Red Rose Cave and Pothole Club - Newsletter Vol 6 No 3 - July 1969
THE BULL POT FARM GHOST
The call of the hills was ringing in my
ears. The fact that a storm was raging and it was nearly midnight did not deter
me. I paused only to grab a tube of toothpaste (forgetting the brush) before taking to the road. My bike roared into
action at the twitch of a foot. Five minutes later I was coasting the hill
towards Bull Pot Farm with the brake chute aiding the rapid deceleration,
A light glowed eerily through the bathroom window. The doors
were locked. I produced a key and entered. I switched on the kitchen light but no
illumination was forthcoming. The meter was obviously empty. I hurtled upstairs
to find the bathroom light still burning. I scratched my head furiously searching for an explanation to no avail. Not being superstitious I
switched off the light and settled down for the night - under the bed, A floorboard
squeaked. Regular inmates know full well that to hear strange noises in the farm is not a rare occurrence however,
this squeak was different from any other squeak ever heard. It could only be caused by some
disembodied soul tortured by the past (or a rat) Courage mustered, I assumed an
air of nonchalance and wandered downstairs. A band of light shone beneath the kitchen door, I flung open the door.
"Would you like a cup of tea", came a voice from the gentleman sitting at the table, I accepted gracefully. Ho continued talking and my nerves calmed from a fearful jangle to a quite rattle, A rope 1adder lay on the table beside him, his headgear was unconventional in that few people today wear a bowler
with a carbide lamp wedged in the hat band for caving. His, suit was splattered with mud, The eccentricity
of his apparel did not worry me unduly but when he began to talk of Martel's descent of Gaping Gill as if an eye witness I felt a
trifle disturbed. After a surge of mental turmoil I experienced what can only
be described as horror. I felt a pair of motionless eyes piercing deep into my
thoughts. My fear racked brain could take no more.
It was daylight when I awoke to feel the hard cold, stone floor beneath me. The terror of the night
seemed diminished, by the comforting light of the day. A search of the farm
revealed nothing unusual, nothing that is except a pile of fresh earth
bordering the stone flag nearest the door in the changing room, as if the slab
had been recently moved. Would any member of the Red Rose (or any other club)
practiced in the art of exorcism please perform the appropriate rites before my
next visit to Bull Pot Farm.
D. Creedy,