With TV programmes like Most Haunted and Sixth Sense with Colin Fry – the public thirst for exploring the supernatural has never been so mainstream, and paranormal societies are offering supernatural experinces in a variety of haunted locations across the country. But what is it really like on one of these all night “vigils”? As a stranger to the incorporeal, I decided to find out, and joined the London Paranormal Society at Harwich Redoubt Fort for a night of ghost-hunting.
We gather in the gloomy central courtyard. Ian John Shillito, designer stubble and horn-rimmed glasses, introduces himself and the other “sensitives” - somewhere along the line the word psychic must have fallen out of fashion.
The Fort, a sunken circular edifice with an impressive array of canons, was built hold 300 soldiers under seige conditions, we are told, defending against a Napoleonic invasion.
“And how many people DIED here, just due to the conditions?” came a hopeful enquiry.
Most of the group are middle-aged women, homogenous in anoraks and scarves on a chilly autumn night, some of whom claimed to be psychic. One by one, the lights are switched off, until we are left with the faint red glow of the voice recorder (apparently designed to pick up sound waves beyond human hearing), and the moon casting the faintest sheen through the window. Standing in a circle and holding hands, we are asked to imagine a white ball of light above our heads descending into the circle and expanding to fill the fort.
Neil, the group leader, calls out “If there are any spirits, or astral beings in this place, please, affect one of us in some way, make a noise, do whatever you can to let us know you’re here.”
Silence.
Seeing is believing
“I feel awfully COLD. Are you cold?” pipes up a disembodied voice. I recognise the high pitched, rotund woman who had asked how many people had died in the fort. She clearly knew the form.
Neil attempted to regain perspective. “Can someone close the door? Now, can anyone else feel anything?”
“I’m sensing a young female presence.”
Murmurs of agreement.
“It’s a very SAD place.”
A breathless whisper: “Do you think someone DIED here?”
“OOO!” said a voice across the circle.
“What?” came the chorus.
“Can anyone else see a figure in white?”
“Where?”
“In the middle of the circle. Next to you.”
“No.”
Psychic smells
Ian wrestled the psychic baton back to it’s rightful owner.
“There’s definitely something behind me.”
The group falls respectfully silent. I peer into the black space behind us. It gives up no secrets to my primitive senses.
“Ugh” he shuddered, and I felt his body jolt. “It just passed right through me. Let’s focus and try again. Can anyone smell something? A really BAD smell?”
Neil calls out. “If anyone is making any psychic smells, please do it again.”
Vague as dust
Nothing more is detected. After a steadying cup of tea, there is a regroup. This time there appears to be a more positive identification of a spirit, a man called Ernest. Neil gets an image of purple clothes and a possible ecclesiastical connection. Neil screws up his eyes with concentration.
“Ernest, these people here have come out of a genuine interest in you. We just want to know that you are here.”
“We just want to HELP you Ernest.”
Someone swears they hear a tapping. Someone else claims to see a pinprick of light.
“Thank you Earnest,” says Neil with practised enthusiasm, as if to a three year old who has just given you a pebble, or a dog who has just dropped a saliva smeared tennis ball into one’s lap “Can you do that again please? Can you tell me anything else?”
To the in-sensitives, heads swivelling vainly in all directions, Ernest is as vague as dust.
“Perhaps it would help if we went round the circle and introduced ourselves.”
Standing in the dark, introducing myself to blacked out nothingness, makes me feel slightly unhinged.
The next locations are similarly oblique. Neil has taken to drawing imaginary doors in the air and getting us to blow raspberries. Nevertheless, it is creepy to hear a grown man call out into an empty doorway “Hello, children, do you want to come and play?” It’s easy to understand how a willing imagination can be goaded into believing that something out of the ordinary is taking place.
Group leader number two, Stephen, was all out to give us a good time, hinting gleefully at excellent results in a room with a boat.
Interesting, but far from conclusive. The faintest wobbles emitting from the boat could have been caused by the pressure of a careless finger.
Bad Ghost Dog
It was approaching midnight. Half the room were having the time of their lives, half the room were like plant pots at a party.
“Wait. Has anyone lost a dog within the last 6 months? A BLACK dog?”
“I lost a dog…well, a while before that.”
“What was her name?”
“Annie. Oh, that’s funny, my leg’s gone all cold down one side”
Had Annie had been a Bad Ghost Dog?
“She used to lean against you…you know?”
“I know” nodded Stephen, sympathetically. “Annie, if you can hear us, please jump in the boat. Do something to make the boat move”
It was too much. “How could she understand that? She’s a dog!!” I burst out.
Stephen looked at me with the pitying gaze reserved for someone who had just asked why God lets bad things happen.
“I know it’s hard to understand. But it’s all about my intention, do you see?”
Indigo Child
It’s approaching 3am. We have had interesting results with a Ouija board, the glass slowly rasping across the table, admittedly seeming to move of its own accord. I’d leave it at that but the gates are locked. And yet, we still have our session with Ian Shillito, psychic and celebrity in chief. Perhaps he can pull something, anything out the bag. I no longer care if it’s real or hocus-pocus, as long as it keeps me awake.
Someone must have had a quiet word because what followed was quite surreal
Sitting round the table, palms flat and little fingers touching, Ian asked us to trust him. We were joined by Gary, a diminutive young man of 19, who earlier described himself intriguingly, and somewhat irritatingly, as an Indigo Child.
“David, David, can you hear me” said Indigo Child, as casually as if speaking into a walkie talkie.
The table immediately gives a vigorous shake, to some delighted gasps.
“David, if you can hear me, tap once for yes, twice for no.”
The table tilts up on its side and descends with a bang. More shrieks, and laughter.
“Would you like to hear a song? Something we all know?”
Sing-along a spook
Sitting in the dark, with a rousing rendition of “Daisy Daisy” around me and a table apparently singing along, it doesn’t occur to me that this is anything more than a bit of a laugh. The two group leaders are sitting at opposite ends of the table and it seems obvious why the table is only rocking through that axis.
When the table comes to rest, I say as much, fully expecting Ian to laugh and admit it.
He gave the most extraordinary reaction. As shocked and insulted as if I had accused him of stealing. Why, he asks, why on earth would he do that?
“For a bit of entertainment at the end of the night!”
He is flustered, as if this is the first time that anyone has accused him of artifice . He says I can come and sit next to him if I like and is visibly upset when I do so. “But this is your job!” I say, in surprise at his indignation.
I didn’t place all my fingers over Ian’s, not wanting to inflame him, but I sat close enough to him to feel if his right bicep was tensing. It didn’t seem to be, but I couldn’t tell what he was doing with his fingers or his other hand. But funnily enough, the tilting movements originating from this side of the table cease.
It is slightly bizarre to find oneself half asleep whilst group of 20 or so are standing around a supernaturally levitating table, with a spirit playing Name That Tune!, and the atmosphere slowly building to hysteria.
Much has been written about the “psycho-kinetic” science of “Table Tipping”, which has been a popular parlour game since the 1900s. What was almost beyond doubt was that the professional psychics believed that what they were experiencing was real, and so it is difficult to accuse them of chicanery. But one thing I know: the chance of any kind of spirit producing a predictable pattern of actions, or bothering itself with singing party songs, is about as likely as my own spontaneous combustion.
For an entertaining night out, and a fascinating glimpse into a rather peculiar subculture, I would thoroughly recommend an evening out with LPS. Your experience will largely depend on the beliefs you arrive with. Make up your own mind. And don’t interrupt.
For a list of upcoming events, including a special Halloween vigil at the London Dungeons, see www.londonparanormalsociety.co.uk