56 Gladstone Street
In the summer of 1968 my young wife and I took possession of our first house. We had lived in a flat for just over a year with a young baby, so the vastness of 56 Gladstone Street in old west Gorton was a refreshing change to cramped conditions of one room.
The house had been occupied by an old woman who had died several months before; she had survived her husband by twenty years and had been well into her nineties when she breathed her last. The house had not seen a lick of paint since the last war, so decorating was the first job on the agenda. Out went the old copper boiling kettle and brown sink in the kitchen, out went the cast iron fireplace in the living room and out went the flaking dark green and brown livery of a bygone age.
The transformation pleased my wife and so we settled in for the few years that this house was to remain standing confident that we would be rehoused to a brand new sparkling estate on the outskirts of Manchester when redevelopment of the area took place. But in the meantime this would be our home for seventeen and six a week. (17/6pence That’s just over 87p for the young uns)
When I was cleaning out the house I found an old Sergeant majors pace stick, battle scarred and badly burnt at one end I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. The next door neighbour told me that the old lady who couldn’t walk well had used it to summon her by banging on the wall with it, which might have explained why the plaster was missing from near the fire place. It had also been her poker for stoking up her coal fire during the winter months. It had a history, so I kept it.
We hadn’t been in the house for more than a few weeks when it started. At odd times day and night we would here a loud banging sound, rather like Morse code, the house to the left of us was empty so I assumed it had come from the house to our right where the lady who had helped the old woman lived. I asked her about this and she told me that she hadn’t heard anything, and that it certainly wasn’t her who was banging.
Then other more sinister things started to happen, lights would turn themselves on and off, and we would wake up in the middle of the night to the smell of gas coming from an old gas mantle fixed to the window in the bedroom. The mantle had been painted many times over the years and it was only possible to turn the tap on or off with pliers. But somehow it had managed to turn itself on and in those days there was no such thing as safety gas, we came very close to being overcome several times.
I entered the bedroom one afternoon and the curtains were blowing about furiously, but the window was closed and I don’t think had been opened for years, this made me more angry than frightened and in frustration more than anything else I shouted “For Christ’s sake” the curtains fell quiet.
One day I came home from work and my wife was unusually quiet. I asked her what was wrong and she told me that she had been locked in the house for nearly two hours. She had been unable to open either back or front door even though the locks were off and the bolts had been slid. She said that at one point she became very frightened and started to cry, her crying was met with high pitched laughter that seemed to come from under the floorboards. At this she screamed, which brought the next door neighbour to the door who had no problem opening it at all.
That evening we discussed moving out, even though I hated giving in. it was obvious that my wife couldn’t take much more of this. She went to bed early, I remained downstairs in the kitchen thinking about our options and wondering what to do for the best. Suddenly the room went icy cold, it was like walking out of the sunshine into a freezer, I could hear a low humming sound, and then the kitchen light went out.
I heard my wife shout my name, but I was already half way up the stairs. I reached out and switched the bedroom light on. But nothing happened, I tried the landing light, this came on and shed some light into the bedroom, where I saw my wife sat bolt upright in bed her hair was stuck out in all directions as if some huge electrical force was attracting it. I entered the room and as I did she pointed silently to the corner of the room. There I saw a black shadow low against the wall, it began to rise and get bigger until I could see the shape of an arm snaking across the wall toward the fireplace.
I had seen enough, I picked my wife up and carried her downstairs, we left the house and went up the street to a neighbour’s house. I left her in their care and started back to the house. God knows what I was going to do, but as I made my way I met a couple of coppers a sergeant with a dog and a young copper. It was around one in the morning and they wanted to know what I was doing out and about at that time. Things were different in those days, everything ended at twelve-o clock and it was unusual to see anyone out at that time of the morning.
I explained my predicament and as I did the wise old sergeant hummed and harrd, nodding his head every now and again and stroking his chin much as I imagined Sherlock Holmes would do. When I finished my story he stuck his chest out and said “Right, lets go and take a look at your ghost, we will see how it stands up to Simba”. Simba was the police dog, who I am sure for the best part of his career had displayed undying loyalty and courage to his master. But as we entered the house that was now in pitch darkness, Simba started to whimper.
It might have been the arctic like conditions that by now were present in every room. But I rather think it was Canine sensitivities that reduced this fine dog to a quivering, whimpering, barking wreck. Because when the sarge slipped him of his lead and commanded in a loud voice “Fetch Simba” the poor animal despite his training did an about face and ran out of the house with his tail between his legs.
Undaunted the brave sergeant advanced up the stairs torch in hand, minus I have to say the young copper who had volunteered to keep watch at the bottom of the stairs, for what I don’t know, but for sure he wasn’t going into the bedroom. He kept repeating “What’s happening serge” in a shaky voice and every time he spoke his breath was visible by the little light that the torch cast at the bottom of the stairs.
I heard the old copper say in a forceful voice “This is the police, come out” the young copper did a little dance, from upstairs we heard the old copper say in a not so forceful voice “Oh bloody hell” then what little light there was went out. As rotund as the sergeant was he was remarkably fleet of foot when it came to negotiating the stairs on his way out. The young copper and I were left standing and as we both experienced that cold shiver down the back, the serge was already in the street.
Before going of to look for his dog the sergeant advised me that it was a member of the clergy that I needed, not the police. In due course a lay preacher from some local church attempted to bless every room in the house, in the hope of laying whatever spirit that had the hump with me and my wife to rest.
But he only got as far as the kitchen then remembered he had an important meeting to go to. I doubt it would have done any good even if he had finished.
There was a small write up about the events in the Manchester and Openshaw reporter, but we never went back to the house, and I believe it was never again occupied before its demolition sometime in 1970.
The house had been occupied by an old woman who had died several months before; she had survived her husband by twenty years and had been well into her nineties when she breathed her last. The house had not seen a lick of paint since the last war, so decorating was the first job on the agenda. Out went the old copper boiling kettle and brown sink in the kitchen, out went the cast iron fireplace in the living room and out went the flaking dark green and brown livery of a bygone age.
The transformation pleased my wife and so we settled in for the few years that this house was to remain standing confident that we would be rehoused to a brand new sparkling estate on the outskirts of Manchester when redevelopment of the area took place. But in the meantime this would be our home for seventeen and six a week. (17/6pence That’s just over 87p for the young uns)
When I was cleaning out the house I found an old Sergeant majors pace stick, battle scarred and badly burnt at one end I couldn’t bring myself to throw it away. The next door neighbour told me that the old lady who couldn’t walk well had used it to summon her by banging on the wall with it, which might have explained why the plaster was missing from near the fire place. It had also been her poker for stoking up her coal fire during the winter months. It had a history, so I kept it.
We hadn’t been in the house for more than a few weeks when it started. At odd times day and night we would here a loud banging sound, rather like Morse code, the house to the left of us was empty so I assumed it had come from the house to our right where the lady who had helped the old woman lived. I asked her about this and she told me that she hadn’t heard anything, and that it certainly wasn’t her who was banging.
Then other more sinister things started to happen, lights would turn themselves on and off, and we would wake up in the middle of the night to the smell of gas coming from an old gas mantle fixed to the window in the bedroom. The mantle had been painted many times over the years and it was only possible to turn the tap on or off with pliers. But somehow it had managed to turn itself on and in those days there was no such thing as safety gas, we came very close to being overcome several times.
I entered the bedroom one afternoon and the curtains were blowing about furiously, but the window was closed and I don’t think had been opened for years, this made me more angry than frightened and in frustration more than anything else I shouted “For Christ’s sake” the curtains fell quiet.
One day I came home from work and my wife was unusually quiet. I asked her what was wrong and she told me that she had been locked in the house for nearly two hours. She had been unable to open either back or front door even though the locks were off and the bolts had been slid. She said that at one point she became very frightened and started to cry, her crying was met with high pitched laughter that seemed to come from under the floorboards. At this she screamed, which brought the next door neighbour to the door who had no problem opening it at all.
That evening we discussed moving out, even though I hated giving in. it was obvious that my wife couldn’t take much more of this. She went to bed early, I remained downstairs in the kitchen thinking about our options and wondering what to do for the best. Suddenly the room went icy cold, it was like walking out of the sunshine into a freezer, I could hear a low humming sound, and then the kitchen light went out.
I heard my wife shout my name, but I was already half way up the stairs. I reached out and switched the bedroom light on. But nothing happened, I tried the landing light, this came on and shed some light into the bedroom, where I saw my wife sat bolt upright in bed her hair was stuck out in all directions as if some huge electrical force was attracting it. I entered the room and as I did she pointed silently to the corner of the room. There I saw a black shadow low against the wall, it began to rise and get bigger until I could see the shape of an arm snaking across the wall toward the fireplace.
I had seen enough, I picked my wife up and carried her downstairs, we left the house and went up the street to a neighbour’s house. I left her in their care and started back to the house. God knows what I was going to do, but as I made my way I met a couple of coppers a sergeant with a dog and a young copper. It was around one in the morning and they wanted to know what I was doing out and about at that time. Things were different in those days, everything ended at twelve-o clock and it was unusual to see anyone out at that time of the morning.
I explained my predicament and as I did the wise old sergeant hummed and harrd, nodding his head every now and again and stroking his chin much as I imagined Sherlock Holmes would do. When I finished my story he stuck his chest out and said “Right, lets go and take a look at your ghost, we will see how it stands up to Simba”. Simba was the police dog, who I am sure for the best part of his career had displayed undying loyalty and courage to his master. But as we entered the house that was now in pitch darkness, Simba started to whimper.
It might have been the arctic like conditions that by now were present in every room. But I rather think it was Canine sensitivities that reduced this fine dog to a quivering, whimpering, barking wreck. Because when the sarge slipped him of his lead and commanded in a loud voice “Fetch Simba” the poor animal despite his training did an about face and ran out of the house with his tail between his legs.
Undaunted the brave sergeant advanced up the stairs torch in hand, minus I have to say the young copper who had volunteered to keep watch at the bottom of the stairs, for what I don’t know, but for sure he wasn’t going into the bedroom. He kept repeating “What’s happening serge” in a shaky voice and every time he spoke his breath was visible by the little light that the torch cast at the bottom of the stairs.
I heard the old copper say in a forceful voice “This is the police, come out” the young copper did a little dance, from upstairs we heard the old copper say in a not so forceful voice “Oh bloody hell” then what little light there was went out. As rotund as the sergeant was he was remarkably fleet of foot when it came to negotiating the stairs on his way out. The young copper and I were left standing and as we both experienced that cold shiver down the back, the serge was already in the street.
Before going of to look for his dog the sergeant advised me that it was a member of the clergy that I needed, not the police. In due course a lay preacher from some local church attempted to bless every room in the house, in the hope of laying whatever spirit that had the hump with me and my wife to rest.
But he only got as far as the kitchen then remembered he had an important meeting to go to. I doubt it would have done any good even if he had finished.
There was a small write up about the events in the Manchester and Openshaw reporter, but we never went back to the house, and I believe it was never again occupied before its demolition sometime in 1970.
6 Comments:
Oh yeah?
But - poor Simba.
BTW - I was married in 1968, but I was a child bride. Are you sure that you aren't 60 yet?
Kaz
Yet again you cast doubt tut tut, I am in fact 58, I became a father5 when I was 15 (Yes I know, I know)but thats another story
Is it another 'tall' story??
Kaz
I am not sure whether you are refering to Gladstone st or the fact that I was a Father so young, in both casesI can assure you that the stories are in no way tall.
I made a mistake in saying that the report was in the Manchester and Openshaw reporter when in fact it was the Gorton and Openshaw reporter, it has been some time since the incident and I think since that particular rag was published.Remember the girl from Belle Vue, I tore her letter up, well it was she who gave birth at such a tender age.
I enjoy your stories very much! Thanks for the compliments as well!
My mum told me this exact story almost word for word. Of course all this happened before i was born but given my interest in the paranormal i would have been interested to have conducted an investigation at that house. Bicycle clips at the ready, with a quivering hand and tentative footsteps onwards i would have marched.
RIP Dad xx
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