A Brecon Beacons Xmas Ghost Story.
01st December 2023
A CHRISTMAS GHOST STORY
BY STEVE WILCE
Some houses have a reputation - a certain aura that initiates stories about odd happenings in the past - rumours probably, but enough to start local gossip, and “Neuadd Fawr” deep in the heart of the Brecon Beacons was one such place. Uninhabited for a generation the old house stood isolated and decaying in its own grounds which were rapidly being reclaimed by nature. Its steep rooves and high gables presenting a melancholy façade to anybody who caught a glimpse of it through the bare winter foliage. The house could only really be reached down a poorly maintained and narrow country lane where ancient and overgrown blackthorn hedges formed a dark forbidding tunnel.
The last owner, Caradoc Llewelyn Jones, was something of a recluse and he had done nothing to dispel the local gossip that the house was haunted. In fact, if the truth was known he actively encouraged it. This ensured the locals left him alone and the only person that ventured near the place was a local shop owner, a busybody named Elwyn Evans, who once a week delivered essential supplies. Mr Evans rarely saw the owner of Neuadd Fawr and payment was left in the old crumbling porch at the side of the house and once his deliveries were unloaded, he ‘didn’t hang about’ - as he recounted to any of his customers who were prepared to listen to his gossip. Most of what he said was taken with a liberal pinch of salt, however, a little addition here and there served to fuel rumours and no doubt increase his custom at the same time.
As winter approached in the year of 1887 Mr Evans discovered the reclusive owner in that very same porch, covered in a dusting of snow which had blown in through a broken window. It was concluded that he had fallen over, become unconscious and subsequently died of exposure. A grizzly end coupled with uneducated superstition and a gossiping shopkeeper propagated even more local stories about the house’s dark past.
A distant relative of the recently deceased, who nobody knew existed, was now the new owner of Neuadd Fawr. He had paid one visit to his crumbling inheritance and decided that he wouldn’t live there under any circumstances. He instructed a local solicitor to manage the house’s contents, saving anything of value and disposing of the rest. When this exercise was complete the old house was put up for sale or rent with basic furniture included, much to the amusement of the locals, because nobody was going to live there!
Sometime later, as November progressed, the little snug of the village public house was awash with rumours that the old house was to be rented, and a few days later it was confirmed that indeed, an author, one Richard Tregenna was to be the new occupier. He was apparently a fairly successful writer of historical novels, a confirmed bachelor and someone who openly declared that he had no time for superstition - saying, ‘Apart from my novels I only deal in facts’. However, his occupation and beliefs meant nothing to the locals, he was just someone who was foolish enough to rent Neuadd Fawr!
A rental period of three months had been agreed, this being the amount of time that Mr Tregenna deemed necessary to finish his latest novel. The new landlord was both surprised and pleased that someone was moving in because by his own admission the old place wasn’t the most welcoming. In addition he had been reading some diaries found by his solicitor that had been gathering dust in an old bureau, and some of the entries had raised an eyebrow.
When the house had been occupied by the parents of Caradoc Llewelyn Jones it was only ever used as a summer residence, when the days were long, and more importantly when the nights were short!! It appears that there were some very unusual occurrences that had made them feel very uncomfortable, especially in the evenings as the light faded. In fact once the month of October arrived they always packed-up and spent the winter on the south coast in rented accommodation. A little extravagant it was thought, but there must have been a reason.
It was now late November and a bitter wind scoured the bare Brecon Beacon’s countryside; the only sound was the stark call of a Carrion Crow uttered from a lonely ivy clad tree outside the old house. The countryside was asleep, harvests were long gathered in and livestock were safely in their winter pastures. The vicar of the local parish Reverend Nathanial Price paid a courtesy visit to the hall as was his custom to welcome any newcomer to his parish. After exchanging pleasantries over a glass of brandy the Reverend Price bade Richard good evening, declining the offer of dinner saying that he ought to be home before dark. It struck Richard that he had left in an unnecessary hurry, bordering he thought on rudeness, however, he dismissed the idea concluding it was just his imagination.
Initially his latest book had come on well but annoyingly he now appeared to be experiencing some form of ‘writer’s block’ and frustratingly he couldn’t seem to overcome it, he put it down to tiredness because he hadn’t been sleeping well. One night in particular he had been kept awake by an intermittent tapping on his bedroom window. The small hours had passed very slowly indeed and at one point he had contemplated going downstairs to try and write. This, however, he decided after some consideration, was a very unpleasant prospect. He didn’t understand why, but he felt singularly disinclined to leave his bed, making the excuse that it was particularly cold for the time of year. One thing he was determined to do was cut back the small branches of the ash tree outside his bedroom window that he felt were the source of his troubled sleep.
The following morning when he opened his window in readiness for the ash tree pruning to take place he had a very unpleasant shock. To his horror he could see that he was mistaken - the ash tree was nowhere near his window and couldn’t have been the cause of his interrupted sleep. This was very disconcerting, and after he closed his window he sat on the bedside chair to compose himself. Later he ate his breakfast with some difficulty, he had no appetite, and remonstrating with himself he maintained ‘there must be another reason, a nocturnal bird perhaps, yes, that must be it’. He started to feel a little better after he’d offered himself a plausible reason for the tapping.
The days laboured on towards Christmas and his writing was tortuous, having neither continuity nor creativity. Sleep, although not interrupted by any physical noises, nevertheless, continued to evade him. Frequently he was being kept awake by dreams of a most unsettling nature: he was alone, walking on the Beacons in a storm, and having casually looked back he perceived a vague figure some distance behind him. Although this figure didn’t seem to present any threat to him there was something about it that was deeply unnerving, possibly because it appeared, ridiculous as it may seem, to have no actual form. What was even stranger was that irrespective of how fast he walked this figure maintained the same distance between them. The only escape from this persistent panorama were his sudden awakenings. However, to get up and go downstairs was still very unpalatable indeed. Unfortunately time was now fast running out on the lease of the old house, but the prospect of remaining any longer was most abhorrent to him, therefore, finishing his novel had now became even more pressing.
Christmas eve brought with it a fall of snow, the countryside was enveloped in a sparkling white blanket and the house was well and truly held in winter’s grasp. Luckily he was well stocked up with enough food and fuel to last him over the festive period. He was working late into the evening, the log fire had burned down low and he was just putting his papers in order, contented that at last he was beginning to make some literary progress. He poured himself a glass of brandy and stood enjoying it in front of the dying embers of the fire, as was his custom before retiring - but what happened next would test the strongest resolve of the most steadfast unbeliever: An unexpected wind had begun to blow, rushing around the house, on it went, rising and falling, wailing and moaning and he thought that although it was only the wind, even the unimaginative would be happier without it after five minutes.
Suddenly - a fierce gust threw open the French windows scattering papers around the room and extinguishing his candles. After blundering around the furniture he managed to close the offending aperture and sit back down, breathless. Then after much searching he found a candlestick and righted it on his desk, he stretched his hand forward to locate his matches and suddenly he was paralysed with an indescribable fear - a cold clammy hand delicately placed the matchbox into his own; understandably he was frozen to the spot as an intense fear gripped his very soul, but then self-preservation galvanised him into action. He raced across the room and began to beat furiously on the closed door of the study which stubbornly refused to open, in his blind panic he had forgotten that the lock was prone to sticking, but finally, after what seemed an age he found himself outside in the hallway. Desperately he fumbled for the candle and matches that were always placed in an alcove at the foot of the stairs, but as he did so a ghastly voice whispered in his ear, ‘Why don’t you turn around and look at me’?
This hitherto staunch unbeliever stumbled up the stairs in complete darkness quickly reaching what he thought was the sanctuary of his bedroom where he barricaded a chest of drawers against the door. His beliefs had been radically challenged and he was now experiencing true terror – but it wasn’t over – he could now hear slow but deliberate footsteps climbing the old creaky stairs. He waited, terrorised by the unknown entity that he pictured outside his chamber door and appallingly his worst fears were realised as the door was now being slowly pushed open. With every ounce of strength, with every fibre of his being, with the remainder of his sanity he resisted the force from outside. A battle ensued, time blurred as he repelled the unseen horror again and again, until he must have collapsed with exhaustion and found himself prostrate on his chamber floor with daylight breaking.
Christmas morning dawned and the Reverend Price walked over to Neuadd Fawr to invite his new neighbour to the festive carol service after lunch. He thought it somewhat unusual that the front door was wide open in this cold Christmas weather and after much ‘helloing’, puzzlingly he received no reply. He closed the door firmly, but as he left he saw a line of footprints in the snow leading up the drive from the old house which he hadn’t noticed on his way in. However, these footprints were not it appeared made by someone just walking - they were too far apart, he could only conclude that someone had left in a hurry.
Merry Xmas.........
BY STEVE WILCE
Some houses have a reputation - a certain aura that initiates stories about odd happenings in the past - rumours probably, but enough to start local gossip, and “Neuadd Fawr” deep in the heart of the Brecon Beacons was one such place. Uninhabited for a generation the old house stood isolated and decaying in its own grounds which were rapidly being reclaimed by nature. Its steep rooves and high gables presenting a melancholy façade to anybody who caught a glimpse of it through the bare winter foliage. The house could only really be reached down a poorly maintained and narrow country lane where ancient and overgrown blackthorn hedges formed a dark forbidding tunnel.
The last owner, Caradoc Llewelyn Jones, was something of a recluse and he had done nothing to dispel the local gossip that the house was haunted. In fact, if the truth was known he actively encouraged it. This ensured the locals left him alone and the only person that ventured near the place was a local shop owner, a busybody named Elwyn Evans, who once a week delivered essential supplies. Mr Evans rarely saw the owner of Neuadd Fawr and payment was left in the old crumbling porch at the side of the house and once his deliveries were unloaded, he ‘didn’t hang about’ - as he recounted to any of his customers who were prepared to listen to his gossip. Most of what he said was taken with a liberal pinch of salt, however, a little addition here and there served to fuel rumours and no doubt increase his custom at the same time.
As winter approached in the year of 1887 Mr Evans discovered the reclusive owner in that very same porch, covered in a dusting of snow which had blown in through a broken window. It was concluded that he had fallen over, become unconscious and subsequently died of exposure. A grizzly end coupled with uneducated superstition and a gossiping shopkeeper propagated even more local stories about the house’s dark past.
A distant relative of the recently deceased, who nobody knew existed, was now the new owner of Neuadd Fawr. He had paid one visit to his crumbling inheritance and decided that he wouldn’t live there under any circumstances. He instructed a local solicitor to manage the house’s contents, saving anything of value and disposing of the rest. When this exercise was complete the old house was put up for sale or rent with basic furniture included, much to the amusement of the locals, because nobody was going to live there!
Sometime later, as November progressed, the little snug of the village public house was awash with rumours that the old house was to be rented, and a few days later it was confirmed that indeed, an author, one Richard Tregenna was to be the new occupier. He was apparently a fairly successful writer of historical novels, a confirmed bachelor and someone who openly declared that he had no time for superstition - saying, ‘Apart from my novels I only deal in facts’. However, his occupation and beliefs meant nothing to the locals, he was just someone who was foolish enough to rent Neuadd Fawr!
A rental period of three months had been agreed, this being the amount of time that Mr Tregenna deemed necessary to finish his latest novel. The new landlord was both surprised and pleased that someone was moving in because by his own admission the old place wasn’t the most welcoming. In addition he had been reading some diaries found by his solicitor that had been gathering dust in an old bureau, and some of the entries had raised an eyebrow.
When the house had been occupied by the parents of Caradoc Llewelyn Jones it was only ever used as a summer residence, when the days were long, and more importantly when the nights were short!! It appears that there were some very unusual occurrences that had made them feel very uncomfortable, especially in the evenings as the light faded. In fact once the month of October arrived they always packed-up and spent the winter on the south coast in rented accommodation. A little extravagant it was thought, but there must have been a reason.
It was now late November and a bitter wind scoured the bare Brecon Beacon’s countryside; the only sound was the stark call of a Carrion Crow uttered from a lonely ivy clad tree outside the old house. The countryside was asleep, harvests were long gathered in and livestock were safely in their winter pastures. The vicar of the local parish Reverend Nathanial Price paid a courtesy visit to the hall as was his custom to welcome any newcomer to his parish. After exchanging pleasantries over a glass of brandy the Reverend Price bade Richard good evening, declining the offer of dinner saying that he ought to be home before dark. It struck Richard that he had left in an unnecessary hurry, bordering he thought on rudeness, however, he dismissed the idea concluding it was just his imagination.
Initially his latest book had come on well but annoyingly he now appeared to be experiencing some form of ‘writer’s block’ and frustratingly he couldn’t seem to overcome it, he put it down to tiredness because he hadn’t been sleeping well. One night in particular he had been kept awake by an intermittent tapping on his bedroom window. The small hours had passed very slowly indeed and at one point he had contemplated going downstairs to try and write. This, however, he decided after some consideration, was a very unpleasant prospect. He didn’t understand why, but he felt singularly disinclined to leave his bed, making the excuse that it was particularly cold for the time of year. One thing he was determined to do was cut back the small branches of the ash tree outside his bedroom window that he felt were the source of his troubled sleep.
The following morning when he opened his window in readiness for the ash tree pruning to take place he had a very unpleasant shock. To his horror he could see that he was mistaken - the ash tree was nowhere near his window and couldn’t have been the cause of his interrupted sleep. This was very disconcerting, and after he closed his window he sat on the bedside chair to compose himself. Later he ate his breakfast with some difficulty, he had no appetite, and remonstrating with himself he maintained ‘there must be another reason, a nocturnal bird perhaps, yes, that must be it’. He started to feel a little better after he’d offered himself a plausible reason for the tapping.
The days laboured on towards Christmas and his writing was tortuous, having neither continuity nor creativity. Sleep, although not interrupted by any physical noises, nevertheless, continued to evade him. Frequently he was being kept awake by dreams of a most unsettling nature: he was alone, walking on the Beacons in a storm, and having casually looked back he perceived a vague figure some distance behind him. Although this figure didn’t seem to present any threat to him there was something about it that was deeply unnerving, possibly because it appeared, ridiculous as it may seem, to have no actual form. What was even stranger was that irrespective of how fast he walked this figure maintained the same distance between them. The only escape from this persistent panorama were his sudden awakenings. However, to get up and go downstairs was still very unpalatable indeed. Unfortunately time was now fast running out on the lease of the old house, but the prospect of remaining any longer was most abhorrent to him, therefore, finishing his novel had now became even more pressing.
Christmas eve brought with it a fall of snow, the countryside was enveloped in a sparkling white blanket and the house was well and truly held in winter’s grasp. Luckily he was well stocked up with enough food and fuel to last him over the festive period. He was working late into the evening, the log fire had burned down low and he was just putting his papers in order, contented that at last he was beginning to make some literary progress. He poured himself a glass of brandy and stood enjoying it in front of the dying embers of the fire, as was his custom before retiring - but what happened next would test the strongest resolve of the most steadfast unbeliever: An unexpected wind had begun to blow, rushing around the house, on it went, rising and falling, wailing and moaning and he thought that although it was only the wind, even the unimaginative would be happier without it after five minutes.
Suddenly - a fierce gust threw open the French windows scattering papers around the room and extinguishing his candles. After blundering around the furniture he managed to close the offending aperture and sit back down, breathless. Then after much searching he found a candlestick and righted it on his desk, he stretched his hand forward to locate his matches and suddenly he was paralysed with an indescribable fear - a cold clammy hand delicately placed the matchbox into his own; understandably he was frozen to the spot as an intense fear gripped his very soul, but then self-preservation galvanised him into action. He raced across the room and began to beat furiously on the closed door of the study which stubbornly refused to open, in his blind panic he had forgotten that the lock was prone to sticking, but finally, after what seemed an age he found himself outside in the hallway. Desperately he fumbled for the candle and matches that were always placed in an alcove at the foot of the stairs, but as he did so a ghastly voice whispered in his ear, ‘Why don’t you turn around and look at me’?
This hitherto staunch unbeliever stumbled up the stairs in complete darkness quickly reaching what he thought was the sanctuary of his bedroom where he barricaded a chest of drawers against the door. His beliefs had been radically challenged and he was now experiencing true terror – but it wasn’t over – he could now hear slow but deliberate footsteps climbing the old creaky stairs. He waited, terrorised by the unknown entity that he pictured outside his chamber door and appallingly his worst fears were realised as the door was now being slowly pushed open. With every ounce of strength, with every fibre of his being, with the remainder of his sanity he resisted the force from outside. A battle ensued, time blurred as he repelled the unseen horror again and again, until he must have collapsed with exhaustion and found himself prostrate on his chamber floor with daylight breaking.
Christmas morning dawned and the Reverend Price walked over to Neuadd Fawr to invite his new neighbour to the festive carol service after lunch. He thought it somewhat unusual that the front door was wide open in this cold Christmas weather and after much ‘helloing’, puzzlingly he received no reply. He closed the door firmly, but as he left he saw a line of footprints in the snow leading up the drive from the old house which he hadn’t noticed on his way in. However, these footprints were not it appeared made by someone just walking - they were too far apart, he could only conclude that someone had left in a hurry.
Merry Xmas.........