Ironically, I had a deep passion for spirits before I became fascinated with ghosts. It was getting late, and I was in the pub with a friend. We were nearing the end of a long, boozy dinner, that awkward post-prandial moment when the conversation started to get a little weird.
“What would you do if you saw a ghost?” my friend asks, a little louder than my hearing requires. Picking my head off the bar I wanted to say something sardonic, a la Wilde, like, “I don’t know but I’m sure the conversation would be better,” but instead I slurred something like “I’d punch it in the face to see if its real,’ and shouted, doing my best Ray Parker Jr impression, “I ain’t afraid of no ghost!”
I love all things paranormal, you see. The difference being that I am a skeptic. Like an adult fan of professional wrestling who enjoys the showmanship, but knows in his heart it’s all meticulously staged. I prefer to take in the spectacle when it comes to ghosts. Put another way, I like to watch Ghost Adventures and laugh at the contrived histrionics of a group of middle-aged men shouting into the dark at nothing.
Rather than being an outlier, the data show that a sizable portion of the population believes in ghosts. According to a recent survey, 43 percent of Brits said they thought ghosts existed. Some people embrace their belief in a more passionate way. I remember reading a story about a woman from Oxfordshire who married a ghost but divorced him a year later, apparently he got possessive.
The iron law of supply and demand applies to everything, including ghosts. It’s a profitable business, paranormal tourism. There are, according to the British Tourist Board, over 10,000 haunted locations. Websites like Haunted Rooms frequently advertise sleepovers where brave ghost hunters can stay. As a journalist, I was intrigued by this.
I have been travelling the entire length and breadth of the country in search of anything supernatural for the better part of a year. Caveat emptor. I’m not exactly in the best of health. After doing this, I felt exhausted because of my shattered spine and partially compromised immune system. Nevertheless, driven as much by curiosity as by powerful narcotic painkillers, my paranormal adventures carried me from Edinburgh to Wrexham. York was by far the trip I will always remember. I thus embarked on a two-hour journey north on a chilly October morning with the help of East Midlands Trains and a copy of Rob Kirkup’s Ghosts of York.
Depending on who you listen to, York has been named the most haunted city in England, Europe or the world. Kirkup’s book told me the city has had over five hundred separate recorded hauntings. In the interests of journalistic integrity I was prepared to keep an open mind.
Founded in 71 AD as Eboracum by the Romans, the city is no stranger to invaders. When the Vikings arrived in York in 866, they brought with them binge-drinking and rampant destruction. From my 72-hour experience, the city seems to be home to a new, slightly more palatable invasion—that of raucous hen and stag dos. Across the weekend, I must have seen five different groups staggering in their wedding gowns, two of them fighting with inflatable penises. Not a ghost in sight. Most likely, they were scared away.
As I made my way through the historic Shambles, I found myself drawn to the jettied floors that overhang the streets. As I looked up I swear the opposing upper floor windows were so close together you could literally shake hands across the narrow cobbled street. It’s enchanting and beautiful, I can see why it’s said to have inspired Diagon Alley.
The Golden Fleece, reputed to be York’s most haunted pub, was located at the foot of the street. More than a dozen ghosts are believed to haunt the pub and its guest rooms, according to Kirkup’s guide. I was told about Lady Alice Peckett by a knowledgeable local; rumour has it that she haunts the hotel’s hallways and sometimes moves things in the bar. Not surprisingly, I had no experiences during my three-hour stay. The ice in my New York sour cocktail was as close as I got to a chilling spirit.
My supernatural cynicism remained unabated despite my autumnal sojourn. Still, It did reinforce what I believed to be true about the delightful innocence of youth. One of the most charming sights of the whole trip was watching hundreds of children with torches frantically searching for tiny cardboard ghosts hidden in the bushes and plants around York Minster. As we age, that innocence gradually disappears, like grains of sand in an hourglass.
Even so, I enjoy watching ghost hunting shows and the countless compilation videos that circulate on social media. Who knows? I could be trapped in a perpetual state of adolescence. Regarding me, what does it say? Who cares! Occasionally, it’s a pleasant place to be. Ignorance is bliss, as they say.
