Ghost Army Roman legionnaires walking through the wall in the UK

A silent path that knows no tread save the eerie footsteps of the dead ...

In the old English town of York n the North of England near the old Hadrian’s Wall there is an old Medieval building which has become the subject of a ghostly tale. This is the story of a young heating engineer apprentice who incredibly encountered the passage of an entire Roman cohort that literally stepped out of the wall. 

Harry Martindale was an eighteen year-old at the time of his encounter in the cold month of February in the year 1953. He had been instructed to install a new central heating system at Treasure’s House in the city of York North Yorkshire. The medieval building is an old house said to have been constructed in 1562 for the Treasurers of York Minster. The building is now run by the National Trust. While working on the heating system below the ground level the young apprentice suddenly heard the sound of a horn. The sound seemed very strange particularly since the young apprentice was in the basement level  and from where the noise of the horn distinctly emerged. Young Harry remained perched on his ladder wondering about the growing sound when all of a sudden something very shocking occurred which startled  him to fall off his ladder.

All of a sudden this great big cart with a  horse appeared straight out of nowhere, through the brick wall of the basement and right into the cellar where he was working. Young Harry was shocked to see the cart and horse emerge and being ridden by a Roman soldier. The apprentice could clearly make out the dress of the driver and the state of disarray of his clothes in the dim lighting. Then immediately to his utter shock an entire cohort of marching Roman soldiers followed. The soldiers trampled through the cellar dressed in green tunics and silver helmets and they were armed with shield sword and spear!

Later on the startled apprentice learned that there was an old Roman road buried a few inches below the building. The curator of the building was an old man and smirked upon inquiring if the young man had seen the Roman troops on their march. Apparently the soldiers had been spotted several times before by the curator and other witnesses who had quite taken to the fact that they had a spirit army marching through the building at times. Quite clearly the building was built on top of an old Roman road but at the time of the construction who was to say that the road was still in use by Roman legionnaires!

The story of Emma - Part Three

The story of Emma (Three) - written by Bruno Bernard 2016

November had come abruptly. The days were now shorter, wet and intolerably harsher with the change of the season. The cold western winds swept across the West Country from the open seas. Habitually, I found myself staring at the wintry rain splashing against the classroom window pane. Autumn showers were particularly unkind as I was beginning to discover. The walk to school was a face-down push against a cold wet wind. The late, bleak afternoon walk back home was increasingly darker. Poorly lit street lamps here and there cast long and eerie shadows of all sorts. Tall arching trees swaying over the street made me feel nervous when walking home in the dark. But a few weeks ago the long lazy summers seemed unending. Then the dark western clouds had rolled in and all of a sudden those warm summer memories of Emma were swept aside with a quickening shudder.

Emma was part of my summer memory. I thought about her all through the autumn period as the leaves turned yellow and brown before the rains. In our shortest encounters I played over her smiling eyes repetitively in my mind. But now it was November and the landscape was caught within its death throes. I had many friends at school and of course there was Susan; eight years old and with adorable large brown eyes, she was always there whenever I turned around. She was always watching me with her adoring eyes. But my mind was drifting elsewhere. I was secretly disappointed. Emma was no longer anything more than a brief summer friendship. Her smile had faded just like the rest of nature with the onset of winter’s cold hand. I yearned to see Emma again but those days of slow summer walks to the old churchyard on top of the hill were no longer possible. The country lanes were now cold, dark and foreboding and the thought of visiting an old churchyard bereft of its summer color was forbidding.

Darkness was setting over the land and in my mind I was feeling insecure. The winds began to howl through the cracks of every window in the house. We had central heating with hot water bubbling up the pipes to the radiators. But the western winds were dreadfully bitter and could penetrate any home. It was on one such cold November night that Mummy had to go for an evening dinner party in the little down about a mile down the road. Mummy said that she will be back by eleven that Friday evening. It was the birthday of Mr. Lynn and Mummy gave me permission to stay at home and read books in my room all evening. Our house was quite large. It was a four bedroom house on two levels with the bedrooms upstairs. But the only occupants were myself and Mummy. I was a lonely child in that I had nobody to play with at home. But I had a world of books to keep me company that evening and there was always my toy soldiers so there would always be something to do.

I sat on the carpet floor lining up my Napoleonic infantry men for an impromptu Battle of Waterloo. It was now seven in the evening. Mummy bent down and kissed the top of my head. Her long strawberry blond hair was cascading over the side of my cheeks and I could feel the gentle tickle. Without lifting my head I continued to assemble my ground troops and cavalry. Mummy left the room in silence but by the depth of her fragrance I knew exactly where Mummy was without even having to see her. When the rich jasmine smell in her hair was distant I knew she was going down the staircase to the lower level of the house. As the fragrance faded entirely I knew that I was in the house alone; all except for my toy soldiers preparing for a mighty battle on the carpet floor.

I had decided I was going to reenact the Battle of Waterloo. I threw down a towel on the floor and made a tiny bump and placed my British infantrymen in a menacing defensive position on the top of the bump. Wellington was placed behind the line to cheer on his troops with a group of hussars to the right flank to look decidedly ferocious. The French infantry, I threw in a line at the bottom of the towel on the carpet. Napoleon was not to be outdone. I lined him the great general behind his elite French infantrymen with a large group of cuirassiers. It was going to be an epic struggle so I quickly reached for a cup of Ovaltine from a flask on the dresser table . But the battle was not complete. I began ruminating in earnest. I needed some improvisation to make the fight a more memorable event. Downstairs the grandfather clock chimed eight. There was not a moment to be lost. I looked around my basket of toys and found the solution. So I threw in a WW2 Sherman tank on top of the towel with the British and a medieval trebuchet at the bottom of the towel hill on the side of the French to spice up the fight! The decided intervention was an inspirational success. The French started the battle and immediately I launched the French medieval trebuchet and threw a huge chunk of Lego into the air in the direction of the British line and which instantly knocked the turret right off the British Sherman tank and skittled a good section of defending British infantrymen on top of the towel hill. There was no time to be lost. The French were up the towel hill and it was all cut and thrust stuff now. Wellington had somehow lost his hat in the fray and must have been startled. The British infantry fell back and were almost done in by the courageous French elite rising to the cries of a defiant Napoleon throwing in his lot with great bravado. All was nearly lost as the desperate melee drove the British back. Suddenly I realized this could not be right. Seizing the moment in another flash of inspiration I came to the rescue of Wellington’s noble men. Wellington’s hussars were now being pressed in desperation by a large flanking body of cuirassiers. Suddenly out of nowhere I hastily reached for the reserves and decided to throw in a marauding Spitfire with decisive genius to rescue the British and drop more Lego bricks on the advancing French infantry and turn the heated battle on its head. The day was saved by a Spitfire and Wellington’s men stood their ground. Waterloo was won even though the French trebuchet had let off one more giant Lego chunk and successfully managed to do more harm than good by knocking out a good portion of the retreating French line! I threw my fist in the air with satisfaction and Wellington was a hero all over again; largely thanks to my inspired choices whilst remaining generally irreverent of any pertinent timeline in the history of warfare.

My spirits lifted stood up and went to the dresser table where Mummy left me plenty of buttered toasties on the table with a flask of Ovaltine to warm my spirits should I feel bored. I tucked into the sugared and buttered slices of toast with agreeable. But still the wind was howling outside and darkness had thickly enveloped the entire neighborhood as if under a menacing pall of doom. I went over to the window and sat by an armchair and tall lamp and stared into the rain. Outside I could see the trees sway in the wind through the darkness. I reached for some picture books on a small table beside the armchair. There was a Dr Seuss, some Tin Tin but eventually I settled for a colorful cartoon book of Asterix the Gaul.

The grandfather clock in the hallway downstairs chimed nine times. My eyes were beginning to feel a little weary through all the excitement of the Battle of Waterloo. My mind was now drifting and I turned to look through the window pane again. The room was warm but I could feel the cold against the window pane. I looked down at my book and tried to ignore the pitter patter on the window. It was then that I first realized that there was the faintest suggestion of a rose fragrance in the air. I looked around the armchair and towards the open bedroom door wondering if Mummy had returned with a different fragrance. But the house was silent and so I turned back to my book and continued reading.

The clock downstairs chimed ten. I had put down my Asterix and now resorted to flicking through pages at random from any book I could pick up by the side table. Then there it was again; the fragrance was now stronger. It was the faintest aroma of a rose and it was gradually growing stronger. I could not concentrate on my books and I wondered now how the room was slowly becoming filled with an over-powering sense of roses. I looked down at the pages on the book sitting on my lap again. It was then that I could feel the strong sense of a rose closer to me, almost as if the sweet odor was coming from behind the armchair. My mind was now swirling with apprehension. The powerful feelings of discomfort were now surging through my mind as I began to place a bearing upon the fragrance growing behind me. I could almost feel as if there was another presence in the room. But I did not want to acknowledge my senses. I flicked a few pages more. It was at that moment the heavy silence in the room became so acute. The air of roses was now so distinct that I was becoming dizzy. I rubbed my eyes and thought about Mummy. Then my senses started screaming back. The volume of silence was pressing me down. Even the pitter patter against the window pane was being drowned out as I realized there was a presence standing behind me. Closer and closer we were now almost in contact. I looked at the night lamp by the side table. My mind was becoming paralyzed with fear. My hands were now becoming so white as I gripped the open book on my lap. I felt that the hairs on my head were becoming electrified and trying to stand up. There was someone behind me standing in the silence; watching me. I could not move my body. Out of fear I could not look behind me. The fragrance of roses was now so strong I could almost touch the presence behind me. It was then that I could feel as if the presence was looking over my shoulder and down at the pages on my book on my lap. My mind and my body froze as I could almost feel a chin rest on my shoulder. Then I knew that her hair was touching my hair as she paused over my shoulder, hovering and watching. My mind then slipped away into the darkness with the soft fragrance of rose stealing my senses. I drifted into a slumber.

When I woke in the morning the room was slightly chilly. I was on the floor. There was a pillow under my head and a blanket over my body. I turned on my pillow and on my side I gazed across the carpet The scattered toys had been gathered and were now contained in my toy box on the floor. From across the hallway I could feel the fragrance of jasmine. Mummy was home safely. I blinked then drifted back to sleep.

A clock chimed ten in my mind. I struggled to rise from the floor but eventually I made my way to the armchair by the dresser to find my towel. I was yawning. The air was grey outside as light streamed through the bedroom windows. I reached for a hairbrush on the dresser table by the armchair but instead I clumsily knocked over a large thick book and it fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Crouching on my knees in silence I stared at the open leaves and saw the title ‘Gem of the Nile.’ It was a novel Mummy was reading to me at night sometimes to send me to sleep. Inside the book were a few pressed flowers that Mummy must have picked up from the abandoned graveyard in the summer. I picked one of the dried flowers and pressed it against my nose and closed my eyes. It was a pink rose and it bore the slightest hint of a rosy fragrance. Instantly Emma came to my mind and in my mind’s eye I recalled her gazing into my eyes with such a warm embrace. Her eyes sparkled with enchantment as she handed me the pink rose. I opened my eyes again and sure enough, yes, this was a pink rose, dried but still bearing the semblance of a summer memory. My mind started drifting. I looked down at the title again. ‘Gem of the Nile’ and I thought about the rose. The faint fragrance of Mummy’s jasmine wafting through the open bedroom door from the hallway was now lost within the swirl of a new scent taking over my senses. The silence of the morning was now being drowned out as I could hear the blood rushing in my own temples. I must have been imagining things. But the rosy scent was distinct now from the dry pressed flower. ‘Gem’ I wondered in my mind. ‘Gem.’ I paused. ‘Em,’ I opened my eyes wide now with a sudden realization. My summer memories were now swirling in my mind and I could see the little girl dressed in blue smiling back at me and stretching out her hand and handing me a pink rose. She had a beautiful soul and even though we met a brief while she sparked a flame of friendship that was so warm inside me. ‘Emma’ I quietly whispered into the silence as I stared at the dry pink rose in my hand. My heart warmed at the sudden thought of her. The smell of roses was now distinct in the room overpowering the wafting jasmine from across the hallway. Emma was lingering in my mind. I could almost count each freckle under her eyes as she glowed with a smile. In the instant, it was if I could hear an echo in my heart. A pink rose; Emma ... ‘Emma,’ I whispered once again. It was then that I could hear behind me a faint and barely audible sigh.


The story of Emma - Part Two

The story of Emma (Two) - A short story by Bruno Bernard


Summer was a bundle of energy. Every afternoon I just could not wait to bolt out of the front door and head up the hill towards the churchyard in the late afternoon. I was tired of being cooped up inside the house without a fiend to play with that August. As soon as Mummy had gathered her things and her basket I was impatiently waiting by the front door. Fortunately, Mummy was not inclined to restrain me as she casually strolled up the lane behind me, doubtless listening to the birds singing in the trees and taking in the riot of color that surrounded our journey up the hill. As I was wearing shorts I was always getting my knees scratched by thorns as I waded into the bushes on the side when I spied some ripe berries. Mummy wore a black floral dress with tiny pink and white roses. She loved roses, especially pink, which complemented her own long strawberry blond hair. She certainly had the patience of a saint as her little prince tumbled up and down the country lane in search of an adventure at every turn.

Mummy was seated under her favorite oak tree. She didn’t like getting sunburn so she preferred to sit under the shady tree sipping lemonade and reading her books while I could roam about and play by myself. It seemed strange that one could find such comfort but the disused country graveyard, now over-run by foliage, was indeed a peaceful place to find happiness in solitude. I knew Mummy loved pink roses so I would set off in search of the wild dog-roses that scrambled their way across the odd mossy tombstone. There was only one week left before the school would open. It was late August and I sought to enjoy my afternoon freedom as much as I could.

I cannot count how many times I could have tripped over a broken gravestone hidden under some tufts of wild grass. Bruised and scratched I still found excitement exploring behind every gnarled tree and broken stone. The afternoon was progressing. I had found a suitably shaped piece of wood that I had rather imagined become my sturdy sword. I could not help myself plunging my wooden implement into the odd tree now and then as I pursued my adventure and scoured the churchyard for flowers for Mummy.

Was it a flash of red or fleeting blue that caught the corner of my eye as I stood beside a green tower of ivy weaving a tapestry across a large and forgotten mausoleum? it was my friend Emma. I turned my head across my shoulder and peered closer at the yew tree behind the mausoleum. Once again I saw a flitting red of a shadow and instantly recognized it must be Emma again, the little girl with long wavy red hair, a huge smile and a hundred freckles under her gleaming eyes. I determined to approach the yew tree. Ahead of me through the razor screen of a weeping willow I saw a sudden flash of blue and red. I called for Emma but there was no response. There was the occasional grasshopper singing and a few calls of a pigeon to break the enveloping silence. I could feel a gentle wind wafting through the bushes and freshly caressing my puzzled face. I walked slowly ahead past the yew tree and the mausoleum into the willow. It has been a dry summer and parched leaves were already starting to fall early. I could feel the dry, brittle leaves crumple beneath my feet as I waded into the middle of the willow tree. The silence was becoming more pronounced save for a few rustling leaves in the wind. Through the willow tree I could see an open area in front of me. It was a sunken garden rectangular in shape. I had never discovered this secluded area in the churchyard before. Slowly I trod five steps down. The stone and cement were breaking and so I had to tread carefully. This must have been a little garden because I could detect the remains of a two wooden benches now entirely covered in moss on either side of what would have been a rectangular pond. The silence was growing as I stood in the middle of the sunken garden. What were a few ornamental rose bushes by the side of the garden walls were now completely gnarled and strangled within knots by rampant ivy sweeping across most of the garden side wall. The soil under the old rose bushes was an unhealthy sallow yellow. Even the air felt thick and sickly. I tightened my nostrils. The air smelt earthy, stagnant and old and the silence was becoming more and more oppressive. I could no longer hear the birds in the trees. There was something abut the garden that made me feel uncomfortable. No sound could penetrate the woody wall that enveloped the secret garden. The loneliness gnawed inside my soul. I was utterly alone. It was very apparent that nobody had trodden through the garden for years. I trod carefully, almost gingerly, to the other side of the sunken garden and climbed the stony steps. Once again out of the corner of my eye I thought I saw a flash of red and blue and I called out for Emma. My words seemed to have died in the air like a muffled sound as the silence of the garden quickly engulfed me. Nervously, peering into the dark green thicket ahead I could make out the gates of an old family mausoleum where little sunlight could breech the arching trees that covered the entire area around the family tomb. The stony grey was thickly covered by moss and gradually being strangled to death by a creeping green ivy. I stopped in my tracks and for the first time a sense of fear was beginning to grow in my mind. i hesitated for almost an eternity as my senses listened out keenly for any stir or sight of Emma. I was reluctant to take one more step closer. The silence in the air was fast becoming a deafening foreboding. The sunken garden was now within a deeper hush of quiet. I was quickly becoming uneasy. The sickly, earthy smell was over-powering. But through the loneliness I could feel that I was being watched from across the garden. I knew I was not alone but I was not sure if it was my friend Emma playing a game of hide and seek with me. I didn't want to linger here anymore. The air smelt terribly old and dead. The whole secret garden seemed like nature caught in a dreadful state of decay. This was not a garden anymore than death was a state of relaxation. It's grace and beauty had faded over time. Even the roses had died and almost appeared swallowed up by the rank yellow earth. The churchyard was no longer a welcome place. I turned and quickly made my way across the sunken garden but kept looking behind me at the old tomb which was receding into the leafy background. I still could not help but feel that I was being watched by someone. My palpitating chest heightened a sense of foreboding and urgency. It was only once I found the yew tree again that I found the courage to stop looking behind me and break into a run through the familiar paths back to the oak tree where Mummy was resting. When I caught sight of her only then I slowed down into a walk.

Mummy was asleep. I sat down beside her and then put my head on her lap and stared across the land below the hill. She stirred after a moment and gently felt my hair with her hands. I felt lovingly safe again in her lap as I sighed at her slightest touch. Mummy was waking from her dreams. She rarely spoke, she was always quiet, but with the wave of her hand or a twitch of her eyebrows I always knew what Mummy wanted and we went about our lives in quiet recognition. Mummy knew I wanted to go home as I clung to her dress tightly. I went in search of Emma but I didn’t want to go back there to the yew tree again. The warm afternoon sun was gently setting across the hills in the distance with a ruddy glow across the land. It was seven in the evening now as Mummy gently eased me up and motioned me to grab our things.

I missed Emma terribly the last few days. I didn’t have anyone to play with that summer. But I did not think I would find her again and I was not too keen to venture to the sunken garden ever again.