It’s time this ghost went west!
‘Kill Croaky off before he wrecks this house completely’ says Brian Northman.
If there are such things as timid people in a down-to-earth place like the Lancashire mill town of Bolton I’ve got news for them. There is absolutely no need to knock at the knees when you walk past the strange house at 311, Hulton Lane. It isn’t half as haunted as it’s supposed to be. In fact, if you were to spend the night there you would be more likely to kill yourself with laughter than die of fright. I know, for I have spent six nights in the place which is supposed to be haunted by a couple of benign spirits and a malicious ghost who throws his weight about every Saturday night.
I must confess that I did not go without a certain amount of apprehension. It was just about the most haunted house in Britain, I was informed. And Mr David Cohen, a member of Manchester Psychical Research Society, told me bloodcurdling tales of chairs and pokers being hurled about mysteriously. Mr Leo Beckett, his wife, Elsie, and their 15-year-old son, Robert, did nothing to dispel my fears. They told me that Croaky – they call the malicious ghost that because he has a hoarse voice – has made their life sheer hell. He had, according to them: Wrecked the electricity meter and wiring; Blown up the gas meter; and Set fire to skirting boards, walls and floorboards.
I found plenty of evidence of a wrecker at work. Mrs Beckett was cooking on a coal fire (as she has done for a year) and the place was lit by oil lamps only. “It’s all Croaky’s fault,” Mrs Beckett told me. Local electricity board and gas board officials certainly agreed with her. At the electricity board office I was told: “The family maintain it was the work of spirits. All we know is that the damage was done. We cut off the supply for safety.” At the gas board offices I was told that they too had cut off the supply because of the danger. They also told me that holes had been drilled in the pipe which fed gas through the meter.
Bolton fire brigade confirmed that they had been called twice to fires at the house, but had seen no ghost. Nor had the common-sense constables of Bolton police who were called in to investigate. And I’m not surprised. Because however lustily he may rant and roar with the Becketts, Croaky is shy with strangers. He didn’t put in a single appearance on the six Saturday nights I spent with the Becketts. I did, however, have a conversation with a voice I was told belonged to one of Croaky’s chums – kind spirit the Becketts call “Pal.”
Mrs Beckett and her son were upstairs. Mr Cohen, Mr Beckett and I were downstairs. Suddenly a voice floated down the stairs and a voice in a broad Lancashire accent asked if Mr Beckett had got his cigarettes. Apparently the spirit had conjured up 700 of Mr Beckett’s favourite brand. When I suggested to Mr Cohen that we should go upstairs to introduce me to “Pal,” he was horrified. “You would upset the mind forces, ” he exclaimed. When I pointed out that Mrs Beckett and her son were already upstairs, he replied: “Ah, but they are not sceptics.”
He explained that “Pal” and a fellow good spirit called “Richard” were so happy at the Becketts that they frequently sang songs and talked all night. This, I concluded, must be rather hard on the neighbours – and I was right. Mrs Frederick Jackson, who lives with her family on the other side of the Becketts, said: “Nothing unearthly happened in the house before the Becketts moved in three years ago. We know because we have lived here 20 years.”
Mr William Eccles, a hospital porter, who lives on one side of the Becketts, spoke equally plain words: “The noise from the Beckett’s house on a Saturday night is normally dreadful. My room is on the other side of the wall to their son’s, and I can hear voices through the wall quite plainly. Nothing happens when the family is away. I haven’t complained because I don’t think it’s worth troubling with anything so stupid.” Mr Eccles, I take off my hat to you. I only hope the ghost goes West immediately.
The People, 18th March 1962.