THE EALING HORROR

In the borough of Ealing, West London a photographer, keen to set up his own studio, moves into a half-derelict house. He brings with him his staff, who although slightly unnerved by the setting, settle in comfortably. Until that is, the noises start.

It wasn’t the studio that had such a hideous history, but it was the studio that succumbed to the activity. The peculiar noises coming from unoccupied rooms, the shifting of furniture when no-one was around, members of staff beginning to sense a presence, an unseen hand which tapped them on the shoulder or tugged at their garments, and those spectral voices from within the walls soon made this an awkward place to reside.

The photographer had a strong interest in the paranormal, as had many of his staff, and so, one evening, as darkness drew in, they decided to hold a seance, at least in the hope of communicating with some unknown form. To their delight, in some instances, they did indeed contact a spirit, but the eerie presence spoke of unrest in the neighboring building, a place that had seen much evil within its walls.

A lady and her very young child had been butchered in the property, and a man, belonging to one of the forces, was accused, found guilty and hanged for his crime. It was during this detail that the photographer began to feel sore around his neck, and felt that the spirit in contact with them was indeed the alleged murderer, and this was confirmed when the spectre pleaded its innocence.

Whether such an apparition was cast from the property we’ll never know, only persistent rumour or further experiences could shed some light on as to whether the property is still in turmoil.

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DEPRESSED YET?

SWINGERS...

... get it?

:D

RUDE AWAKENING

The last thing I saw was my alarm clock flashing 12:07 before she pushed her long rotting nails through my chest, her other hand muffling my screams. 

I sat bolt upright, relieved it was only a dream, but as I saw my alarm clock read 12:06, I heard my closet door creak open.

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FACELESS PHANTOM

Even the police stationed outside the house in Langmead Street couldn’t find an answer. They couldn’t explain the strange buzzing noises heard by 26-year-old Cecil Greenfield. They couldn’t find a suspect to arrest for the weird banging noises which kept the family awake every night. The family of eight were tormented by an unseen assailant who dragged furniture about the West Norwood residence. And then, at 2:15 am on a warm July night in 1951, Dennis and his wife Gladys got the shock of their life when they entered their home and were confronted by a tall, grey figure without a face.

Inspector Sidney Candler was extremely skeptical of the fiasco until he heard the thumping noises coming from the attic, and was unnerved as a picture flew from the wall and smashed on the floor. Cutlery seemed to rattle in the drawers.

The house attracted many locals, some simply intrigued by the local haunted house, others more skeptical who howled abuse at the residents, shouting “Get your heads examined!” Even the relatives of the family were embarrassed by the situation and refused to aid the troubled family.

Father Alfred Cole of St. Matthew’s Church was called in to exorcise the building. It was the last resort for the family who’d been plagued by the noises all day, and every night. A group from the Church of the Nazarene held a vigil throughout the night, deep in prayer in hope of cleansing the house of its evil. And yet the activity refused to subside. If anything it increased.

The radio turned on by itself. Peculiar lights whizzed across the living room. A mattress lifted up and appeared to bend, and poor Dennis was accosted by an invisible intruder who tore his shirt.

The family had reached the brink. They fled. They were not followed by the spectres within.

A couple with four children moved into the property, fully aware of its reputation. They were never troubled by the phantoms, and the house on Langmead Street returned to normal.

 

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SAMURAI FACE

Heikegani ‘Samurai Face’ crabs are native to Japan and have a shell that bears a pattern resembling a human face.

PARABLE OF THE MADMAN

The madman jumped into their midst and pierced them with his eyes. "Whither is God?" he cried; "I will tell you. We have killed him---you and I. All of us are his murderers. But how did we do this? How could we drink up the sea? Who gave us the sponge to wipe away the entire horizon? What were we doing when we unchained this earth from its sun? Whither is it moving now? Whither are we moving? Away from all suns? Are we not plunging continually? Backward, sideward, forward, in all directions? Is there still any up or down? Are we not straying, as through an infinite nothing? Do we not feel the breath of empty space? Has it not become colder? Is not night continually closing in on us? Do we not need to light lanterns in the morning? Do we hear nothing as yet of the noise of the gravediggers who are burying God? Do we smell nothing as yet of the divine decomposition? Gods, too, decompose. God is dead. God remains dead. And we have killed him.