Frankenplot: Ghost Story – Uphill

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy – Hamlet Act 1, Scene 5. Shakespeare.

Frankenplot: Ghost Story – Uphill

I don’t believe in ghosts. I think it’s important to establish that fact now before I go any further. Notwithstanding, nearly everyone I know has a spooky tale of some kind to tell. The more you hear, the more you want to concede that, perhaps, there is something tangible in the otherworldly occurrences that are reported each year.

There used to be an offer of a million dollars on the table from James Randi and Associates if the existence of ghosts or any kind of paranormal activity could be proved under set testing conditions. The bounty was never claimed. Perhaps that should tell you all you need to know.

Only not everything is set in stone.

It was on Halloween that I found myself drinking in the oldest pub in Weston – The Ship Inn. I was there with a couple of friends. There we were, squirrelled away in the corner, all on wooden stools gathered around a small circular table. I had got to know Tony and Pauline since moving to the area a few years ago. They were next door neighbours and close friends.

It was busy that night with punters enjoying the gothic atmosphere. The procession of trick-or-treaters had long since abated, the hour advancing towards midnight and last orders. It was just after eleven that Tony suddenly chipped in with a speculative comment about a female ghost resident at the pub. I said I hadn’t heard that story. He said it was synonymous with an establishment that had been around for over 250 years. Infamous for smuggling, lanterns would be used to guide ships into Uphill to land contraband cargo, he added. 

It was at that point that the conversation had gone full tilt towards the occult. It was in keeping with the time of year and the seasonal decorations that had transformed the bar and lounge area. Dangling plastic skeletons, fake pumpkins and bar staff wearing fancy dress was enough to draw people into a night where the veil is at its thinnest between this world and the next or so it’s said.

Tony has the broadest of smiles, never more so when being conspiratorial. Gripping his flat cloth cap in his hand, he would lean forward prompting both me and Pauline to do the same. In the background, I could see a tall thin man who was maybe in his sixties leaning back on his stool, tipping it into a precarious position. I think he was trying to eavesdrop although he thought better of it when instinctively clutching the wall to retain his balance as he was about to topple over.  

Pauline was as captivated as I when Tony held court. Somehow the dialogue had moved from inane themes of All Hallows’ Eve to eliciting a challenge to an old cynic like me. I was to wander up the side of the hill across the road, make my way up to St. Nicholas Church then spend ten minutes in the graveyard traversing the witching hour and seeing in the start of November.

Whether it was boredom, bravado or belligerence, like a fool I accepted and promptly slipped out of the front entrance and into the darkness. It was a chilly evening, winds blowing in from the Bristol Channel bringing the smell of salt and brine with them as they swept over land. The thought of a bracing climb to clear my head was a welcoming one, the beer causing a temporary fug.

Whilst the Beach road that ran through to waiting sands a half mile away was mainly lit from street lamps and houses that straddled one side, once across the asphalt it quickly became much gloomier. Just a matter of feet away from the pub, there were trees, hedgerows and a steep incline that was grass and limestone. Negotiating a stile, I had to use the torch app on my phone to see where my feet were going. It would have been easy to turn an ankle, such was the unevenness of the ground given the intermittent jutting rock that poked through the surface.

The hike took a few minutes, a spectacular view of the bay opening up the higher I went. A crescent moon gave off light, a myriad of tiny white points forming constellations in the velvet sky. To the right, in the distance, was the sea front of Weston with Birnbeck Pier beyond.

A rusting iron gate formed an ingress, a worn paved path wandering through graves that wrapped around religious buildings dating back to Norman times. A chancel, a roofless nave and a tower formed the now unconsecrated church of Saint Nicholas. A perimeter wall surrounding this ecclesiastical land was made of rubble and boulder and hid a sheer cliff face.

It was an ominous atmosphere that emanated from incongruous shadows and mossy tombstones. Foreboding even. Brooding. For a moment, my thoughts fixated on the dead and decaying below ground. Food for worms.

It seemed colder than ever whilst roaming about those hallowed grounds. Inky blackness can do strange things to an over active mind. Having pictured rotting cadavers lying prostrate under the earth, my thoughts moved to the living and how easy it would be for a ne’er-do-well to lie in wait in any number of hiding places and jump me in the low-light. For the time I planned to be there, the most innocuous spot seemed to be over at the wall.

As I shifted to head for the horizon, from the corner of my eye I noticed a shape. It was moving towards me. Moreover, it was coming from the arched portico that ushered parishioners into the sanctum itself. My heart was pounding as the figure got closer; fight or flight coursing through me. Fear of the unknown was a silent scream. Turn and flee or stay and confront, that was the choice.

Heading away from the apparition, before I could break into a sprint, soothing words drifted towards me. It was a reassuring voice, a voice asking me what I was doing there at this hour. I could see more clearly now. The shape was a man. In the half-light I could just make out that the man was dressed in a black cassock, white surplice and black scarf. It was a vicar albeit the vicar’s attire seemed to be from another time. It was a sensation rather than knowing for certain. It was like seeing someone in a sepia-stained photo.

Shrugging the doubt that shrouded me at that moment, I decided to engage the nocturnal cleric. I told him that I was merely out for a walk and had been drawn to this location by the majestic views. His was an austere face. Greying sideburns, swept over black hair, wire-rimmed glasses and a prominent nose all offset by piercing eyes came together to form an archetypal priest. He told me his name was Henry Philpott and he was just finishing locking things up when he had heard a noise coming from the cemetery. He had thought it might be a fox until he noticed me standing amongst the memorials.    

I think I must have had the Devil in me as I asked the curator whether he had ever seen anything strange late at night. He had given me the most curious of looks before smiling wanly and said that he hadn’t although there are more things in Heaven and earth. He was paraphrasing, I realised. He was quoting the Bard.

We continued to chat for what felt like a while. He wanted to know about my faith and whether I was a regular church goer. It was a subject I was at a disadvantage in being the lapsed catholic that I was.

The conversation shifted. From the relatively mundane, all of a sudden we were talking about the temptations of Satan and whether I succumbed to the vices of life. His demeanour had altered and I found myself feeling under attack.  His words seemed to burrow under my skin, worming their way into my soul. It felt like reality was slipping away; my confidence being subsumed by somebody. By something.

As we stood there, I’m not sure if it was a trick of the light but the reverend seemed to be shimmering at the edges as my consciousness waivered.  

It was then that a beam shone in my face bringing the exchange to a halt. For a second, I was blinded until I heard familiar mutterings coming from nearby. It was Tony and Pauline. They had entered through the old iron gate on the left side of the church and circled around to avoid being seen.

They wanted to know who I was talking to.

Focusing again, I raised my head to motion towards the clergyman who had been challenging my values.

There was nobody there.

My eyes followed the torch light which should have illuminated the engaging yet odd man of the cloth. Instead, a large granite tombstone with a cross on its top was visible.

Slowly, I realised what was inscribed.

The epitaph read: Henry Philpott beloved vicar of the parish of Uphill Born 1812 – Died 1873.

Inside I was frozen; as though icicles had speared my disbelieving heart.

Had this been a supernatural occurrence? Something I didn’t believe in. Was it a different Henry Philpott that I’d been conversing with? If so, how had he disappeared so quickly and where to? It had to have been a spirit. Hadn’t it?

When I tried to explain, Tony stated that services had ceased at St. Nick’s in 1846. There was no obvious reason for a reverend to be there albeit occasional services were still held on special occasions.

On the walk home, we continued to speculate as to what had actually happened. I’m sure they thought I was seeing things or going slightly mad. Maybe I was.

I don’t believe in ghosts.

At least, I didn’t.

*Image is my own