Yet more 'Real or surreal?' (by Mike Kazybrid)

Towards the end of my last ‘Real or surreal?’, I made mention of the household cat and wrote the following comment: ‘Like every other pet I'd ever had in that house, it had died by unseen means.’ My good friend, Wooders, is keen that I explain. So here goes!

Let's set the scene. We're looking at the life of a young lad growing up in the 1960s ... er ... I'm talking about me, who else? Where was I? Oh yes, growing up in the 1960s! Wonderful time, great days, full of a real sense of creative talent going on, not just in comics, but also in film and television.

In the midst of all this, like most kids I had my share of pets, with the odd dog (and if you'd have seen them, you'd have called them odd!), but mainly cats. Now, the general idea is that when you purchase a pet, you like to think that it's going to live with you for quite a number of years, but sadly this wasn't the case.

During a period of a few years, without fail, each and every animal never died of natural causes. Troubled by this, but not as much as the cats were, I decided to present to my mother the various important questions that were forming in my young mind, questions such as: ‘Why has Tiddles kicked the bucket?’ (Hmm, bet Tiddles wanted the answer to that one as well!)

This is where we finally get to the much awaited spooky bit. Going back many years before, when Mum was just a youngster herself, a very mean and nasty piece of work once lived in the area, by the name of Mr Topee, better known as ol' Topee to all the local kids. The said character had a real hatred of animals, more so cats and dogs.

Why? Good question. I mean, I could understand it had it been that damn dog that once bit me on the rear whilst I ran for my life. (I have to confess that I was that six-year-old boy who had fired his best super-duper water pistol at its mush!) Anyway, back to ol' Topee.

It happened this way: late one afternoon, my mum and a few other children had noticed him wandering down one of the back streets, staggering under the weight of the large sack that rested over his shoulders. But it was the sight of Topee returning from the darkened back street without the mentioned sack that brought a chill to the young onlookers.

Having waited until he was clearly out of sight, they rushed tightly together, each footstep almost walking in time with the others. The late afternoon sun didn't seem to cast its kind rays on that part of the darkened street corner. As they approached the outline of the abandoned sack, they held each other in an attempt to feel like one complete force.

Mum couldn't remember just who had made the original move, but it was the slight nudge of someone's shoe that made the sack fall over. Having remained still for what seemed like for ever, with a great sense of daring they untied the old piece of string that held the top together. At this point it revealed its terrible secret: the cold, still features of what was once a handsome German shepherd resting silently on the stone floor. Sadly, this wasn't the first and certainly not the last time that animals were to be poisoned by the hand of Mr Topee.

Phew! Okay, let's get back to the '60s. Having discovered the tale of Topee, I followed it up with my next question to Mum: ‘What's that got to do with us right now?’ I honestly didn't want the answer.

It appeared that Mr Topee died at home whilst seated in his old rocking chair. This wasn't long before his house went up for sale, and it was soon to be purchased by my gran. In short, Topee had parted this life in our home … my home! It wasn't the perfect answer, but could this be the reason why my pets died, never enjoying a full and long life in Topee's house?

That evening, I recall taking myself off to bed, feeling that something of that horrible old man remained in its structure. Just before falling asleep, it was time for one final question, the one I really shouldn't have asked: ‘Mum, you know the rocking chair that ol' Topee died in. Whatever happened to it?’

‘Oh, that? That's the one that sits in the far side of the cellar. Sleep well, son!’

What we do in our spare time (by Andrew Wooding)

Since Mike and I started 2MG a few months ago - (2MG is our new snazzy abbreviation for 'Two Men and a Ghost') - a lot of you have asked us what we do in our spare time when we're not out and about on our nocturnal excursions, methodically scouring the highways and byways of Sheffield for definite proof of ghost activity.

I say 'a lot of you'. What I mean is, a couple of you have asked us what we do in our spare time. Well, one of you. Well ... not even one. Apparently, none of you care in the slightest what we do in our spare time. But Mike's drawn this cartoon of us unwinding in between our important investigations, so I'm going to inflict it on you anyway. As you can see, it's fun fun fun at 2MG Mansions. Boy, do we know how to let it all hang out. Even Mike's cat is infected with the party spirit.

One thing I realised the last time I unwound was that I didn't completely finish the story of our first trip to Graves Park. After our utter and total failure to find any form of light to illuminate that sign in the dark, we returned downhearted to Mike's car to have a detailed and important debrief.

'I think we need to bring torches next time,' said Mike.

'Mm,' I agreed.

Our debrief over, I suddenly saw that there was something black and indistinct in the dim light of the road in the distance. What could it be? A stray dog? A fox? A starving squirrel foraging for nuts? Or something more sinister and supernatural heading straight for us?

I pointed it out to Mike, but he couldn't see it.

Doubting my eyes, I peered into the distance and spied the spectral shape again. It was weird and formless - unearthly, even - and it was still on the move.

Alarmingly, it also seemed to be moving in time with my head. If I turned slightly to the right, it also turned right. If I turned slightly to the left, it did likewise. Could it have become psychically linked with my neck muscles?

I pointed it out to Mike again, but he still couldn't see it.

'Pah! Are you blind?' I snorted, and I thrust my hand forward to point his eyes in the right direction. It was then that I noticed my finger was pointing at a small speck of muck on Mike's windscreen. It was weird and formless - unearthly, even. Except it wasn't unearthly, was it? It was just an ordinary speck of muck. Peering into the distance through Mike's windscreen, the speck had appeared blurry and far off and had moved in time with my head.

Ah well. So close and yet so far. We almost had proof this week that ghosts exist. We were 99.9% certain of it. We were that near to finally knowing for a fact that paranormal beings roam the streets of south Yorkshire at night.

Too bad it was just a piece of shit on Mike's car.

Better luck next time? Maybe ... if we remember to bring our torches.

Ghostly goings-on at Graves Park (by Andrew Wooding)

‘Not again,’ I thought when Mike suggested we meet up at Bunting Nook, especially as our previous visits had proved spectacularly fruitless. But it turns out he only meant we should rendezvous there in our cars before strolling to our latest investigation, which he promised was ‘Just down the road…’

Which road, and the precise length of Mike’s ‘just’ were appropriately vague, as I was soon to find out.

We nattered for a while in Mike’s car about this and that and t’other, and before we knew it, night was falling all around us.

Fall, it went.

‘Better get a move on,’ I suggested. ‘Where are we supposed to be heading anyway?’

‘Follow me,’ beckoned Mike, ‘and I’ll tell you a story.’

As we sauntered in the twilight, Mike regaled me with the thrilling tale of a photographer and a young woman. No, not a salacious piece of gossip, but a startling story of impossible photographs and invisible wedding crashers.

Back in 1989, the photographer in question had shot a panoramic snap across the boating lake in Graves Park. When he developed it, he noticed a young woman standing between some trees in the background, wearing a long short-sleeved dress and holding a bouquet of flowers. The photographer insisted she hadn’t been there at the time, so how had she ended up in the picture? (Cue some suitably atmospheric spooky music, maybe downloadable from iTunes. Just type in ‘suitably atmospheric spooky music’ and see what comes up.)

Around the same time, just before a wedding at Norton Parish Church, a guest took some photos of the building. Again, there was a ginormous surprise when the snaps were developed: the pictures showed quite clearly a bridesmaid in a Victorian dress. The people who’d developed the piccies (the local branch of Boots?) informed the lady who took the snaps that they’d seen that bridesmaid before – she’d appeared in photographs of other weddings at the very same church. Creepy, eh? (Now play the theme to The Twilight Zone. If you don’t have it to hand, just hum it.)

Turns out that a long, long time ago - possibly in the nineteenth century - a bride-to-be received some very bad news before her wedding. The news remains a mystery, but whatever it was - (maybe she’d been told she had to live in Bunting Nook?) - she fled from the church and was later found dead in the boating lake of Graves Park.

To add to this jolly tale, another woman committed suicide in the very same lake, again for marital reasons: her dad wouldn’t give her permission to marry her boyfriend. Could one – or both – of these women have turned up in the various purported ghost photos, both, for reasons of their own, obsessed with weddings and cameras?

As Mike told me all this, I had a moment of inspiration. Maybe we could fake a marriage ceremony at the church in Norton, entice one of these ghost brides to turn up, snap a load of piccies, then nip down to the nearest Boots for our definite photographic proof that weddings and ghoulies are often ideal bedfellows.

For some reason, Mike wasn’t happy with the idea. Maybe it was because I’d volunteered him as the pretend bride in our staged wedding. Or maybe it was because we’d just walked a mile and couldn’t see Graves Park anywhere.

‘I think I may have taken a wrong turning,’ he admitted. So we took a different turning and carried on sauntering.

‘I think I may have taken a wrong turning,’ he admitted again as – another mile later – we were still no closer to the site of our investigation. At least we were getting some exercise. Ever hopeful, we tried another turning.

Guess what happened after a further mile of walking?

‘I think I've … er … taken a wrong turning again.’ (I bet other ghost hunters don’t have this problem. Maybe the ghost brides were messing with our sense of direction.)

The only thing for it was to head back to our cars at Bunting Nook and drive to Graves Park. We still might get lost, but at least we wouldn’t get blisters on our tootsies.

Amazingly, we made it, and we marched through the open park gates in almost pitch blackness. So, where was the boating lake? We couldn’t see it anywhere. But we still walked slowly in case we accidentally stumbled across it and joined those poor women at the bottom.

Eventually, we bumped into a sign.

Bump!

‘Ow.’

Maybe this would give us a clue where to go. But we couldn’t read the words in the darkness, and we didn’t have any torches. Mike lit up his mobile phone – not enough illumination, unfortunately. I lit up my iPod – even less illumination, but at least we had the option of listening to the Greatest Hits of ABBA to cheer ourselves up.

With nothing else to do, we returned downhearted to our vehicles. What an evening. First, we’d got spectacularly lost. Second, we couldn’t find our haunted boating lake, despite being in the very park it was meant to be in. And third, Mike selfishly refused to kit himself out with a wedding dress to aid our investigations.

We felt like the worst ghost-hunters ever. Or were we?

Read on, McDuff, for the imminent account of our second foray into ghostly Graves Park, this time armed with torches…

In the dark...

Here's another cartoon from Mike. In case you suspected that the two of us are in the dark about ghost hunting, this picture confirms it!

What it actually illustrates is our experience at Graves Park, when we went on the hunt for two drowned women in the boating lake. What a night we had: ghost photos, eerie weddings, cross-dressing (sort of), an evil dark thingy crossing the road, and a King Size Twix between us.

Keep watching for the full report on this very blog next week when all will be explained. Two Men and a Ghost - I never knew there was so much in it!

(Apologies to the venerable TV Times for nicking their 1980s advertising slogan...)

Poltergeists and portaloos

Inspired by last week's blog entry, which revealed that a ghost in Barnsley revels in flushing the loo, Mike Kazybrid crafted the above cartoon.

Which reminds me: word has reached of us a haunted loo in Sheffield. It's located in a certain Little Chef, and what's more ... it's in the women's toilets.

Not sure how Mike and I are going to get away with investigating this one, but we'll keep you posted. In the meantime, if you know of any drag queen outfitters in the Sheffield area, please let us know...

The Star and Beauchief Abbey (by Andrew Wooding)

Mike emailed me the other day with some joyous news: ‘To bring good cheer, check out the Sheffield Star website. It appears that yesterday we received another mention that we're becoming big down under!’ I’ve never been accused of being big down under – more so round the waist. So, in the absence of a link, I googled ‘Sheffield’, ‘Star’ and ‘ghost’ and found this – not quite what I was looking for, but interesting nevertheless.

It’s an article about a ghost from Barnsley that’s obsessed with flushing toilets. The question one has to ask is: ‘Why?’ What trauma from their mortal existence would lead a ghost to compulsively flush the bog? Is there a dysentry pandemic in the spirit world? Do they get the squits in the nether regions? Or could it be Elvis from beyond the grave, regretting that one last cheeseburger?

I googled again, a little more precisely this time, and found our mention here, under the heading ‘Ghosthunters a hit Down Under’. The piece was written by Sheffield journalist Martin Dawes, the same nice person who kindly gave us a plug when this blog was just two weeks old. His write-ups are much appreciated, but he seemed to end this one with a sarky comment: ‘Their site is full of funny cartoons. But not, as yet, a single ghost…’

Really? What about our malfunctioning mileometer on the Stocksbridge bypass? And Mike’s childhood reminiscences of his levitating cot and haunted piano? Maybe he reckons these can all be explained away. Maybe he's looking for conclusive proof?

Well … here, especially for you, Martin Dawes … is the account of our trek to Beauchief Abbey.

It was a peaceful evening, in lovely grounds surrounded by a golf course. The abbey was founded in 1175 by Robert FitzRanulf de Alfreton. Old FitzRanulf (or 'Fitz' for short) was High Sheriff of Nottingham and Derbyshire. Some believe he played a part in the shameful death of Thomas Becket in 1170.

The theory is that Fitz, racked with guilt by his misdemeanour, attempted to redeem himself by funding a religious building. Back then there was no Children in Need or Comic Relief for conscience-easing acts of charity, so Fitz had to build an abbey instead. Slightly more expensive, perhaps, than writing a cheque to Pudsey Bear, but at least he didn't have to put up with Terry Wogan. Or wear a red nose. (Or maybe he did. Who knows what fun-loving High Sheriffs of Nottingham and Derbyshire got up to in those days? There's nothing in the history books to prove otherwise.)

As for paranormal activity, there's supposedly a ghostly monk in the vicinity. Maybe a friend or former colleague of the 'mad monk of Stocksbridge'? Our Beauchief Abbey monk wasn't mad - at least, not this evening. We didn't see hide nor habit of him. He probably couldn't be bothered to do a haunting tonight. Perfectly content with his lot, he was quite happy to put his feet up in the great beyond while chanting in Latin ... or contemplating ... or painting over his bald spot ... or whatever ghost monks do on their evenings off. (Wonder if ghost monks have a union? The GMU perhaps?)

There have also been sightings of a lady in white, who sometimes roams the ruins of the abbey. We didn't see her either. All I can say is I'm glad she didn't wear red, otherwise that annoying Chris de Burgh song would have gone round our heads all evening, over and over again. (Wish I hadn't mentioned it. It's going round my head right now.)

For what it's worth, it's been written that the abbey is built on ancient ley lines, but no matter how hard I looked I couldn't see them. What does a ley line look like when it's at home anyway?

Desperate for something strange to happen, we ascended a large grass mound and surveyed our surroundings. Mike started to theorise that the mound was home to a mutant giant mole that only came out at night, and I believed him ... for a milli-microsecond, that is. Mike was clearly gibbering, so it was time to call it a day.

'It's a day,' I said.

'No, it's not,' said Mike. 'It's a mound.'

I tripped on the way back to the car. Had I stumbled across an ancient ley line? Closer inspection revealed it was a can of Irn-Bru.

So, Martin Dawes of the Sheffield Star, you'll be pleased to see that there's no conclusive proof again this week. But hope springs eternal in the human breast and maybe in the ghostly breast as well - or breasts, in the case of the lady in white.

Better luck next time? At the infamous boating pond of the ghostly Graves Park?

In the meantime, how can I free my mind of Chris de Burgh's incessant warbling? Got any bright ideas anyone? Where's that packet of Anadin...

More 'Real or surreal?' (by Mike Kazybrid)

Welcome to yet another blog edition of ‘Real or surreal?’ As already mentioned in my last offering, whilst I'm a pretty much down to earth type of guy, the idea behind these is simply to show that the strangest things can happen, and most often do. So sit back, take another sip of that tea, coffee or whatever takes your fancy, and pin back your lugholes! (That's ears to anyone else.)

This ‘Spooky Encounter of the Ghost Kind’ takes place when I was around the young age of nine. Life was good as I was well into discovering The Mighty World of Marvel comics. Spider-Man was top of my list of superheroes, not forgetting that wonderful battle between the Human Torch and Captain America. And just in case you missed out on that issue of Strange Tales, that Cap turned out to be a fake. However, it did open the door for the grand return of the real Captain America as seen in The Avengers #4.

Okay, I'll promise to shut up. So, where was I? Oh, yes, spooky encounters, etc.

To set the scene, for the first eleven years of my life I grew up in my grandmother's house, a large place consisting of eight bedrooms. Apart from my parents and I, Gran would often have stay a number of lodgers. As a youngster, I was never alone; people always seemed to fill each space of the house. But as I got older, I also grew to realise that certain others did also dwell alongside of us. Are you spooked yet?

On a serious note, whilst humour has always played a large part in both the careers of my good mate, Andrew and myself, we were deeply aware when we started to produce Two Men and a Ghost that certain events force you to adopt a serious view of paranormal matters. Certain others did reside in the house of my childhood, as I was to learn yet again on that cold November night.

On the evening in question, my father was at work. He was a man who had been employed in the textile industry for over 20 years, working 13 hours a night, six nights a week. My gran happened to be out, and because of a shortage of lodgers, the only ones left in the house were my mother and myself.

I recall playing with my toys while Mum read the local newspaper. The only sounds came from myself, seeking to create a fantasy world for my toy figures.

It wasn't long before we both became aware that another sound had started to fill the air, the sound of the piano being played from the out of bounds front room. Out of bounds mainly to myself and any one else below the age of eighteen. Never quite understood why. For someone who was much more interested in the comic book version of New York and all the superheroes that filled it, the front room offered nothing but old furniture.

My mum and I sat staring at one another for a brief moment. Maybe we had imagined the sound. Perhaps the people next door were having a piano party? Fat chance! As we slowly left the room, we quietly began to walk down the stairs, always mindful of the terrible creaking noise coming from each wooden step.

But as we turned the corner to come down the next flight of stairs, it wasn't the thick blackness that sent a chill deep inside me, it was that thin bright line of light from the bottom of the front room door. I recall a feeling of fear mixed with excitement filling my entire body. It didn't matter that my mum was standing next to me; after all, when my father was out, surely that made me the man of the house, didn't it? Even if I was only nine.

This was it; I could go no further. Standing up close to the door, I could hear very clearly the piano keys hitting the atmosphere. This was the first time I'd realised that they offered no real tune. Quite the opposite - it was a mass of tuneless screams produced be the erratic banging of an unseen hand. I began a mental countdown; it's amazing how brave you can be when you're much younger. Three, two, two-and-a-bit ... one!

Turning the door handle, I took a deep breath and quickly entered the room, expecting to see ... nothing. The first thing that puzzled my mum and I was the fact that the light was on, but couldn't Gran have left it on before going out for the evening?

It was the second part of that puzzle that made us feel uneasy. Looking around the room, my eyes fell upon the piano, revealing its black and white keys to the onlooker. That was something that shouldn't be, for the rule was always that the lid be firmly placed down, hence to avoid collecting dust. Placing my hands on the smooth surface of the keys, I could still feel the tell-tale vibration of its tones so recently played.

So there we have it, a light left on and a piano without the player.

So that's me, a pretty much down to earth type of guy. I often think back to that cold evening, and I wonder, which part of the answer did my young eyes miss? Anyone could have by mistake left the light on without mentioning it, and as for the piano, perhaps the cat had got locked in and in a state of panic, had climbed upon the keys creating that awful sound. Except, the lid wouldn't have been left up, and the cat wasn't around any more. Like every other pet I'd ever had in that house, it had died by unseen means.

And that's a story for the next ‘Real or surreal?’ Sleep well...