One of my own few brushes with the paranormal came in the late 1970's, with the arrival of a television series presented by Peter Underwood, Ghost Hunter. At the time, the programme caught my imagination totally, and transported me and a couple of pals into an exciting, new world of the unexplained, where, just a hair-breadth from the conventional and everyday existence, astonishing events take place, and the impossible happens. (The same series was repeated recently, but being slightly more objective now, I was less impressed - a sad comment on my present capacity for belief suspension, I suppose.)
A programme in the series showed Peter Underwood investigating strange happenings at Borley church, near where the old Rectory stood. Borley Rectory was at one time 'The Most Haunted House in England' to quote Daily Mirror Investigative Journalist Harry Price - and he should know, he wrote a series of best-selling books about it. Since the Rectory's destruction in a fire in 1939, however, the hauntings have conveniently relocated at the Parish Church across the road - just a couple of hundred 'easy floating ' yards away. It was here that Underwood's resolute band of spook spectators lay in wait . The recordings they made that dark and ethereal night really made my hair stand on end ! (Couldn't do that nowadays, sadly.) Disembodied sighs ! Clanking noises ! Frightening grunts ! (or was that me ?) Strange pin-points of light dancing in the air ! Wow ! ' That's it !' I said to my pals - "Lets go on a ghosthunt !" Perhaps I had impressionable friends, for in a few days we found ourselves driving the 30 or so miles to the Essex/Suffolk border, where Borley is situated, in a state of high anticipation. We had the typical ghosthunters kit of Polaroid camera, phillips cassette recorder, and - er, well , that's about it, really, apart from some cheese sandwiches, coke and the ingenuousness of youth.
It actually was misty and deserted when we finally located the village itself ,which suited our preconceptions nicely. Anyone who's approached Borley at night via Sudbury will be familiar with the Peter Cushing-esque atmosphere. A long, twisty country road, with the occasional gnarled and contorted roadside tree and straggly bushes leads to a sudden viewing of the slightly warped town sign for Borley. Even the name suggests somehow, a place from a different era, very old-fashioned storybook English and proper. Well, it does to me. Turn a sharp bend, and suddenly you're right on the church, with it's dark, strangely sculpted graveyard bushes, looking like a chess set from the Twilight Zone.
We parked the car in the driveway and disembarked. From where we stood, we could see the site of the old Rectory (now an orchard) and imagined how it must have loomed threateningly over the lonely little church. A slow, gravel-crunching walk down the pathway to the solid oak entrance door made us feel like pawns in the famed Borley chess set, and admittedly around this time our imaginations probably kicked in. Well, if you'd been there, you'd know. The door, of course, was locked tightly, ( I believe nowadays all you can do is peer longingly at that door through all-too solid railings) so we searched for an alternate means of entry..
Scientifically inserting our car's dipstick into the chancel door lock and carefully pushing back the bolt, (don't try this at home) we entered the church, and began our gloomy vigil. It was so dark that we could only dimly make out the stained glass window by the font at the far end of the church. Taking our seats on the pews close to the altar,we soaked in the atmosphere. Strangely, in retrospect, the ambiance in the building was not threatening, in fact far from it. Instead, it was agreeable, serene and almost comforting.
We did not forget, however, the reason for our being there, and took our seats in the pews to await whatever was going to happen. It wasn't long before our expectantly straining ears were rewarded with a hollow. far-off sound reminiscent of bricks falling in a tomb.Well, if you've ever heard bricks falling in a tomb before, that is.( we later found out that there is indeed a tomb under the church, approached by a secret entrance. In the churchyard, some rusty railings enclose a weather-beaten grave. Those willing to hop over the railings and lift the lid (!) will find an abandoned flight of stone steps leading down into the gloom . . . not for the timid, or torchless. Not for anyone, actually, because there must be a law against it. Vault Violation ?) Shortly after this, some of our party saw tiny red pin-points of light apparently dancing in the air by the side of where we knew the organ stood.. A hurried, whispered conversation confirmed the sighting, and we felt that perhaps something more was going to happen. Was it our imagination? Thoughts of the television documentary recordings of strange sounds flowed through our minds as, at the limits of perception, we thought we heard a sigh.emenating from the immense Waldegrave monument, followed by some chalky, scraping sounds. Mice ? Rats ? Boris Karloff ? Then deep, black, thick silence. We could hear ourselves breath, hear our own heartbeats and even feel our nerve endings jangle. We were, nonetheless, completely composed and objective, of course. Time passed, and the inky blackness around us deepened. By now, even the font was invisible in the darkness. Then, it happened.
In my own mind, at first, I was aware of a faint glow at the far end of the church. Slowly, I realised I could make out the shape of the church door. However, as the font was still invisible, surely this was not possible. I focussed my gaze directly on the distinctive solid oak entrance door, which now was becoming more visible by the second. Now I could see the font, and the large stained glass window that, until now, I had been unaware of. These objects were illuminated by a faint orange glow, no mistake about it, that was emanating from the door. Excitedly drawing my friends attention, they confirmed my sighting. We all looked on in astonishment as this previously darkened area of the church became not only visible, but by now positively bright in the door's radiance This is what we had come for, a real phenomena !
Elated, we watched for possibly three minutes, as the glow fluctuated in brightness, eventually fading to almost invisibility, before winking out like a torch being extinguished. The church was restored to its inky blackness, but it was all worthwhile -we had experienced a genuine haunting. Or had we ? (We did, by the way, put some money in the collection box on our way out, and also locked the door behind us - we did have some integrity.)
Driving home, the conversation animatedly centred around our shared paranormal experience. In the weeks that followed, we spread the word fervently, that not only did the supernatural exist, but that we had experienced it first hand. Although we were unable to explain what had happened, we knew that we had experienced something unique, and in the weeks that followed I resolved to repeat the experience.
Thus, one winters evening three weeks later, I found myself in the car once more, and heading towards the Essex/Suffolk borders. With me, in place of the earlier friends, was a sceptical work colleague, which admittedly made me anxious that something should happen. Arriving at Borley, the dipstick worked its magic once more, and I guided my colleague to the site of our previous experiences. Time passed. I began to doubt my memories of earlier events. More time passed and my concern grew. Three hours and two flasks of coffee into the vigil, I was becoming reconciled to my new fraudulent status, and imagined how Harry Price must have felt when sceptical voices rose against him. Then, could I believe my eyes? Was that a faint glow beginning to emanate again from the church door? Staring into the gloom, I was sure, now, that my eyes were not deceiving me and I turned triumphantly to me colleague who reluctantly confirmed that he too had already noticed it. We both sat in silence for a few seconds, as the glow grew in intensity and once more began to illuminate the area around it. I felt elated and vindicated.
However, this time, my associate decided that, unwilling to believe the evidence before him, that he wanted a closer look. We both moved forward, our pathways between the aisles illuminated by the ghostly glow. Reaching the door and staring closely, we both were able to make out previously unseen details in the solid oak structure of the door. The glow flickered uncertainly, and I began to see an outline that had previously not been visible from our vigil position. The outline was of the stained glass window, and the door showed an opposite reflection of details of the window. Slowly, I realised that the door, in fact, was not glowing independently, but was merely reflecting the stained glass window. Looking towards the window I could not avoid seeing straight through and into the far off beam of a distant motor car. This was the source of our 'paranormal' illumination. The car continued it's journey along the winding country lane eventually turning away and causing the glow to fade and wink out. Imagine my disappointment! I turned towards my colleague, who was now wearing my triumphant grin, and realised that he had seen the same thing.
Thus ended my investigations at Borley, for now. However, despite the disappointments, some intriguing questions remain together with the testimonies of many others, better prepared and infinitely better documented than mine, that do make convincing cases. Though the glow that lit the door so effectively was caused by a distant car, the noises had not been explained, and the tiny pin points of light that had been seen by the organ still hovered in my mind. I cannot to this day decide whether that is where they had always been.