Gliondrach
07-24-2007, 05:14 PM
When I was fifteen I and the other two lads of my age were asked by the foreman to do some overtime painting the building we worked in. He said that all the corridors needed painting, and that we should be able to do it all in about a week. It was actually illegal at that time for anyone under the age of 18 to do overtime - or over a certain number of hours - but we didn't care. It was extra money. I even worked one Saturday, helping to clean out the boilers. Easy work, easy money. I say easy money, but my basic wage was £4. 10 shillings a week.
One night I was working alone in an upstairs corridor. It was an old, quite large building. Probably mid-nineteenth century. The others were working in the far end of the building. I couldn't even hear the radio that one of them had plugged in before I left them. As I was working my way along the wall, painting, I came to a door that I hadn't seen before. Being the inquisitive type, I opened it. It was an office. There was a large desk over by the window and some cupboards. I decided to see what was in the cupboards. As I walked over to them I heard the sound of horse's hooves. I glanced out of the window and saw a horse and cart go by. The cupboards were full of old ledgers and loose papers. They were accounts and receipts The figures were for sums like four guineas, or two shillings and sixpence, or fourpence ha'penny. Nothing unusual. We still had real money in those days. Guineas were no longer used but some things still were priced in guineas. In fact, a year later I bought a bespoke suit for 15 guineas. The prices were payments for cloth and thread. And wages. The accounts were obviously old because I remember seeing someone's wage as being 29 shillings and sixpence.
I heard more horses and shouting outside. I looked out again. It was becoming dark but I clearly saw an old horse-drawn carriage going along the street. A horse and carriage wasn't that out of place. It had probably come from the local brewery, which still delivered beer to nearby pubs by horse and carriage. There was something strange about the scene but I didn't know what. I decided to go back to work. I had been told that I should be able to finish painting the corridor before knocking-off time. I had actually started painting it the day before. I went into the corridor and resumed painting. Half an hour later the foreman came to see how I was doing. I had nearly finished. He told me to wash the brush in water before going home and that I could go home as soon as I had finished the last couple of feet of wall. He said he would mark me down as having worked half an hour longer than I had. It was whilst he was talking that I realised I couldn't remember painting round the door to that office. I stepped back to look at it but it wasn't there. There was no door. Just blank, freshly painted, wall.
I thought it best not to mention it to the foreman, but next day, in the canteen, I asked one of the women who had worked there for over twenty years if there was anything unusual about that corridor. She said that it was haunted. I asked her to tell me about it. She said that she had heard stories about strange happenings up there - about 'shadows' walking through the wall, about the sound of a typewriter being heard echoing along the corridor when there were no typewriters up there. The rooms leading off from it were used as storerooms. I was going to tell her about the door but thought better of it. She even asked me why I was interested and if I had heard any stories about it. I lied and said that I had heard about the typewriter.
That night someone else was told to paint the stairway leading up to the haunted corridor. The next day he didn't mention any unusual happenings. I left there a few weeks later but not before investigating a bit. I searched outside the building and, where the window of that office should have been, I saw a bricked up window. I also went up to the corridor on my last night of painting to look for any signs of a door but there were none.
Weeks later, I realised what had been odd about the scene outside the window that night: there were no electric street lights. I was either suffering hallucinations from paint fumes - unlikely because it was emulsion paint, or something very unusual happened that night. How could I walk through a non-existent door and look out through a bricked-up window? Why was the door covered over and the window bricked up? Was it some sort of time slip - in which I travelled back many decades? What would have happened if the door had disappeared when I was still in the room?
To this day I don't know the answers. The building was pulled down a few years ago. Its secrets are now beyond discovery.
One night I was working alone in an upstairs corridor. It was an old, quite large building. Probably mid-nineteenth century. The others were working in the far end of the building. I couldn't even hear the radio that one of them had plugged in before I left them. As I was working my way along the wall, painting, I came to a door that I hadn't seen before. Being the inquisitive type, I opened it. It was an office. There was a large desk over by the window and some cupboards. I decided to see what was in the cupboards. As I walked over to them I heard the sound of horse's hooves. I glanced out of the window and saw a horse and cart go by. The cupboards were full of old ledgers and loose papers. They were accounts and receipts The figures were for sums like four guineas, or two shillings and sixpence, or fourpence ha'penny. Nothing unusual. We still had real money in those days. Guineas were no longer used but some things still were priced in guineas. In fact, a year later I bought a bespoke suit for 15 guineas. The prices were payments for cloth and thread. And wages. The accounts were obviously old because I remember seeing someone's wage as being 29 shillings and sixpence.
I heard more horses and shouting outside. I looked out again. It was becoming dark but I clearly saw an old horse-drawn carriage going along the street. A horse and carriage wasn't that out of place. It had probably come from the local brewery, which still delivered beer to nearby pubs by horse and carriage. There was something strange about the scene but I didn't know what. I decided to go back to work. I had been told that I should be able to finish painting the corridor before knocking-off time. I had actually started painting it the day before. I went into the corridor and resumed painting. Half an hour later the foreman came to see how I was doing. I had nearly finished. He told me to wash the brush in water before going home and that I could go home as soon as I had finished the last couple of feet of wall. He said he would mark me down as having worked half an hour longer than I had. It was whilst he was talking that I realised I couldn't remember painting round the door to that office. I stepped back to look at it but it wasn't there. There was no door. Just blank, freshly painted, wall.
I thought it best not to mention it to the foreman, but next day, in the canteen, I asked one of the women who had worked there for over twenty years if there was anything unusual about that corridor. She said that it was haunted. I asked her to tell me about it. She said that she had heard stories about strange happenings up there - about 'shadows' walking through the wall, about the sound of a typewriter being heard echoing along the corridor when there were no typewriters up there. The rooms leading off from it were used as storerooms. I was going to tell her about the door but thought better of it. She even asked me why I was interested and if I had heard any stories about it. I lied and said that I had heard about the typewriter.
That night someone else was told to paint the stairway leading up to the haunted corridor. The next day he didn't mention any unusual happenings. I left there a few weeks later but not before investigating a bit. I searched outside the building and, where the window of that office should have been, I saw a bricked up window. I also went up to the corridor on my last night of painting to look for any signs of a door but there were none.
Weeks later, I realised what had been odd about the scene outside the window that night: there were no electric street lights. I was either suffering hallucinations from paint fumes - unlikely because it was emulsion paint, or something very unusual happened that night. How could I walk through a non-existent door and look out through a bricked-up window? Why was the door covered over and the window bricked up? Was it some sort of time slip - in which I travelled back many decades? What would have happened if the door had disappeared when I was still in the room?
To this day I don't know the answers. The building was pulled down a few years ago. Its secrets are now beyond discovery.