Whymering Manor

Portsmouth, England

By: Berni B.

The name, Whymering Manor, conjured up an image of a rambling old house set in its own grounds in the heart of Portsmouth countryside. But, illusion has a nasty habit of pricking both eyes at the same time, and so I must have blinked in obvious disappointment to discover my great expectation to be slap bang dab in the middle of a housing estate and surrounded by all the trappings of modern day annoyance. Still, it had been a long journey, and once inside, I was happy to discover that some of the decor had not caught up with the Jones'. By and large, Whymering Manor had retained some of its historical charm.

I have to admit that I don't care that much for the technicalities and discipline of the contemporary ghost hunter as I much prefer to rely on my inner senses as to where to point my camera to try and capture whatever anomaly happens my way. So, before you read on, let me say that I did not have much success with photographic evidence or the bogey man. However, I did manage to acquire some photographs of the swirling mist phenomena that happens to put in an appearance from time to time outside in was left of the garden.

My first sit down began in the Music Room with members of my crew and the spirit "sensitive" Sue who had decided to join us at the last minute to oversee things should they go a bit wrong. Whilst it is true that we do have some strong willed individuals aboard, there are those in the Team who do get the jitters and tend to go a bit wry should things go bump in the night. So, having Sue around was good insurance and comfort for us in case things got uppity. Greg started off the sitting with the tried and tested: "Is there anybody there?" For me, these four words are a sharp intake of breath, giving an air of expectancy and excitement, that somehow compliments and gives reason to why we were there.

At some point in the sitting, I was completely overcome by an extreme inner coldness that had me doubled over with nausea. I have experienced this before and am aware enough to know that something was trying to lift the latch to get inside of me. I know the signs of psychic attack and the best defense is to run away and leave the area to recover.

Sue came out and asked if I was alright. I told her about the inside out coldness and how it had affected me. She asked if I had any connection with the Services as there was the spirit of an Admiral in there who was drawn to me. I told her of my military connection and asked her if she knew why the spirit was annoyed. She said it was because he thought me insubordinate. I just thought him a P.I.T.A. and was deeply offended by his ignorance.

Unless you have experienced a cold spot before, it is hard to understand how it can completely take over from the inside out, leaving you with such a depressing, teeth chattering serious chill factor of the spirit. But, everything passes, and when I recovered, I went back into the Music Room and tried out a couple of voice activated EVP's, but had little response. However, I cleaned up the recording by running it through the computer program, Goldwave, and managed to catch a voice asking the question, "Who are they?" This was spoken at the very beginning of the first of the EVP attempts in the music room.

In spite of the attack, I was a bit dubious about the Admiral, but when I personally experience something of this nature, then I must reason that there certainly was some interested and curious presence in the Music Room with us.

The night crawled on with little happening, except in room seven, we heard what sounded like the back and forth creaking of someone in a rocking chair. I remember thinking that this was certainly the stuff ghost stories are made of - a kind of keeping in the "spirit of things", if you'll pardon the pun. With the early morning on the horizon, some of the Team decided to turn in and charge up their batteries for the drive home. That is, all except Wardy, whose insomnia has the curious habit of going walkabouts along corridors into rooms and cobwebbed cellars long after others have given it up for the sandman.

I found a vacant side room to the left of the stairs by the main entrance and huddled myself in front of a lame excuse that passed itself off as a heater. I sat in quiet reflection in the darkness for awhile, then got bored with my own company and took myself off to the kitchen to see if anything was happening.

When I got there, I found a glass and Ouija session in full swing. I was made welcome by those present and asked if I wanted to sit it, but I declined the offer. Personally, I hate it when they do these things so I just stood, watching and waiting. It was very cold in there, so I thought I would give it a few minutes, then take off.

Apart from me, and those involved around the table, a man stood his ground looking over at me. I didn't pay him much attention at first, but I knew something was not kosher and then it struck me. He wasn't dressed quite right. He was out of place. He had dark thick wavy hair, a pinched face and wore a collarless white shirt with its sleeves rolled up above the elbow. He was dressed in a leather piece of some description and had a certain violence about him. I certainly got the impression that he did not like me being there. I was going to mention it to the Ouijees, but thought better of it, so I held my own. I came away cold and shivery and went back to my room until it was time to surface and leave.

I was back in the room sitting by my fraud of a heater not wanting to be disturbed when who should ooze himself into the room, but dear old Wardy. I asked him to park it and we sat around the heater warming ourselves between conversation and staring into the glow of the heater in bouts of stretched silences.

Sometime around seven o'clock in the morning, the silence was shattered by the outside noise of somebody's mobile phone alarm which screamed on and on like a Banshee until some kind soul put us all out of our misery by stirring themselves and turning it off.

We sat in the quiet for the next half an hour or so, debating whether to go and get a cup of tea and see what was happening. Suddenly, the whole room filled with the sound of someone blowing a descant recorder. My first thought was how inconsiderate to be doing that at this time of the morning. At first, whoever was playing sounded amateurish and sluggish like someone looking for the right notes and very unsure of themselves. Then, the pretense suddenly dropped because the player got the feel for it and started to blow their confidence in such a perfect and intricate pattern, selecting only those notes that mattered and confirming the player to be a very accomplished and gifted musician. I said nothing to Wardy, preferring to keep my thoughts to myself and stare into the glow. About five minutes later, the same thing happened again and, this time, I passed comment that someone in the next room must be so thoughtless to be doing that when others are still sleeping.

I thought no more about it and, later on, toddled off for a cup of the life saver from the teapot. In passing, I asked Jane if she knew who had been playing the recorder at such an early hour, but she was surprised by it all and said she had heard nothing. In turn, she asked some of the others who were in the main hall at the time, but they agreed that they had heard nothing in the way of musical notes. I don't think they actually believed what I was telling them, but then I got Wardy to come over and tell his version of it. The sleep fell from their eyes. It was suggested that I mention this to the caretaker, but after their initial reaction, I didn't feel the need to justify it anymore. Personally, I prefer the Crowley maxim... tell no one!

I did mention it to the caretaker when I found him in the reception hall. I told him what we'd heard and he said that although he had not heard a recorder, but he had on many occasions, heard piano playing coming from the Music Room. He then went on to say that the room we'd occupied was below the old children's nursery so it was possible that the playing could have come from there. The caretaker also mentioned that there was an oil painting on the landing of a previous owner who happened to be an Admiral. I caught Sue's gaze and just stood there shaking my head in wonder at it all.

Whymering Manor, pronounced whimering, has a good atmosphere and a great sense of its own past. I do believe that a house, in spite of passing time, can still retain an attraction for its previous owners.

Continue your travels with Berni and Denise by exploring "The Old Jessop House" with them!!!