The Phantom House

The Phantom House The Strange Story or Knighton Gorges By Jessie Middleton

The following strange experiences were given me by Miss Ethel C. Hargrove, F.R.G.S., author of “Silhouettes of Sweden,” “The Charm of Copenhagen,” etc. etc. “Knighton is derived from the Celtic Keithan, the place of a fight. The mere word itself suggests a train of thought; and Knighton Gorges has witnessed many conflicts, bodily, mental, and spiritual. “The authentic history of the estate dates from the reign of Henry III., when it was held by John de Morville, who founded the north chantry, or transept, at Newchurch Church, afterwards to become the burial-place of the Dyllington family. The de Morvilles came from Cumberland; and, after the death of John, Ralph de Gorges, husband of Ellen de Morville, daughter of John, enjoyed the manor in her right and built a chapel there in the year 1301. “Their son left an only child, Eleanor, who married the celebrated Sir Theobalde Russel. In 1840, after successfully repulsing a French invading force at Saint Helen’s Point, Bembridge, Sir Theobalde was severely wounded, and his retainers carried him from the battlefield to Knighton Gorges, where shortly afterwards he passed over to the spirit world. “The manor remained in the hands of his descendants until the reign of Queen Elizabeth, when one George Gilberte, of Whitcombe, sold it, with other property, to Antony Dyllington, of Poole, in Dorsetshire. His family continued to flourish there till early Georgian days, when Sir Tristram, the last male representative of his race, had the misfortune to lose his beloved wife and four children within a few days. The cause of this tragedy was some bad type of fever, and the shock turned Sir Tristram’s brain, causing him to drown himself in a little pond hard by the mansion. “The faithful butler concealed the cause of his master’s death, thus retaining the estate * for the two Miss Dyllingtons, sisters of the ill-fated baronet. “The survivor of the two sisters bequeathed it to General Maurice Bocland. In 1785 it passed on to another family, the Bissets. “George Maurice Bisset, a man of intellect and culture, kept open house, and the notorious John Wilkes wrote in his diary, ‘Knighton Manor supplies me very kindly with melons and other fruit.’ Wilkes then lived at Sandown, and it was his custom to attend Shanklin Church on Sunday mornings, and then, after meeting David Garrick and his wife, to walk with them over the fields to dine at Knighton Gorges. “The house, an ancient ivy-covered building in the Gothic style, contained many fine apartments, and was situate on the edge of a hill. A wayside road at the rear led direct to some antique earth-works attributed to the Danes, but probably of much later date. In the early years of last century it was demolished stone by stone to verify an oath sworn by an irate uncle that his nephew, the next on the entail, should never enter his dwelling. Mr. Bisset died just as the workmen had completed their extraordinary task.

“Now only the original gateposts, a few stones, and an arbour used as a potting shed in the walled garden remain. Probably David Garrick, Wilkes, other Georgian wits drank wine and told anecdotes to their genial host on the grass plot that then existed in front of the arbour. “Since then six skeletons have been discovered within two feet of the surface of the vegetable beds. They were reverently re-interred. *** “Apart from the interesting recollections connected with Knighton Gorges, deeper and more psychic associations cling to the deserted spot which is best viewed from the rookery overlooking the walled garden and what was once an avenue of stately trees. Now some of these trees have fallen, and their dismantled trunks are half covered with rank fungi of different species, but the scent of the limes still pervades the atmosphere on summer evenings and the wind sings softly in the leafy recesses of an enormous fig tree. “But it was a cold, still night when, in company with a sister and three villagers, I walked the mile from Newchurch on New Year’s Eve, 1913-4, to experience from ten minutes to twelve and onward a marvellous aural manifestation of a lady singing soprano, then a duet with a baritone, and part songs to the music of a spinet or harpsichord. Lastly came some very dainty and refined minuet airs. “One summer evening later I was walking on the road that passes the old gateposts, between the hours of seven and eight, earnestly engrossed in conversation with a friend, when my attention was suddenly arrested by a very loud noise, apparently made by children playing with wire railings. We could not ascertain the cause, but as there were several schoolboys about we passed on and thought no more of the circumstance. “It never would have occurred to me to give the matter another thought but for this coincidence. A few days later, on Monday, July 6th, I was sitting on the fallen trunks shortly before 8 P.M. The thought of hearing again the mysterious music was strong within me, but I was destined to hear music of a different kind. Again it delighted my ears, but this time it was the voices of a church choir. I listened with great joy till I was disturbed by conflicting elements—the self-same noise I bad attributed to the schoolboys, knocking the wire railings. This time it was simply deafening. ‘Children playing again,’ I reasoned, but it had in it an affinity to the clashing of swords. “ ‘Do be quiet,’ I shouted, for the sacred music was hardly distinguishable in such a din. “Finding my remonstrance had no effect, I rose to my feet and approached the spot from whence the tumult proceeded—the corner of the walled garden. When I arrived there it ceased, but neither boys nor railings could be seen. *** “ ‘Neithan,’ the place of a fight. Surely in days of yore a mortal conflict must have taken place there, and even now the forces of good and evil appear to war against each other. “Not every day is a manifestation vouchsafed. I have often wandered on the rugged hillside without hearing anything beyond the music of birds singing, or the hurried flight

of numerous rabbits, or perchance the advent of a round-eyed owl. Every spring prim-roses and yellow gorse strive to restore the long-lost splendour of the scene, but the atmosphere of ‘never more’ permeates the deserted shrine of old world life. “I have been fortunate enough to establish a link of 150 years with the place in the person of an aged farm labourer who told me that nearly seventy years ago, when he was a boy, he knew an old man who said his grandfather used to work for the Dylingtons in the kitchen, boiling potatoes for the pigs, and, he added, ‘then the tongs would move across the room by themselves.’ “The same individual also mentioned a rumour that a fortune composed of gold coins was buried in the grounds of the estate. “Knighton always had the reputation of being haunted, and the story runs that a Brading priest was once engaged to exorcise the demons. “Charles I. visited the then owners of the Gorges. Sir John Oglander, who wrote his memoirs in that reign, quotes, ‘They had a park thereon ye weste side of ye house,’ and ‘they had theyre chappel and there manie of them were buried and had fayre monuments; ye chappel is now turned into a brew-house and ye church yarde into an orchard.’ The latter fact accounts for the finding of the six skeletons in the walled garden, and a barn at a neighbouring farm is still reported to be the remains of a medifeval chapel. “Thus years roll on, kingdoms rise and fall, new discoveries made and old faiths questioned, yet the Eternal never changes, and events are chronicled to be stored in the gramophone of Nature. What has been remains; actions repeat themselves; melody is stored in waves of ether; God’s music of the spheres— Lingering and wandering on as loth to die, Like thoughts whose very sweetness yield proof That they were born for immortality. *** “Two years later, New Year’s Eve, 1915-16, I determined to revisit Knighton with a friend who had never been there before. We walked from New-church with a view of arriving in good time for any manifestations vouchsafed. “While walking, I heard the sounds of distant music intermingled with the bleatings of the sheep, but I did not at the time make any remark on the subject. “The night was fine and starlit, and the wind played gently through the bare branches of the trees. There were no lights in the cottages, and even at 9 P.M. the world seemed asleep. “As we approached Knighton lights were reflected from behind our shoulders, so vivid that we could plainly see our own shadows in dark relief, and I had the sensation that people were following us, but whenever I looked behind the dim gloom was unbroken except for the twinkling of the stars, and there was not a soul in sight. “We settled ourselves at the old gates to await the trend of events, but a vague feeling of discomfort, and that I was sitting in someone’s way, obsessed me, so we decided to move to another gate across the road leading into a broad expanse of field, merging into the long range of downs.

“The field was studded with lights, apparently reflected from the windows of a house, and my friend observed she had a strong impression that we were there just in time to witness the advent of some late arrivals; she could hear the deep baying of house dogs and the shriller yap of a King Charles or a Blenheim spaniel. “As the door opened to admit the guests, my friend plainly saw a square white house with ivy covering the lower part, leaded diamond panes to the windows, and heard all the sounds of welcoming and greeting—a confused murmur of voices. Next a flute and violin could be distinctly heard. Then came silence; and a man’s form could be plainly seen standing near a bow window with a tall stemmed glass with a flat bowl raised as if for a toast. “He was dressed in eighteenth-century costume—black small-clothes, frilled shirt, white silk stockings, his dark hair plainly tied back with a black ribbon. There was evidently cheering and clapping of hands (I heard the two later); then a burst of music, and this time the drum could be plainly distmguished. ‘From then up to twenty to twelve there were no sounds except an occasional burst of music, and fainter moving lights spread over a large area. And, still more, reflected on the opposite side of the road, one could plainly see the posts and even the twigs of the bare hawthorns in the hedges. “I walked up and down the road a little way to keep warm, and when I rejoined my friend twice I turned towards the wrong opening, misled by the powerful light. “At twenty to twelve, when we were standing in the road opposite the phantom house, a full tenor voice lustily gave forth ‘ God rest you, merrie gentlemen,’ and the chorus was joined in by the whole party. “The lights of the house were soon so dim that one could see nothing, though, curiously enough, the reflections on the far side remained as vivid. We heard nothing more except two weird sounds which my friend thought the hoot of a motor—I took them to be the call for a belated carriage. “Evidently the revels were at an end, and we lost no time in taking our departure, for we had a lonely walk of five miles across country to Sandown. It was worth it, we declared, although we did not reach our destination until after 2 A.M.”