Page 17 of Murder Most Haunted

Extract from They Do It With Strings podcast

‘The Tin House’: Episode Two

[Intro music fades in; a haunting and eerie melody sets the mood]

Noah: Welcome back, listeners, to They Do It With Strings. I’m your host, Noah Camber.

[Same haunting and eerie melody bridges to interview]

Noah: You join me inside the main Library of Atherton Hall, which is absolutely pulsating with electromagnetic energy right now. I don’t even need to check the readings to tell you that we are in the presence of some otherworldly entity.

And what a room it is! It is like time itself has stood still here in this magnificent space. If we listen hard enough, we may even hear the crackle of the fire beneath the marble mantel and the crystal clink of Lord Charles Atherton’s sherry glass.

It is from the mouth of a frequent visitor that we will learn more about the mysteries of the past. I am, of course, talking about the chilling diary of Dr Theodore Rawlings, family doctor to the Athertons. A first hand account, found here on the shelves of this remarkable library.

‘The twenty-third day of December, 1869. At two o’clock of the morning I was awoken by a banging on my front door. My housemaid answered to the coachman from Atherton Hall, requesting my urgent attendance. I of course quickly dressed and collected my medical bag.

‘Martha Cook, housekeeper of Atherton Hall, met me on arrival and escorted me through the servants’ entrance, avoiding the main corridors.

The hands of the grandmother clock read between half past three and a quarter to four as I stood in the doorway of Lord Atherton’s room, the interior of which was like a furnace despite no fire being lit.

‘A pair of coal-black eyes stared back at me from the bed, holding me rigid at the door. I was shocked at the sight of the master of the estate. Restraints had been placed on his arms for his own protection, and his face was covered in bloodied scratch marks. He did not recognize me at first, and called only “Dear God, tell her to leave me. She won’t go. She’s coming for me. ”

‘I turned to see who Lord Atherton was pointing at. There was no one there. The rest of the room fell oddly silent as I asked who he was referring to.

‘“The Lady of the Moor,” he replied. “She wants me dead.”

‘The housekeeper begged me for something to help him sleep, informing me that for some nights past he had lain awake, talking of a lady dressed all in white who walked the moors outside.

‘On physical examination, the Lord had the look of a fever but was not hot to the touch, and his pulse was as expected.

‘“She looks for her baby,” he cried, begging me to help him be rid of her.

‘I treated the physical as best I could by administering a relaxant to help him sleep and a tonic for the malaise. But I could do nothing for the illness of the mind.’

And then the next entry reads:

‘The twenty-fourth day of December, 1869. This evening, I was called again to Atherton Hall, and have only now returned home, a heavy weight upon my shoulders. On this occasion, I was taken straight to the bathing room, where the body of Lord Atherton lay floating in a pool of blood.

‘At 9.10 p.m., on this Christmas Eve of 1869, I held his cold hand in mine and pronounced Lord Charles Edward Atherton deceased.’

[Music swells, then fades out]