Sarah and Philip tried to move on with their lives. Then, around 7 o’clock, Philip’s startled cry came out of the kitchen.

“Grandma, it’s happening again!”

Loose leaf tea and sugar lay strewn all over the counter. The button on the tea dispenser clicked and then depressed, splashing steaming tea over the mess. Then it went down again. And again. And again, hissing, continuing to depress even as the water ran out, faster, and faster. “Stop!” Sarah cried. “Stop it!”

CRASH. Something in the hall. They stumbled over see what it was. The hall was empty, dark. The silence built, and then light clicked on, startling them both.

Rue Morgue notes that a typically agreed-upon definition of a poltergeist is trickster-like activity stemming from from psychokinesis (often perpetuated by a young person in distress). The poltergeist doesn’t seriously harm its victims, and quickly goes away with time or therapy. 

The things happening at 30 East Drive don’t fit that definition. For one, the presence there has shown itself on multiple occasions to not just be energy, but a tall figure robed in black. It has a tendency to come in full force and then fade away, but has persisted for over 50 years. Instead of coming from children, it attacks children. And it means people harm.  

Still, they call the Black Monk of Pontefract a poltergeist, anyway. The most violent poltergeist in Britain

Who you gonna call?

After that initial day of horror (which culminated in a violently rocking dresser and the two fleeing the house to sleep at a neighbor’s), the activity ceased for a full two years. Grandma probably  got tired of trying to convince the family that they hadn’t been seeing things; maybe she even managed to convince herself. 

A grandfather clock was one of the many objects hurled around.

But just as they started to relax, the ghost came back full force. Loud crashes became a part of daily life, as did objects (including a solid oak sideboard) flying through the air or disappearing and reappearing in odd places. Green foam burst out of the sink. An aunt got an entire carton of milk dumped over her head. The daughter of the family, Diane, was thrown out of bed, and, on a few occasions, would wake up on the floor with her mattress on top of her.

Things escalated from there. The disturbances became so common that the family gave the ghost a name: Fred. Though there were bad signs–attacks focused on Diane, family photos brutally slashed–the Pritchards refused to move out. It was their house, after all. 

Instead, they tried to force the ghost out with exorcisms. These were met with walls weeping with holy water, people getting slapped and shoved down the stairs, upside down crosses, and a pair of women’s fur gloves conducting the songs meant to drive Fred out. 

Then one night Mr. and Mrs. Pritchard woke to find a tall, dark figure hovering over their bed. He quickly disappeared, but later, other people started seeing him around the house, too, though they never saw his face. More people–the family and visitors alike–got pushed, slapped, scratched, bruised. Then Diane’s hair stood straight up, and she was dragged, screaming, up an entire flight of stairs. The incident left her badly traumatized, and with finger-shaped bruises on her throat.

And just like that, all supernatural activity cut off again. The ghost, it seemed, was over it.

Historical reenactments

A Cluniac monk, to help along your imagination.

But the living were not over the ghost. 10 years after Fred took his leave, Cluniac monk researcher Tom Cluniff happened to hear about what had gone on at 30 East Drive. He put the  pieces of the past together with the present. A 16th-century monk had been convicted for the rape and murder of an adolescent girl (in an uncomfortable twist, an adolescent girl about Diane’s age), and hanged just across the street from where the house now stands. 

Suddenly the black robes of the figure so many people had seen in the house (and around the neighborhood, by the way) made sense. Of course! Fred was a monk. And thus the moniker “Black Monk of Pontefract” was born, and the interest in the ghost renewed. 

One of the interested parties was director Pat Holden, a Pontefract native related by marriage to Jean Pritchard, matron of 30 East Drive. Holden was so excited about Cluniff’s findings–and what he’d heard about the haunting–that he decided to make a movie. 

Back in black

In 2012, Holden’s When the Lights Went Out captured both the idea of poltergeists as psychokinetic energy as well as the history of the Black Monk. Though the indie film garnered mixed reviews, it further reignited the imagination of the public, and, in so doing, reignited the haunting. 

Producer Bill Bungay discovered house was for sale, and bought it so that he could have his movie premier in style. He didn’t believe in the ghost, so even though his phone behaved oddly in the house and there were reports of strange lights and noises, he didn’t think much of it. He dismissed the warnings of the neighbors, who had seen Fred around again. He shrugged off the psychic who said during the premiere that she could see Fred watching them from his favorite place on the stairs. 

Then came one night when Bungay was outside 30 East Drive alone, locking up the gate after a day of documentary shooting. He put the plunger on the gate down and secured it (with difficulty) with a cinderblock. Then he turned to lock the door to the house. But his house key had disappeared from his pocket. He glanced uneasily over his shoulder, and found that the gate that he had just shut stood wide open. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end.

Marbles are a common projectile.

Bungay has shown Fred more respect after that (though Fred often throws things at him, missing him by a hair). He now rents 30 East Drive to people curious about the haunting. This has resulted in a number of interesting photos, and 288 accounts of happenings at the house. Included in them is a story where the neighbors were visiting Bungay, and one of their granddaughters came into the room, taking a bite out of a polystyrene orange. Her grandmother quickly took it and scolded her, asking her where she’d even got it from. The girl replied innocently: “A man in black gave it to me.” 

You can browse the rest of the occurrences here. They range from your typical bangings and mutterings to reports such as the following:

“Asked sister in toilet “Are you alright” which she replied “Yes thank you” BUT at the exact same time she replied the WHOLE GROUP said “Wow, did you hear that!”? A man’s “HMM MMM” mocking sister’s reply.”

“Possible spirits of dogs photographed.”

There are also a few more serious ones:

“Arriving early the group knocked on the door of 30 East Drive on the off chance there was someone in but the house was locked and vacant. As the group turned and walked back down the path someone started loudly and aggressively banging on the window as if to get their attention. The group presumed someone was indeed inside and returned only to reconfirm that the house was still firmly locked and vacant, a fact later confirmed when the house was opened for the waiting group 30 mins later.”

“Group leader asked if ‘Fred’ wanted to “play”. Then a noise was heard on the landing so the group leader rushed to see and standing in the doorway off the small bedroom was a really tall black figure which moved into the room behind the door. Not thinking, the group leader walked straight into the shadow, an experience that affected him badly.”

Want to get in on the fun? 30 East Drive is available for rent today for £300-400 a night (free if you happen to be a theoretical physicist). If you’re not in the UK, don’t have that kind of cash, or don’t have the desire to spend the night in a place where the bed was recently flipped over and trashed at 3am, you can join the 30 East Drive Facebook group

Either way, I would hurry up and get involved before Fred ups and loses interest again. It’s only a matter of time. 

Flour, snow, talc, or cocaine? Free associate your thoughts about white powder in the comments below. 

IMAGE CRED: Mark Stevenson for the house photo; Twdk for the grandfather clock that is not THE grandfather clock (but it will do); F. A. Gasquet for less murder-y monk; James Petts for the marbles (again, not THE marbles, but hey).

Holy haunting: the Borley Rectory

Monster Meet research can be a mixed bag. Sometimes I get caught on something specific and have to really dig deep to find enough content for a single post. Other times, like this month, I start out with an innocent Google query (“nun ghost”), and end up down a rabbit hole.

I am ashamed to have never heard of the Borley Rectory until now. According to Harry Price (famed paranormal investigator), it was the “most haunted house in England.” Built in 1862 with heavy stone, wood, and brick, it was a 23-room, Gothic-style home that lurked in the shadows of the surrounding trees. Bars blocked several of its windows. The house had no gas or electricity, and the only water available came through the well in the center courtyard.

20th-century visitors described Borley’s thick, breathless silence, punctuated by the rare mouse scuttling within the walls. The rectory was plagued by ghosts from the minute it was erected.

Borley Rectory
The Borley Rectory, back in the day.

Nuns in the deep

The haunting allegedly started with a Benedictine monk and nun. Back in the 14th century, the two broke their vows to have an affair. When the church discovered them, it hanged the monk and buried the nun alive inside the convent walls. That convent later burned down, and the rectory was built in its place.

Sound too extreme to be true? It probably was. But the story does go a long way to explain what happened after.

One of the most persistent shapes to haunt Borley was that of a nun. The first residents–the family of Henry Bull–reported seeing her, a thin figure clad in gray, walk the same slow route through the garden, month after month. Usually this was around twilight, but on one occasion it happened in broad daylight, as Bull’s daughters were coming back from a garden party. They tried to call out to the nun, but she didn’t respond. She simply walked into the trees and faded away.

Visitors saw her too. Some even asked Bull what she was doing out there, not able to comprehend what they were seeing. Apparently Henry had a good sense of humor about it; he would go out after dinners with a cigar to see if he could catch a glimpse of her before turning in for the night. For him, the haunting was splendid entertainment.

Less entertaining parts of the haunt

The ambulatory nun, while iconic, was far from the sole phenomena the Bulls had to contend with. Unexplained footsteps echoed through the building. The children heard them nightly as they slowly approached their bedroom before stopping at their door. There would be 3 precise raps–no more, no less. The kids would fling the door open, only to gape at the cold, empty hall. Other times they would hear steps following them as they took the narrow path between the church and the house. One son hid behind a tree to see who might be following him, but there was no one there. It got to be so bad that the townspeople refused to walk the path alone after dark.

Sometimes the ghosts were more direct. One of the Bull girls was slapped awake in late one night, though there was no one else in the room. Henry had to go through the trial of getting the dining room window bricked over; his family’s meals kept getting interrupted by a face staring at them through the glass. Still, the Bulls stuck around. Things weren’t that bad.

Reverent Henry Bull
The very resilient Reverend Bull.

Then the Reverend Bull died, passing away in a bedroom that would come to be known as the Blue Room.

Then his wife died there, too.

Then his son.

By the time the next tenants moved in, Borley Rectory had taken a turn for the strange. Mr. and Mrs. Smith had it decidedly worse (IMHO) than the Bulls. In addition to the footsteps came the irregular ringing of servant bells, as well as crashes loud enough to wake them out of a dead sleep. Keys disappeared out of their locks to be found several feet away…or not at all. Doors unlocked and locked at inconvenient times, sometimes with the living still in the room.

Shortly after moving in, Mrs. Smith found a football-shaped, carefully wrapped paper package in the china cabinet. Curious, she peeled off the layers of paper. It was a human skull. Despite her unhappy efforts to investigate, no one could explain where it had come from. Even after living in the house for most of their lives, the surviving Bulls had never seen it before.

Mr. Smith had some excitement, too. One summer afternoon, he stepped outside their bedroom (the infamous Blue Room) and heard a woman’s voice whispering directly over his head. Its words ran together into nonsense–sibilant, urgent. Mr. Smith hurried across the space toward the platform leading to the chapel, and the voice cut off.

The Smiths only stayed in Borley for 2 years before they threw in the towel. They would later refer to the period as the darkest of their lives.

The last Borley family

In October of 1930, Lionel and Marianne Foyster moved in with their adopted baby daughter. Shortly thereafter, all hell broke loose. Not only was there the footsteps and the banging, but one day Marianne turned around and came face-to-face with the apparition of Henry Bull. Their 2-year-old was locked in a room without a key. Objects appeared and disappeared around the house: A bag of lavender came out of nowhere, moved to several different spots over the course a few months (including Mr. Foyster’s coat pocket), and vanished; theological books did the same thing. Marianne’s gold bracelet disappeared at in the time it took her to wash her hands. A wedding ring appeared on the hallway floor.

One night, Mr. Foyster started at the sound of a scream, and rushed out to find his wife outside the Blue Room, pale, with blood pouring down the left side of her face. Some unseen hand had hit her. Another evening he left the sewing room to get some papers from the library, and was startled to see that almost every picture in the hall had been taken off the wall and laid face-down on the floor.

Then there was the writing on the walls. Scrawling, mostly indecipherable messages said things like “Marianne, please help get–”, “get lights and prayers here,” and “his body.” When the family attempted to conduct an exorcism, Mr. Foyster was struck in the shoulder by a fist-sized stone.

Mr. Foyster’s health deteriorated. When he and his wife left Borley in 1935, the church closed the rectory permanently. No longer could they chalk the stories up to imagination or exaggeration: The place was unsuitable to live in.

Liar liar, house on fire

The Borley Rectory might not have been a pleasant place for lay people, but for psychic researchers, it was heaven. The house made Harry Price–who had spent most of his career until that point debunking fraudulent mediums–quite famous. After the Foysters left, he and his crew spent a year at Borley under “controlled” conditions, measuring the phenomena and taking lots of notes and pictures. The material he collected would be enough fodder for multiple books.

Harry Price
Harry Price, looking appropriately dramatic.

During one seance, a spirit told Price’s team that the house would burn down that night, and that when it did, the bones of a murdered person would be revealed. Well, the house didn’t burn down that night. But it did burn down 11 months later. A brief dig into the cellars revealed the bones of what was thought to be a young woman.

The whole thing makes for a fascinating story–a good one. I’m not surprised that Borley is so famous. But not everyone bought into it.

Take the bones, for example. The Borley parish refused to let them be buried in their churchyard. Why? Because local opinion was that they were pig bones. And why might they think that? Because Harry Price was something of a conjurer, and there was a suspicious spike in the ghostly manifestations whenever he was around. After his death, the Society for Psychical Research would release a book debunking all of his work at Borley, accusing him of essentially faking the entire thing, “salting the mine.”

He wasn’t the only one to fake it. It came out later that Marianne Foyster had been staging phenomena, too, in order to cover up an affair with their lodger (a curiously named Frank Pearless). As foundational parts of Borley’s story crumble, one starts to ask more questions: how many of the Bull children’s stories were likely invented? How many “witnesses” could have been suggestible because of those stories?

Maybe Borley wasn’t so special after all.

And yet…not every psychic researcher was against Price. In a lengthy rebuttal of the charges against him, one researcher pointed out that not could the people dismissing Price have had blindspots and ulterior motives of their own, but also that when phenomena are so convincing and convincingly recorded that no critic can poke holes in them, the frightened (or stubborn) person may have no other choice than to allege that “the investigator is in on the trick.”

And even if some of the phenomenon were faked, that doesn’t mean they all were. Researchers in the 70’s certainly thought the place was still worth a visit (if you have the time and a pair of headphones, you can listen to recordings of Borley’s famous footsteps and crashes yourself). The information I’ve covered here barely scratches the surface of what the internet has to offer on this stuff, even after almost 100 years.

Even if the ghosts aren’t haunting the grounds, they’re still banging around in people’s heads.


What is the most unusual object that you’ve found in a house cabinet? Share your story in the comments below.

Courtesy flush: the haunting of the Hotel Galvez

I’m going to be straight with you: this post started with me Googling “bathroom ghost.” I was looking for a monster of a different sort–I enjoyed our Toys-R-Us(™) spirit a while back, and was hoping I could find something similar. Though it’s a little more posh, I came up with the Hotel Galvez.

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Modern-day Galvez seating area, captured by Patrick Feller.

Close up on Galveston, Texas: I’m not on the up-and-up of big vacation hotspots and so didn’t recognize the name, but some of you might. It’s an island in the Gulf Coast, set up to provide the perfect getaway: beautiful beaches, pools, an amusement park, and, of course, luxury hotels. The Hotel Galvez is a king among these, nicknamed the “Playground of the Southwest.” It has been frequented by people like Franklin Roosevelt, Dwight Eisenhower, Richard Nixon, Lyndon B. Johnson, Duke Ellington, Dean Martin, Frank Sinatra, and Jimmy Stewart. It’s a beautiful, massive building replicated to look just as it did when it first opened in 1911.

At the time, it was heralded as a symbol of renewal. 11 years before, the deadliest storm in U.S. history swept through Galveston and killed somewhere between 8,000 and 12,000 people. Word had it that the inhabitants of an orphanage were among the dead–in one case, the remains of a nun were found still tied to those of the children she was trying to lead to safety. There were so many bodies among the wreckage that the remaining Galveston residents decided to bury them en masse at sea. That didn’t work so well: the next time the tide came in, bloated, rotting corpses came in with it. These were hastily burned, and the island resumed its struggle to rise from the sodden ashes.

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The Hotel Galvez in all its glory, brought to you by Galveston.com.

The Galvez helped rebuild Galveston, bringing in tourists and money. It also brought lovers. In the late 1950’s, a woman named Audra stayed there to wait for her fiance, a sailor due to come in from Gulf for their wedding. Naturally (as I’m reporting her story on Monster Meet), Audra’s love was doomed. Her fiance’s ship went down in another terrible storm; Audra was told no one made it out alive. She hung herself upon learning the news–either in the bathroom of her room (501 or maybe 505, depending on who you ask), or in a turret elsewhere in the hotel. Because life is cruel, Audra’s fiance showed up shortly thereafter, in perfect health and anxious to see her.

For those of you keeping track, we now have 8,000+ violently dead, including nuns, orphans, and a heartbroken bride snuffed out at her prime–three types of ghosts so common as to be almost stereotypical. The stage is set: now let’s turn off the lights and watch what happens.

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Galvez dining area cerca 1911, courtesy of the DeGloyer Library, Southern Methodist University.

Unless they are in the habit of Googling “is this hotel haunted” as part of their vacation planning, guests at the Galvez may at first have no idea that anything is amiss. Then they might notice a painting in the hall whose eyes seem to follow them, or pass two strange women in 19th-century outfits who vanish before you can look at them twice. The ladies bathrooms can also hold a surprise: on the most casual end of encounters, toilets flush repeatedly over the disembodied sound of children laughing.* On the more intense end, sobs fill the empty bathroom and the stalls rattle violently, making it very difficult for the living to poop in peace.

Guests’ rooms offer even more fun, especially if they’re on the 5th floor. Orbs of light float through walls, footsteps echo down the empty hall, and every once in awhile, someone will wake up to find a woman in white standing at the foot of their bed.  As you can imagine, if you’re not expecting this type of thing to happen and then it does, you might leave some nasty Yelp reviews. One woman on TripAdvisor rated the Galvez 2 stars because something repeatedly blasted her phone’s dial tone as soon as she turned off the lights (her rather sour review is titled “They didn’t tell us it was haunted”). Commenters elsewhere have reported flashing lights; invisible things climbing into their beds; and even something biting them, leaving marks that wouldn’t go away. In many cases, when guests report these mishaps to the staff, the staff just shrug. “That’s how it goes. It’s haunted here.”

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With all the breaking glasses and candles that won’t say lit, bartending at the Galvez must be a pain. (Photo cred to Patrick Feller)

They’ve got good reason to be jaded. If the guests are put upon, the staff are twice so.  One woman’s dusting was interrupted by the erratically flushing toilets and invisible laughing children; she ended up having to yell “I’m in here” to get them to stop. Another came in early for her shift in reception and received a call from one of the rooms that was not only vacant, but also in the middle of being renovated and had no phone in it at all (no one spoke on the other end of the line, and when the poor woman hung up, she realized her phone wasn’t even turned on, either). There have been glasses that fly off of tables and break themselves, candles that blow out on their own, and the presence of a strange man in the corner of the laundry room.

Then there’s dealing with the ghost hunters. The Galvez attracts plenty. Some come in low-key with EMF detector apps on their phone (yeah…I don’t know about that one, either) to see what they can find. One woman said that she communicated with Audra using the app: she asked Audra about herself, and Audra’s response was “Bathroom. Ow.” Other hunters come in with more advanced equipment, with more dramatic results. The Galveston ghost hunters went to stay on the 5th floor while it was being renovated, and witnessed all of the room doors slam against their safety catches for a few minutes. They also captured the image of what appears to be a nun.

Fortunately for everyone, the ghosts of the hotel Galvez don’t appear to have any darker plans than to be mildly irritating. So far. Business at the hotel seems to be doing well, whether in spite of or because of the ghosts. Between wedding pictures and shots of a brilliant blue pool, the Galvez Facebook page showcases a photo of a cocktail named “Ghost Bride,” so they don’t seem to be afraid of cashing in on their unorthodox reputation. Whether you’re looking to tan on the sundeck or poop your pants in long, empty hall of the 5th floor, the Galvez seems like the place to be.

Have you ever heard someone flushing the toilet while laughing maniacally? Have you been that person? Share your story in the comments below.

*Proof that bathroom humor never dies.

LINKS TO PHOTOS:

Patrick Feller, via Flickr

Galveston.com, via Flickr

Southern Methodist University, via Flickr