Mysterious tales from a bygone era
Sir,

I have enjoyed immensely reading your internet pages after finding them by chance last week. Monica, my wife of 47 years, commented that 'beater.com' would be more suited to a wife-slapping pornography site, but I think that that is most unfair.

The reason that causes me to write is that I noted with interest your request for ghostly, supernatural tales. I believe that I may be in a position to help. I was born in Sheffield 82 years ago and spent most of my formative period living in Beighton, Sheffield. As a result of a decorating accident I now live in Natal province, South Africa, but it is of great comfort to me to know that Beighton is still alive and well, and not bulldozed for scrap as was recommended by the Labour council in 1953.

My grandfather related a tale to me - a tale taken from his childhood - over a warm glass of egg-nog one dark, wintry Christmas night. Initially, I believed it to be something he had invented on the spot to scare me, but shortly after hearing the story I was introduced to several of his fellow inmates who were also resident in the Beighton area during the period that this story relates to, and who each of whom solemnly confirmed the story was true.

My tale revolves around the death of one Lawrence Baines-Kennington. Lawrence was a man of middle-age who was found in the middle of Wood Lane in Beighton, as dead as the stones with which it was cobbled. No rational explanation for what happened can be given. Only otherworldly reasons can possibly fit the facts. The story runs as follows.

Lawrence Baines-Kennington was a popular bachelor of the parish - a well-liked, well-off friend to many who was fond of visiting with his friends at the 'Pike and Lantern', a public hostelry standing near the site of Our Lady of the Brothel Church, just off the High Street. In those days, it was the fashion to found churches dedicated to the more minor or obscure characters of the Bible and in this case the rather - in my opinion - misguided congregation of the Our Lady of the Brothel Church were in the habit of offering their praise up to Mary Magdelene, the notorious prostitute from the New Testament. Further down the street was a chapel dedicated to the man who held Lazarus's jacket. This is what happens when churches enter into theological contest with themselves, and such is the stuff of religious schism. But I digress.

Baines-Kennington spent the evening in question dallying with Lemuella Tubbs, the farmer's wife. She was clearly smitten with him and many thought foul play was afoot, but I am not so judgemental. "Judge not, lest ye be judged" say those ridiculous, fatuous christians, and I like to think that I am tolerant and broad-minded enough to accept their wisdom. Presently, Farmer Tubbs himself entered the tavern and upon seeing the scene therein of his wife and a local bachelor in such cosy conversation, he abandoned his idea of a quiet few pints of the local 'Beighton Rotgut' (I'm sure you are familiar with it also), and elected to grasp his wife firmly by the hair and to drag her - kicking and screaming - into the street and thence away home to the farm. The barroom returned its attention back to the pressing matter of ale and soon forgot the distasteful event that had just occurred, dwelling instead upon happier matters.

Three hours later, after carrying on to drink what must have been his own weight in Guinness, Lawrence started on his long, tiring journey home along the High Street. He was a little the worse for wear, but he knew the terrain well and could have made it home blindfold if need be needed.

What happened next is muttered in hushed tones even to this day by those who remember its telling. A witness, Norris Lampendew, saw an eerie shining rise up behind the hill near the gate of Tubbs Farm. The light at the crest of the hill grew brighter and brighter still, and then almost without warning a pair of ghostly lights rose over the top of the hill and began to bear down upon Lawrence at demonic speed. They were accompanied by a devilish sound - a sound to make the heart freeze and the blood in your veins crystallise with fright. It sounded for all the world like 'cocketty-cocketty-cocketty', with an irregular, fearful grinding noise. The sound and the lights drew nearer, and before Norris Lampendew could cry out a warning, the thing was upon Lawrence. There was a bang, and then Lawrence was thrown physically from the place he was standing, high up into the air, to land some three feet away from where he had stood moments before. The lights turned a corner, and vanished, and the noise faded like the memory of the smell of a childhood pet.

Norris ran like the wind, and when he arrived at the scene, there was clearly no hope for Lawrence Baines-Kennington. He was dead, evidently from satanic possession. Whatever the lights and noise were, they had possessed Lawrence and shattered his body. It was just too late.

No-one was ever able to explain the events of that night, so many years ago. Only one witness - Norris Lampendew - was there to relate the tale I now set before you, and he was so afeared that he nearly went mad with fright. It is said that Norris died but a few months later, never to recover from what he had seen, and in a pool of his own urine, faeces and puke.

Equally terrifying and mysterious was the damage done around the district that same night. A local reported hearing a great collision in his yard, and went out to find his gate smashed to smithereens. A woman claimed that she had left her table out on the pavement overnight to dry, and in the morning had found it crushed as if by some great force of evil. And Tubbs himself had woken up in his barn and gone out into his paddock to find the front of his delivery van damaged almost beyond repair, as if the devil himself had given his radiator grille a fucking good kicking.

None of us could explain, but we always feared the return of the phantom lights and noise. Grown men would cast a glance about before crossing a road in the dark, and children would be told not to go out at night, lest 'Daddy Cockkety-Pop' get them.

I hope that I have answered your call in some small way, and please feel free to share this story with your readers. If you wish to get in touch, I would be happy to see what else I am able to dig out from this tired old memory!

Until then, Sir, I remain your obedient servant,


Lewis Creamshields (retired)
(Prince Adorable Charming, Tue 8 Jul 2008, 22:48, 2 replies)

Bollocks.

( wynoh kills threads by his mere presence, Wed 9 Jul 2008, 5:20, closed)

Nice one!
Welcome to QOTW. Is it impolite to beg for more like that on the first date?
(Potty Jag har smör i min rumpspringa, Wed 9 Jul 2008, 8:59, closed)