Mexborough and Swinton Times January 25, 1929

Spook Stuff.
First Meeting Of The Wombwell Main Ghost Club.
Was It An Owl ?
Notes By The Secretary.
Headquarters: Wombwell Main

Ghostitis is not a notifiable disease; otherwise the medical officer would have to report another epidemic. Ghostitis is not even              included in the medical glossary; yet in point of fact it is much more virulent than the “flu.” Wombwell Main is prostrate with it. Not content with having scared the wits out of a dozen honest colliers from Stairfoot, the “Screaming ghost of Wombwell Main” is shedding its tuneful influence over the whole population.

A nameless dread has taken possession of the community. Weird and wonderful stories of ghostly happenings are being related. Some have actually occurred, others have been brazenly invented. The latter are highly recommended.

Would’st hear of ghostly manifestations that have disturbed the peace of mind of the simple folk of Wombwell Main throughout the centuries? Then visit the best room of the local hostelry. There resides the, newly formed “Wombwell Main Ghost Club. ‘

The following is a summary of the evidence taken at the first meeting

With apologies to Sir Oliver Lodge, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Maskelyne, Ambrose Bierce. and all the other gentry who deal in spook stuff, listen to the following.

The story, I may say, is so well attested that not even the wise and learned would gainsay it.

It concerneth a Staffordshire man. By what rule the simple folk of Wombwell Main consider themselves justified in picking on Staffordshire men passes the comprehension. But, be that as it may, the subject is a Staffordshire man. He had taken up residence at Wombwell Main, and, the time being ripe for another ghost,                ghost was duly reported. A certain house in the district was said to be haunted. For several nights a ghostly hand had appeared at the window, and the family, fearing that some dreadful happening was thus foreshadowed, had betaken themselves to the house of a neighbour.

Even in those days there were sceptics, and prominent among those who pooh-poohed the idea of a ghost was the practical-minded Staffordshire man. “Ghosts,” he said, “it’s all bunkum, there ain’t nothing in ’em.” To show that he was not without the courage of his convictions, the Staffordshire man offered for £5 to spend a night alone in the house, on the understanding that in order to keep out the cold he should be allowed to take with him a bottle of whisky. He also stipulated            that he should have a revolver.

The articles were duly signed, as it were, and the show fixed up to the mutual satisfaction of the Staffordshire moreover,and his simple-minded neighbours. Moreover to make doubly sure that there would be no “crying off” the door of the house was locked on the outside. An hour went by, and so far from any and appearing they had not been the slightest sign of any ghostly manifestation.

Meanwhile the dull ticking of the grandfather clock had lulled the Staffordshire man into a state of semi consciousness, and, the bottle being empty, he thought there would be no harm in making himself thoroughly comfortable for the night. Accordingly, well satisfied to know that event; so far were all in his favour, he slipped off his boots, stretched himself out on the sofa, and went to sleep.

But his normal senses were not long in suspension. Something brought him round with a start, and he thought the lamp had gone out. He realised the eerie circumstances in which he was placed. Simuitaneously his eyes were attracted by an uncommon object faintly outlined at the opposite end of the sofa. His attention was now fully aroused; his gaze imperative! There, sure enough, was the hand! Not an ordinary hand, either, but a ghostly hand! “Take it away,” demanded the Staffordshire man. ‘ The host did not comply. “Take it away !” he repeated. Still the hand was there. “For the third time-take it away!” he insisted with an air of finality. The order was ignored.

For the Staffordshire man to grip and level his revolver was the work of a moment. “All right, ” he said, “take that!”

A blinding flash and the crash of glass as a picture fell from the wall opposite were plain indication  that something had happened, but not even the neighbours outside were prepared for the “terrifying scream” that followed. Their first impulse was to smash open the door.

Believe me or believe me not, they rushed inside the house to find the Staffordshire man dancing frantically on one leg about the room. He had shot his toes off!

• • •

Listen to this story, the truth of which was positively vouched for by several members of the “Wombwell Main Ghost Club.” If you have heard it, stop me. Once upon a time (it does not do to be too precise as regards date or even too particular as regards facts; otherwise living people might be offended). Once upon a time, then, a ghost was reported in a village not five miles from Wombwell. The manifestations had caused considerable alarm, and such a state of nervous apprehension had the villagers worked themselves into that only the brave dared venture out alone after dark.

At the village inn the ghost was the solo topic of conversation, its comings and goings being discussed with a sublime disregard of the utterly fantastic. Such elementary considerations as the impossibility of a ghost being present in two places at once were never thought of. It would apparently be an infringement of the ghostly code to suggest that spooks are restricted by any such stupidly practical limitations. Anyway, this ghost had a permit to appear when, in whatsoever manner, as frequently and in as many places at once as he chose. As it happened, his activities had for some time been more or less confined to a graveyard.

Within the cheerful glow of the taproom fire the ghost was being discussed one dark foggy night, when, in the corner, there sat ; a bluff old farmer. Of the ghostly happenings he had nothing to say, but a smile lurked the corners of his mouth. His expression told plainly that his mind was working. At the conclusion of a particularly far-fetched narration of the exploits of this ghost extraordinary the farmer laughed heartily. His ideas of ghosts and the like coincided with those of the Staffordshire man. “Ghosts !” he said, “rubbish; there baint no such thing”—or words to that effect. One member of the company, however, had I determined that the old farmer should soon I realise there was, and with that idea planted firmly in his mind he left by the back door, procured a sheet, and made his way to the graveyard through which the farmer had to pass on his way home. The church clock had chimed eleven (obviously this was in the good old days), and the echoes had scarcely died down when the heavy tread of the approaching farmer could be heard in the distance.

At peace with the world, and not wishing to quarrel even with a ghost, the farmer chuckled to himself as his mind retraced the conversation in the public house. He had reached a point where the pathway through the grave yard was darkened by overhanging trees, when he suddenly became aware of a crouching figure, draped in white—the ghost! Intent on scratching the earth, the apparition, unconscious apparently of the presence of the farmer, wailed pitifully, “I can’t get in; I can’t get in ! ‘

The farmer stood by sympathetically. He felt half inclined to assist. Then, suddenly his practical eye noted some incongruity between the ghostly mantle and brown leggings. “Can’t get in,” he repeated. “Well, he added, “I reckon as how you’ve no right to be out,” at the same time delivering his a stout ashplant on that part of the ghostly form best shaped for the purpose. If the ghost got back to his grave at all it was by by a roundabout road.

Article continues with more ‘ghost’stories