John lived just one mile away from Himley Road, close enough to the grand estate of Himley Hall park and Gardens with it’s towering oaks that could cast long reaching shadows of ghostly stories that had happened over the years that John had been alive, but knew nothing of.
He’d walked the grounds hundreds of times when he was a young lad, immune to the tavern tales traded in the local Dudley pubs about the ghosts and haunting shrieks that roamed the grounds. The estate itself has a much longer history, with the site mentioned in the Domesday Book and owned by the Lords and Earls of Dudley for over four centuries.
John didn’t realise that its history went back that far until a damp fog-heavy October evening when circumstances changed everything for John. The sinister secrets of what the sacred grounds held was an eye opener for him. To John, Himley Hall was just a handsome piece of 18th-century brickwork where locals walked their dogs and fished for carp in the large lake that spread itself across the lower grounds.
Until a damp, fog-heavy October evening changed everything.
It was well past midnight when John drove back home along the winding stretch of Himley Road. Heavy fog clung to the tarmac reducing his visibility to barely a few car lengths, if there were any other cars about? Which there wasn’t. As his headlights cut through the gloom as he passed the main gates to the park a figure suddenly darted out from the dark verge right in front of his bumper. In-fact the car seemed to pass right through her body but there was no collision or sound of any impact at all, but John still slammed on his brakes, tyres skidding on the wet tarmac. The figure—a young woman wearing a high-collared Victorian dress—didn’t flinch. She sprinted gracefully across the road as if she was on roller skates where the old estate gatehouse used to stand. She passed directly, and clean through the stone wall on the opposite side as if it were made of soft smoke.
Heart hammering against his ribs, John stopped the engine and stepped out of his car into the chilling air. The road was dead silent, albeit for the faint, unnatural sound of iron-shod boots heavy on the gravel inside the locked grounds.
Driven by a mixture of shock and sheer curiosity, John climbed the perimeter boundary. The fog was thicker near the Great Pool, wrapping around the ancient willow trees like a shroud.
As he reached the water’s edge, a low, menacing growl vibrated through the ground beneath his feet.
John instantly froze.
From the tree-line emerged two massive phantom hounds, their eyes glowing with an eerie amber radiance. They didn’t bark; they simply circled a tall silent figure standing by the water.
John shrank into the bushes as he recognised the high weathered leather riding boots and dark wool cloak of a 17th-century Cavalier. The figure turned its head and looked directly at John which sent shivers traveling right down his spine, revealing a hollow pale face with piercing red eyes that slowly turned and fixed on the lake’s dark waters—the silent spirit of the Royalist deserter executed on these grounds during King Charles the first’s march to Battle of Naseby on June 14th in 1645.
Legend says the Cavalier’s ghost of Spring Heeled Jack still roams the lakeside trees where he was strung up for fleeing the Royalist army, hours before the King departed.
Before John could back away, a sharp metallic screech echoed from high above in the canopy.
The branches violently parted above the Cavalier’s phantom. Leaping down from a branch thirty feet up came a tall skeletal silhouette, with fiery red eyes and dark, pointed horns.
The creature landed without a sound on cloven hooves before rearing back with an impossible, unnatural agility of being Spring-Heeled Jack’s horse.
The glowing hounds let out a chorus of bone-chilling howls that shook the very mist, while the dark leaping terror bounded straight over the lake in a single impossible stride melting into the grand facade of Himley Hall itself.
John didn’t wait to see what happened next. He turned and sprinted back toward the estate boundary, the sound of phantom boots and hollow laughter trailing close behind him all the way back to his waiting car. John was that frightened he can’t even remember climbing back over the wrought iron gates to his car.
Now, whenever the autumn fog rolls over Himley Road, John keeps his curtains tightly drawn (although he lives a mile away) knowing full well that when night falls, the centuries-old secrets of the hall belong to the spirits that never left Himley Hall Grounds.
Comments
Nothing yet. Say the first thing.
Sign in to join the conversation.