Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day 9 — The Woman in the Blitz

  I was privileged, this spring, to spend three weeks ghost hunting in England and Scotland with Dale Kaczmarek. Our host for those three weeks was Paul Adams, a renowned writer of ghost stories himself. One evening as we were sitting around talking after supper, Paul brought out file after file of newspaper clippings he had … Continue reading Twelve Nightmares of Christmas, Day 9 — The Woman in the Blitz

  I was privileged, this spring, to spend three weeks ghost hunting in England and Scotland with Dale Kaczmarek. Our host for those three weeks was Paul Adams, a renowned writer of ghost stories himself. One evening as we were sitting around talking after supper, Paul brought out file after file of newspaper clippings he had collected over the years, of ghostly tales from all over England. He graciously allowed me to have a copy of this next story, the winner of the Evening Standard ghost story competition.

  Just before Christmas, during the blitz, I was waiting for my husband to come home early to look after our two children so I could go out to do the Christmas shopping.

  He had not arrived by half-past four. If there was to be any food in the house for Christmas I had to make a dash to the grocer’s before the shops closed.

  I put the children in the air-raid shelter with strict instructions that they were not to come out until I returned.

  As I was leaving the shop with my bag loaded, what seemed like a stick of bombs came down in the direction of my home. I ran for all I was worth.

  The windows were blown in, a large part of the ceiling had come down, the kitchen fire had been blown into the middle of the floor, heavy plates had crashed off the dresser, and our apology for a Christmas tree was covered with soot.

  The children were playing happily in the shelter untroubled by it all.

  ”We were naughty,” the older child confessed. “We came out to play in the kitchen after you had gone, but the lady you sent to look after us brought us back into the shelter just before the bang. She stood by the shelter watching us and we weren’t a bit frightened when everything shook.”

  I had not sent anybody. The lady from the children’s description was certainly not any of the neighbours. She had taken them by the hand and led them back to the shelter. She had not spoken, but kept smiling at them and went away when my footsteps sounded in the kitchen.

  But I met no one coming out of the shelter.

  Some weeks afterwards the children were looking through a bundle of old photographs and books.

  ”Oh, Mum,” my little girl exclaimed, “this is the lady who looked after us that day in the raid!”

  She handed me a photograph. It was a picture of my mother who had been dead for 22 years. — [Mrs.] A.V. Hartley, Cambridge Street, S.W.1.I

  Thanks very much to Paul Adams for sharing this story with me — and incidentally, making possible the next half-dozen or so Lights Out episodes. Lights Out will return in the next few weeks, with loads of really great adventures.

  Do be sure to pop ’round to www.weirddarkness.com for some tea and crumpets. Or bagels and cream cheese. Or hotdogs and beer, I don’t judge. G’wan, go!

  Still here? Okay, here’s another fun Christmas story for you. It’s from the same article in the Evening Standard, and it’s called “A German Airman.”

  Late in the afternoon on Christmas Eve, 1943, I was returning to our WAAF hostel, an old rambling house. Halfway up the tree-lined drive I saw before me a German airman with dishevelled clothes and his hands roughly bandaged.

  He came slowly towards me, bandaged hands outstretched. Then he seemed to melt away.

  I learned from the duty sergeant that a Luftwaffe pilot had been shot down, but had escaped and was heading in our direction. He was burned on the hands and was desperate.

  Later, another signal said that the man had been found dead in a wrecked car 20 miles from the hostel — and several hours before I “saw” him. — [Mrs.] A.R. Loveland, Artillery Road, Guildford.