The Floating Sister and Other Apparitions...

 

My latest novel – In Darkness, Shadows Breathe – is largely set in a fairly modern hospital, but one which has been built using material from – and erected on the foundations of – a much earlier structure. It had been a workhouse, hospital and asylum and one in which patients were treated most cruelly.

Of course, two hundred years ago, even methods employed with the best of intentions, designed to cure people of a range of ills would nowadays cause us to shriek and flee in terror. Any doctor employing such (to us) barbaric methods would be permanently struck off, his/her license to practice medicine permanently removed.

Even with our modern science, hospitals can be traumatic places witnessing every human activity from birth through to death and everything in between - surgeries, chemotherapy, radiotherapy, pain, suffering and, finally, the slipping away of life itself. Add to this, the sheer design of the buildings themselves – especially the older ones – and you have the perfect breeding ground for spirits of all kinds, from ghosts of small babies, through to spectres of people who have met violent, sudden or traumatic deaths.

Then there is another category altogether. That which you could only find in a hospital – the caring ghost who nurtured while alive and now cannot stop simply because they have passed over. Glasgow Royal Infirmary – originally built in 1794 – has all the ingredients for a supernatural hotbed. It doesn’t disappoint.

There are many stories. Some of the most commonly cited are:

The Floating Sister

Should you encounter this lady, you will probably initially think she is just a member of staff on her way from one ward to another. Look down and you will see that there is nothing below the level of her knees. She appears to be floating along the corridor. A nurse working at the Infirmary in the late 20th century, greeted her as she walked past, before seeing the strange lack of lower limbs. Through the years, the hospital has undergone many renovations and it is quite possible that at some stage the floor levels were changed. This ghost is walking on an older floor.

Archie The Whisperer

This ghost manifests in Ward 27 and patients in their last days have reported seeing the same person, who whispered to them. They have said his name is Archie and his aim appears to be to ease their passing.

 He has also manifested on occasions and has been reported as being elderly and wearing a hair bun.

The Grey Lady

There had to be one, didn’t there? This lady has been chased by staff as she walked down corridors, apparently oblivious to their presence. She has then vanished through walls.

Dead Man Walking

One of the more recent additions to the infirmary's catalogue, this one was first reported early this century. On the way to treat a patient who had suffered a heart attack, a doctor was approached by a patient who asked him for directions out of the hospital. The doctor obliged and hurried to help the person he had been summoned to care for. Sadly, he arrived too late. The heart attack victim has already died.

But the doctor got the shock of his life when he looked down at the deceased patient's face and recognized him. It was the same man who had asked him for directions.

At least Glasgow Royal Infirmary's ghosts are benign. The same cannot be said for those who haunt the Royal and Waverly Hospital...

You’re next…

Carol and Nessa are strangers but not for much longer.

In a luxury apartment and in the walls of a modern hospital, the evil that was done continues to thrive. They are in the hands of an entity that knows no boundaries and crosses dimensions – bending and twisting time itself – and where danger waits in every shadow. The battle is on for their bodies and souls and the line between reality and nightmare is hard to define.

Through it all, the words of Lydia Warren Carmody haunt them. But who was she? And why have Carol and Nessa been chosen?

The answer lies deep in the darkness…

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The Cornish Witches of Saveock

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My new novella – The Malan Witch – takes place in a remote coastal area not unlike Cornwall. It is peaceful, tranquil – except for the activities of two of the most evil witches you could ever encounter. The sisters were burned centuries earlier for their crimes, but the site of their former home is soaked in their heinous, demonic practices.

Mercifully, these two devil sisters never actually walked the earth, but the practice of witchcraft most certainly did – and indeed does – exist. Thankfully, in most cases we are talking about good or so-called white magic. Indeed, in centuries past, most (if not all) witches executed in various torturous ways were guilty of nothing more than being ‘wise women’ who knew a thing or two about how herbs and natural remedies worked. Then one day they upset one of their neighbours and, before you could light a candle, they would find themselves being poked and prodded for the infamous ‘witch marks’. Anything would suffice – a small mole, a wart, a tiny patch of eczema. Most of us have something the witch hunter would proclaim was a mark of the devil.

In Cornwall, a coven of witches managed to evade detection, maintain their secrecy and continue practising their benevolent craft from the 1640s until at least the 1970s. Archeologist Dr. Jacqui Wood discovered pits lined with animal skins, carcasses of birds and feathers which, it is believed formed part of a fertility ritual.

The site is in a tiny hamlet called Saveock near Truro where two unmarried women lived, practising their craft and passing on its secrets. They were believed to be part of that secret coven until they died in the 1980s. The most recent of the small pits used synthetic orange baler twine only used in Cornwall since the 1970s, while the earliest witch pit dates back to the 1640s and is lined with a slaughtered swan (the bird symbolizing fertility), which had been turned inside out.  Claws belonging to other bird species and a small pile of stones were also found in it. The killing of swans has been illegal since the 11^th century.

Other pits are lined with the skins of cats and dogs along with bird’s eggs containing soon-to-be-hatched chicks.

Dr Wood believes the pits were dug by young women desirous of becoming pregnant and could be an offering to St Brigid of Kildare in Ireland – the patron saint of newborn babies.

All in all, carbon dating has revealed that the site has been in continuous use since the 1640s, and there are over forty pits – each one unique, but all roughly the same size, measuring 42cm long x 35cm wide and 17cm deep. Dr Wood believes it is highly probable that members of the coven are still active today.

That this coven has managed to continue to exist despite contravening laws of the land and the prevailing prejudices of the times bears testament to the determination of a dedicated group of women who, no doubt, passed on their secrets from mother to daughter – with not one weak link.

Naught remained of their bodies to be buried, for the crows took back what was theirs.’

An idyllic coastal cottage near a sleepy village. What could be more perfect? For Robyn Crowe, borrowing her sister’s recently renovated holiday home for the summer seems just what she needs to deal with the grief of losing her beloved husband.

 But behind those pretty walls lie many secrets, and legends of a malevolent sisterhood - two witches burned for their evil centuries earlier. Once, both their vile spirits were trapped there. Now, one has been released. One who is determined to find her sister. Only Robyn stands in her way.

 And the crow has returned.

 You can pre-order The Malan Witch here:

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Ouija - A Warning to the Curious

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Ouija Boards. Harmless bit of fun? Or something more sinister?

 I have certainly had a scary experience with a homemade variety, many years ago, in my misspent youth. As a result, I will never go near them again. But more of that later.

My late mother used to tell a story of when she and some ATS friends, during World War II, decided they were going to have a bit of fun and set up their own homespun Ouija board, using a pack of Lexicon cards and a thick glass tumbler. Each of them placed one finger, lightly on the glass. It worked almost immediately. At first they asked it relatively mundane questions and received predictable answers, but then, out of the blue, the glass suddenly started shooting around the board, circling faster and faster. Mum said something felt different about the glass. Up until then, she could easily have believed one of them could have been manipulating it, but now, it was as if the glass had a mind of its own.

 Then it started to spell something out. Just one word that struck fear into all of them.

“Die”.

They stared at each other for a few moments until one brave soul (not my mother, she was too scared) asked, “Who?”

Suddenly the glass shot out from under their fingers and across the table, coming to rest in front of a quiet young woman called Desiree. The others looked at her in open-mouthed horror, but she laughed it off. “Silly game”.

Two weeks later, Desiree deliberately rode her bicycle into the path of the London express train.

She had been one for keeping her personal life very much to herself and it was only after her death that her friends learned how violent and unhappy her marriage had been. She came from a well-to-do family and her marriage to a young man from another similarly connected family had been presumed since the two of them were children. She had done what her parents insisted upon and married him. He had a drink problem and regularly beat her. In her world, divorce was unthinkable. She could see no way out.

Could she have thrown the glass at herself? Maybe as some last ditch, but too subtle, cry for help? The young women considered it, but it seemed impossible owing to the angle at which she was sitting and the position of her lone finger on the glass. We will, of course, never know, but neither Mum nor any of her friends ever played with a Ouija again.

 I had known of this story for maybe ten years, but still I had to have my own experience, didn’t I? Two female work colleagues and I did just as Mum and her friends had done and used a lexicon pack, plus postcards with ‘Yes’, ‘No’ and ‘Goodbye’ on them. Needing a fair amount of space and lacking a table big enough, we set up on the (thankfully clean) floor of the Ladies’ washroom. We placed a heavy glass water tumbler in the centre and each positioned one finger lightly on the glass. Giggling with nervous anticipation, we started.

My colleague Mary asked the usual question, “Is there anyone there?”

The glass began to move, gently circling the board.

Mary again piped up, “Who are you?”

Now it started to spell out something, until the name “Richard” emerged. Although a relatively common name, this rang no bells with any of us.

I gained a little confidence now. “Do you have a message for one of us?”

The glass moved to “Yes”.

“Who is your message for?”

“M A R Y”

My other colleague, Josie, and I looked at Mary. She had gone a little pale but nevertheless asked the inevitable, “What is your message for me?”

Nothing. The glass didn’t move. We sat in silence for a few moments, exchanging glances. Then Mary asked, “Are you still there?”

The glass skimmed around the floor, pausing at letters and moving off so rapidly it was hard to keep up.  The words were mainly four letter expletives – and they were directed at Mary. This did not feel the same as the seemingly innocuous Richard. Under my finger, I felt the glass pulling away. Josie said she felt the same. So did Mary.

Random words now. ‘Devil’, ‘Satan’, ‘Evil’. But then it spelled out, ‘Devil F***s Mary’. She let out a scream, took her finger off the glass and backed away.  The glass pulled even stronger. It tugged itself away from Josie and I - who were sitting next to each other - hurled itself across the floor and smashed against the far wall. The impact shattered the glass. We stared at it like idiots for a minute or more and I am certain I did not imagine the chill in the room. We all experienced it. That was the first and last time I ever messed around with a Ouija.

Oh I know, mass hallucination. One of us must have pushed the glass. There are a myriad of perfectly sane and logical explanations but… you weren’t there. You didn’t feel that glass tug away from us. You didn’t see the way it shot across the room, as it someone had hurled it with all their strength. This was a heavy Duralex glass. The sort you could often drop on the floor and they would virtually bounce. At the time it made its dramatic exit, just two of us had one finger each, lightly, on the glass. One was me and I know I wasn’t moving it at any time. The other was Josie. Trust me, it would have taken far more than one of her fingers, plus a degree of skill in the art of throwing, for her to have achieved that result.

You only have to tap in ‘Ouija boards’ in your favourite search engine to find a whole host of cautionary tales, warning people not to use them. Some have had far more violent and frightening outcomes than I have. Whether users really do tap into something supernatural or not, it’s clear that some highly undesirable results can – and do – occur.

If you’re still determined to go ahead and ‘have a bit of fun’, nothing I say will stop you.

But don’t ever say I didn’t warn you...

We are the Thirteen and we are one

4 Yarborough Drive looked like any other late 19th century English townhouse. Alice Lorrimer feels safe and welcomed there, but soon discovers all is not as it appears to be. One of her housemates flees the house in terror. Another disappears and never returns. Then there are the sounds of a woman wailing, strange shadows and mists, and the appearance of the long-dead Josiah Underwood who founded a coven there many years earlier. The house is infested with his evil, and Alice and her friends are about to discover who the Thirteen really are.

When death's darkest veil draws over you, then shall shadows weep

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The Darkest Veil - Out Now!

When death's darkest veil draws over you, then shall shadows weep

4 Yarborough Drive looked like any other late 19th century English townhouse. Alice Lorrimer feels safe and welcomed there, but soon discovers all is not as it appears to be. One of her housemates flees the house in terror. Another disappears and never returns. Then there are the sounds of a woman wailing, strange shadows and mists, and the appearance of the long-dead Josiah Underwood who founded a coven there many years earlier. The house is infested with his evil, and Alice and her friends are about to discover who the Thirteen really are.

We are the Thirteen and we are one

Excerpt

“I think we should probably get started, if we’re going to do this.” For the first time, Diana sounded unconvinced. Whether she transmitted that uncertainty to me, or whether I already felt it, I didn’t know, but the time had come. Seeing the table set out that way, a niggling doubt began to snake its way up from the pit of my stomach. Lena’s warning flashed through my mind. With sheer force of will, I suppressed it. Stuff and nonsense. That’s all.

I took a deep breath. “Okay, Vicky, have you got a notebook and pen with you?”

She waved both at me.

“Great. As we agreed, you write everything down, but you don’t need to touch the glass and you shouldn’t ask any questions of anything that may make contact with us. The rest of us should each place a finger lightly on the glass.”

Suzie coughed. “Should we turn the main light out or something? I could put the table lamp on so we can see the cards.”

“Good idea,” I said and Suzie obliged.

In the gloom, the atmosphere grew heavy in the room, not helped by a fug of tobacco smoke that hung in the air.

I took another deep breath and my heart beat a little faster.

 

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We each rested the forefinger of one hand on the glass.

I cleared my throat. “Spirit, are you there?”

Another nervous giggle from Suzie.

“Ssshh.” This from Diana. Next to me, Vicky waited, notebook open, pen poised.

I tried again, as Lena had advised. “Spirit, this is a safe place. Are you there?”

The glass trembled. I caught my breath as the floorboards creaked beneath our feet.

“Oh my God!” Suzie snatched her finger away. “Did you feel that?”

“Yes.” My voice wobbled. “Please put your finger back, Suzie. We need our combined energies.”

Suzie did so, without another word. No one else spoke. I guessed everyone was as taken aback as me. This hadn’t happened yesterday evening.

“Spirit, is that you?” I asked.

The glass trembled again. Diana gasped. The tumbler seemed to be struggling to free itself. It began to shift. It slowly moved around the circle as if trying to familiarize itself with new surroundings. I watched in fascination as it snaked its way around the table.

The glass stopped abruptly, against one of the white cards. “Yes,” I read. Vicky wrote it down.

Suzie, Vicky and Diana were silent. As leader, I had to ask the questions. I had my next one ready, but with such a dry mouth, I could barely get the words out.

“Spirit, thank you for joining us. Please, will you spell out your name?”

The glass shot over to the white card on the other side of the circle—the one that read ‘No’.

“But why won’t it tell us its name?” Suzie asked.

The glass trembled violently, then darted around the board, stopping at letters and moving on so fast I could hardly keep up.

I called the letters to Vicky. She wrote them down. We were all breathing heavily as the glass moved faster and faster, gaining momentum all the time. Finally, with one massive tug, the tumbler flew off the table and smashed against the wall.

Suzie leaped up and snapped the light switch on. We blinked in the brightness and stared at the broken glass on the floor.

“What the hell happened?” Suzie asked. “Who moved that bloody glass?”

I shook my head and looked around at the shocked, white faces of my housemates.

Diana recovered first. “I don’t believe any of us did. Alice, what did Lena say we should do when something goes wrong?”

I struggled to collect my thoughts. “She said…we can do one of two things. We can either stop. Well, I suppose we have anyway. But we could start again if we choose to. Or we could call it a night.”

“I prefer that option,” Diana said, rubbing her hands together. “Does anyone else feel cold all of a sudden?”

I nodded and hugged myself. The room had grown chilly in the last few minutes and my breath misted when I spoke. “Shall we see what Vicky’s got?”

Vicky had been forming words from the letters I had shouted out and stared at her notebook.

I prompted her. “Vicky?”

She looked up at me. “Oh, you’re all going to love this,” she said.

“What do you mean?” I asked. “Does any of it make sense?”

“It makes sense all right.”

“Then tell us!” Suzie’s impatience bordered on anger.

Vicky glared at her. “Fine. It says ‘We are the thirteen. We are one. He is coming for you. He will take you with him.’”

 The Darkest Veil is published by Crossroad Press and is available from:

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The Haunting of Henderson Close

Ghosts have always walked there. Now they’re not alone… 

 In the depths of Edinburgh, an evil presence is released. Hannah and her colleagues are tour guides who lead their visitors along the spooky, derelict Henderson Close, thrilling them with tales of spectres and murder. For Hannah it is her dream job, but not for long. 

Who is the mysterious figure that disappears around a corner? What is happening in the old print shop? And who is the little girl with no face? The legends of Henderson Close are becoming all too real. 

The Auld De’il is out – and even the spirits are afraid.

Coming on January 10th 2019 from Flame Tree Press

Available for pre-order now - all formats (Audio to follow) 

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We Are Monsters - The True Story Behind The Book

I am delighted to be joined by fellow Samhain horror writer, Brian Kirk, whose scarily excellent new book - We Are Monsters - has just been published. Considerable research was needed for this book which delves into the shadowy world of mental health and weaves a tale of psychological evil. In Part One of a two-part blog, he talks about mental health and the real-life horrors that have posed as therapeutic treatments until frighteningly recent times...

 A History of Mental Health

Part I

Insanity likely descended upon the first person to question the mysterious nature of our existence. I know I had to hold onto something for support the first time existential questions entered my mind. What, you mean we’re all going to die?

But the manor in which we diagnose and treat the full spectrum of mental disorders has evolved over the last century or so. Sadly, it’s not a heartwarming tale. Let’s take a look at how humans have come to understand outbursts of insanity, and the attempts we’ve made to restore mental health.

Imagine living in 1796, and the conditions at the time. You’re in Pennsylvania visiting a relative in the state asylum. Mind your head as you wind down the stairs that lead to the dark basement, which could more aptly be called a dungeon. Here patients receive the greatest care while confined to chains and forced to sleep in crowded cells on straw. Keepers are on hand with whips in case someone becomes too agitated. Occasionally, they’re granted a bath. “Hi Mom, feeling better?”

What does a day of therapy look like? Well, at the time many physicians believed that evoking terror was an effective way to restore mental health. One common method was ‘The Bath of Surprise.” Wow, that sure sounds nice. Not so fast. This is where a patient is blindfolded and led across a trapdoor that drops them into a cold tub of water.

Variations on this clever approach emerged over time. Renowned clinician, Joseph Guislain, created a drowning device called, “The Chinese Temple,” which was basically a small iron cage. The patient would be locked in the cage and slowly lowered into a body of water, such as a pond. The cage would be raised once the “desired effect” had been attained, usually when the bubbles ceased to rise.

I love the names given to some of these treatment devices. Such as “The Tranquilizer Chair.” Sounds relaxing, right? Imagine being confined to this chair – your arms bound, wrists immobilized, feet clamped together, vision blocked by a wooden contraption encasing the head – and having a bucket placed underneath you for bowel movements. You’ll need it, as you’ll be sitting here for a long time – in some cases, for as long as six months. 

The Tranquilizer Chair

Confinement and hydrotherapy were deemed so therapeutic they were soon combined. One example was the continuous bath, which involved strapping a patient into a hammock suspended in a bathtub. The top of the tub was covered by a canvas sheet that had a hole for the patient’s head. At times, cold water would be used to fill the tub, and at other times water almost too hot to touch. Patients would be kept there for days on end, with bandages wrapped around their eyes and ears to shut out other sensations. Ah… just like being at the spa.

The Continuous Bath

The problem with these treatments was that they just weren’t very reliable. So physicians continued to look for more effective cures. Like good old Henry Cotton, superintendent of Trenton State Hospital in New Jersey, who, in 1916, decided that insanity was caused, in part, by bacteria. So he started pulling his patients’ teeth. According to him, this procedure cured 25% of them. That left 75% unimproved, prompting him to look for other body parts that might be harboring bacteria. He eventually went on to remove his patients’ tonsils, colon, gall bladder, appendix, fallopian tubes, uterus, ovaries, cervix, and seminal vesicles. He claimed to achieve an 85% cure rate with his operations. An investigation revealed, however, that nearly 43% of the patients who underwent Dr. Cotton’s therapy died. Small price to pay for peace of mind.

Learning about how we’ve historically treated the mentally ill not only inspired the subject of my debut novel, We Are Monsters, it influenced its title.

In this book a brilliant, yet troubled psychiatrist is working to develop a cure for schizophrenia. At first, the drug he creates shows great promise in alleviating his patient’s symptoms. It appears to return schizophrenics to their former selves. But (as you may imagine) something goes wrong. Unforeseen side effects begin to emerge, forcing prior traumas to the surface, setting inner demons free. His medicine may help heal the schizophrenic mind, but it also expands it, and the monsters it releases could be more dangerous than the disease.

I have tremendous sympathy for the mentally ill, and am horrified by the way they have been, and continue to be treated. This book, in many ways, pays homage to all who have had to endure inhumane treatments by monsters in human disguise.

To read Part II of this article, please visit Brian Moreland's Blog

 Anyone interested in checking out We Are Monsters can order a copy here:

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And for anyone interested in striking up a virtual friendship, please connect with me through one of the following channels. Don’t worry. I only kill my characters. 

 Brian Kirk

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Look for more historical accounts of mental heath therapies coming soon to another Samhain author’s blog near you! 

Thank you for being my guest today, Brian. I loved We Are Monsters. Here is my review:

 Brian Kirk scores a major debut hit with a gripping story that packs in more layers than a filo pastry – and is far more scary.

The evil that inhabits Sugar Hill mental asylum takes us deep into the psyches of the main characters and the author has really done his research here. He never flinches from exploring the dark, intricate web of psychological complexities that lurk deep within the minds of his subjects.

What is real? What is a figment of a schizophrenic’s tortured imagination? As each layer of this story is peeled back, we learn more and more about the characters and also that however scary monsters may be, the scariest of them all lurk deep within us.

This book is an irresistible maze. You cannot stop exploring it until you emerge, exhausted but satisfied, and with enough going on in your own head to ensure that the story and its well-crafted characters remain with you for a long time.

I found it a truly extraordinary read. Highly recommended.