I have a 'ghost story', which I am inclined to tell. Before I do so, my mother is convinced she woke up one night and saw the Virgin Mary at the foot of her bed when she was younger.
A Felstaffian Unexplained TaleAt twelve years old, I had a friend named Dennis. We're related in a distant-cousin kind of way, but I didn't know that then. His mother owned
a caravan in Hayling Island. It was one of those large trailer-type things, and it was, I think, affixed permanently to the ground on the site. From the map, you will see to the east of this trailer park, two fields, separated by a path. Follow that path south-east-eastwards, and you will see it arrives at the north-west corner of a large church grounds. Here is where the story's unknowns lie.
At nearly midnight, on a hot summery Friday night, Dennis and I were climbing trees. (Not there any more, judging by the map). We had spent the day exploring the ghost towns and emptied piers. For Hayling Island was once a thriving tourist location with amusements, fairground rides, and arcades. Now it is all rust and consumed by creeping nature. Empty rust-brown tramlines criss-cross the island. It's a forgotten relic of the early to mid twentieth century.
We had idly foraged for good treehouse materials, but, finding none, Dennis had a suggestion.
'Let's visit the church and the graveyard', he said. Followed by an explanation of its large graveyard and weatherbeaten tombstones. I reluctantly agreed: I still today enjoy a bit of a scare, but I was wary. After all, it was nearly midnight.
We made our way towards the church, finding the pathway in sheer darkness. Only the glow from the trailer site, and the waning moon, gave us vision. It is hard to see on the map, but small electricity lines pass over the pathway. They hummed ominously. This made me scared.
It was at this point the first phenomena came into view.
Dennis stopped me and pointed. It is no longer there, but a line of gnarled old twisted trees and a muddy ditch separated the graveyard from the field we were crossing. Through this line of trees I could see a sarcophagus, laying vertically, made of white marble, raised above the ground. It was bathed in an orange glow, like from an ordinary streetlamp. Except, and this is where things began to get worrisome, Dennis said to me: 'where is the light coming from?'
Sure enough; there was no source of light. The tomb came complete with shadows--the light was from directly above, just there
was no light. Only a gentle beam descending on the grave, like a spotlight with no discernible beginning.Today, that would have frighted me. As a twelve-year-old, I didn't think too much of it.
A light with no source. A glow with no origin. It was unnatural, possibly supernatural.
But that is not the ghost story. As we closed in on the glowing tomb, we heard a noise. It was an organ. It was coming from inside the church. The organ music was dirge-like, funereal, and horribly off-key, yet it played a miserable tune. It was a little late to be playing church music, one of us observed. The other one replied with 'it doesn't even sound like music. It's more like Phantom of the Opera.'
Then Dennis turned to me, with a mighty devilish glint in his eye. 'I haven't told you about the phantom!'
Phantom? This was new. What phantom?
'There's supposed to be a phantom who lives in the church. He plays the organ, but when you open the door, there's no-one there!'
The music was getting more discordant now. I was a little scared, but a little intrigued also. The strange light source all but forgotten, Dennis whispered 'let's go up to the door and see'.
So we did, as quietly as tiptoeing mice on soft sand. We approached the path on
the north-west side. If you see the map, the pathway leads nearly perpendicular to the main (west-facing) entrance, where another path leads out from the door, and intersects it. It was down this path we crept. The organ was being blasted now, into a furious crescendo of off-kilter notes. We edged closer to the door. My heart was thumping. What if we saw the phantom? Creeping, creeping softly, we reached the intersection, some ten feet in front of the mighty oak doors with heavy blackened iron deadbolts. As soon as our feet aligned with the door, the music stopped. Dead. Mid-tune. Mid-chord. Mid-beat.
Silence.There was little else to do but look at each other, and express our terror. 'Jesus!' we screamed in harmony, and sprinted back, out of the graveyard, over the ditch, onto the field pathway, under the pylons, through the field and back to the caravan site. We burst into the trailer, where Dennis' mum was watching
Father Ted. We told her the whole story, which she replied with 'you boys' and 'don't be silly.' No amount of convincing would coerce her: we'd encountered a f'kin
phantom!
The Next Morning.
Ten o'clock, we headed back down. The sarcophagus was there as ever; no light upon it. The vicar was outside, tending the grass that lined the pathways. We caught his attention, and asked him who was here last night.
'Last night?' He said (I remember clearly, even his expression as he stared upwards and drummed his chin with three fingers). 'Why, there was choir practice last night.'
'What time?'
'Oh, they finished up around nine-thirty. No, ten.'
'Was anyone inside near midnight?' (Dennis asked)
'Good heavens, no. I locked up once they'd finished. No later than ten.'
'Does anyone else have keys to this place?' (I asked. With some urgency. Even at 12 years old, we needed a logical explanation)
'No. Aside from my wife. Well, there was Frank the gardener. He was the only person to have the other set of keys but he died years ago.'
We were at a loss here, as no explanation was forthcoming. I remember just repeating 'Francis the gardener?'
'Oh, yes. Well, he wasn't just the gardener. He was also the organist.'
With that, we walked away. We never did tell him we heard the organ being played, or even ask him about the phantom. I'm not sure why.
Nor did I tell Dennis I noticed that the sarcophagus, with the unnatural glow, had a faded engraving, saying
Francis D. Elliott.
__________________________
Labeled Map
A family friend is staying there that weekend. I will go the next weekend, but damn, that would have been highly superstitionally symbolic to visit on Friday 13th, 15 years (to the day? I think) that I last went.
Apparently renovation has been going on since July, and the entire church is surrounded by metal mesh fencing. There were some portacabins set up around the rear entrance (where we approached when we heard the organ music). I have some photos. I took film as well, but it was completely, utterly pitch black, so it's essentially me narrating... nothing, really. (I'll upload photos and possibly youtube the film later; but it's not particularly interesting). I should have gone earlier, but I waited until the same date/time as that night in 1995. And now, I'll never find anything revealing, or have any questions answered. Seems odd that, after 100 years, they get rid of the organ a week or two before I planned to investigate.