One of the creepiest spots in my hometown of Buxton, Derbyshire is also one of the most mysterious. Overlooking the northern edge of the town is a damaged Bronze Age burial mound called Fairfield Low. You could be forgiven for missing it; despite occupying one of the highest points in Buxton, it is encircled by a thick crown of trees on private farm land. Some locals are aware of its existence but know it as Skeleton Wood or Skellybob Wood (whatever a skellybob is!)
Local antiquarian Micah Salt excavated Fairfield Low in 1895 on the night before Halloween. He discovered human remains, noting that the sight had been previously disturbed, probably by lime burners. The skull now sits on the desk in the town museum’s Boyd Dawkins study. It belonged to a man who died in middle age. It seems likely that Micah Salt’s morbid discovery is the culprit for the location’s eerie nickname.
Intrigued, I set off to investigate the sinister place for myself. The summer of 2015 has been generally cold and wet in these parts, hardly like a summer at all. As you can see by my companion’s photographs, it was my good fortune to enjoy an uncommonly warm and sunny day.
Most of modern-day Fairfield is a vast labyrinth-like housing estate and it is easy to get lost unless you know your way around. Quizzing several residents as to the whereabouts of Fairfield Low did not help. As I’ve already mentioned, they call it Skellybob Wood. I focused my attention on the trees on the highest hill, rising above the multitude of rooftops. Finding it was not impossible. Getting to it was a different matter!
Stumbling onto the right path was sheer luck. There are no sign posts and the first part winds its way round the back of a large industrial estate and through a maze of allotments. Here we encountered an elderly lady who had heard of Fairfield Low but by this point we were in its shadow. The lady was perturbed by the gun I was carrying. I explained that it was actually an umbrella.
There is no public access to Skeleton Wood and by climbing a couple of walls, we were technically trespassing (apologies to the owner). The cows that know the wood as home did not seem particularly impressed that we were there. One bovine occupant in particular had the most intimidating stare I’ve ever seen on an animal; so much so that we felt compelled to circumvent it. Even when we reached the tree line, we discovered further resentment from a group of tracksuited teenagers who were loitering around in the wood.
Despite the opposition, I was pleased to find myself in the footsteps of Micah Salt, on top of what was clearly a burial mound. The ancient tomb is so well hidden by the trees, it is impossible to see it until the final ten metres of the climb. There is a deep gouge into the hillock. Whether this is the product of Salt’s excavation, the work of lime burners or a more supernatural disturbance is unclear. Skeleton Wood certainly has a very tangible and peculiar atmosphere. The warmth of the sun is replaced by a chilly breeze that gently rustles the leaves. The trees are old and twisted and command a solemn reverence, like graves in a churchyard.
We felt no need to linger but before departing, I noted the unfamiliar view out towards Dove Holes. Dotted around the landscape are several other mounds that looked suspiciously man-made. The Neolithic henge called The Bull Ring is in that direction too. It strikes me that there was a lot of activity in this area thousands of years ago. The hills and dales evidently resonated with significance for our ancient ancestors. Standing here, I can’t help but wonder who they were and what they would think now, looking upon the sprawl of Fairfield estate. In Skeleton Wood, their ghosts linger, whispering forgotten secrets amongst the trees.
Until recently, I knew nothing about the phenomenon commonly known as a Brocken Spectre. My good friend Bryn Layton had the good fortune (and skill) to photograph one and I was immediately fascinated. The “spectre” is created under particular atmospheric conditions. The ghostly outline of a person is reflected onto low cloud or fog when they are stood infront of the sun on a high ridge or mountain. In this case, at 8am on Mam Tor in the Peak District in the UK.
Once explained, the circumstances seem a little mundane but the effect is nonetheless spectacular. The halo around Bryn’s reflection is reminiscent of a religious icon and makes you ponder the origin of such imagery. Would our ancient ancestors have perceived their own reflection or would they have seen something uncanny; a being from another world or even a god?
It’s not every day you get to meet a real-life ghost hunter, especially one with a career as distinguished as Wesley H. Downes. In fact, given that Wesley’s investigations span seventy years and include cases as infamous as Borley Rectory and the Enfield Poltergeist, you are more likely to encounter an actual ghost.
Behind an unassuming suburb of Macclesfield, Cheshire, England, lies Wesley’s HQ. Despite being 91 years old, the author keeps himself busy collecting and collating strange reports from all four corners of the land. Before I visited him on a rainy July afternoon, Wesley had discovered no fewer than twenty stories from Staffordshire. Apprehensive about meeting a man with so much knowledge and experience of the murky world of the supernatural, I was surprised to discover a kindly gentleman with a beaming smile, robust chuckle and a glint in his eye that suggests few regrets. With uncanny prediction, Wesley immediately caught me off guard by passing me a piece he had written on The Phantom Werewolf of Derbyshire; a story from my own turf, the facts of which have eluded me for a while.
How It All Started
Like many people, Wesley’s fascination with the paranormal began with a personal experience he found difficult to explain. After the second world war In 1946, when he was just 22 years old, Wesley had been demobbed from serving in the Royal Air Force. Returning home to the Essex village of Ardleigh to live with his parents who ran a general store, Wesley would unwittingly discover his first phantom:
At breakfast one morning, my mother said that she needed some items for the shop from the wholesaler’s. I immediately offered to go and get them and getting my bicycle out of the shed, I set off. When I arrived at the warehouse they were preparing to close at mid-day for the weekend but nevertheless they got my order together and put it into four paper carrier bags. There were no such things as plastic bags in those days. I hung the bags on each side of the handlebars and steadily headed for home.
I had gone about two miles along the A604 Harwich Road as far as Parsons Heath and was just approaching the bridge over the railway when I suddenly spotted a figure briskly walking on the opposite side of the road in my direction. As the figure got closer, I recognised it as being one of my old school chums who I thought had been killed in the war. I called out to him but he took no notice and continued on his way. I turned around in the road and came up behind him and again called out his name; again no response. So I pulled up beside him and went to slap him on the shoulder with my left hand – to my surprise it went straight through him and he disappeared before my very eyes. I was so shocked that I fell off my bike, splitting some of the carrier bags and scattering the goods over the road.
Some minutes later, recovering from the shock, I picked up the spilled groceries and put them into the bags as best as I could and slowly made my way home. With some difficulty, I explained to my mother what had happened and she was of the opinion that my school friend had been killed early in the war and suggested that I should have my dinner and then go into the village and have a word with his mother.
Arriving at her house, I went to the front door and knocked, after a couple of minutes the door opened and she stood there staring at me. Suddenly she said “Wesley, after all these years, come in, what brings you here?” Slowly I told her and she burst into tears and told me that her son had been killed in 1944 during the D Day landings in France and that day; June 6th was the anniversary of his death. I could plainly see how upset she was, so I made an excuse to leave rather than upset her any further and rode off home.
I thought that was the end of the story but a couple of weeks later I was in the back garden when my mother called out to me that there were two men in the shop who would like a word with me. They introduced themselves as reporters from the local newspaper and said that they had heard of my experience and related what they knew. Their story was basically correct and asked if I could take them to the spot where it all happened.
The following weekend a full report was published in the local newspaper giving Wesley full credit and not long after that, he was invited to talk at the Ghost Club where his story was given a standing ovation. His life had changed forever. Wesley has remained a lifelong member of the world-wide organisation, embarking on countless investigations and recounting them like the seasoned storyteller that he is, unhurried and eloquent.
What It Takes to be a Ghost Hunter
From Borley Rectory on the border of Essex and Suffolk to Chingle Hall in Lancashire, Wesley investigates famous haunted houses by spending a night there. Where most of us would hurry across the shadow of a spooky mansion, Wesley is inside, hitting the hay. I asked him if he was ever frightened and he just laughed. I mentioned the BBC’s recent dramatisation of the case of the Enfield Poltergeist, where an innocent family were terrorised by a malevolent spirit in a North London Council House. I was astonished when Wesley told me that he had spent the night there. Only a week before his visit, one of the children been thrown out of bed by the entity, propelling the story into the Daily Mail. Wesley hastened to add that he didn’t actually experience anything but admitted that the house had a very bad feeling about it.
One of Wesley’s most disturbing encounters was when he stayed in the infamous room 11 at Old Hall Hotel in Sandbach, Cheshire. Known as the honeymoon suite, guests have reported furniture being moved in the middle of the night and the apparition of an elderly woman sitting in a chair in the corner of the room. Wesley’s stopover makes the tale no less unsettling. At 2am, whilst reading a book, Wesley noticed the rocking chair in the room had started to rock slightly. There was the pungent aroma of cigar smoke in which Wesley, being a non-smoker noticed straight away. The next morning whilst taking a bath, he endured the feeling of being pushed down, learning afterwards that a woman had been drowned in there. Personally, I think the rocking chair would have been enough for me. Television programme Most Haunted went on to do an episode at Old Hall and used Wesley as an advisor. “Derek Acorah! Brilliant medium but one hell of a showman!” he chuckles.
The Nature of Things that go Bump in the Night
After swapping a few more tales, I asked the seasoned ghost hunter the inevitable question; what is a ghost? Despite his wealth of experience, Wesley has no catch-all answer. There are many theories but not one that explains all the thousands of incidents reported around the world. If ghosts are lingering spirits of the deceased, why are there phantom cars, trains and aeroplanes?
My favourite hypothesis has always been the “stone tape” theory; that ghosts are recordings, incidents somehow trapped in time and replayed when conditions are right. Of course, Wesley is familiar with this explanation but asked me “then how come some ghosts interact with you?” A good point.
There is also a school of thought that suggests certain locations can make people hallucinate, perhaps due to a powerful magnetic field or some other environmental state that science is yet to clarify. It seems odd to me that most reports of ghosts also include descriptions of feeling cold or the temperature dropping. Wesley conceded that certain individuals seem to be more receptive to sightings than others and cited an occasion at Borley Rectory when one of his companions could see a monk crossing the road but another could not. Could it be that a ghost is not a mystery of the afterlife but one of the human mind?
Ghost stories date back hundreds of years and it may be hundreds more before we have a better understanding of what is actually happening. Wesley seems content with just being able to tell a good yarn.
The Downes Archive
Wesley is not a lone crusader against the creatures of the night, his son Barry also takes a keen interest. In a curious turn of fate, Barry also experienced an event that he could not explain during his formative years. Initially content to leave the ghost-hunting to his dad to concentrate on a serious career in law, Barry found himself bewildered after a private sitting with famous medium Nora Blackwood. During what Barry describes as a “stream of information” the medium told him details about himself and predicted his future with unnerving accuracy. After that, Barry became less sure of the world around him and, like Wesley, has adopted an open mind.
Barry contributed his own theory to the discussion of the nature of things that go bump in the night; that of alternative universes or dimensions. He finds it curious how some entities seem to be attached to a certain place, perhaps a location where the walls between worlds have become thin. Although it sounds like a crackpot theory, the existence of parallel universes is something that is being taken seriously in modern physics. The purpose of the Large Hadron Collider experiment in Switzerland is to learn more about the physical laws of space. Consider that most ghosts are reported as having a vague shape or as being intangible. Could it be that a ghost is not a vision of the past but one of the future or an event taking place in a world adjacent to our own?
Barry is heir to Wesley’s archive of reports from across the country. From haunted police stations to headless horsemen, the impressive collection of miscellany is filed neatly by county. Whilst most of us are concerned with the commonplace and the everyday, Wesley and Barry tread paths others fear to tread. To me, the Downes archive is testimony to their efforts and reflects the rich and eccentric folklore of Great Britain.
When I go on holiday, I like to go and look at some weird stuff. Luckily, the capital city of Italy offers ample opportunity. My first port of call was the Capuchin Museum and Crypt. In a quieter part of the city with a small admission fee, the museum explains the history of the Capuchin monks and their charitable work around the world. Cappuccino coffee is named after the colour of their robes (so now you know). The exhibits include everything from a flagellant’s whip to a Caravaggio painting. Descending downstairs to the crypt, in the footsteps of the Marquis de Sade no less, the place gets decidedly more peculiar; in the depths are several small chapels decorated with the bones of over 4,000 monks. Even the lightshades are made of monk. Looking a little bit like a set from a 1970s Hammer Horror film, the bone-coated chapels are alarming, baffling and surprisingly warm. However, the shrines are meant to reinforce the transient nature of physical existence, rather than scare the beejesus out of anyone, and they are endorsed by the Catholic church (if that counts for anything).
Regrettably, the museum does not allow its visitors to take photographs of the interior. The no-photo regulation is to preserve the exhibits, I imagine, but it was actually quite refreshing to visit a tourist attraction that didn’t have crowds of people assaulting it with cameras. If you’re curious, there are plenty of photos and videos already on the web.
Venturing back on to Rome’s more well-beaten tourist track, my companion and I took a tour of the Colosseum by night. Alhough expensive, we found it worth every euro: Our Italian guide, Gabriel, was passionate about the history of Rome and led us through several other ancient sites on the way, including the Forum, which is almost as impressive as the mighty amphitheatre itself. Just as the sun began to sink, our small party entered the destination with a quiet and reverential excitement. We wandered out in to the vast arena, gaping around with a collective wow! Apparently, exploring the Colosseum after all the daytime crowds have gone is worth the fee alone, but Gabriel was allowed to take us below the arena, where the animals, slaves, gladiators, et al would have awaited their doom, hundreds of years ago. He asked us to imagine the horror and the suffering; the blood and the sweat and the excrement. My fellow tourists were noticeably appalled. I loved it.
If you want weird Rome, it’s hard to beat the insanity that is the Vatican. A separate state in itself, the scale of the Pope’s gaff has to be seen to be believed. It’s hard to take it all in as you’re herded through the various chambers and chapels like cattle, gawking at each vast Michelangelo and Raphael fresco before being pushed on to the next (up close, the painting is a bit ropey in places, maybe that’s why you’re not allowed to look at it for long). In the Sistine chapel, talking is not allowed and I was amused to watch the little Italian guards reprimanding those who found shutting up for a few minutes too much of a challenge. To me, it seemed like a heck of a lot of fuss over some bloke named Jesus but perhaps I’m being flippant.
I urge you to go see these sights for yourself if you don’t mind taking your life in to your hands every time you cross the road.
I have some very special blogs in the pipeline so watch this space!
So what were the problems with getting this cinematic masterpiece from a piece of paper on to a screen?
My ambition to make films has always exceeded my ability and there are several scripts gathering dust on my shelf that will probably never get made in to films, which is a good or bad thing, your point-of-view pending.
Perhaps the saddest of my failures is Massive Seagull. Conceived by my friend Matt Ryan, the story concerns an oversized avian killer. One of the funniest people I know, Matt comes up with stuff that still makes me laugh ages after he has said it. I couldn’t shake off the concept of Massive Seagull and we resolved to turn it in to a film production. We assembled a writing team that included ourselves and a few other pals; Rik Kirk, Emlyn Vaughn and Anthony Rothwell (see my last blog on the latter).
I have never been in a writing team before or since. I’m not sure why because it worked really well. The five of us got together for a few drinks and played around with the story. We concluded that Massive Seagull takes place on the set of an adult film called Lost Valley of the Cave Sluts. An aging porn star named Karl Gunt who can no longer rise to the challenge is replaced by a more capable younger actor named Stud Caruthers. In a jealous rage, Karl uses his occult knowledge to summon a demonic creature but instead of saying “eagle” he mumbles and says “seagull” instead. The gigantic murderous bird goes on a killing spree, polishing off the crew and cast, one by one.
Other characters have names such as Lolly La Mone, Chastity Vowbroken, Rudy Majors, Johan Knight, Ral King, Dick Challenger and Lady Fanny Hare. They have quality dialogue:
Johan: It seems Massive Seagull isn’t playing games anymore.
Ral: The Seagull? You think he did this?
Stud: Seagulls live at the seaside don’t they?
Johan: This is no natural creature! It is a monster from hell!
Ral: A monster from hell?
Johan: A creature that has been summoned in to our world to harm us.
Ral: But who would do such a diabolical thing?
(Suddenly, Karl Gunt emerges from the jungle and looks at them. They all turn and glare back).
So what were the problems with getting this cinematic masterpiece from scribbles on a beer mat and onto a screen?
1) Actually making a giant seagull is hard although you can see by the photographs accompanying this blog that we did try. A pair of massive seagull legs were a feature of my kitchen for about two years which at least made for an interesting conversation piece at parties.
2) We couldn’t persuade girls to be in it. There are several female characters in the film and even though it isn’t actually a porno, the fact that it takes place on the set of a porno film was enough to put them off. An important lesson in boys think differently to girls.
3) We needed money. Even the simplest of productions need investment and I was having trouble finding sponsors for a film that features a giant seagull tearing off a man’s penis. If you’re out there, please make yourself known!
One of the appeals of being a horror writer is creating new monsters. Evil goblins from another dimension, bird-masked serial killers, mind-control Cyclopes, flying blood-sucking snails; creating nightmares is all in a day’s work. All very well but who will oppose this pantheon of terrors? Who will save us from getting chopped up into little pieces and blended in to some freak’s smoothie? In my case, the answer is usually Ray Weaver.
A hero created for my first attempt at film-making The Horror of the Legend of the Night of the Beast, Ray Weaver is a foul-mouthed, chain-smoking, womanising, alcoholic journalist and proud of it. He bumbles from one scene to the next, bemused rookie photographer in tow, on the trail of a mysterious and murderous creature. The story concentrates on the end of Ray’s career and although it was just a bit of fun, I became fascinated with this likeable rogue and set out to explore his origins in my book Hidden Places on Earth. I wanted to know how, when and why he became the world’s leading paranormal investigator, reaching for the booze, drugs and ciggies to cushion the blows.
As an original concept on paper, Ray wasn’t much. It was my good friend Anthony Rothwell who breathed some life into the character with his eccentric performance in The Beast (to use it’s much appreciated abbreviated title). Filming Tony doing anything is strangely interesting and comical, even if he’s just doing something mundane like walking down a street. He is equally affectionate towards the character and has kindly provided us with his own insight:
Characteristics of Ray are pretty straight forward. He’s a drunk first and foremost everything else is subsidiary, consequential, coincidental or a curse of luck. Something made him want to be a journalist though and dabbling in the occult has given him the awareness that dark forces are real and are a mainstay effect on the ailments of the world. Something happened to Ray that bent him over a bottle and brought his esteem to where it was at the time of the Beast. But now I’m thinking maybe its a choice thing and maybe it’s a defence too. Who would bother worrying about the compartments of an idiot?
Even though the beginnings and end of Ray have been established, the character still remains interesting to me. After all, there are about twenty years of story in between Hidden Places on Earth and The Beast to tell. I’m working on some new Ray Weaver stories and I hope to team up with Tony again soon to put one or two on film. Talking of which, I’m looking for a creepy old house in the Peak District area to use as a location. If you have a suggestion, please get in touch. I would be most grateful.
D.W. (yes, I had to look up the plural for Cyclops, wouldn’t you?)
Although my collection of short stories Hidden Places on Earth is largely fictional, some of it is based on real-life. Some peculiar experiences of my own have inspired me and two of these happened in the same place: Grin Low Woods in Buxton, Derbyshire. It seems like a good place to commence a series of intrepid reports called Wolfson Investigates.
To provide those unfamiliar with the area some context, Grin Low Woods fringe the town of Buxton in the county of Derbyshire in the UK. Home to a spectacular limestone show cave called Poole’s Cavern and a Victorian folly known as Solomon’s Temple, it is popular with tourists and locals alike. Nowadays, it is well cared for by the Buxton Civic Association. 25 years ago, when I was a young man, it was considerably wilder and untamed. Being that awkward age of 16/17 years old when you are somewhere between a child and an adult, the woods were a sanctuary for me and my friends. We could get drunk and mess around and if the local police turned up, as they often did, we could escape into the dark realm of the trees. It was there, one night, when we saw it.
My pals and I were astonished to see a ghostly globe of light dancing among the tree tops. We watched it as it bounced around playfully for a few minutes before vanishing into the gloom. It left us scratching our heads in bemusement. Little did we know that we were witnessing a rare but notorious phenomenon. In the UK, it is commonly called a Will o’ the Wisp or a Jack o’ Lantern but different cultures have their own names for them. They are usually seen in swamps or marshland and, in some myths, are believed to have a malevolent intelligence; luring unwary travellers from the road into dangerous bogs. A more scientific theory suggests that globes of fire are formed by escaping gas. Our Will o’ the Wisp was out of place in the woods but, in hindsight, I wonder if the deep limestone caves beneath them create a similar geological process. I did not think too much of the incident until some years later when I mentioned it to a friend. He retold the tale to his dad, who lives in a house at the bottom of the woods. Apparently, he went pale. He had seen one too!
My second experience was less of a mystery, but no less disturbing. During the same period of nocturnal, teenage rambles, my peers and I were surprised to find that we were not the only group in Grin Low Woods at night. Following the main path up to Solomon’s Temple, we saw a long procession of cloaked and hooded figures, carrying flaming torches. They must have seen us too but gave no indication. They merely continued walking in eerie silence. We followed them for a while, frightened yet fascinated. The hooded assembly mounted the Low, free of the treeline to conduct a pagan ceremony on the hills. We finally lost our nerve and fled back through the trees. We noted the solitary bus parked near Poole’s Cavern at the bottom. At least the witches had arrived by conventional method!
I often walk in those woods but it is a long time since I have seen anything strange there. However, those early experiences still linger in my mind and I would still think twice before going there at night alone. If you have a similar exploit or an interesting theory on mine, I would love to hear from you. You can message Darcus Wolfson via Twitter or Facebook using the links at the top of the page.