Some Ghosts I Have Known Who Turned Out To Be Massive Pricks

Ghost hunters in Somerset’s Quantock Hills have reported that the spectre of Jane Walford, who was murdered by her husband John in 1789, can often be seen at the site of her demise, known as ‘Dead Woman’s Ditch’, swearing violently at people. “FUCK OFF,” Jane will usually shout at total strangers, before vanishing. Although, according to a few reports, she will on occasion vary this to “BOLLOCKS” or “MOSSY JUGS”.

A lot was made of this strange occurrence in various local news pieces a year or so ago, the story doing the rounds and hitting my inbox on average twice per week for a spell of almost three months. “I know: I’ll send this to Tom!” people obviously think when they see something like this, and it’s not that I don’t appreciate the thought or understand where it comes from, but just how shocking or unusual you find a ghost whose USP is yelling “FUCK OFF” at strangers is a matter of context, shaped by the life you have lived to that point. Your average urban dweller who works in an office, rarely gets out to bramble-tangled ravines and eerie forests, and receives most of their knowledge of the supernatural from Victorian ghost stories? Maybe they have come to expect a certain cliched dignity from ghosts. Me, on the other hand? I walk in countless creepy and unsettling places in the west of England so take a report like this more in my stride. “Big deal,” tends to be my immediate reaction. “Check my face for surprise.”

Up to now I have refrained from speaking about the more antisocial and surprising ghosts I’ve encountered on my travels, as my suspicion is that they value their privacy and would not encourage internet tourism. On the other hand, most of them were absolute twats, so I don’t really feel I owe them anything. Also, I like lists, so don’t see why I shouldn’t summarise some of the weirder ones here:

The Commitmentphobic Pheasant Of Budleigh Salterton

Most commonly spotted on the eight or nine mile stretch of the South West Coast path immediately west of Sidmouth, this talkative bird, who has been known to introduce himself as both “Richard” and “The Fashion Chicken”, will generally open a conversation by lamenting the construction of the Ladram Bay Holiday Park in 1950, which coincided with his death at the hands of a recently cuckolded farmer. But Richard’s primary concern is less the injustice of his demise or the despoiling of the southern coastline and more the philosophy of successful romance. “I am just chilling right now,” he will explain, eventually, to pretty much anybody he meets. “Taking some time to focus on self care. After all, how can you expect anyone to love you if you don’t love yourself? What you need to know is that there’s never any pressure with me. In my experience you can’t force it, and the best stuff comes when you’re not searching too hard.” Those who have met him remember noticing a curious smell - part grain, part cologne - and an overall sense of bonhomie at odds with his rampant self-interest. His always-sudden departure in veil of sea mist will typically be presaged by some rambling excuse about a blocked bank card or the exclamation, “Shit, I just remembered I’m an hour late to meet his chick I got talking to in an abandoned garden centre last week.”

Mr Harris, The Broken Printer Poet Of Dunkery Hill

Little is known of this desperately pale and surprisingly lyrical ghost aside from his habit of walking the bridleways and lanes of the Devon-Somerset border, lugging around a 2002 Epson Stylus Photo 820 Inkjet Printer and asking, “Does anyone know where I can get this piece of shit fixed?” Other distinguishing features include a birthmark on his trousers and a habit of handing out verse - all reluctantly written in longhand - to any attractive woman he encounters, with the announcement, “You remind me most uncannily of my dear, departed Madeleine. I composed these lines for her in 1998 but they could just as easily apply to you, right here today.”