IT HAPPENED TO ME...

First-hand accounts of strange experiences from FT readers

Fear of the Oubliette

In August 1997, when I was 13 years old, I went on a short holiday with my parents and two brothers, staying for four nights at the St Briavels Castle Youth Hostel in the Forest of Dean. The castle is a Grade I listed ancient monument, over 800 years old, once King John’s Hunting Lodge. One reason we had chosen to go there was because it held mediaeval banquets, and this gave all the family the opportunity to dress up and have fun.

I knew nothing about the castle itself beforehand, but when we arrived I felt apprehensive as we crossed the courtyard, and uncomfortable while at the reception. We were directed to the Family Room and, as was my way, I was at the front of our group carrying our luggage, eager to see the room; but as we entered the corridor leading to the room I felt extremely unnerved, and a bit cold and nervous – which made me retreat to the back of everyone. I didn’t want to go into the room, and had to be ‘forced’ in. We noticed that the name on the door of the Family Room was ‘Oubliette’. We knew that this was French, but we had all forgotten what it might mean (pun intended). Under a rug in the middle of the wooden floor, we found a trapdoor. Naturally, we all had a go at trying to open it, but it was clearly locked. Later I found that I wanted to keep my distance from it.

My elder brother John and I slept in the bunk while my parents and younger brother Chris slept in the three separate beds. Every night I found it very difficult to sleep properly, and both John and I borrowed extra bed covers and quilts because we felt so cold, even though it was summer. Also, the two of us felt as though we were being watched. I point blank refused to be in the room on my own at any time during our stay – either we all had to leave the room together or someone had to stay with me. I felt great relief when I was out of the room.

On the evening of the mediaeval banquet, we were all sitting in the dining room when Dad realised that he had left his camera back in our room and asked me to go and fetch it. I literally felt cold from head to foot and refused to go. It ended up with John accompanying me, and we stuck together like glue. When we got there John stayed in the doorway while I dashed in and grabbed the camera. I ran out and then both of us ran up the corridor back towards the dining room. It felt as if I were being chased.

On the morning of our departure, we packed our things and had breakfast. As there was a ghost tour organised for a little later, we hung on to take part. The guide was full of stories about ghostly babies, grey ladies, the hanging room and various phantoms, which included knights in armour and a black dog. But after each story, with mock terror, he said that he was saving the most haunted part of the castle until the very end. As we were heading for this finale we realised that we were going down the corridor to the Family Room, where our packed luggage was still in place. As he opened the door, the guide announced this as being the most haunted room. Everyone piled in as the guide removed the rug, unlocked the trapdoor and opened it to reveal a very deep dungeon, only accessible through the trapdoor. He explained that this was an oubliette – hence the name of the room – a dungeon where prisoners were dropped (some of them died from the fall) and then forgotten. Of course, the name derives from the French word ‘oublier’ which means ‘to forget’. Both my parents murmured, “Ah, now I remember”. Apparently, in this way, lords could agree that they would not kill hostages, but by dropping them in an oubliette they simply ‘forgot’ about them; so they could not be accused of having killed them, even though the hostages ended up dead.

The guide said that it was boys in their early teenage years who were most affected by the room, and generally felt uneasy when there. This was ascribed to many boys of a similar age – who were thieves, hostages or whatever – being thrown into the oubliette and left to die. So I had been staying in the most haunted room of the reputedly most haunted castle in the country, and I was at the most susceptible age.

David Gandy

Lancaster

Monsieur Duval’s revenant?

On 1 August 2019, my husband, my son (12) and his cousins (nine and 13) stayed up relatively late to watch TV. I went to bed much earlier than them. The next morning, the older cousin told me that, when he finally went to bed, he had seen a man going out of my bedroom and entering another room directly across the landing (my husband was still in the living-room at the time). We laughed about it and forgot the whole thing until the following week, when I read an obituary in my local newspaper announcing that the former owner of my house, Monsieur Duval, had died. Although he died on 27 July, I immediately got goosebumps and nearly shouted “It was Monsieur Duval’s ghost!” to my husband and son. I knew that my bedroom was the previous owner’s bedroom when he was married, and that after his divorce (that is when we bought the house), he had moved across the landing...

I cannot help but think that the following story is linked to Monsieur Duval’s passing.

When we bought the house in 1998, we found a litter of nearly feral kittens in the barn. We managed to adopt one, which became a very sweet yet fearful domestic cat. We called her Prunelle. She was still in good health until the beginning of August, when she gradually stopped eating. I took her to the vet, who found nothing alarming, even after a blood sample, and rehydrated her. Her guess was that Prunelle, 21, was just dying of old age. And she did indeed die a few days after that, one month after Monsieur Duval, as if an era had to be closed with his passing.

Catherine Dupont

Habergy, Belgium