Times - Fortean Times: It Happened to Me vol.1 Real-Life Tales of the Paranormal

Human beings have been having encounters with the unexplained ever since they first began thinking about the mysteries of life, death, the Universe and everything. Every culture around the world has its own stories of powerful deities or terrifying demons, its beliefs in a spirit realm complete with ghostly inhabitants, and its folklore concerning mischievous fairies, monstrous creatures or bizarre entities apparently not of this world.

While some would argue that the kinds of encounters found in such traditions should be relegated to the status of legends and old wives tales, people continue to have inexplicable and sometimes frightening experiences, even today. Drawing the line between objective and subjective reality has always been problematic, and to dismiss such experiences as hallucinations or delusions is to fail to engage with the seemingly inexhaustible strangeness of the human condition.

For the last 35 years, Fortean Times magazine has been reporting on the world of strange phenomena - and for 35 years our readers have been telling us of their own odd experiences in letters and emails from all over the world. Some of these stories are scary, some are funny, some are mystifying and some are just downright weird, but they are all accounts of events that have actually happened to people - from living in a haunted house to witnessing a rain of frogs, from experiencing a timeslip to seeing your own double.

We havent tried to explain the many odd and unnerving tales contained in this collection - we leave you to arrive at your own conclusions - but weve certainly enjoyed sharing them. We hope you do too.

David Sutton, Editor, Fortean Times

Fortean Times: It Happened to Me - Volume 1

Edited and compiled by Paul Sieveking and Jen Ogilvie

Photography and Design Etienne Gilfillan

Editor in Chief David Sutton

Cover image David Newton

Fortean Times: It Happened to Me Volume 1 is published by Dennis Publishing Ltd, 30 Cleveland Street, London W1T 4JD, a company registered in England number 1138891. Entire contents (c) 2010 Dennis Publishing Ltd licensed by Felden. All product logos and trademarks are the property of their respective third-party owners.

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High spirits

The worlds shadows seethe with spectres of all kinds, from evil baby-killing ghouls to departed family members popping back to say hello. Whether its a phantom monk preaching from the other side, a Nazi wraith stalking a bombed-out building, a ghostly young nun wailing in a chapel, or troubled spirits haunting spooky old houses, everyone, it seems, has a ghost story to tell...

Haunted Houses

THE SPOOK OF SMITH SQUARE

In 1949, when I was 17, I worked at the headquarters of the United Europe Movement, an organisation founded by Winston Churchill - the start of the modern EEC. My role was junior dogsbody: running messages, sending off post, making tea and other such tasks.

The offices were housed in an elegant Queen Anne house, Number One, Smith Square, not far from the Houses of Parliament.

One morning I was just about to make coffee when I noticed a stranger sitting in the inner room, which had been partitioned from the large one where I worked. He was wearing a long black robe and cloak, and a hat which resembled an upturned soup plate.

Shall I make that gentleman a cup of coffee? I quietly asked one of the other girls, Jeanne Dawkins.

What gentleman?

I pointed and whispered: The one in there. He looks like a priest.

I havent seen anyone.

Deciding to enquire of the stranger himself, I peeped into the room. There was no one there. All the time I had been able to see whether anyone came in or out. It was puzzling.

Thats funny, I said, I could have sworn I saw a priest. He looked just like the label on a bottle of Sandemans port...

The next day, Rosemary Streeter, who worked in the room upstairs, came into our office shaking uncontrollably, her face as white as paper. Eventually, she managed to tell us that she had been coming down the magnificent marble staircase to give us some documents when a foreign-looking priest passed her.

Shed looked over her shoulder to say Good morning and the man had simply vanished! He looked like the picture on a bottle of Sandemans, she said.

After that, there was no stopping Charlie Harry as he became known. We never saw an actual form again, but the lights would suddenly go out and come back on, doors wouldnt open because of heavy pressure being exerted from within, objects flew about the room, there were whooshes of cold air, and we heard weird, far-away voices. It became frightening, to the extent that none of us would venture alone into the passage or beyond.

We went to see our boss, Brian Goddard, about it. He was not at all surprised because he already knew about the ghost. So did Churchills son-in-law, Duncan Sandys (Mr Goddards direct superior) and others.

Theres nothing to worry about. Hes been doing it for years. He wont hurt you...

Wont hurt you, indeed! The last straw came one day when a sudden, violent force barged into me and shunted me at speed across the room into a corner. I hit the wall and sank to the floor. My nose was bleeding, although I hadnt knocked it. The rest of the girls ran, screaming, from the room and I fainted. The next thing I knew, everyone was standing round me looking scared out of their wits.

I left my job within a week. In time, I lost contact with my fellow-workers, and memories of the priest began to fade. But I still sometimes wonder why Charlie Harry took a dislike to me.

Josephine Taylor, Hastings, East Sussex , 1996

LADY IN BLACK

Lectures that morning had swept from the dark satanic mills up to just before the Great War. I had followed this with some two hours quiet study in the University Library. It was November, and by about three in the afternoon I returned to my lodgings in Sutton Coldfield in the West Midlands.

Mrs Branksome, my landlady, was a 76-year-old widow who put up with me more for company and to have a man about the house than for the rent I was able to pay her. I had just completed five years war service and was catching up on those lost years with a degree course at Birmingham. It would be fair to say that I had both feet firmly on the ground and was not given to daydreaming or idle speculation.

As I put my latch-key into the front door I knew Mrs Branksome was out and that I would have the house to myself for some hours. It was still daylight, but rapidly darkening, when I slid the door catch and entered the house, swinging round through the door with my back to the stairs while I removed the key from the lock. The stairs swept up out of the hall, with two small landings at each turn up to the first floor. As I closed the door, I knew instantly that I was not alone. I turned round to face the stairs and there, some 20ft (6m) away on the first landing, stood a little old lady, dressed from head to toe in black bombazine. She smiled at me, I drew a deep breath and then she was gone. I blinked, shook my head and wondered just what or whom I had seen. Strangely, I felt no fear, just an overwhelming feeling of being welcome. When Mrs Branksome returned that evening, we had our usual evening chat and that was that.