That night, I was not in a psychic frame of mind. I had been working on something entirely different in my office, so ghosts were the furthest thing from my mind. I blame this for my reaction, which was one of terror. I never made it as far as the bedroom for I turned on my heels back to my office. Once there, I found myself beginning to type frantically.
I wrote about what I had just seen, trying to conjure up the scene I had witnessed, and then sent it to my editor at the Sun. I just typed and typed and typed. I was acutely cold and, for some time, felt too afraid to leave my office.
I deliberately wasted no time sending the story to my editor as I felt it was important not to dwell on the experience and risk changing it. I wanted the readers to feel what I felt and to sense what I had sensed. Interfering with what I had written, after the event, would have spoiled this aim entirely.
The following Friday, the article duly appeared. It did make interesting reading and I received many phone calls about it. One of those phone calls was a little bit special, however. When I listened to what I was being told, even I had shivers down my spine.
The caller was a client whom I’d seen maybe twice or three times over the years. We’d had a meeting a few weeks prior to the article. The reason Isobel was calling was to tell me, almost hysterically, what had happened to her.
I use the Mars attic as a waiting area for my clients. It allows them the peaceful view of the river, and many admit it calms their nerves while waiting for their allocated appointment time.
Isobel was one such client. I was running approximately 30 minutes behind schedule that day and, as she waited, she sat gazing at the water. Her deep thoughts were disturbed by the footsteps of someone coming up the stairs. She automatically turned to look and was met by a man. The man sat down beside Isobel and they chatted for 10 minutes or so. They spoke mainly about the water, the weather, the view – general small talk. Isobel at this stage thought nothing of the situation she found herself in. The man was quiet but then Isobel was a talkative type.
Isobel knew I had an old friend, Bill, who stayed with us and looked after Athena (my little girl). She assumed Athena was having a nap and that Bill had come upstairs for some relaxation until she woke.
The only thing she found strange was the way he was dressed. She recalls he was very smartly dressed, way over the top for not only that time of day but also for the climate. However, she merely made small talk and, shortly afterwards, he took his leave.
Isobel read my article that morning and, in her own words, ‘didn’t know whether to laugh or cry’ or whether to call me or not. She just didn’t know what to do. But in the end, she decided to call my office. And I’m so glad she did.
The man, she told me, fitted the description of the captain in my article. He in no way resembled Bill. In retrospect, a lot of what she found strange about him now seemed to make sense – the way he was dressed, the way she did most of the talking while he gazed impassively out at the river. Although there was no ‘disappearing into thin air’, she also remembers thinking how quickly he descended the flight of stairs. As he took his leave, she turned to look the other way but looked back towards the stairs quickly – only to find he was gone.
Isobel thought so little of this at the time, assuming that the man she’d had a 10-minute conversation with was alive and well, that she never bothered to mention it to me. It was only after reading the article on the captain that she put two and two together.
Isobel has no doubts that she spoke to the spirit of the captain of the Mars ship that day. Nor do I. The captain is still here and makes his presence known from time to time. Since that night, however, I have never felt afraid of him.
The Iron Mask
A Radio Clyde programme led me to investigate the following sightings. The setting was the very picturesque village of Kirk O’Shotts, a tiny place just off the M8 motorway between Glasgow and Edinburgh.
One listener called the show to tell of a frightening experience she had just encountered while driving home along the Canthill Road near Shotts prison. This struck a chord with many listeners who phoned to say that they had also experienced something strange at that exact same spot.
The story I was told was vague. Apparently, ‘something’ had jumped out into the path of moving cars as if trying to commit suicide. This was so real that every motorist who experienced this stopped their car, terrified they had killed a pedestrian.
Each one checked their car, checked the road, looked behind walls and hedges – all to no avail. No one could find any explanation for what could possibly have caused the almighty thud. Some were afraid; some put it down to their imagination … until that phone call to Radio Clyde. Suspicion and curiosity increased and so I was called in to investigate.
Arriving at the scene, I was overwhelmed by the prettiness of the area and its stunning 15th-century kirk. Kirk O’Shotts is only minutes from both large cities, yet its beautiful setting could equally be 100 miles from anywhere. The kirk is rumoured to be one of the most famous in Scotland. Locals claim it was the very spot where a giant of a man, Bertram Shotts, fell to his death after an altercation with one William Muirhead.
Some people say they have seen a ghost here. They all tell the same story of a shadowy figure wearing a cape and a carriage hat. Many have their own opinions and beliefs on who this man was. When I visited the area, I found some very interesting goings-on indeed, none of which bore any resemblance to the other guesses made by those who had seen the ghost.
I met with my colleague Matt, and together we began to walk slowly around the kirk itself, and then onto the road where the incident repeatedly occurred. We also strolled around the graveyard and, very quickly, I began to see and feel things. Matt started scribbling down every word I uttered, and although at the time it didn’t make any sense to either of us, he continued to write.
Somewhat cautiously, I began to voice the feelings I had and the words I was hearing. History was never one of my favourite subjects at school, so what was coming over to me made very little sense. My first impression was that the spirit wasn’t wearing a hat as those who’d previously seen him had suggested. No, this was no hat. What I was clearly seeing was a mask, the kind worn by an executioner!
Other locals speculate that the ghost is a young man called William Smith, a covenanter who was run down by the Duke of Monmouth’s horses before being stabbed to death. It is my belief, however, that the Canthill ghost is the duke himself, and he wants to beg pardon of ‘oor Wullie’, hence his ghastly act of chucking himself under cars.
I merely voiced names during the investigation – to be honest, hearing names such as Charles II and James II meant nothing to me. I hadn’t a clue what the connection was. And as for the Duke of Monmouth, I’d never heard of him. However, such is my experience that I never hold back what I’m hearing or seeing. I blurt it out and then hope for the best. Everything is then pieced together by researchers.
I had a strong feeling the duke was angry with Charles II. In fact, I experienced hatred coming from the duke. I was so puzzled. It was as if the duke was doing his best to rebel against everything the king demanded. I stunned myself when I uttered the words, ‘They are father and son!’ This was not something I had expected, given the rivalry between them.
I was later to learn that the Duke of Monmouth was indeed the son of Charles II, but he was an illegitimate son who sought love and approval from his father. But this was not to be, so he rebelled. The fact was that Charles II, a staunch Catholic, was in constant battle with his Protestant son.
Very suddenly, I then had the most severe pain in my head and neck. I heard someone whisper the words ‘One, two, three, four!’ What on earth was I being told? Then I saw exactly what was happening. The duke was being beheaded.