From time to time, I come across a mention of Black Shuck – the fearsome canine ghost that roams various parts of Norfolk, particularly along the coast. He has, according to legend, huge glaring eyes, as large as saucers, and a glance spells certain death. Who it was who saw the eyes long enough to warn the rest of us is not quite clear, but enough of that.
A girl I knew claimed to have seen him, near Happisburgh, if my memory serves me right. He didn’t see her, so she lived to tell the tale. This girl was a pupil in my class, and we were discussing ghosts that day. The class contained some firm believers, some diehard scoffers, and a few “don’t knows”. I put myself in the last category, preferring to keep an open mind about manifestations – “There are more things in Heaven and Earth, Horatio”, and all that.
One of the firm believers told us that the cottage in which he lived was plagued by a poltergeist and was so circumstantial that I thought some of the scoffers showed signs of wavering. Anyway, they rallied when some of the famous local ghosts were mentioned – Shuck, the Skater of Hickling, the fighting ghosts of Stalham – or was it Hales? Or both, perhaps. The consensus was that they were old wives’ tales, or old husbands’ tales, put about by smugglers to keep simple country folk safe indoors when the dirty deeds were done at dead of night.
A haunted house visit
“What about the old rectory?” asked a girl. “Some of us have been there, and we know it’s haunted – and not at night either.” The rectory in question was a couple of miles from the school, a big, old, decrepit building standing forlorn in its overgrown grounds. I decided to have a look at it the next lunchtime, and the girl and two of her friends were to come with me to show me the evidence.
So the next day we piled into my car and went to have a look at the haunted house. Now, I don’t care what reason tells me – I find something spooky about a big, old, deserted house, even in broad daylight, almost as though the memories of years are hanging about, unwilling to be disturbed. So it was with this one. The front door hung off its hinges, and in we went, but we agreed afterwards that we felt like intruders.
However, the rooms downstairs were empty – and ghostless. So was the first floor. No shocks there except for the girls, who didn’t see me sneak up the back stairs to give them a fright when they arrived.
The ghost that wasn’t there
There was one more floor, and a narrow flight of stairs led up to what had been the servants’ quarters. We crowded onto the narrow landing, looked in one room, two rooms – no ghosts there either. But quite clearly, from inside the closed last room, came strange noises! Had we tracked the ghost to its lair?
By a nearly unanimous vote it was decided that I should open the door, no matter what fiendish manifestation lay on the other side. Very gingerly, I did so – and the ghost of the rectory was revealed. A wren, which had entered through a small hole in a window, couldn’t get out again, and was fluttering at the pane. The sash was raised, and the ghost was laid.
We had tested one theory and found it slightly wanting; now it was time to test another.
Inventing the Mad Axeman
Was it possible, as the doubters averred, to spread round the details of a ghost so that people would believe the tale? I set an essay for homework. Each pupil was to invent a ghost that had some connection with the area in which they lived. We would take the best one and make it known as a “real” ghost story. At some future date we would see if the seed had taken root.
Far and away the best was by a boy called John. I have forgotten his surname, but I remember he later went into the Army. He wrote an account centred on a ruined cottage up a road near the school. According to him, a woodchopper lived there with his wife and children. One day, in a fit of madness, he killed his family. He was taken up for the foul crime and was later hanged for it. But his spirit, unable to rest, haunted the now deserted and half-derelict cottage, moaning for his wife and children.
We christened him “The Mad Axeman of Brumstead” and prepared to send him on his wanderings into, we hoped, legend.
Each class I took for the rest of the week found itself talking about ghosts, and I now confess, with some trepidation, that I lied shamelessly to them about “The Mad Axeman”. The homework set was an account of all the local ghosts; the purpose not to invent new ones, but to corral “The Axeman” between the covers of their books. I feel a pang about this now, but I console myself that it was in the sacred interests of furthering human understanding. Part of my unworthy scheme was to get news of “The Axeman” into the pupils’ homes, at least on paper.
When fiction became folklore
The payoff came the next year. Taking a class I had not taught before, I again introduced the subject of ghosts. Once again, the children were voluble and quite opinionated. Out came Black Shuck, the Skater, the Headless Horseman of Catfield – and I found myself listening to a vivid account of “The Mad Axeman of Brumstead.” Not only that, but I was assured that one pupil’s gran had seen the Axeman and wouldn’t go near the cottage late at night.
So that was that! Of course, it might only have been a flash in the pan, and the spurious ghost might have retreated into well-deserved oblivion, but you never know. I must confess that I look carefully at any book that deals with local legends. My ambition for this poor, imaginary malefactor is that unworthy as he is, he one day should be, as they say, ennobled in print.
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