A Village Mystery. Reported occult happenings at Hempstead. Candlesticks that jumped.
The blood of some of the inhabitants of the villages of Hempstead and Helions Bumpstead, two usually quiet parishes in rural North Essex, has of late been coursing more rapidly than normal through their veins. Hempstead, in years gone by, became famous in consequence of its association with Dr. Harvey, the discoverer of the circulation of the blood, but there is not the slightest connection between the two events, the most recent being the result of some mysterious occult demonstration.
Mid-way between the villages named, about a couple of miles from each, stands Argent’s Farm, which has been occupied for upwards of half a century by Mr. Sorrell, who has now attained the grand old age of 84. With him reside his granddaughter, Mrs. Brazier, and her husband, and until one night last week nothing out of the ordinary had taken place. While they were sitting quietly conversing, a chair, one which stood a sack containing six stone of flour suddenly leaned forward and deposited its burden on the floor. The flour was replaced by the mystified beholders, but the performance was repeated again, and yet a third time.
A piece of board, which leaned against the wall, composed of lath and plaster, also apparently became imbued with life, and started from its previous steady resting-place, only to fall on to the floor.
On the following morning all the chairs played like pranks, and their toppling forward was witnessed by several residents in the neighbourhood. During the day Mr. Sorrell’s nephew, Mr. Smith, was sent for, and thinking his uncle was not well, he visited the farm in the evening. Mr. Smith informed our representative of the various strange happenings which he witnessed, and for which he said they were quite unable to account.
The ghostly visitation on this occasion commenced shortly after ten o’clock, when the flour was again hurled to the floor. He picked the bag u pand replaced it, and again over came the chair. Thinking there must be something faulty about the chair, Mr Smith sat upon it, but though he is a weighty man he failed to move it, so that that explanation had to be rejected. Then the board commenced its pranks once more.
Mr. Sorrell expressed his intention of going to bed, and went upstairs. When he had retired, a chair, on which had been placed a candle in a candlestick, toppled forward exactly as the one downstairs had done. This event was also witnessed by Mr. Smith. The chairs apparently having something uncanny about them, the candlestick was placed on the window-sill, but when the occupants of the room were beginning to think they had found a secure place for it, the candlestick suddenly became imbued with athletic powers, and gave a jump on to the bed, which was a yard an a half away.
Mr. Sorrell also declares that while he was in bed he distinctly heard some metallic chinks just as if quoit rings were being thrown, but he could not see anyone. Further, there was a sound as if someone was rubbing his hands together, and something gave him a smack on the head.
Mr. Smith too, states that in the middle of the bedroom he heard sounds of heavy tapping as if a stick was being brought down on to the floor, but there was nothing in the room to account for the noise. He also remarked that the whole of the windows of the house shook at intervals, adn the door unaccountably banged. The strange occurrences on that occasion did not cease until one o’clock.
Though Mr. Sorrell has lived in the house for over fifty years, as has been stated, nothing of the kind had previously taken place, and nothing has happened since. The relation of the incidents has been received with incredulity and amusement by those in the district, but those concerned fail to see anything humorous in it.
Cambridge Independent Press, 26th February 1915
Essex Witch Story. Curious happenings at lonely farmhouse.
Some very curious happenings at Argents Farm, Hempstead, situate in the northern corner of Essex, have aroused a lot of interest in the neighbourhood, and a representative of the Essex County Chronicle visited the farmhouse to make inquiries of the occupier, Mr. William Sorrell, aged 83 years, who has resided there for 55 years, and formerly lived in the neighbouring village of Helions Bumpstead, where he was born. Mr. Sorrell has not been able to do any work for a few years, and he now enjoys the old-age pension. He resides at the farmhouse with his granddaughter, Mrs. Brazier (and her husband), and his great grand-daughter, Minnie Eppy, aged 13 years. All these persons enter into the story told by Mr. Sorrell, and corroborate as to the strange adventures of Argents Farm.
It is important to know that Argents Farm is about as lonely a place of abode as could be found in England. It is situate half-way between Hempstead and Helions Bumpstead, and it stands back from the high road half a mile, just visible in a valley, and at this time of the year it is approached by paths along the headlands of ditches across several fields. True, there is a soft green lane running beside the farm at the back, but just now this is impassable, inches deep in mud. These conditions accentuate the detached kind of life that must be led at the farm and are quoted by the aged occupier as showing almost the impossibility of anyone approaching the farm by night to play tricks with him.
A representative of the Essex County Chronicle found Mr. Sorrell chopping faggots in the clearing beside the house. For his great age he is a wonderful man, his mind and intelligence being quite alert. Asked to explain what had happened at the farm, Mr. Sorrell at once led the way to the farmhouse kitchen, where the incidents he related happened, and, seated in a big armchair beside a fire of logwood, he told his story as follows:-
“I believe I was bewitched that day, and everything about the house seemed affected. I was as well on the day that these things started as I am to-day, and I had been no further than the lane near by. The first thing that happened was with this grandfather’s clock, which had not been going for three weeks. It suddenly started making such a noise as could be heard outside ever so far. Then it started to strike, sometimes as many as nineteen at a time. Some things as big as “tater-apples” (a kind of fruit which grows on some potato haulms, and known in rural Essex as apples) were flung at me from the clock, and hit me on the head and face [these are about grape size?]. They fell to the floor, but although I looked, and my great-grand-daughter looked as well, we could see nothing.
Then the chairs in the room began to tumble about. That parcel of flour on the chair (about half a sackfull) came down ‘whop,’ and although we put it back on the chair it fell down two or three times. We could not see anything except the things tumbling about, and the sack of flour falling right on the floor. The clock kept on striking just as though someone was knocking it about to make it go. All the chairs in the house tumbled round about, but they seemed all right when we set them up.
It was as broad daylight as now, but we could not see the sights of anything except the things tumbling about. Upstairs something kept knocking about just as though there was someone hammering.
Minnie Eppy, the great-grand-daughter, at this point stated that she also saw the chairs and flour falling about, and heard the clock striking and the hammering noise.
“How long did this game go on?” the interviewer inquired. Mr Sorrell replied: “I can’t say, but we could not help it, and can you tell me how I could have stopped it?”
“Did you have a look round the house to see if there was anyone playing a trick upon you?” “Yes, I did; and I could not see anyone. Nobody could get up to the farm without being seen, and at night, when the row kept on, no-one could get to the farm at all. The Hempstead and Bumpstead policemen have been here making inquiries, but they can’t account for it.”
“What do you suppose was the cause of all this disturbance?” “I have heard of witches before,” replied Mr. Sorrell, “and I believe I was bewitched. I have never heard of this farmhouse having been haunted, and I have lived here for 55 years. Nothing ever happened like that before, and there has been nothing since. If it had been a ghost, we should have seen it. It was done inside the house, and there was nothing to be seen. That night when I went to bed the same thing went on. Things began to jump about the bedroom, and a candlestick with a lighted candle in it jumped a yard from a window-sill on to my bed. I could stand it no longer, so I went downstairs and lit the lamp. The noise could then be heard upstairs.”
Mr. George Brazier, who married Mr. Sorrell’s grand-daughter, and has lived at Argents Farm for four years, here took up the story. “There was a rattling noise upstairs,” he said, “like rings being jingled on a pole. I heard the noise quite plainly; no-one in the house could be off hearing it. The old man came downstairs to get away from it. I had a good look round, but could not see anyone. The next night we all sat up and kept the fire burning so as to be ready, but we have not heard the noise again. I never heard anything like it before, and don’t want to hear it again. I could find no cause for the noise. I saw some of the things tumbling about in the kitchen, and heard the old clock keep on striking about twenty at a time.”
Mr. Sorrell told a story he had heard of certain “imps” being roasted in an oven in order to get rid of them, and asked if witches were known to be about now? The interviewer replied that Essex in bye-gone centuries was credited with possessing several witches, and a number of old women were actually burnt as such, while others were “ducked” for harbouring “imps.”
So the story of Argent’s Farm concluded. All the occupants had related their stories quite seriously, and, like the old lady occupier of the nearest cottage to the farm, aged 84, who was born in the cottage where she now lives, the interviewer is obliged to confess that he “cannot account for what happened at Argent’s Farm in no wise.”
Chelmsford Chronicle, 5th March 1915.
There is quite a hair-raising story in this week’s Essex County Chronicle about what the narrator thinks is a bewitched farm. This creepy, very creepy homestead is situated in one of the most out-of-the-way parts of Essex, where owls, bats, and bugabees most do congregate. And the witchery seems to take the form of chairs waltzing round the room with the zest and agility of a flapper, sacks of flour jumping from chairs, and a grandfather clock that gives no tick for three weeks turning to suddenly and strking twenties at a time. And not only does this clock run amok with old father time, but it shelters somebody or something that opens fire with “tater apples” on the sorely tried occupants of Argent’s Farm. Bedroom candlesticks, too, hop about like the proverbial cat on hot bricks, and altogether things are very eerie and ghostly at the homestead.
And nobody, not even that dear, fantastic creature the oldest inhabitant, to be seen sometimes in witness-boxes swearing to rights of way and ancient customs, can throw light on the proceedings. The only explanation that finds favour at all is that the house was once the scene of some great tragedy, and that the spirit of the departed, having had, while in the flesh, so bad a time in the house, is determined that no one shall find the peace therein denied to him or her. Is there no Essex Ainsworth who can weave a story round this uncanny farm? There ought to be money in it.
Essex Newsman, 6th March 1915.
There appears to be no trace on the 21st century map of the farm (TL649400) but it does lie on a district boundary, perhaps interestingly?!