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Houndsbury An old man is sometimes seen at Houndsbury Park around

midnight. He wears a long black coat and leans heavily on a thick walking stick. His hair is long and white. He beckons

people towards him with his stick. If you go to him, you find yourself looking into the face of a grinning skull. He

then vanishes. But it�s best to keep away from him. Everyone who has seen the grinning skull has died a few

weeks later in a strange acident.

AA--ZZ ooff GGhhoossttss aanndd HHaauunnttiinnggss

Farnham Wood Several places in and around Farnham Wood are said to be haunted by a beautiful young woman called Kate,

dressed in brown. If you go into the wood and she calls you, do not turn around. If Kate stares into your eyes, she turns into a little girl and you become old and ill.

Hawkford The old road from Hawkford to Hurlston

is haunted by a man driving a ghostly horse-drawn carriage. The man has no

head. This is the ghost of Charlie Gardiner, who has been spotted many

times on the old road.

In 1964 Charlie fell in love with Elizabeth Broughton, a local beauty. Her father, Squire

Broughton, did not like Charlie. He found out that Charlie and his

daughter were planning to run away together. When Charlie arrived in his carriage, Squire Broughton was waiting for him

with his axe. Ever since, people have reported seeing the

headless driver and the ghostly carriage fleeing from Hawkford

Manor.

Helton People in Helton say the town is haunted by a

strange black cat. It is twice the size of a normal cat. Anyone who sees it is said to fall under the

spell of its hypnotic green eyes. It leads them out into the marshes, where they fall into the peat bog

and drown. The cat is said to be the ghost of Benjamin Water�s old tom-cat. Benjamin was a

farmer who died when he flee into the peat bog in 1876. His cat escaped but was killed by the local people, who thought it had brought Benjamin bad luck. They say that it has come back to get its

revenge.

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AAbbiiggaaiill aanndd JJaacckk

t happened nearly two hundred years ago. But in the village they still tell the tale of Abigail and Jack. Abigail was a fair, slim girl with pale blue eyes. Jack was a strong,

handsome and well-built young man. He was eighteen, but Abigail was only fourteen. They often met in secret in the churchyard, where they sat on a bench talking and kissing. They wanted to marry, but Jack worked on Abigail�s father�s farm. Abigail�s father wanted her to marry a nobleman, not a farm labourer. One day, while they were sitting in the churchyard, they heard a gravedigger singing. He sang about death and how everyone dies � the rich man, the poor man, the beggar man, the thief. He worked as he sang, using his shovel to dig a new grave. Jack and Abigail listened to his song. He sang that everyone must die. Only love can conquer death. His singing gave Abigail and Jack hope. They made up their minds. Jack would ask her father to allow them to marry.

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But when Jack spoke to Abigail�s father, he flew into a rage. He said he would never allow his daughter to marry a common labourer. He told Jack that he was dismissed and that he must leave the village. Then he sent for Abigail. He told her that she must go and pack. He was sending her to a boarding school. Jack left the village that night. He wandered the countryside looking for work. But every farm he called at turned him away. Abigail�s father had made sure that no one would employ him. As the weeks passed, he grew ill. He made his way back to the village, but within three days he was dead. Meanwhile, at her boarding school, Abigail cried herself to sleep each night. There was no word from Jack. Surely he could not have forgotten her? Then, one night in December, she awoke to find Jack standing beside her bed. His finger was on his lips to tell her not to speak. Thinking her father must have sent for her, she dressed quickly and hurried outside. There in the driveway was Abigail�s father�s horse and carriage. Abigail climbed up beside Jack. She watched him as he drove them towards her home. He was still and silent. She felt his hands, which were as cold as ice. She gave him her gloves. She touched his cheeks. They too felt like ice. She gave him her scarf. He still looked cold. So she wrapped her coat around him. When they reached the farm, it was in darkness. Abigail was surprised that neither her father nor the servants were up. Surely, they couldn�t have all gone to bed, when they knew she was coming. She went and knocked on her father�s door. Her

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father was surprised to see her. When she told him that Jack had brought her home, his face grew angry. He told her not to be so stupid. Jack was dead. Abigail fell to the floor in a faint. When she came around, her father lit lanterns and took her to the graveyard. He wanted to show her Jack�s grave and prove to her that he was dead. But when they reached the grave, Abigail had another shock. There on top of the grave were her gloves, her scarf and her coat. Abigail never recovered from Jack�s death. Within six months, she too was dead. Her last request was to be buried beside Jack. If you visit the churchyard, you can still see their graves. From Jack�s grave there grows a bright red rose. From Abigail�s grave there grows a pure white rose. The two roses have grown towards each other and are tangled together. James Rigg

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TThhee NNiigghhtt FFllyyeerr ooff TTaallyyllllyynn Everyone has a favourite story of a place or building that�s haunted. Why do you think people love to hear, read or watch ghost stories? What kinds of buildings are usually thought of as haunted? Are there some places that you could never imagine as the settings for ghost stories, such as supermarkets or swimming pools? A popular short story by the nineteenth century novelist, Charles Dickens, is The Signalman. It is a spine-chilling tale about a ghostly railway line. Railways have often attracted mysterious rumours and legends. Look at the following account � said to be true � about a mysterious locomotive in South Wales. *****************************************************************

he Welsh town of Tywyn, facing out across the beautiful sweep of Cardigan Bay, is one of those lovely spots that, once visited, are never forgotten. Beyond the town, running to the north-east, is

the famous old Talyllyn Railway. This whole area of Wales is replete with legends and stories of strange nocturnal happenings, so it is hardly surprising to learn that the Talylyn Railway is haunted, too. Weird lights have been reported on the line long after the last train has run, and the harsh whistle of an engine has been heard on certain stretches, especially near the viaduct at Dolgoch. Seen by day from the B4405 which runs beside the railway for half its length, the Dolgoch viaduct is an impressive looking construction. By night, however, it has a strangely eerie quality and to walk over it is to sense the great antiquity of the Welsh fastness all around. Indeed, locals say it takes stout-hearted men and women to be about in Dolgoch after night falls. But such bravery is precisely what a group of climbers from an outdoor pursuits centre showed when they asked for permission to abseil down Dolgoch Viaduct at midnight one autumn evening in 1982. According to one report, as they were tying their ropes to the rails on the viaduct in preparation for their descent, a dark, mysterious shape hurtled at them out of the darkness.

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No one among the group was quite sure what they saw, for it all happened so quickly. Whether it was something real or intangible was impossible to say; but the shape of the �thing�, and the fact they were on the railway, made them think it must be a locomotive of some kind. Although the group were somewhat shaken by their experience, they nonetheless abseiled down the viaduct and later reported their strange experience in Tywyn. To the local people, the story merely added weight to the long-held belief that the line was haunted, and a newspaper later carried an account which began, �Strange nocturnal happenings have confirmed the existence of a ghost train on the Talyllyn Railway�. There was, though, another suggestion: that the �ghost train� might actually have been a runaway trolley hi-jacked by pranksters to frighten the abseilers � but this did not explain the dramatic disappearance of the �thing� over the edge of the viaduct, nor the fact that nothing whatsoever was found anywhere on the line between the viaduct and Tywyn.

Richard Peyton, The Book of Great Mysteries

RRoossaalliiee

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RRoossaalliiee

Ghost stories have a similar effect on us to horror stories � they chill us with fear. What makes them different is that they contain a supernatural element - a ghost or

spectre or mysterious being which doesn�t belong on earth�something we thought was dead. Nowadays the differences between the genres can be unclear, but as a rule

horror stories � even those with ghosts � are gorier than ghost stories.

Robert Westall was well-known for his ghostly tales, as well as for the many other stories he wrote for young readers. In this extract from his short story, Rosalie, a class has been talking about the ghost of Rosalie Scott who is supposed to haunt the school�

Think of a ghost story, in a book, television programme, or film, which has had a strong effect on you. What element in it sticks in your mind most? Why do you remember it so well?

Do you think ghost stories are just �a bit of fun�, or could reading too many actually do harm?

***************************************************************** Rosalie

t was in maths, on the twenty-first of December, that Tracy Merridew screamed. It was about half past three in the afternoon and raining, nearly dark outside already. The lights were on in the

classroom, but they seemed very far away, high up near the ceiling; and the dull planked floor under the tables was full of dusty shadows.

�For goodness� sake,� shouted Miss Hood, �will you be quiet, Tracy? I am sick of this class. I know we break up tomorrow, but today we are working!�

But everyone was turning and staring at the dark space beneath the cupboard where the textbooks and the library were kept. The girls were huddling together and the boys were crouching tense, getting ready to be brave. As a whisper went round the room.

�The hand! The hand!� Then something scuttled with a dry noise, under the cupboard;

half-appeared, a dull grey, then vanished again.

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�Good God,� said Miss Hood. �A mouse. Or a rat!� As she often told them, she was a farmer�s daughter, with no time

for nonsense. �We�ll soon deal with that!� She picked up her heavy blackboard pointer, which she had been known to poke people with, and made straight for the cupboard. She banged on the side of the cupboard with the pointer, making a terrific din. Hoping to scare the rat out.

Nothing stirred. Very bravely, or very foolishly, she knelt down and peered

underneath, her rather large bottom in its loud check skirt humped up in the air. Still peering, she poked the pointer into the darkness, and rattled it about.

Then she gave such a scream as made Tracy Merridew�s seem a squeak.

And collapsed in a dead faint. And as she lay there a thing like a shrivelled hand, but also like a

great thin grey spider, seemed to crawl out from under the cupboard and crawl on to her back; crawl up on to her woolly black jumper. Everyone in the class saw it quite clearly, outlined against Miss Hood�s black jumper. So all the rest of their lives they would never forget it�

Everyone started screaming. Then the classroom door burst open, and Mrs Winterbottom was

shouting, �What is all this nonsense? Miss Hood�Miss Hood!� And by the time they had got Miss Hood into her chair and

splashed her with water, and tried to tell Mrs Winterbottom what had happened, and turned back to the cupboard, the hand was quite gone.

Robert Westall

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TThhee KKnnoocckk aatt tthhee MMaannoorr GGaattee

Franz Kafka is a Czech writer who is famous for stories which show the isolation and nightmares of human beings � the perfect subject matter for ghost stories. Most readers agree that this story has suspense, but disagree about whether it is a real ghost story. See what you think�

t was summer, a hot day. With my sister I was passing the gate of a great house on our way home. I cannot tell now whether she knocked on the gate out of mischief or out of absence of mind, or merely

threatened it with her hand and did not knock at all. A hundred paces farther along the road, which here turned to the left, began the village. We did not know it very well, but no sooner had we passed the first house when people appeared and made friendly or warning signs to us; they were themselves apparently terrified, bowed down with terror. They pointed towards the manor house that we had passed and reminded us of the knock on the gate. The proprietor of the manor would charge us with it, the interrogation would begin immediately. I remained quite calm and also tried to calm my sister�s fears. Probably she had not struck the door at all, and if she had it could never be proved. I tried to make this clear to the people around us; they listened to me but refrained from passing any opinion. Later they told me that not only my sister, but I too, as her brother, would be charged. I nodded and smiled. We all gazed back at the manor, as one watches a distant smoke-cloud and waits for the flames to appear. And right enough we presently saw horsemen riding in through the wide-open gate. Dust rose, concealing everything, only the tops of the tall spears glittered. And hardly had the troop vanished into the manor courtyard before they seemed to have turned their horses again, for they were already on their way to us. I urged my sister to leave me, I myself would set everything right. I told her that she should at least change so as to appear in better clothes before these gentlemen. At last she obeyed and set out on the long road to our home. Already the horsemen were beside us, and even before dismounting they enquired after my sister. She wasn�t here at the moment, was the apprehensive reply, but she would come later. The answer was received with

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indifference; the important thing seemed their having found me. The chief members of the party appeared to be a young lively fellow, who was a judge, and his silent assistant, who was called Assmann. I was commanded to enter the village inn. Shaking my head and hitching up my trousers I slowly began my statement, while the sharp eyes of the party scrutinised me. I still half believed that a word would be enough to free me, a city man, and with honour too, from this peasant folk. But when I had stepped over the threshold of the inn the judge, who had hastened in front and was already awaiting me, said: �I�m really sorry for this man.� And it was beyond all possibility of doubt that by this he did not mean my present state, but something that was to happen to me. The room looked more like a prison cell than an inn parlour. Great stone flags on the floor, dark, quite bare walls, into one of which an iron rung was fixed, in the middle something that looked half a pallet, half an operating table.

Could I endure any other air than prison air now? That is the great question, or rather it would be if I still had any prospect of release.

Franz Kafka

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TThhee WWaayy tthhrroouugghh tthhee WWooooddss

Creating an eerie atmosphere�Can we get on,� said James uneasily, �with whatever we�re going to do.� �No good rushing a thing like this,� said Bert. �You�ve got to take your time. Make a good job of it.� He fiddled around with the bottle and the candles, arranging them to his liking. Then he struck a match and lit the candles. The flames staggered and twitched for a moment, then settled down into steady, oval points of light. �We�d best draw the curtains,� said Bert. �We don�t want people looking in from outside. Then pull up a chair and sit down.� With the curtains drawn, the room was half dark, the corners lost in gloom, everything concentrated on the circle of yellow lights on the table. Bert and James sat opposite one another. The candles made craggy black shadows on Bert�s face, so that it seemed different: older, less ordinary. Downstairs, a long way away, the wireless was playing and someone was running a tap. Bert took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. �Right, then.� He cleared his throat and said ponderously, �Rest, though unquiet spirit!� There was dead silence. Bert, catching Jame�s eye, looked away in embarrassment and said, �I don�t hold with thee-ing and thou-ing, as a rule, but when you�re dealing with a bloke like this � well, I daresay he�d expect it. James nodded. They sat quite still. Nothing happened. �Return from whence thou come � came,� said Bert. �Begone!� Two of the candles on James�s side of the table guttered wildly, and went out. �Ah!� said Bert. �Now he�s paying us a bit of attention.�

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The Way Through the Woods They shut the road through the woods Seventy years ago Weather and rain have undone it again, And now you would never know There was once a road through the woods Before they planted the trees It is underneath the coppice and heath And the thin anemones Only the keeper sees That, where the ring-dove broods, And the badgers roll at ease, There was once a road through the woods Yet, if you enter the woods Of a summer evening late, When the night-air cools on the trout-ringed pools Where the otter whistles his mate, (They fear not men in the woods, Because they see so few) You will hear the beat of a horse�s feet And the swish of a skirt in the dew, Steadily cantering through The misty solitudes, As though they perfectly knew The old lost road through the woods� But there is no road through the woods.

Word Bank coppice � woods anemones � woodland flowers cantering � riding at a steady pace solitudes � lonely places

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Quieter than snow

I went to school a day too soon And couldn�t understand

Why silence hung in the yard like sheets Nothing to flap or spin, no creaks

Or shocks of voices, only air.

And the carpark empty of teachers� cars Only the first September leaves

Dropping like paper. No racks of bikes No kicking legs, no fights,

No voices, laughter, anything.

Yet the door was open. My feet Sucked down the corridor. My reflection

Walked with me past the hall. My classroom smelt of nothing. And the silence

Rolled like thunder in my ears.

At every desk a still child stared at me Teachers walked through walls and back again

Cupboard doors swung open, and out crept More silent children, and still more.

They tiptoed round me

Touched me with ice-cold hands And opened up their mouths with laughter

That was

Quieter than snow.

BERLIE DOHERTY

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The Inn was in darkness. I barred the front door, shot the iron bolts and then felt my way across the hall, groping with my hand outstretched for the stair rail, for there was no window through which the moonlight could penetrate, and no lamp or torch had been left out for me. I thought that by now I knew my way to the upper floors and my own room but at the second landing must have taken a wrong turning, for up here was a warren of short, narrow passageways leading out of one another, and, finding only a blank wall immediately ahead of me, I backed a few yards, before moving cautiously on again. I edged forwards step by step putting my hand out again to keep in contact with the wall on my left. I was afraid of pressing the latch of the wrong door and entering a strange room, uncertain whether to call out, though quite sure that the morose landlord would not thank me for disturbing him. Then, at the end of the passage, I made out a dim, reddish glow, as if from the last embers of a fire, and began to move towards it, thinking that I might somehow get my bearings there, or at least recognise some familiar-looking corner. The light did not increase greatly as I drew nearer but seemed to be oddly veiled or obscured. The distance along the corridor was only a few yards, and yet to traverse it took an eternity, I was so tired and dazed. Then, abruptly, I came much closer to the source of the light, and at the same moment, missed my footing on the single step that was in my way. I reached out my arm, flailing, to save myself and just managed to do so, but I reeled nonetheless, and my hand touched not empty air, nor any solid wall or door but instead, to my horror, came up against and went straight through a screen or curtain made of beads that clung and trailed about me like skeins as I stumbled, so that I felt them not only on my hands and arms but about my head and face too. The sensation in the darkness was a horrible one, but worse was to follow. Looking up I saw that the curtain did indeed cover an open doorway and that behind a small, dark inner lobby, at the entrance to which I was now standing, lay a room. I could make out little and my impression of it was swift and muddled, in my own confusion and the shock of almost falling. I

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saw a round table and, beside it though set back a little, a chair, in which sat an old woman. The glow came from a single dim lamp which stood on the table, its lights veiled by some king of reddish-coloured cloth. The woman wore a scarf, tied gypsy-fashion about her forehead, and she seemed to be dressed in shawls of some dark flowing stuff. All of this I no more than glimpsed before she looked up and directly at me, though how much she could see of me in the dimness I do not know. But I saw her. I saw the black pits of her eyes with a pin-prick gleam to their centre, and a swarthiness and greasiness about her skin; I saw her hands laid on top of one another, old, scrawny, claw-like hands they seemed to me; and the flash of a spark from some jewelled or enamelled ring. It has taken minutes to describe, and I break out in a sweat as I re-live the scene, and yet to see the picture of her there beyond the bead curtain in that dark, redly glowing room, took only seconds, but in those seconds it impressed itself upon my inner eye and my imagination and memory forever, and awoke some deep, fearful response within me. I do not know whether I cried out, I only knew that I recoiled almost at the very instant of first feeling the curtain and seeing the old woman, and backed away, stumbling again, wrenching my hands from the wretched, clinging strands � I can still hear the soft slack noise of its falling off me and back upon itself as I fled. But in my haste I fell again, this time against a piece of furniture set back to the wall, and jarred myself badly and, through the noise and my own cursings, heard a peremptory voice and saw a light, as a door at the end of the passage was opened. The landlord showed me the way back to my room, from which I had been only a few paces, with an ill grace, and I could not have blamed him for that, but in fact I was very little aware of his sullen complaints and remonstrations, I was so caught up within my own disorientation and fear. I did not come to or calm myself until I had been alone for some time, sitting in the silence on my bed. I had been badly frightened, not by dark nor by losing my way of course, those were trivial matters, but by what I had seen, the old crone draped in her gypsy-like scarves and shawls, sitting at a table in a dark room before a veiled lamp. Yet rack my brains as I might I could think of nothing in the reality of that to terrify a grown man who had travelled alone to some of the remotest parts of the world and seen almost daily sights a thousand times more horrifying and strange. My heart had pounded and was still beating too fast, my mouth

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was dry, my brain seemed to burn and crackle with the over-alertness of a state of nervous dread. Yet why? I had to conclude that I was not frightened by what I had actually seen so much as by some memory it had stirred, or something that had terrified me long ago. I could recall nothing, though I beat at my brains for most of that night, for I did not sleep again until dawn. I only knew that, whenever I saw the old woman with my inner eye, I started back, wanting desperately to get away, avoid the sight of her face and figure, her look, and, above all, to avoid entering the darkened room that lay beyond the beaded curtain.

GLOSSARY traverse – move across peremptory – commanding, bossy flailing – thrashing about crone – old person (trying to regain balance) skeins – loosely coiled threads

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Harry�s legs were like lead again, but only because he was so tired and full of food. He was too sleepy even to be surprised that the people in the portraits along the corridors whispered and pointed as they passed, or that twice Percy led them through doorways hidden behind sliding panels and hanging tapestries. They climbed more staircases, yawning and dragging their feet, and Harry was just wondering how much further they had to go when they came to a sudden halt. A bundle of walking sticks was floating in mid-air ahead of them and as Percy took a step towards them they started throwing themselves at him. �Peeves,� Percy whispered to the first-years. �A poltergeist.� He raised his voice, �Peeves � show yourself.� A loud, rude sound, like the air being let out of a balloon, answered. �Do you want me to go to the Bloody Baron?� There was a pop and a little man with wicked dark eyes and a wide mouth appeared, floating cross-legged in the air, clutching the walking sticks. �Ooooooooh!� he said, with an evil cackle. �Ickle firsties!� What fun!� He swooped suddenly at them. They all ducked. �Go away, Peeves, or the Baron�ll hear about this, I mean it!� barked Percy. Peeves stuck out his tongue and vanished, dropping the walking sticks on Neville�s head. They heard him zooming away, rattling coats of armour as he passed.

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Problem Pages – Informal Advice Letter 1: Dear Wizzo the Warlock, I am writing to you because I am having some dreadful problems with my dragon, Percy. I have had my new model of dragon for six months now and he is driving me to distraction. He keeps breathing fire inside my hovel and setting the furniture alight. It is costing me a fortune. However, whenever it comes to fighting brave knights or kidnapping damsels in distress he goes all shy and hides. What can I do? I am at the end of my tether. From a Concerned Troll.

Letter 2: Dear Wizzo the Warlock, I am writing to you because I am very worried about some strange changes that I have recently been experiencing. Over the last few months, at around the same time as the full moon, I have been feeling unlike my usual self. I have the weirdest desire to howl and I have to shave three to four times a day, including the palms of my hands. On top of this my eyes seem to glow red at night and I have an uncontrollable urge to eat raw steaks. What�s wrong with me? Please help! Yours in torment, William Ear-Wolf

Reply 1: Dear Concerned Troll, Stop moaning! Act like a real troll and tell your miserable dragon to sort himself out or he�ll be homeless. As soon as he realises you don�t have time for his attention seeking antics he�ll toe the line. From Wizzo the Warlock

Reply 2: Dear Concerned Troll,

I�m glad you have written to me for advice. You do sound desperate and I can appreciate the difficulties of your situation as a troll must earn a living.

In the modern world that we live in it is important to make time for everyone, including dragons. Percy may well be feeling shut out and under appreciated. Try to spend some quality time with him � let him know you care but be firm with regards to poor behaviour. Reward him with dragon snacks if he fights a particularly brave knight and give him some encouragement.

With time and a little perserverance I am sure Percy will become a dragon of which to be proud. Remember that a dragon is for life, not just for Christmas.

Good luck, Wizzo.

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Magical rites and tools

ictional Magicians often seem able to work powerful magic with no more than a word, the flick of a pointed finger, the wave of a wand. But in existing magical traditions

there is usually more to it than that. Much of the work of witches and wizards is ritual magic, where power is �gathered� and �directed� through a rite or ceremony � short and simple for small magics, long and complex for more ambitious purposes. Most rituals involve a combination of elements, including the recitation of special words or sounds, chants and choreographed movements. They also require the wielding of many different implements and instruments (each practitioner adopts his or her own), which are sometimes strange but often quite ordinary.

F

HAUNTED LONDON With the approach of Hallowe'en, ELKAN ALLAN goes ghosthunting around the capital.

BONE HUNTING A witch seeking human remains in a graveyard (from an old engraving).

Human bones, skulls especially, were highly

valued by magic-makers: their eerie connection with death made them potent ritual objects, worth committing the

crime of grave robbery to collect.

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VAMPIRES

ithout wishing to pour cold water (or garlic juice!) on the idea of the vampire, there are a number of simple reasons which explain the legend. Dennis Wheatley,

author of such thrillers as The Devil Rides Out, has a convincing theory that in times of extreme poverty beggars would make their homes in graveyards, emerging from tombs in the cover of darkness to scavenge for food. If they were seen in the moonlight, stealing out of coffins, it is not very surprising that rumours would be spread quickly by word of mouth from person to person, then from village to village, until the seeds of the legend would be sown over an entire district.

There is another obvious theory which explains a great deal � that vampires were really unfortunate people who had been buried alive. Premature burial has taken place on occasions right up to the present day, for the simple reason that a state of death is extremely difficult to certify. In 1885 the British Medical Journal stated, �It is true that hardly any one sign of death, short of putrefaction, can be relied on as infallible." This is just as true today � for without sophisticated clinical tests, you can only really be certain that death has occurred when the body begins to decay. In fact, you can still occasionally read of the terrible shock that befalls an unlucky mortuary attendant when he finds that one of his corpses is still alive.

A number of Victorians were terrified of being buried alive. Wilkie Collins, who wrote two of the first and most famous thrillers � The Moonstone and The Woman in White � left instructions for various tests to be made before he was buried, so that there should be no doubt that he was dead. A Russian, Count Karnicki, invented a coffin with a glass ball resting on top of the body. If the corpse moved, the ball released a spring and the lid would fly open while a flag waved above and a bell rang for assistance. This contraption sounds pretty silly, but Collins and Karnicki had a point when you consider that at least one person was buried alive every week in America at the beginning of this century!

One such victim was a young woman who lived near Indianapolis. When she collapsed, six doctors signed the death certificate after

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making the usual tests, but her young brother refused to believe them. He tried to prevent her body being removed for the funeral several days later, and in the struggle a bandage came loose around her jaw and it could be seen that her lips were moving.

�What do you want, what do you want?� cried the boy. �Water,� she whispered faintly. She revived and lived to an old

age. Another American woman, the respected matron of a large

orphanage, was declared dead and her body placed in a shroud before she was rescued and revived by friends. Needless to say, extra precautions were taken the next time she was presumed to be dead, but again her body was shrouded. Luckily, the undertaker happened to pierce her body with a pin, and noticed that a small drop of blood oozed from the puncture, to the joy of her friends who helped her recover. These women were fortunate � just imagine the numbers of people who were not rescued in time. It is a grisly thought.

Daniel Farson, The Beaver Book of Horror

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TThhee WWaallkkiinngg DDeeaadd

he eyes were the worst. It was not my imagination. They were in truth like the eyes of a dead man, not blind, but staring, unfocused, unseeing. The whole face,

for that matter, was bad enough. It was vacant, as if there was nothing behind it. It seemed not only expressionless, but incapable of expression. I had seen so much previously in Haiti that was outside ordinary normal experience that for the flash of a second I had a sickening, almost panicky lapse in which I thought, or rather felt, �Great God, maybe this stuff is really true�� This was how William Seabrook described his encounter with one of the most horrifying creatures ever to step from the realms of the supernatural. For Seabrook was face-to-face with a zombie � a walking corpse. And in that moment he was prepared to believe all he had heard about zombies since he first arrived on the island of Haiti. The zombie�s fate is even wse than that of the vampire or the werewolf. The vampire returns to his loved ones. He may be recognised and lain to rest. The werewolf may be wounded and regain human

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form. But the zombie can move, eat, hear, even speak, but he has no memory of his past or knowledge of his present condition. He may pass by his own home or gaze into the eyes of his loved ones without a glimmer of recognition.

Neither ghost nor person, the zombie is said to be trapped, possibly forever, in that �misty zone that divides life from death.� For while the vampire is the living dead, the zombie is merely the walking dead � a body without soul or mind raised from the grave and given a semblance of life through sorcery. He is the creature of the sorcerer, who uses him as a slave or hires him out � usually to work on the land.

Ed. Colin Wilson & Christopher Evans

The Book of Great Mysteries

24

TThhee FFaaccee aatt tthhee WWiinnddooww

he scream echoed through the house. Edward Cranswell snatched up his

loaded pistol and ran down the dark corridor. He knew exactly what he had to do. The madman had attacked his brother once before. He was going to cut off the lunatic�s escape. While Edward ran to the garden, his sister Amelia burst into their brother�s room. He was still screaming. He pointed towards the window. Pressed against the glass was the most hideous face she had ever seen. A thin brown hand was fumbling with the window catch. But for a second Amelia was unable to move. The man�s eyes seemed to hold her spellbound. They bored into her, daring her to go closer. As Amelia raised her pistol to fire, the man snarled. Then, he turned and fled. Michael was too frightened even to speak. He collapsed on Amelia�s shoulder and started to sob. He remembered the dreadful night when the man first broke into his room. He saw again the face with the scar, the twisted mouth and the long grey hair.

T

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Before Setting Out: In order to carry out a successful attack you must collect together the following equipment: ♦ a large stake of wood ♦ a bottle of holy water ♦ a powerful torch

♦ a map of the area ♦ a large sack ♦ a first aid kit

The Attack: 1. Get up at dawn in order to make an early start. Remember that

vampires sleep during daylight hours and are fatally sensitive to the sun�s rays so this will allow you to have the advantage.

2. Before entering the vampires� lair place the crucifix around your neck. 3. Then take two large cloves of garlic each and chew on them. Continue

to replenish your supply throughout the attack to ward off vampires. 4. Enter the lair with the utmost caution, liberally sprinkling holy water

before you and carrying the large wooden stake ready to attack at any moment.

5. Look out for signs of vampire habitation such as dead bodies, bats� droppings and coffins.

6. When you find the coffin(s), which are the usual sleeping quarters of

the vampires(s), switch on your torch and raise the stake above your head ready to thrust in downward motion.

7. Drive the stake through the vampire�s heart. Stand well back as the vampire expires.

8. Put the remains of the vampire into the sack and leave. 9. Contact the relevant authorities and dispose of the remains in a safe

place. Good luck!

How to Kill a Vampire

For further advice or assistance please phone The Vampire Vanquishers� 24 hours Helpline onf (01625) 666 666

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Contents Page

A-Z of Ghosts and Hauntings 1

Abigail and Jack 2

The Night Flyer of Talyllyn 5

Rosalie 7

The Knock at the Manor Gate 9

Creating an Eerie Atmosphere 11

The Way through the Woods 12

Quieter than Snow 13

The Mist in the Mirror 14

Harry Potter Extract 17

Problem Pages 18

Haunted London 19

Vampires 20

The Walking Dead 22

The Face at the Window 24

How to Kill a Vampire 25

27

Spooks, Spirits and a

Touch of Magic