Yes, I know, this is very definitely an astrology blog. However, it is almost Hallowe’en, and everyone loves a creepy tale. Knowing how discerning my readers are (a little flattery goes a long way, does it not?!) I decided to add astrological legitimacy by looking up my transits today for the time of the tale I’m about to tell... Well!… Transiting Pluto was triggering my natal Mercury/Neptune sextile, sitting right on natal Neptune. Transiting Mars trine Uranus was triggering natal Mars, as Mars returned to its natal place in the 10th house. And – transiting North Node conjuncted my third house Jupiter in Scorpio. The astrological stage was set, although I knew no astrology at the time...
This very spooky Hallowe’en story is set towards the end of my restless twenties, a period where I earned my living as an adult education teacher. Here, I learn with my students that many an episode in this life of ours lacks a rational explanation….
Ever on the move, I had just given up a full time post as a college lecturer in scenic Wiltshire, England, UK, to “be a writer”, returning to my native island to do so. However, living with my parents, a mutually unsatisfactory arrangement, was followed by my moving to a small Scottish town that autumn to live with a poet friend who had a creative writing fellowship at the local university. Sharing her house, I hoped, would provide an appropriate creative stimulus. It certainly provided more than a few hangovers!
With my usual facility for obtaining employment in those days, I soon had several part-time teaching jobs including a few hours a week teaching drama, having acquired such experience “on the hoof” in my last full-time job, officially teaching English to A level students. The new drama teacher had failed to turn up at the beginning of term, and my head of department had assigned me the job thus: “You seem the dramatic type, Anne. I’m sure you’d love a weekly Drama class….”
Back then, education was a much more laid back and less regulated pursuit than it is now!
Hallowe’en that year thus found me teaching a Thursday twilight drama class from 4.30 to 6.00 pm in a fairly new brick and glass college building situated on a hill with stunning views out to sea. The drama studio was a great space to work in: a clear light empty area with polished wood floors and a couple of heavy, six or seven foot high wooden stage sets free standing at the back wall.
I was sitting in a circle on the floor on the opposite side of the studio, with a class of lively young women in their late teens – working with them was exhilarating and fun. Through the huge picture window we could see the city of Dundee spread out below us, the local river, the ‘silvery Tay’, catching late glimmers of waning light. Outside was a clear night with a hint of autumnal frost. Inside, the studio was quiet, warm and low lit.
It being Hallowe’en, I decided to set aside our usual programme, asking them if they would like to tell spooky stories instead. They enthusiastically agreed. I no longer recall what order we worked in, nor what the stories were. Most of the girls had a strange tale to tell, then it was over to me.
“Go on, Miss, tell us one of yours !”
I can no longer remember whether I told them one of the chilling stories handed down by my mother from her side of the family, or whether it was one of my own experiences. But I do recall with vivid clarity what occurred next. At the climax of my creepy tale, both the stage sets fell forward, clattering onto the bare floor of the studio with a deafening crash…..
After we had recovered somewhat from our shock and fright, the students and I went over to examine the stage sets. With some difficulty, since they were heavy and hard to manoeuvre, we restored them to upright positions. They were perfectly stable. There was absolutely no reason why they should have fallen over, none at all. There had been no vibrations, or wind. It was not possible for someone to have come into the studio without our noticing. Had anyone been hiding in the studio and pushed the stage sets over, they could not have got out without being seen.
Subdued and silent, we left to go home in a tight little group, furtively glancing behind us until we reached the comfort of the well-lit streets. I would be willing to bet that none of those present with me that night have ever forgotten it!
To read more ‘weird’ experiences, check out my recently updated memoir
800 words copyright Anne Whitaker 2016
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