Vault of Christmas Ghost Stories

[dem bones]

[Formerly 'Vault of Christmas 2023']

Trad Vault thread for Christmas/ Solstice messages, etc.

Josephine Cowles A Perfect Christmas at the Haunted Castle, The Sketch, 1 December 1938.

[helrunar]

This is perfect. An ideal "holiday" weekend.

cheers, Hel.

[dem bones]

Vault cliff-hanger Serial + Vault cliff-hanger Serial + Vault cliff-hanger Serial + Vault cliff-hanger Serial + Vault cliff-hanger Serial + Vault cliff-hanger Serial + Vault, etc.

L. B. Abdullah's Best; or, Incense and Ashes, The Bystander, 5 May 1920

"SIR KENNETH SATINWOOD, sportsman and millionaire, attending a performance at the Felicity Music Hall, is mysteriously spirited away from THE LADY SYRINGA SATINWOOD, his bride of a week. Cast upon the world, she endeavours to earn a livelihood by selling bootlaces. At her last gasp, she is greeted by THE MAN WITH THE TWISTED NOSE, a sinister figure, who promises to reveal to her her husband's whereabouts.
ZARA, THE ORIENTAL SNAKE CHARMER, and her colleague, BONGO THE BOA, twin-stars at the Felicity Music Hall, have vanished with Sir Kenneth into the night."

What can it all mean ...?

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[dem bones]

Peddie Irate Citizen: "Another hour of The Mistletoe Bough and you are dead men!" The Bystander, 20 December 1908

[helrunar]

For anyone who might be interested, each year I feel compelled to seek out Patrick S. Farley's one-off online comic book, Saturnalia, originally published in December of 1995 on his long defunct website e-sheep dot something or other. The comic features graphic depictions of human nudity, shockingly flagrant Pagan rites, a "history" of Yule celebrations largely debunked nowadays by people who disapprove of too much fun at the expense of massively wealthy monotheistic religious institutions, and the classic tagline: "Let silliness and sorrow overtake all who find fault in this." One of the few December holiday traditions I honor in the observance rather than the breach.

web.archive.org/web/20041217012039/http://www.e-sheep.com/Saturnalia/01.html

Hel.

[dem bones]

Gordon Robinson

GHOST STORIES
By Dorothy Arthur Jones

The Graphic Christmas Number, 23 Nov. 1925

GHOST stories are the most fascinating stories in the world, and have a universal appeal. The most logical and prosaic among us are curious about the supernatural. They are the only stories which are never out of place or unwelcome. There is not one of us who, even if we have had no personal experience of psychic phenomena, does not know of someone who has. The intimate touch, "It happened to my uncle," compels attention and sets the seal of authority on the unearthly.

One of the most horrible stories I know was told me by a friend of the principal personage. A man went to stay with some friends. His hostess, knowing him to be very matter of fact, gave him the haunted room. He declared he did not mind. Soon after going to bed he fell into a sound sleep, but was awakened suddenly by a dreadful conviction that there was a ghostly presence in the room. Terrified, he lay awake for some time, but was able to conquer his fears gradually, to reason with himself, and he fell asleep again. When, however, he was awakened for the second time by this nightmare conviction of some horrible presence in the room, the feeling was so unbearable that he stretched out for the matches to strike a light, and the box was put into his hand!

One ghost story after another can be told, and our enthusiasm for more is unabated.

A ghost story which is not one, but merely comic, does not strike a discordant note, but relieves the tension for a moment. A man late at night put up at a small inn in a lonely part of the country. There were so many other travellers that he was given a shake down in the kitchen. He was awakened by hearing the softly spoken words, "All together push," but, being tired, soon fell asleep again. When, however, he was aroused for the third time by hearing these curious words, he struck a light, and at that moment the cheese hopped out of its box!

A true and very odd experience happened to a friend of mine. She was staying at an old haunted house in Scotland. One night a few of the guests sat up late telling ghost stories. The sequel to these narratives was a suggestion that they should see the haunted room, which was down a long passage carpeted with matting. Among the guests were an Indian potentate and his wife. The sound of the latter's feet pattering along the passage was uncanny. Though everyone was strung up, they were disappointed to find the door locked. They were going away, when the sound of low moans and sobs struck them with terror.
With one accord, they turned and fled. My friend, after a few minutes in which she recovered herself, declared she would never know a moment's peace unless she went back and investigated. A few brave spirits went with her. She took the knob of the door in her hand, and said, "If there is anyone here I command you — speak." A terrified little voice from inside snivelled, "Please, m'um, I'm the cook, and they've locked me in!"

The most uncanny experience I know of happened to this friend. She and her sister were travelling in a special train returning from an outing to Cambridge. As they passed Potter's Bar, she felt convinced her sister was ill and needed her. So strong was the feeling that she went the length of the train to her sister, who was very faint. People on the train were struck by the sympathy between these girls; but it was not until the next morning that all learnt from the papers that a well-known peer had committed suicide under that train at that spot.

I think the two best ghost stories ever written are "The Damask Rose," by Amélie Rives, and "The Turn of the Screw," by Henry James. The former is a story of an old Virginian house and a duel between a lovely living girl and the beautiful ghost of one long dead. It has all the fragrance of a rose. At the same time, the unfolding of the uncanny compels and holds the attention right up to a tremendous struggle at the finish between love and good, evil and death.

The latter," The Turn of the Screw," is the most terrible story I have ever read. For sheer horror I know nothing which faintly approaches it.

It is the tale of two little children haunted by the ghosts of a dead governess and valet. They are unbelievably vile and sinister. A nightmare touch is added when the narrator discovers that the innocent little boy and girl like meeting ghosts. The book haunts the imagination long after reading it.

The most delightful ghost story I know is The Shortest Ghost Story in the World." "I don't believe in ghosts," said the man. Don't you? said his companion; and vanished!
***
END

[𝘗rincess 𝘵uvstarr]

[dem bones]

Because Christmas without Misty is unthinkable.

I Must Catch the Last Train

I FELL IN LOVE at first sight... with an old railway station. We'd lived in a small flat ever since I could remember. Mum and dad had always wanted a house with a garden, but that had seemed an impossible dream until Dad heard about a disused station for sale. It was so cheap that he took us to see it right away.

I must admit I could understand why the asking price was so low, but I felt strangely sad and defensive when Dad pointed out any defects. Flowers ... and weeds ... had run riot everywhere, but somehow age and neglect had mellowed even the trolley and old paint tins abandoned on the platform; and the guttering might be hanging down in places, but the birds had obviously decided that broken gutters make ideal nesting sites. Even the harsh lines of the broken windows were softened by the dust and cobwebs of many years. Yes, Windwood Halt had a haunting look .... sad, yet romantic...I knew it was where I wanted to live.

Dad's voice shook me out of my day dream.

"It will need a lot of hard work ... been derelict for years," I heard him say, "but it's going cheap. We'll have to work hard and go easy on the spending, but I'm sure we can just about manage it."

To my great relief, Mum agreed, "Of course we can manage it," she said. "It's worth any amount of hard work to get out of that small flat."

We got a couple of rooms converted so we could move in, and Dad said we would gradually get the rest put in order. Maybe everybody wouldn't like living in an old railway station, but I thought it was wonderful, and so did my little brother Stephen. Stephen didn't help much though, he spent most of his time running up and down between the platforms pretending to be a train!

The day we moved in, we worked harder than ever, so I was glad to get to bed. In spite of all the excitement, I fell asleep as soon as my head touched the pillow. I don't know how long I slept, but when I awoke it was still dark. I sat up in bed and listened ... it couldn't be ... It couldn't be a train! I rushed to the window. At first I couldn't believe it, I rubbed my eyes and looked again, and there was a train ... a steam train ... pulling into the station. It slowed down, then picked up speed again. As the train steamed away I heard someone shout.

"Wait, you must wait. I've got to catch the last train."

A young girl was hurrying along the platform, carrying an old fashioned portmanteau in each hand.

I looked at the retreating train and saw it steam round the bend and when I looked at the platform again the girl had vanished. I thought I heard a noise coming from a long way off, but then all was still again. I felt bewildered and slowly went back to bed.

"You must have been dreaming," said Dad, next morning at breakfast, "a train couldn't possibly come along this line; the track is over-grown and in many places the rails are missing."

"Must have been a particularly vivid dream," agreed Mum, "I'm a very light sleeper and nothing woke me up."

I was beginning to think they were right ... after all, the line had been closed for over twenty years, and in any case the train I had seen was a very old steam train and the girl had been wearing old fashioned clothes.

Next night I heard the train again. This time I knew I wasn't dreaming. I looked out of the window and saw the train approaching our station. I grabbed my dressing gown and hurried down to the platform. I stood there and watched as the train slowed down; I thought it was going to stop, but it picked up speed again. Just as it was leaving the station I saw the girl.

"Wait, you must wait. I've got to catch the last train." She sighed and stopped hurrying. The gas light shone on her pale face and I could see she looked desperately unhappy. "It's gone," I said, "It didn't stop. I don't understand ... what's happening?"

"Don't understand," she repeated in a puzzled voice, "Oh, you mean the train not stopping. The last train does not stop unless someone requires it. The train always slows down to enter the station, if there is a passenger someone will signal to the driver. Without a signal the driver continues to the junction." She looked thoughtful and her face became sad again.

"If only I had arrived in time. If only I could be with Albert when..."

"Who's Albert?" I interrupted.

"You do not know Albert?" she said. "Why, his father is station master here at Windwood Halt. My Albert is on the train he got on at the terminus ... I should be with him, I MUST be with him."

She turned sadly away and started to walk slowly to the steps at the far end of the platform.

"I wish I could help," I cried.

She turned and smiled, "No-one can ever help me," she sighed.

I opened my mouth to answer, but realised she was no longer there.

I went back to bed, but tonight I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about her sad face ... there must be something I could do.

I didn't go to bed the next night. I said good night to Mum and Dad, but I didn't even undress ... I wanted to make quite sure I was on the platform when the train slowed down. Dad had given Stephen one of those space beam torches for his birthday, so I crept into his room and borrowed it ... it had a really powerful beam.

I couldn't concentrate on anything so I went down to the platform. It was cold and misty and time passed slowly, but at last I heard the puff of a train in the distance. I flashed the torch up and down, up and down. The train came slowly in ... and this time it stopped ... The driver looked out and I heard him call.

"Not your usual signal, Jack. Why did you halt the train? There appear to be no passengers."

Before I could try to explain, I heard the voice I had been expecting.

"Wait Wait, I must catch the last train." "Lottie, Lottie. Here I am" shouted a young man leaning through a carriage window, "Hurry, I thought you had changed your mind."

"Thank you," she murmured as she brushed past me; and I watched her join the handsome young man who had called her.

I was longing to tell someone what had happened, but Stephen was too young to understand and I didn't think Mum and Dad would understand either.

The train never woke me again, and I was beginning to forget the strange events of that night, when, a few months later, Dad decided to clear out a shed. It wasn't part of the living accommodation, but Dad thought it would do for his garden tools and my bicycle.

"Look," he said, throwing a bundle of old newspapers onto the kitchen table, "these should be interesting. This one is dated January 1879 ... exactly a hundred years before we moved in ... it reports a serious accident that happened a mile down the line."

I grabbed the yellowing paper and read the accident ... Albert Henderson, the son of Mr Jack Henderson, Station Master of Windwood Halt ... one of the victims..."

I didn't read any more... I couldn't. What had I done on that cold, misty night? Had I helped to send the young girl to her death, or had I helped a lost soul to find peace? I'd never know for certain, but somehow I feel I was right to re-unite Lottie and her Albert.

— Misty #87, October 6 1979

ASTON HALL

from MARCIA GAYLE, Perry Bar, Birmingham.

A long time ago a rich man died and left his house to his three daughters. The oldest daughter Ann looked after the house (Aston Hall) and her two sisters until she grew ill and was going to die.

Before she died she requested one wish. She asked her sisters to chop her head off and put it on the mantelpiece above the fire so she could see all the good work she had done.

When she died her sisters couldn't bring themselves to do it. Four years after Ann was buried, Aston Hall had some strange hauntings, Ann's ghost was in the house. The servants left the next morning and the two sisters and their local vicar dug the grave up and found that the head wasn't attached to the body. They took the head and put it on the mantel piece.

********
Other owners who removed the head were haunted, so each time the head was replaced. Later on the head was placed in a glass case joined to the wall. So nobody could meddle with it again.

—Misty #49, January 13 1979

[humgoo]

Dec 19, 2023 6:08:00 GMT dem bones said:

Because Christmas without Misty is unthinkable.

Quite. Thanks a lot for the selection!

[dem bones]

+ Vault Christmas Fun Page! + Vault Christmas Fun Page! + Vault Christmas Fun Page! + Vault Christmas Fun Page! + Vault Christmas Fun Page! + Vault Christmas ... & so on

Make your own Shrunken Head...

The Head-hunter tribe of South American Indians are so-called because of their gruesome method of treating their enemies' severed heads. With a special secret recipe they preserve and shrink them to the size of an orange.
You can fool your friends by making an imitation shrunken head which will really scare them! Or why not make a whole bunch of them to hang by the hair on a hook on your bedroom wall?

Follow these simple steps below...

1. Use some of the newspaper to cover your table or work-surface, then shred all the rest into small strips.

2. Make up a large jar or bowl-full of paste according to the instructions on the packet.

3. Soak a few of the paper strips in CLEAN WATER, then press firmly on to the orange until it is completely covered.

4. Brush plenty of paste onto some more strips of paper until they are completely soaked, then press a thick second layer of these on the orange.

5. Leave in a warm place till quite dry (about three days). Repeat steps 4 and 5 several times. You can give the face a 3D effect by using wads of paper well soaked in paste to build up the nose, chin, brows and cheek-bones.

6. When your model has dried after its final layer, cut it in half from chin to crown with a sharp knife (ask a grown-up to do this bit for you), then carefully ease off both halves from the orange. Glue the two halves together and paint the head with thick, yellowish flesh-coloured paint. When this is dry, use a smaller brush to paint on the eyes, lips and nostrils.

7. Finally, glue on plenty of wool or hair to the scalp. Remember — the hair on shrunken heads does not shrink, so the longer you make it the more real it will look.

You will need ...

a large orange ... plenty of newspaper ... a small packet of wall-papering paste ... some thick paint (poster, powder or oil) ... brushes for paste and paint ... strong model-making glue ... wool or pieces from an old wig for the hair....

— Misty Annual, 1981

From: Miss N. Tomlinson Swinton, Nr. Mexborough, South Yorkshire.


A long time ago when Swinton was just a small village called Swinetown there lived a farmer with his wife.

The farmer was called Jack and his wife Mary. Mary was a good wife to Jack but Jack spent all the hard earned money on drink. Every night he came home drunk and beat Mary. One night Jack told Mary to make a good supper for him. Mary was in a state for there wasn't a penny in the house. Mary decided to slaughter one of the two pigs they kept. Now Jack loved one of the pigs. By accident Mary killed the one he liked. When Jack found out he was furious and chased Mary out of the house. While running Mary fell in the River Don. Mary drowned.

Every year since then she has ridden through our town on a wild boar.

— Misty #52, February 3 1979

[dem bones]

Eric Fraser

C. Patrick Thompson - A Boom in English Ghosts; (Britannia & Eve, 1 December 1931). PROSPECTS are rosy for a spooky Christmas, though "rosy" hardly seems the right word for those pale and clammy spectres who find a place among our author's list of Christmas ghosts, famous and infamous, historical and legendary, old and new, grave and gay. We suggest that this entertaining article should be read on Christmas Eve, preferably by firelight and with the wind howling through snow-covered chimney pots!

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[paulfinch]

Hope you good people don't mind me mentioning that my brand new Christmas story, THE ICY REALM, is up on my blog and entirely FREE TO READ.

Just follow the links ...

Part 1 - paulfinch-writer.blogspot.com/2023/12/fancy-some-festive-terror-in-icy-realm.html

Part 2 - paulfinch-writer.blogspot.com/2023/12/part-2-of-icy-realm-hope-you-enjoy.html

[dem bones]

Do You Believe in Ghosts?
By Warren Armstrong

Britannia and Eve, 1 December 1946

THE mechanism of a grandfather clock is a very simple affair; a matter of elementary stresses and strains which with diligent winding cause a second hand to tick Time away. Little can go wrong among the wheels and rachets providing it is just a normal piece of useful furniture. Mine is not. It's haunted. If it wasn't for the fact that a film involved me in the world of spectres and strange Shapes, I would never have acquired it... from a ghost-ridden house.

The name doesn't matter; but René Clair produced a picture based on the story of a wealthy American who bought a haunted castle, had it transported to the U.S. ghost included. A neat piece of camera work, but its spooky angle provoked me into contacting a psychic expert who explained that, to be true to all known psychic laws, that ghost just had to stay attached to the old castle, whether the idea of emigration appealed to it, or not.

He said: "Phantoms only haunt houses, not people. Intense anguish in life, or mental torture, cruelty, vengeance, shock, or violent death, all these are among factors contributing towards general conditions which bind ghosts to our earth-world." He rang me up next morning: "If you're really interested — come down to my place for the week-end; I'm hoping to 'lay' a spectre in a nearby cottage. It's an unusually interesting story." I went.

I SUPPOSE Folly Cottage was the prettiest place I've ever seen; part of the estate of a hard-riding, hard-drinking hunting man, after his death it was given to his children's old nurse. But so great had been his love for the cottage that he swore on his deathbed he would return, to enjoy its comfort... in the shape of a favourite gun-dog! Almost immediately, every dog in the village was put to sleep. But he came back. And what was infinitely worse, the phantom hound worried, then killed a magnificent cat belonging to the little old lady. She died and Folly Cottage had become a place to be shunned like the plague!

As we entered the low-beamed hall I shivered. It was a natural phenomenon, said my companion, for the spectral world draws upon heat and natural atmosphere and transforms it into mechanical energy. We lit a log fire, and sat down in silence to wait. And as we sat there an unlit candle nearby popped into flame just as the fire uncannily snuffed out.

"Look at that dog of yours!" My companion spoke in a whisper. Bob's eyes were wide, staring. His hair was stiff. His teeth were bared, and he whimpered. Quietly, softly. Then he growled and fell silent. For Bob had heard long before we did; whatever was about to happen, the old dog experienced It ... and It was Something we mere humans could not perceive. A split second later we shared his secret.
The atmosphere became clammy-cold as faltering steps passed through the low-beamed hall, mounted the short stairway and faded into semi-darkness. We followed. And then we saw Her ... a little old lady, in lavender-grey, who walked right through the closed door of a bedroom. In her hand she held the candle which had been by my side as we sat by that log fire! Her eyes were infinitely sad .. and questing. She walked to a far wall of the bedroom, bent down — and disappeared from sight.

One portion of the bedroom wainscot was hinged; and as it creaked outwards my companion produced a small oak box. It contained the mummified remains of a large cat.

"And this," he said, "is the cause of the visitation. This is the kind of thing we look for; it might be an old chair, a bed, any piece of furniture. When it's discovered, we destroy the particular article to which the phantom became so attached during lifetime. But if an amateur tries unsuccessfully to solve a mystery like this, ghosts — who are the unhappy inhabitants of a nightmare world — sometimes have unpleasant methods of expressing disapproval; then you get strange noises, ghostly lights, often a bad odour. You know, a door slammed by an unseen hand can have a disturbing effect in a haunted house."

We went downstairs. And there I made the acquaintance of the grandfather clock; a stately Old Gentleman he had been in his day, but he was now in a sorry plight. His body leaned crazily at an alarming angle; his head was awry. His face was dirty, and his fine-wrought hands were locked fast at twelve. I heard his story. He had stopped at midnight, when the old lady died. And rather than strike the normal hour, his gong went on to chime eighteen ... at dawn neighbours found a bat's wing attached to the pendulum. So I took the Old Gentleman into my own home — itself reputed to be haunted, for it is one of the earliest post-houses of Southern England. And there he has been supremely happy, recording the Time diligently, chiming the hours without a sign of waywardness.

ACCORDING to undisputed records, Britain has about fifty haunted castles, and more than 1,000 spectre-ridden, ordinary houses. The phantoms don't all belong to the headless monk, the hooded apparition, or the rattling chain type; quite a few have been seen dressed in plus-fours, some in modern evening gowns, and others driving ghostly cars which rush through quiet country lanes, and even along the deserted streets of a sleeping city.

I have seen a horned, staring-eyed phantom at the home of Robert de Belesme. I have watched the Lady Dorothy walk the Long Gallery at Salmesbury Hall ... where a spectral priest moans in the gardens. And at Claverhouse, near Dundee, the ghost of Graham, of Jacobite and Covenanter fame, every year haunts the castle while uncanny lights blaze from empty rooms and an awful pandemonium lasts for an hour as the spectre walks ... and walks and walks into the New Year dawn.

You will know, of course, of the tenure of Sauchiemuir Castle? It was secured by the laying of a glass of wine, fruit, a plateful of cakes "... tastefully on a table each New Year's Eve at midnight."
They were placed there to be enjoyed by the wraith of the mother of James IV of Scotland!

For myself, I like to dwell on that rare incident which befell a lonely traveller in a compartment on the London to Liverpool night express.

As the train thundered through a long tunnel the door to the corridor slid open and a stranger appeared. He asked: "Do you believe in ghosts?" Replied the traveller: "Great Scot, NO!" "Pity," said the stranger, "because I do!" And thereupon vanished into thin air.

[ripper]

Thanks for posting these Christmas assortments, Dem, I am enjoying them very much.

[ripper]

Dec 22, 2023 9:05:44 GMT paulfinch said:

Hope you good people don't mind me mentioning that my brand new Christmas story, THE ICY REALM, is up on my blog and entirely FREE TO READ.

Just follow the links ...

Part 1 - paulfinch-writer.blogspot.com/2023/12/fancy-some-festive-terror-in-icy-realm.html

Part 2 - paulfinch-writer.blogspot.com/2023/12/part-2-of-icy-realm-hope-you-enjoy.html

Thank you, Paul, I'm going to save your tale for Christmas Eve, which is the perfect time for a festive fright imo.