Poltergeist: A Classic Study in Destructive Haunting (23 page)

Mr.
Davy left, and the poltergeist proceeded to demonstrate that it had no intention of doing serious harm.
Diane was on her way up to bed when the lights went out.
She stood there in the hall, which was dimly lit by the street lamp, which shone through the frosted glass on the front door.
Mr.
Pritchard was looking for the torch to look in the main cupboard.
As Diane stood there, a huge shadow appeared on the wall, and the atmosphere became icy.
The hall stand—a heavy piece of furniture made of oak—floated up into the air and moved toward her.
She tripped and went backwards on the stairs, and the stand pressed down on her.
So did an electric sewing machine that had been on it.
She tried to push it away, but it was unbudgeable; it might have weighed a ton.
Yet it was not pressing down on her with all its weight—merely holding her pinned to the stairs.
She was too breathless to scream.

The lights came on, and Diane found her voice and yelled.
The family rushed out into the hall, and her mother tried to drag the stand off her.
It was impossible; it was simply being held in position by a force that was stronger than she was.
Phillip and Jean Pritchard began to heave on it, but it made no difference.
Diane was whimpering.
Mrs.
Pritchard advised her to lie still and try to relax—at least it was now clear she was not being crushed to death.
And as soon as she relaxed, Diane felt a change in the force holding her down.
She said: “Now try,” and as they pulled, the stand came off her.
So did the electric sewing machine.
Yet, oddly enough, neither had bruised her.

Mrs.
Pritchard helped Diane up to bed.
She was shaken, but not frightened—she seemed to sense that the thing meant her no real harm.
But it had not yet finished with her.
As soon as her bedroom light was out, the bedclothes were pulled off the bed, and landed in the corner of the room.
The room itself had become icy cold.
She had a strong sense there was someone else there with her, although the light from the landing revealed no one.
Then her mattress shot into the air like a magic carpet in the Arabian Nights and she found herself on the floor, with the mattress on top of her.
It all happened in about a second.

That night it happened four more times.
Each time she found herself on the floor with the mattress on top of her, yet was still unhurt.

The Pontefract poltergeist seemed to be a creature of moods.
It could be inventive, as when it filled the lounge with falling chalk dust.
It could be destructive, as when it caused the grandmother clock to hurtle down the stairs, and shatter like a bomb in the hall.
And it could be oddly seductive, as when it signaled its presence with a most delightful scent—a perfume like some heavily scented flower.
But mostly it made a racket, like the phantom drummer of Tedworth.
It could be heard several streets away.
The Pritchards made a tape recording of it, and it sounds like someone frantically knocking for admittance; you expect to hear a voice yell, “Let me in.”

In September 1968, two young reporters came to call; they represented two local papers.
I have the two press cuttings in front of me as I write.
“Pontefract Poltergeist is Back” announces the
Yorkshire Evening Post
and the story begins: “Mr.
Nobody” has turned up at the home of forty-two-year-old Mrs.
Jean Pritchard, of East Drive, Pontefract, for the first time in three years (in fact, it was two).
The
Pontefract and Castleford Express
announces: “Invisible hands ‘Rock’ family.” And it goes on to describe the destruction of the grandmother clock, and how Diane was repeatedly thrown out of bed.
It also mentions that when Phillip tried to record the noises, the plug was pulled out of his tape recorder.
“Meanwhile,” the story ends, “the Pritchards’ home has become quite an attraction for amateur ghost hunters.
Several people have knocked on the door and asked if they can stay the night to listen to the ghost.”

The Pritchards’ home had become known as “the haunted house.” A neighbor heard a bus driver announcing to his passengers: “That’s the haunted house,” as they stopped outside.
A group of students from Leeds asked permission to camp in the front garden, but Mrs.
Pritchard refused.
But in the warm weather, people slept on the huge, round grass verge in front of the Pritchards’ home, and “Mr.
Nobody” usually obliged them with his assortment of bangs and crashes.
Miners on their way to work in the early hours of the morning used to stand by the fence and listen to the phantom drummer.

Not long after the disturbances began, Jean Pritchard bumped into an acquaintance named Rene Holden (Vic Kelly’s sister) in the High Street.
Remembering she had a reputation for being a “bit psychic,” she told her what had been happening.
When Mrs.
Holden said she was not afraid of ghosts, Jean invited her along to see for herself.

The next day, she paid her first visit to the house.
Jean Pritchard took her upstairs and showed her the chaos that “Fred” could create in a matter of minutes.
The three bedrooms looked as if burglars had been through them.
Bedclothes lay in heaps, drawers were pulled open and their contents lying around the rooms, and chairs were upside down.
Jean explained that she’d tidied up all three rooms only half an hour before.

Jean Pritchard was glad to have somebody to talk to.
The two of them took to one another immediately, and Mrs.
Holden was to witness most of the events that took place over the next nine months.
On that first evening, the poltergeist was on its best behavior.
Jean Pritchard invited Rene to return on the following Saturday to have something to eat.

Mrs.
Scholes was staying at East Drive that weekend, but she was feeling ill, and spent most of the time in her room.
Joe Pritchard had gone out to the local pub with some friends.
When Rene Holden arrived, Jean was making chicken sandwiches, with a bird that was still warm from the oven.
Rene helped her to make the sandwiches.

As they stood there in the kitchen, the lights suddenly went out.
Jean said: “It’s starting.” “I know,” said Rene, “I can feel it.” A moment later, the lights went on again.
“That’s odd,” said Jean, “it usually makes us put them on.”

The sandwiches and the teapot were placed on a tray and carried through into the lounge.
Phillip and Diane were already sitting there, watching television.

Before they could start eating, the lights went out again, there was a rushing noise like a blast of wind, and objects began to fly around in the darkness.
The room had suddenly gone very cold.
They all noticed a pattering noise on the window, like someone gently tapping.

When they got the lights on again, the room was chaotic, with ornaments and cushions all over the floor.
The sandwich plate was still on the table, but it was empty.
And, at first sight the sandwiches seemed to have vanished completely.
Then Jean Pritchard noticed a few of them lying behind the television.
She picked one of them up.
“What is it?” said Mrs.
Holden, observing Jean’s odd expression.
“Look,” said Jean, holding out the sandwich, “something’s eaten it!” A huge bite had been taken out of the sandwich and there were teeth marks visible on the bread.
Whoever had bitten it had enormous teeth.

Mrs.
Holden asked if she could keep the sandwich as a memento.
In fact, she wanted it as evidence to show anybody who thought her story sounded mad.
She wrapped up the sandwich and put it in her handbag.
But a few days later it had disintegrated into crumbs.

Mrs.
Holden described another visit to the Pritchards’ home the following weekend.
The Pritchards had invited her to a local Working Mens’ Club for a Ladies Night, and Mrs.
Holden had had her hair set.

Afterwards, she went back to East Drive with the Pritchards for a coffee.
As she sat there, the lights all went out.
Things started flying around the room, and the racket was suddenly deafening.
At the same time, Rene Holden felt as if her hair was swarming with tiny small creatures—perhaps ants.
A cushion hit her in the face.
When Joe Pritchard turned on the main switch a few moments later, everything in the room was upside down.
Ornaments lay on the floor, chairs had been overturned, even the pictures had come off the walls.

Mrs.
Holden made some interesting and relevant suggestions about the poltergeist.
The children were both suffering from some stomach ailment, and it became worse whenever the poltergeist appeared.
Diane described it as “feeling twisted up inside.” Mrs.
Holden was convinced that the poltergeist was drawing energy from the solar plexus of the children.
She also made the interesting suggestion that it might be able to draw energy from the underground stream that flowed beneath the house.

It was Mrs.
Holden who made the sensible suggestion that they should try and communicate with Mr.
Nobody.
Many poltergeists seem to have a definite desire to explain themselves.
The Pritchards’ visitant proved to be an exception.
The Pritchards stood out in the hall, with their hands joined together, and tried concentrating to see if they could persuade the poltergeist to manifest itself.
It did precisely that.
There was a sound like a loud wind rushing down the stairs and then over the top of the banisters came a shower of objects: bedding, boxes, ornaments, mattresses, apparently every movable object in the upper part of the house.

One snowy evening, Joe Pritchard’s sister Maude Peerce arrived at the house.
She had decided that it was time to come and investigate the poltergeist in person.
And it was clear that her attitude toward the “haunting” was skeptical.
She felt there was something undignified about all the publicity.
“There’s got to be a logical explanation for everything—you’ve just got to look for it.” Her idea of a logical explanation was that Phillip and Diane were having a joke at everybody’s expense.
Joe Pritchard became mildly annoyed and told her she didn’t know what she was talking about.
Phillip and Diane were indignant, but too polite to be rude.

As they sat there, the room suddenly became cold, and Jean Pritchard had the familiar sensation that the poltergeist was around.
Then the lights went out.
Aunt Maude was sitting in the chair by the kitchen fire, and its red glow gave enough light to see what was happening.
First of all, the refrigerator door swung open.
A jug of milk floated out, sailed across the kitchen until it was poised above Aunt Maude’s head, then tilted and slowly deluged her in milk.
She jumped to her feet, spluttering.
Jean found her way to the cupboard under the stairs, and the lights came on again.
Aunt Maude pointed.
“It was those kids!”

“No it wasn’t,” said Jean Pritchard, “they stood by me all the time.” She began to mop up the milk from the floor and the chair.
Aunt Maude refused to be convinced.
Why had the lights gone out before it happened?
Clearly because somebody had no wish to be seen playing tricks.

Aunt Maude was very angry.
Jean could understand her anger—she was soaked in milk.
“Look, why don’t you stay the night and see or yourself?”

“All right, I will,” said Aunt Maude.
She removed her hat and coat, then looked around for her gloves.
She could only find one.
“Don’t worry,” said Jean Pritchard, “it will turn up.
Things always do.”

They moved into the lounge.
The lights went out again, and there was a violent banging sound.
Aunt Maude yelled indignantly.
Then the lights were turned on again, the chairs had been turned upside down and the electric fire pulled out of the fireplace.
The contents of the refrigerator were strewn around the room, including a string of sausages.
The children burst into shrieks of laughter, and Aunt Maude became more irritable than ever.
“What keeps happening to the lights?”