First-handaccountsofstrangeexperiencesfromFTreadershaunted room of the reputedly
most hauntedcastleint he
country,and Iwas at themost
susceptibleage.
David Gandy
LancasterMonsieurDuval’s
revenant?On 1August2019, my husband,
my son (12) and his cousins
(nine and 13) stayeduprelatively
latetowatch TV.Iwenttob ed
much earlierthan them.The
next morning, the older cousin
toldmethat,whenhefinally
went to bed, he had seenaman
going out of my bedroom and
entering anotherroomdirectly
across the landing (my husband
wasstill in the living-roomatthe
time).We laughed about it and
forgot the whole thing untilthe
following week, whenIread an
obituary in my local newspaper
announcingthat the former
owner of my house, Monsieur
Duval,had died.Although he
diedon27July,Iimmediately got
goosebumps and nearly shouted
“It wasMonsieurDuval ’s ghost!”
to my husband and son. I
knewthat my bedroomwas
the previous owner’s bedroom
whenhewas married,and that
after his divorce (thatiswhen
we boughtthe house), he had
moved across the landing...
Icannot help but thinkthat
the following story is linked to
Monsieur Duval’spassing.
When we boughtthe house
in 1998, we foundalitter of
nearly feral kittensint he barn.
We managed to adopt one,
which becameaverysweetyet
fearful domesticcat.Wecalled
her Prunelle.She wasstill in
goodhealt huntilthe beginning
of August,when shegradually
stopped eating.Itookher to the
vet, whofound nothing alarming,
even afterablood sample, and
rehydrated her.Her guesswas
that Prunelle,21, wasjust dying
of ol dage.And shedid indeed
die afew daysafterthat ,one
month after MonsieurDuval, as
if an erahad to be close dwith
his passing.
Catherine Dupont
Habergy,Belgiumknights in armour andablack
dog. But after each story,with
mock terror,hesaid that hewas
saving the most haunted partof
the castle until thevery end. As
we were heading for this finale
we realisedthat we were going
down the corridor to the Family
Room, where our packedluggage
wasstill in place. As he opened
the door,the guide announced
this as being the most haunted
room.Everyone piled in as the
guideremoved the rug, unlocked
the trapdoor and openeditto
revealavery deepdungeon, only
accessible throughthe trapdoor.
He explained that thiswasanou-
bliette–hence the name of the
room–adungeon where prison-
ers weredropped (some of them
died from the fall) and then
forgotten. Of course, the name
derivesfromthe French word
‘oublier’whichmeans‘toforget’.
Bot hmyparents murmured,“Ah,
now Iremember”. Apparently, in
this way, lords couldagree that
they would not killhost ages,but
by dropping them in an oubliette
they simply ‘forgot’about them;
so theycould not be accusedof
havingkilledthem, even though
the hostages ended up dead.
The guide said that itwas
boys in their early teenageyears
who were mostaffectedbythe
room, and generally felt uneasy
when there.Thiswas ascribed
to many boys ofasimilarage
–who were thieves,hostages
or whatever–being thrown into
the oubliette and left to die.So
Ihad been st ayin ginthe mostMy elder brother John and I
slept in the bunk while my par-
ents andyounger brother Chris
slept in the three separate beds.
Everynight Ifoundit very difficult
to sleep properly,and both John
and Iborrowed extrabed covers
andquiltsbecause we felt so
cold,eventhough itwassum-
mer. Also,the two of us felt as
though we were beingwatched.
Ipointblank refusedtobein
the room on my own at any time
during our stay–eithe rweall
had to leave the room together
or someone had to stay with me.
Ifeltgreat relief whenIwas out
of the room.
On the eveningof the
mediævalbanquet, we were all
sittinginthe dining room when
Dad realised that he had left his
camera back in our room and
asked me to go and fetch it. I
literally feltcold fromhead to
foot and refused to go.Itended
up with John accompanying me,
and we stuck together likeglue.
When we got thereJohnstayed
in the doorway whileIdashed in
and grabbed the camera.Iran
out and thenbothof us ranup
the corridorback towards the
dining room.Itfelt as ifIwere
being chased.
On the morning of our depar-
ture,wepacked our thingsand
had breakfast. As therewasa
ghost tour organisedfor alittle
later,wehungontotakepart.
The guidewasfullofs tories
about ghostly babies,grey
ladies,the hangingroomand var-
ious phantoms, whic hincludedFearoftheOublietteIn August1997,whenIwas
13 years old,Iwentonashort
holiday withmyparents and two
brothers,staying for four nights
at the St Briavels CastleYouth
Hostel in theForest of Dean.The
castle isaGrade Ilistedancient
monument, over 800yearsold,
once King John’sHunting Lodge.
One reasonwehad chosen to
go therewasbecause it held
mediæval banquets,and this
gave allthe family the opportu-
nity to dress up and have fun.
Iknewnothing about the cas-
tle itselfbeforehand,but when
we arrivedIfelt apprehensive
as we crossed the courtyard,
and uncomfortable while at the
reception.Wewere directed to
the Family Roomand, aswas
my way, Iwas at the front of our
groupcarrying our luggage,eager
to see the room;but as we en-
teredthe corridor leadingtot he
roomIfelt extremely unnerved,
and abit col dand nervous –
whichmade me retreat to the
back of everyone.Ididn’t want to
go intothe room, and had to be
‘forced’in. We noticedthat the
name on the door of the Family
Roomwas‘Oubliette’.We knew
that thiswasFrench, butwehad
all forgotten what it mightmean
(pun in tended). Underarug in
the middle of the wooden floor,
we foundatrapdoor.Naturally,
we all hadagoattrying to open
it, but itwasclearly locked. Later
Ifoundthat Iwante dtokeep my
distance from it.IT HAPPENED TO ME...TH
OMA
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OLKIEN
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