Anne Boleyn's Ghost Read online

  I got my camera out and looked around for the focal points of the room. I peered through the viewfinder and got the room into frame, and took the first of three shots. Each time I released the shutter my body became statue-like, as if I was not only freezing time through my photographs, but as if I, myself, had been frozen in time in the process.

  Having taken the three shots, the only difference this time was how well lit the room was by the bay window, so my camera’s flash hadn’t gone off.

  As we walked out I placed my hand on the intricate wooden bed-head as I went, for good luck.

  The next room housed several charming sixteenth century objects. Numerous items belonged to Anne Boleyn, and almost everything appeared encased in glass showcases. This room was much darker than the others and busy with visitors, so I kept my camera stowed away. A minute or two later, I was finding it difficult to see well in the low light, when something was pointed out to me.

  It was a small and brightly coloured blue prayer book that was given to Anne Boleyn shortly before she was executed at the Tower of London, bearing the inscription: Remember me when you do pray that hope doth lead from day to day. Because the room was so dark, it made the objects, and especially the little prayer book my eyes were fixed on, all the more entrancing.

  After spending a brief period of time in here, we swiftly carried on to the next room.

  The room that followed was the bedchamber that had once belonged to Anne Boleyn’s brother, George. It was yet another fairly small room, which reminded me of a cabin on an old ship; his saber and portrait displayed side by side just added to the adventurous feel of the room. It was bright and pleasant to be in, but time was short and we wanted to see as much of the castle as we could before close, so we continued on.

  Further on, I saw a small prayer room tucked away at the far end of the hall. Adorned with guilding, a soft, luminous light shone out of it. I wondered why the light appeared so fogged, and went to take a closer look.

  Peering in, a faint but very apparent mist hung enigmatically in the centre of the room. Humidity, perhaps … I thought, as I walked slowly away.

  In the narrow and wonky hallway, I stopped by a portrait of Anne Boleyn’s only daughter, Elizabeth, depicting her as the Queen of England. The painting echoed what I had seen, just a short while before, on the base of the lamp downstairs; but this time it was far more intense (or at least appeared so, standing so close to it in the narrow hallway), so much so that the painting looked as if it was made, not of canvas, but of hundreds of finely painted moths that had suddenly awoken and were stirring energetically within the frame. I looked away as my eyes seemed to fail me, and continued walking down the hallway as if a strong current had suddenly uprooted me.

  The next room was the bedchamber that was likely home to Henry the Eighth, when he had stayed at the castle. The room certainly would’ve been fit for a king with its large fireplace, intricate carvings, and stately bed. I was yearning to photograph a room that was once inhabited by England’s best known King.

  After taking the shot, a member of staff stopped outside the room and said from the hallway, ‘No cameras –’

  For a second or more I didn’t know what to say, having been somewhat startled by his voice. ‘But it is such a beautiful room …’ I replied earnestly, voicing the first thing that came to mind. Hoping I wasn’t in too much trouble, I stared at him: a soft blur gazing back at me from the length of the hallway, and before I could say anything else, he was gone.

  From then on I was determined not to take anymore photographs inside the castle, and possibly risk losing my film, or perhaps, my only camera.

  After climbing a small staircase, we passed through another narrow hallway, comprised of some chillingly eerie children’s bedrooms, and entered the Long Gallery. This room was visually the most spectacular out of all the rooms I had been in. As soon as I stepped inside, I fell awestruck by the ornate ceiling, which looked as though it had been crafted by no less than ten of the world’s most scrupulous artisans.

  Halfway across the Gallery I was met by a series of models of Henry the Eighth and his six wives. I remembered them from when I had visited the castle some ten years before, and was pleased to see they were still here, adding to the theatrics of the space. For some reason the model of Anne Boleyn stood out from the rest. I stopped and stared searchingly at it; the eyes appeared uncannily life-like, and it drew all of my attention towards it as I was engaged by unseemly dark pearls that hovered below the brow.

  I looked briefly at the models of Anne of Cleves and Jane Seymore, trying to see something similar in them – but they all lacked that strange ghostly veil.

  At the end of the Long Gallery, I raised my eyes to the ceiling once again and found myself spellbound by its mystique and its complexity … I had to take one last shot.

  I hesitated, listening carefully for the pitter-patter of people moving about the halls: there were so few people still inside the castle. When nothing seemed louder than a heartbeat, I quickly removed my camera from its bag, inclined it towards the ceiling, and … click –

  The final room we entered was the room we had actually entered first: when we went the spiral staircase of the gatehouse seeking assistance from staff. This room was part of the castle’s defenses, displaying tools that would have been used to torture enemies of the King – or Queen, most likely, while Anne lived her later years at the castle. After a brief look at what was on display, which included a murder-hole and several tools that looked more in-keeping with masonry, than objects that were used on the flesh and bones of man, we headed back down the steep spiral staircase, exited the gatehouse, and out in the courtyard were met by a dreary grey, English sky.

  The Courtyard, Hever Castle

  I was a little more than halfway through my second roll of film and the courtyard with its striking arch was the perfect place to take a few more photographs, now that I was out of the castle and could safely use my camera again.

  As we made our way out, I sought to finish my second roll of film by capturing the castle’s grounds; and after a few more shots just outside the ticket stands of the church and pub close by, the hum of film reeling inside my camera indicated its completion, and I stowed my camera safely away, knowing I would see the developed photographs in just a few weeks’ time.

  * * *

  Outside the main entrance to Hever Castle, across the road from the ticket stands, is the King Henry VIII pub. We were all hungry, and with it being a convenient place to stop and eat, we decided to go there for dinner.

  Seated at our table, I was looking over the Specials Menu, when the waitress stopped by and said there was a long wait, – it being Sunday – because the pub was exceptionally busy.

  With no other pub or restaurant nearby, we decided to stay put and ordered a few snacks from the bar to pass the time.

  Twenty minutes had gone by and I was quietly sipping my drink and peering out a back-door window on to the patio, where people were dining comfortably under glowing gas-heaters, when Mum asked if I was feeling alright.

  A bit surprised by this question, I said I was feeling fine. Then she said I looked rather pale, which was quickly reiterated by both my brother and his partner – little did I know of my ghostly encounter no more than an hour before within Hever Castle.

  We were all looking forward to having our meals, when, quite unexpectedly, an argument rang out from the kitchen. Everybody gradually fell silent as the chatter in the pub was drowned out by the ensuing shouts.

  After it had quieted down, the waitress walked out of the kitchen and announced to everyone that the chef would not cook anymore meals, and that there was no other chef on site. Everyone meekly resumed with their Sunday roasts and could hardly return to the buzzing tone that had filled the pub only minutes before; and we were frustrated for having waited on the up-side of half an hour already, and asked the waitress for an explanation about the sudden upset.

  After a sincere apology and some insight, w
e put on our coats and headed out of the pub.

  As we passed the kitchen, the chef walked out and was in view of all the unsettled customers. He didn’t say anything but looked disgruntled and red-faced.

  We had to find a different restaurant to dine at, and on attempting to arrange a taxi to take us to one, the soonest available taxi was nearly a two hour wait. Things weren’t running quite as smoothly as we had hoped. After asking the waitress where the nearest restaurant was, she gave us some directions that would lead us to one, being about a thirty minute walk.

  With no alternative, we set off along the narrow country roads, taking the upmost care to listen out for approaching cars as it was difficult to see with the roads’ numerous bends and blind spots.

  Eventually, after one or two missed turns, we had all safely arrived at The Greyhound Bed & Breakfast. It was a delightful place to end up after all the trouble. It had a pleasant interior, a hearty menu, and a warm, cozy ambiance. Having treated myself to a steak, I was starving, so as soon as it had arrived I took a large bite and accidentally ate a heap of peppercorns hidden under the thick cream sauce. I immediately began to feel even more unwell, and now my palely hue turned a shade green as I did my best to enjoy the meal, in spite of it.

  .

  In the Darkroom

  Three months had gone by. It was the middle of October, and the day at Hever Castle was firmly in the past and had been all but off my mind. Then, remembering I still had my film to develop, I took the two canisters to a local shop to have them turned into prints. One week later, they would be ready for me to pick up.

  I felt excited when I recalled how many photos I had taken inside the castle, and I was interested to see how they had all turned out.

  It was a sunny, blustery, October day and the town was bustling with life. I almost couldn’t wait to see the photographs after all this time, having practically forgotten about them.

  As soon as I had paid for them, I went over to a nearby bench and thought about opening them then and there; but when I realized how thick the envelopes were, and that this was no place to view them quietly, or free from wind, I decided to take them home where I could view them in some solitude.

  As soon as I got back, I went straight into the living-room, sat down on the sofa, and started going through the two large envelopes. The first set contained the pictures of Hever’s gardens and lake. After taking a brief look at that set, I was fairly curious to see the ones I had taken inside the castle …

  At first everything appeared to be what I was expecting: an image of the castle from afar, some nice clear shots of the courtyard, and a striking shot of the gatehouse arch. But as I looked at the very first photograph I had taken inside Hever Castle, I knew I had captured something I couldn’t quite put my finger on.

  I gazed steadfastly at the image, trying my hardest to decipher its light. And for a few, impossibly long minutes I was none the wiser as to what on earth I was looking at. As my brain scrambled in the midst of an image not a lifetime’s worth of photographic experience could have prepared me for – let alone five years’ – all of a sudden a triumphant rush of excitement surged inside me, as something finally stood out.

  There, in plain sight, was a woman’s ghostly hand, frozen in the far left of the frame. How could this be? I remembered being there like it was yesterday: nobody was in that room with me when I took that photograph. But something told me, from the very first second I had set my eyes upon it, that this was no ordinary woman’s hand, because the hand wasn’t the only strange thing that had appeared in the photograph. The light emitted from both of the lamps now appeared stretched and curved in what seemed to be the direction of the hand; a large streak of white light lay at the top right of the frame, bearing an unmistakable resemblance to the snake-like ray I had seen undulating its way toward the staircase; and blue, swirly slivers of light hung enigmatically below the lamp and portrait in the distance.

  This was no ordinary photograph; this was a photograph of a Ghost.

  I brought the photograph over to my mother, who was in the kitchen, and showed her what I could see in it. ‘Remember the photos I took inside Hever Castle?’ I said, holding it up. ‘There’s a Ghost in it: a hand. Look!’

  At that point she took the photograph from me and gazed fixedly at it. She appeared flummoxed by it, and I had to point out the Ghost as she struggled, as I did, to ascertain the image before her.

  I still had the whole set to go through, and many more photographs that I had taken inside the castle I hadn’t yet seen. With this thought, I demanded to have the picture back from my mother, who, looking over her spectacles, was holding it barely an inch in front of her, and had been staring intensely at it for what must have been an ice age.

  Having retrieved it from her grasp, I went back into the living-room so I could explore the rest of the photographs. I looked for more signs of ghosts specifically, like the apparent hand in the first image, wondering if the other photographs had something similar in them that could be as easily distinguished. And to my surprise, I wasn’t disappointed.

  The bed-head that belonged to Anne Boleyn was almost entirely unrecognizable; and the portrait of Anne Boleyn appeared to have two heads, side by side … other portraits looked as though they had melted out of their frames ... and a strange fuzziness pervaded practically every photograph taken inside the castle. I held the negatives up to an overhead light and inspected the ones of the castle’s rooms; surely enough, they looked no different to the pictures strewn out in front of me.

  Hours passed. And when I had finally grown tired and felt like I had taken it all in, everything seemed to point in only one direction. It was Anne Boleyn’s Ghost.

  The Photographs

  Having had the very rare opportunity to photograph within Hever Castle’s historic walls, I had captured its spaces with the upmost care and diligence. But, despite all that, what my camera saw that day, and what I had actually seen, were worlds apart.

  Now, take a look at the photographs taken inside Hever Castle. These are the original photographs; and besides some cropping and enlarging to show significant parts of the images, they have not been altered or manipulated in any way. They were all taken with my Canon Rebel Ti 35mm SLR film camera with a 28-90mm lens, on the automatic setting. Note: only the photographs that appear to have Anne Boleyn’s Ghost in them are being shown in this book.

  This is the first photograph I took inside Hever Castle:

  To the far left of the frame, a little more than halfway up, is a distinctive hand with an unmistakably feminine appearance. Whoever she is, she seems to be pointing at the wall, and perhaps the fireplace in the middle of the room. Does this ghostly hand belong to Anne Boleyn? How is it possible that someone who died nearly five hundred years ago can appear on film in the twenty-first century?

  The lamp light to either side of the fireplace appears to have been pulled, or ‘stretched’, as if by magnetism, towards the Ghost. Oddly enough, this would explain why my cameras flash activated during the first shot, and not the one taken immediately after, where the lamp light appears to have been significantly less affected and no apparent Ghost can be seen. The blue streaks of light below the lamp at the far end of the room have no visible light source; and the white streak to the top right of the nearest lamp also has no light source, but is similar in shape to the smaller slivers of blue light in the distance. Are these random anomalies that accompany apparitions? Or could they hold greater significance?

  If you look closely, the most remarkable thing about the photograph (apart from the fact that there is a ghost in it) is that part of her dress can be seen clearly. And astonishingly, we can see its form, creases, and, most impressively, its colour: a dark blue. The hand is so well defined that individual fingers can be made out, and the one that is pointing curves significantly upwards at its tip.

  Anne Boleyn spent much of her fairly short life at Hever Castle. Is her Ghost haunting the castle today? And if she is, why has she se
nt us this image of her? Could there be something behind that wall that has been lost for nearly five hundred years …

  The next photograph is of Anne Boleyn’s bedchamber:

  Of the three photographs taken in this room, two show strong signs of ghostly phenomena. However, only one shows signs of Anne Boleyn’s Ghost, shown above. The photograph that doesn’t is backlit and is shown at the beginning of the book (Anne Boleyn’s Bedchamber, Hever Castle).

  In this frame there is Anne’s bed-head, a small side-table, and a portrait of Anne Boleyn. Where her portrait is, two faces can be clearly seen. This is highly unusual as this distinct splitting of the image has occurred only around the portrait. If this had been caused by camera-shake, there would be a uniform distortion and splitting of the image. You would expect to see, not only two distinct faces, side by side, as is the case with the portrait; but also two tables, two plants, and two bed-heads. And take a look at the adjacent blank picture hanging on the wall. Why would there be a blank picture hanging on a wall in a regularly visited place, like Hever Castle? Well, that’s because it is not blank, but inscribed with some of the history on Anne Boleyn, if I recall correctly. For some reason, this light never made it into my camera’s lens. And when considering that this photograph was taken with a good camera, a fast shutter, no movement, and in a well lit room, it makes this outcome all the harder to explain logically.

  Is this Anne Boleyn’s Ghost showing herself in this portrait of her? If it was indeed her Ghost that had appeared, just a short while before, in the first image – then perhaps she felt that that was the day Anne Boleyn’s Ghost would materialize for the lens, by appearing once more, only this time showing us who she really is …