THE HAUNTING OF: Graiseley Old Hall. Lorien Jones explores an old hall, lost in time

As I explore the many historic buildings around England, I’m beginning to realise that I have a favourite type. And that’s not to specify or single out castles or pubs or churches. All of these could fall under my favourite explores, as does this property that you are about to discover.

For this, we venture into the bustling West Midlands city of Wolverhampton. The rich industrial history of the area, particularly in coal mining and steel production, provides the longused title of The Black Country. Still well known as an engineering city, the historical diversity can be seen in many ways, architecturally especially. Existing buildings, including St Peter’s Collegiate Church, date as far back as the 13th Century and we will explore one such building now. Driving south of the city centre into the suburbs, you are surrounded by a mix of eras. Victorian houses lead on to 1930s styles which neighbour up to much more modern builds. Driving down Carlton Road, you begin to wonder if you’re in the right place. It’s a normal residential street, tree lined and not overly populated, but no sign of an ancient hall or even where one might exist. Against the darkening sky, you see yourself coming to a dead end of trees and pause to plan the next move. Upon closer inspection, you realise that the dead end is in fact the entrance to two further properties, both gated driveways. The left bears no signs of a hall, and as you look to the right, your heart skips a beat as you read, crafted into the old iron gates, ‘Graiseley Old Hall’.

Setting foot on the driveway, tall trees behave in the way I love and seem to close you in and close the world out. And with that, this instantly becomes one of my favourite types of properties. You’ve stepped over some unseen threshold, and you feel it. The modern world is back there on Carlton Road with its building works and schedules, and suddenly you’re somewhere else, you’ve been welcomed into some other ether. Time loses meaning here, and you are free to embrace this taste of the past at your leisure.

Passing through the gardens, you look up to see Graiseley Old Hall in all her glory. Thought to have been built around 1485 by Nicholas Rydley, there is a belief that an older property once existed here but let that matter not for what you can see is history enough!

The building you see before you now very much remains in the same state it has done for hundreds of years, but at one time, the exterior would have looked very different. Cast your mind to the medieval timber buildings and you can imagine how Graiseley would have looked? The building was strengthened and updated by John Jesson who lived, and died, at the hall in the 17th into 18th centuries. Jesson replaced the wooden structure with brick, giving the old hall a new, updated look.

The surrounding land would have once appeared very different, farm buildings occupied large areas and the entire property was surrounded by a moat to ward off cattle thieves. But the present version feels much more intimate. You feel invited in, welcomed with an air of caution. Almost like being in the headmaster’s office at school. Curiosity and awe fill your senses with enough of a knowing not to overstep the mark. That’s how this house makes you feel. You look up at the beautifully ornate windows and feel a thousand eyes looking down on you. Every haunted building now seems to have this effect from the outside, the more you explore, the more you feel it, but this house feels especially busy.

Stepping through the heavy, dark-wood front door brings the history rushing at you. You stop for a minute and take in the atmosphere. The smell so often found in older properties is hard to explain unless you’ve experienced it before, and once you do, you appreciate it every time. It brings the same feelings as a heavy leatherbound book, full of substance and life. So many stories waiting to be told.

You pass on through into the hallway, the place of an unexplained incident that led to the hall being nicknamed ‘The House That Cries’. Over the past decade, a handful of separate occurrences have taken place that are yet to be suitably explained. A small pool of water has appeared in the same place for no obvious reason. On one instance, this was witnessed by the owner and visitors. Water dripped from a beam, the source was searched for to no avail, and upon return several minutes later, the beam was completely dry. Opinions have been given but none seem to provide a plausible explanation.

Beams in the ceiling came from old ship timbers and some of the decorative wood came from nearby, and equally as ancient, St Peter’s Church. This was done during historic restoration work by George Green. Whilst taking in the beautiful woodwork that surrounds you, a chill suddenly runs down your spine as if caused by a draft of someone hurrying by. You turn, preparing to apologise for being in the way but find yourself alone. A faint smell of baking bread carries through the air, and you wonder if you are not alone in the house. Hearing hushed voices coming from the parlour, you walk through in anticipation of meeting other guests.

The large room centres around a grand, elaborate fireplace of wood, stone and decorative brickwork. There are ancient tapestries adorning the walls and other antiquities to pore over. But to your surprise the room is empty, and you question whether you were mistaken. Rain begins to slowly patter against the thin windowpanes, and you enjoy the comforting ambience of the room. As you examine all it has to offer, you begin to feel drowsy. Your vision becomes hazy, and the woozy feeling makes you feel a little unwell. You sit in one of the vintage, plush armchairs scattered with feather pillows and relish in the comfort it brings. You close your eyes for a second to try and rid yourself of the fogginess you feel.

“With his head in his hand, you see the master of the house, Walter Rotton, a renowned gambler, with a penchant for cockfighting, and losing Graiseley Old Hall to his gambling debts.”

The sound of the rain is soothing, you have always appreciated the calm it brings. The wind is starting to pick up and you hear a fire begin to crackle in the hearth. You have the rest of the house to explore, but you take a minute to enjoy this repose. Suddenly, an enraged shout pulls you from your respite. You open your eyes but struggle to see. The room is much darker than it was just moments ago. A fire is now dimly glowing, waiting to be tended to. Around you, candles flicker and shadows dance across the walls. The room is much colder than it just was, causing you to shiver. Rising to search for the light switch, you find that there are none. Small footsteps run across the room above you, but loud conversation leads you back into the entrance hall.

Candlelight from wall sconces help to guide you. Despite the darkness, you see a small face and hands on the stairs peeping through the spindles. With a giggle, they vanish. Down the hall to your right, you hear a busy kitchen. The house smells entirely different now, food you don’t quite recognise, wood smoke and tobacco. But you’re drawn to a room you haven’t yet been in, a room where the aggressive talk is emanating from. Pushing back the old door, you walk into a dimly lit room swirling with tobacco smoke. Another fire is glowing, this one also needing more wood. A large table in the centre of the room is scattered with gambling paraphernalia. Pouches spilling coins lay scattered about. Cards in hand, men sit around the table, the tension can be felt in the air. Dice from an earlier game of Hazard are strewn about, one found its way to a groove in the floorboards. A carafe with a little remaining dark liquid twinkles in the candlelight and pewter tankards are never far from the intoxicated men. Pistols lie threateningly on the table and only add to the unease in the room.

With his head in his hand, you see the master of the house, Walter Rotton. He is a renowned gambler, with a certain penchant for cockfighting, and is in the throes of losing Graiseley Old Hall to his gambling debts. One of the men at the table scoops up the coins ready to pocket them. Rotton asks for one more game as he lights another cigarette. The fire grows weaker in the grate as men stand around in the shadows watching the inevitable unfold.

You leave the room and its fate to get some fresh air. Stepping out into the wet night, you take a deep breath and try to process all that you just witnessed. The night seems much quieter now, and as you look back into the house, you realise the electric lights have returned. The house is bright and still once again. With the rest of the building yet to explore, you wonder what other stories Graiseley Old Hall has to tell…. Lorien X

(Shush, don’t tell everyone...)

THE TANFIELD POLTERGEIST

(as featured on ‘Uncanny’) “Patti’s Story”

“When the poltergeist sounds first started, I was curious rather than afraid. I had never been afraid of the dark, having previously lived alone, in the disused attic of an empty Edwardian house, one of a row of empty houses in Wolverhampton town centre.

At the beginning of the poltergeist phenomena, the sounds were mundane : amplified tickings, scrapings, tappings. I took no notice of them until they started to become more insistent. The timing of the sounds was theatrical.

When I tried to pinpoint the source of these sounds, they would lead me on, when I turned away, they would follow me again. It felt like a game.”

Patti Keane