Will Storr vs. The Supernatural: One Man's Search for the Truth About Ghosts

by Will Storr

  I glance to my left to check on our progress. The colours in my window have changed from flat, blank black to a hard, glowing orange as the bridges, bricks and broken fences of the town have emerged from the fields. I pack all my papers away and then listen to what’s left of the disquieting testimony of Michele, the reluctant clairvoyant.

  ‘And then I went to visit the family. Well, it turned out that Alan had been to the grave with his wife only three days before with the roses. No one else knew that. Bob’s wife did have a very bad cold. And the family rallied round her. She was fine after that. It turned out Jimmy was a nephew who was a very, very good footballer who was about twelve. I don’t know very much about what happened to him after that. But certainly on the roses front and the wife, yeah, that was all true. And Graham said, “What was he wearing?” I said, “He was wearing a Pringle jumper.” And he said, “That’s what we buried him in.” I started getting a lot more visitors after that. People just appearing in the bedroom. I didn’t even know who they were. I had people talking to me in different languages – I had an old lady who was Greek. I had to try and write things down, but I just couldn’t do it. She was chatting to me, standing in the corner of the room. I couldn’t always see them clearly, sometimes I could only see their outline. It was freaking me out and I was losing more and more sleep. It was always happening at the same time, just before dawn. And it was happening almost every night. And at the end I was exhausted. I just couldn’t work properly, I couldn’t think, I couldn’t do anything, I was just shattered. And it was getting worse and worse and I was going to bed dreading … ’

  And, finally I’m here – the place where, in just over two hours’ time, I have an appointment to keep with the dead.

  18

  ‘Kangaroo!’

  EVERY WEDNESDAY EVENING, at half past seven precisely, fifty spectral souls gather themselves together and leave their home in the heavens for earth. They swim down through the clouds, and swoop along the high street, past and around the last few shoppers moseying into Morrison’s, over the Big Issue seller in the old blue Puffa jacket, and through the tussle of young drinkers who sit and text on the wall by the derelict phone box. They arrive silently, obediently and always on time, at an anonymous brick building in the corner of a Scunthorpe car park to deliver wisdom and messages to a congregation of kindly local Spiritualists. And tonight I will be joining them.

  I’d been having trouble getting access to a séance. I’d contacted the Spiritualists’ National Union on Maurice Grosse’s advice, and when it became clear that I intended to write about what went on, their shrift became suddenly short. I was instructed to submit a formal, written request by post. I didn’t expect a reply. And I didn’t get one.

  Then, help came from an unexpected direction. Big George from Ghosts-UK phoned me up, I mentioned my problem and, in an instant, he solved it for me. Jacqueline Adair, George told me, is a member of the SNU and one of his closest friends. He was sure she would be delighted to take me to a séance.

  Jacquie picks me up from the station and drives me back to her small, semi-detached house on the outskirts of town. It’s a warm and happy place that glows with welcome. The moment we walk in the door, I’m greeted by a dog, a daughter and a specially prepared roast dinner. Jacquie is the kind of host that humbles you. She’s frenetically attentive, checking constantly that I’m not hungry or thirsty or wanting for anything at all. She even insists on giving up her bed for me tonight and sleeping downstairs on her sofa.

  I sit at the breakfast bar and, as I prepare to open the first salvos of my attack on the mountain of meal in front of me, I look around. There’s a New Age rainstorm of glass baubles, dream-catchers and wind-chimes hanging from the ceiling. The walls are frantic with photos, framed certificates (from the SNU and a Reiki healing organisation) and air-brushed pictures of howling wolves, wondrous starry skyscapes and homoerotic Native Americans on muscular white horses. And there are fairies everywhere. Jacquie collects them. There are swarms of them on shelves, tables and in glass-fronted display cases. A large regiment of the glittery-winged pottery anorexics have even made their way onto the top of her telly.

  I put a forkful of beef into my mouth and listen to Jacquie explain some facts about the afterlife.

  ‘When someone dies down here, we cry, yeah?’

  ‘Hmm.’ I nod, chewing.

  ‘But in the spirit world they rejoice, because they’ve come back home. But it goes the other way, too. When a baby is born down here, in the spirit world, they cry.’ She cocks her head. ‘Do you understand?’

  Jacquie is an energetically super-friendly forty-one-year-old mother of four. She wears a baggy, mismatching tracksuit set and a pink plastic Alice-band on her head. As well as being an accomplished Spiritualist, she works from home, during the day, using her powers on a premium-rate psychic phone service.

  On the wall, amongst the pictures and certificates, I notice a wonkily drawn pastel portrait of a Native American in a headdress.

  ‘Is that your spirit guide?’ I ask.

  ‘Yes, that’s Black Elk,’ she says.

  ‘And why are they always Native Americans?’ I ask.

  Jacquie’s eyes are suddenly glazed over with blissed-out peacefulness. ‘Because they were pure, weren’t they?’ she says. ‘They lived off the land. Do you see what I mean?’

  ‘I think so,’ I say

  ‘When you’ve finished eating, do you want to have a look at my website?’ she asks.

  ‘Of course,’ I say.

  Eventually, when my stomach has surrendered and my plate’s been cleaned away, Jacquie sits me in the corner, in front of her PC. She starts to tell me that she used to be a member of Ghosts-UK, but resigned one day in a rage. As she talks, I watch her site, Shanry.com, load up in chunks.

  ‘When you went with G-UK,’ she asks me, ‘did you come across a guy called Big S?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, remembering the Northern Irishman who led our séance and gave that memorable talk.

  Jacquie’s eyebrows are scrunched up and her arms are folded. She’s taken on the body language of a person making a highly important inquiry. ‘Did he follow you all over?’ she says.

  ‘Well, yes,’ I say, ‘but I was in his group.’

  Jacquie sighs and a flash of anger whips across her face.

  ‘Yeah, that’s just like him. Here … ’

  She leans over me and interrupts the booting-up of her site to type in a different web address.

  ‘Let me show you something,’ she says. I watch the new page appear. It belongs to an American ghosthunter called Troy Taylor. Troy, it seems, is having a conference in June, in Illinois. And his special guest speaker, all the way from the UK, is …

  ‘Oh my God!’ I say.

  Big S.

  I read his biog. ‘ … Our first international speaker … full-time paranormal investigator … worked with numerous production companies … investigated hundreds of venues throughout the UK … one of the best investigators in Europe … ’ And then, I notice his photograph.

  ‘He’s holding a cane!’ I say.

  ‘That’s his prop now,’ Jacquie says, a signet-ringed forefinger jabbing at the screen. ‘He doesn’t do anything without his cane.’

  Jacquie’s fists are on her hips and her face is criss-crossed with the effort of swallowing the fury. Then she cranks up into a bitter tirade about Big S, her words snapping out and scaring the dog. When she’s calmed down, and has given me a guided tour of her voluminous website, she decides she wants to show me something else. She darts off to another room and then returns with a small paperback book. It’s called There Is Always Hope.

  ‘This is my book,’ she tells me. ‘It’s poetry. Poems about my life.’

  ‘Oh, wow,’ I say. I flick it open at a random page. It’s a poem called ‘Depression’.

  There’s a small silence. Jacquie is looking at me. I feel a warm puff of embarrassment redden my face. This is too intimate, too soon. I decide to pret
end I didn’t notice ‘Depression’. I glance a look at the next poem.

  ‘Debt.’

  She’s still watching me. I stare at the page. The dog trots out of the room. I listen to its paws clack on the vinyl floor. It runs up the stairs as I pick another page.

  ‘Divorce.’

  The blood in my face runs suddenly hotter. Some wind-chimes somewhere chime. I flick again.

  ‘I’m Not An Alcoholic.’

  Shit.

  ‘Prison.’

  No!

  ‘Tramp.’

  ‘This looks great,’ I say, closing the book sharply and putting it down on the table next to me. ‘Oh, look,’ I say as my eyes settle on a serendipitous subject-change opportunity. ‘Are those tarot cards?’

  Jacquie grins and picks them up. ‘Shuffle them,’ she says, handing me the pack.

  I shuffle the cards, cut them and give the smaller half to Jacquie. She lifts one off the top and lays it down on the table in front of me.

  ‘Ice,’ she says. ‘And it’s facing away from you. That means it’s a negative.’

  ‘A negative?’ I say.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Jacquie says. But she avoids eye contact. She peels off another card.

  ‘Teamwork,’ she says.

  ‘That’s facing away, too,’ I say.

  She turns over another.

  ‘Changing.’

  It’s facing away.

  ‘Need.’

  ‘And that one is,’ I say.

  ‘Gambling.’

  And that one.

  ‘Wealth.’

  I look between Jacquie and the cards as a small, reptilian panic rears its neck inside me.

  ‘They’re all facing away,’ I say. ‘They’re all negative. That’s really bad, isn’t it?’

  Jacquie looks at me and thinks for a beat. Then, she touches the side of her head with one hand and raises the other in the air in front of her, like an aerial.

  ‘Hang on!’ she says. ‘I’ve got a connection!’ She shakes her head with a cheery, resigned sigh. ‘Oh, I knew I’d end up working today.’ Then, she fixes me with an intense look. ‘March! March is an important month for you!’

  ‘Um … I don’t think … no … ’ I say.

  ‘A new bed, please! You’ve just got a new bed.’

  I think for a moment. ‘No. But my girlfriend wants a new bed.’

  She smiles. ‘Well, that’ll be it! Thank you. I’ve got your grandfather here. He’s showing me a watch, please, a watch that won’t work. Can you take a watch that won’t work?’

  Jacquie’s hands are in constant motion. They circle each other in frantic, blurring wheels as if they’re pulling the knowledge down from the end of an invisible kite-string.

  ‘Can you take a broken watch, please?’

  Each one of Jacquie’s fingers and thumbs has at least one beefy ring clamped round it. I’m transfixed by them as they circle and move. I scrabble through my mind. I try to think, for Jacquie’s sake, for politeness’ sake … a watch … a broken watch …

  ‘Nnnno,’ I say.

  ‘He’s showing me a terracotta wall,’ she says. ‘Can you take a terracotta wall, please?’

  ‘No.’

  Her frenzied sparkling wheels whoosh away.

  ‘What’s the Welsh connection?’

  ‘Umm … ’

  ‘I’m getting pain. Pains in the stomach area. I’m getting cancer in a female.’

  I widen out my eyes and shake my head gently.

  ‘Kangaroo! Why am I being shown a kangaroo, please?’

  ‘Kangaroo?’

  ‘Who’s got a speech problem?’

  ‘Um … ’

  Suddenly, Jacquie clasps at her neck. A look of shock grips her face. ‘Huh!’ she says. ‘Who hung themselves?’

  ‘Nobody,’ I say.

  Her eyes bulge. ‘They had more than one go at it!’

  I try to change the subject. ‘Um,’ I say, ‘did you say you had my grandfather?’

  ‘Yes,’ she says, ‘your father’s father. Now, this man didn’t say much. But he didn’t need to. He just gave you a look and you knew … ’

  ‘I didn’t really know him,’ I say. ‘He died … ’

  ‘He didn’t show much emotion,’ she says. ‘He didn’t suffer fools.’

  ‘Well, that does sound like my dad,’ I offer.

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Jacquie says. ‘They were very similar men, he’s telling me. That’s why he’s come to me tonight. He’s telling me you were the black sheep of the family … ’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And your dad took a lot of your self-esteem away.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Jacquie cocks her face and gives me a soft, caring, caressing look. ‘This is important,’ she says. ‘This is why your grandfather has come to me.’

  ‘Right … ’

  ‘He treated your dad the same way. He’s telling me he’s sorry and that he wants you to know that your dad is proud of you.’

  Despite myself, despite the fact that I know exactly what’s going on, I feel a marble of emotion suddenly choking up my throat.

  ‘He says that it’s going to be OK, but that you need to start taking time out, mentally, for yourself. And you must keep a positive frame of mind. OK? Then you will get your happiness and heart’s desire.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ I say. ‘Thanks. Thank you.’

  She looks up at the clock near the fairy cabinet. ‘We’d better dash,’ she says. ‘We’re going to be late.’

  We leave the house, get in the car and begin the short drive to the séance. As we go, I sit quietly for a while and watch the streetlights and shuttered shops of Scunthorpe pass us by. Eventually, I idly mention that I was surprised that it was my long-gone grandad that came through and not my gran, who died in the summer. You see, it was my mother’s mother who gave me my first proper experience of bereavement – that is, one that came with the unforgettable phone-call, some tears, a funeral and an awkward post-cremation sandwich event. My grandad died when I was too young to form any real memories of him. But before Jacquie has the chance to properly answer, we pull up outside Scunthorpe’s tiny Spiritualist church, just in time for the Wednesday circle.

  In the short outer corridor of the church are two doors and a dusty noticeboard. The doors lead to a kitchen and a bathroom, and the noticeboard carries a type-written list of rules, dated 1982. The list bans pregnant women, the under-sixteens and those of an ‘unsociable nature’ from contacting the dead. It also warns against ‘peculiar and hysterical behaviour’, including ‘extravagant claims of contact with prominent people’. Most of all, though, it forbids ‘trance mediumship’. This is the only rule that’s been typed entirely in capitals and someone has written it out again, for double-emphasis, in curly handwriting at the bottom of the page. When I read this rule, I get a flash-vision of the roaring man in Coalhouse Fort. I suddenly feel one notch more comfortable about Spiritualism as I make my way into the arena for tonight’s main event.

  At one end of the room, there’s a small stage area with a simple lectern and a number board for hymns. There’s also a trestle table with a crêpe-paper-lined box that’s filled with donated packets of powdered custard, tinned pears and jelly. In front of all that, there’s a circle of plastic chairs with a Spiritualist sitting on each one. There are fifteen of them in all. Mostly, the mediums are middle-aged mothers, but there’s also a twenty-something girl with red hair and pins in her nose, and a gangly man with a round moustache and a mournful, determined look about him. He’s too tall for his seat and his grey-slacked legs stretch out in front of him, all long and awkward – it’s as if someone’s forced a cricket to sit in a chair. This is Tony, Jacquie tells me in a force-ten whisper. He is a very senior medium.

  After we all trample through a rangy, acapella hymn, a silence overcomes the group. We all avoid looking at each other as we sit still and wait respectfully for the roaming quantum bunches to descend.

  After the leader of the circle –
a kindly, delicate woman in her sixties with green unsure eyes – receives a message from the deceased husband of a newcomer to the circle, I notice Jacquie’s hands revving up in front of her. And then, she says, my gran has come through.

  ‘I’ve got fish boiling in milk,’ Jacquie tells me. ‘I can see it plain as anything. And I’ve not heard of that in years. Years. But I can see that. Now I’m getting the name Iris. Can you take that?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘That might be symbolic. Did this lady love flowers?’

  ‘She probably liked flowers,’ I say.

  ‘What’s the problem with the feet?’

  ‘Um … ’

  ‘Do you suffer in-growing toenails, please?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘I’ve got Frank Sinatra “My Way”.’

  ‘Hmmm … no … ’

  ‘Might be symbolic. You have to do things your way. OK, I’ve got a cold. I want pollen or someone who suffers from hayfever, please. It’s either asthma or pollen.’

  ‘Farrah has bad asthma.’

  ‘Thank you!’ Jacquie chuckles to herself and looks around at all the faces in the group. ‘Everybody always thinks that Spirit is talking about them!’ she says, to everyone – except Tony, who appears to be, mentally if not physically, in another dimension altogether. He just sits in his seat and stares at his shoes, lost in the universe.

  ‘OK, why would she show me a crucifix, please?’