A Christmas Ghost Story

Many years ago when I was 17 (yes even Waylander was 17 once) I and a bunch of the loudest, scruffiest and generally depraved teenagers were invited to an early Christmas Party at the house of a rather posh girl.

This girl’s parents were, to say the least, well off and owned a 16th century house which was known locally as The Old Keep. It was stone built with huge oak trusses and roof beams, solid oak floors, a cellar and even a tunnel that ran from the Keep to what was called The Big House (about half a mile away). The roof had a walkway all round it and crenelations built up round the outside of that.

When we turned up the entire place was lit up with Christmas lights and the front door wide open. Her dad was there to let us in and said he and her mother were off to friends, but there were a few things we should know about the house. Firstly no-one to go into the tunnel because it wasn’t safe, Second no-one to go on the walkway on the roof and third, if the piper starts playing do NOT go outside.

The tunnel and the roof we understood, but the piper? What the hell was that all about?

The parents trooped off soon after and that was it. No music, no dancing. We all wanted to know what was all this about a piper.

The story goes that after the 45 (that’s the 1745 Scottish rebellion for the non-Scots) the local laird (lord) was so badly injured that, as he lay dying he asked hi piper to go home and play his spirit home. It took the piper some time to make it back as he was dodging the English soldiers all the way.

At that time the English brought in some new rules and bans. They banned the wearing of the kilt and the playing of the bagpipes among other things.

On his return the piper changed out of the grubby clothing he’d been travelling in, put on his kilt, jerkin, sword (also banned) and took his bagpipes to the roof walkway. There he played various laments to bring his masters spirit home.

Unfortunately some passing Redcoats heard him and came charging up the approach way.

The story goes that he put down his pipes, shouted various insults at them, then grabbed his sword and shield and took off down the stairs out the front door and made his very own highland charge at them. They were armed with muskets and there were 10 of them, so, of course, he died. It is recorded that he died at about 2300 hours.

Well fascinating we thought, but let’s get on with the music and where’s that beer.

The party went well. The usual loud voices and laughter until 2300 hours.

Now we come to the ghost story.

2300 hours on the dot there came a strange noise. At first we thought it was the record player (we all remember them, don’t we?) playing up, then someone said “that’s pipes”.

We turned off the music and listened. Slow dirges, one after the other and boy could this man play.
That was scary enough, but then we heard boots pounding up the driveway, coming closer and shouting. The language was just about understandable, but then 18th century English was a lot different from the Glasgow English we all spoke.

The piping stopped and we heard the reply from the roof. One of the guys was a Gaelic speaker and he said the language was absolutely foul. Then hurried steps on the stairs and something very very cold passed through the living room and out the open front door.

From outside there came the scream of a highland charge and then gunfire. Not modern gunfire, I knew what that sounded like and from the TV films I knew what a musket sounded like. Then silence.

When the parents returned about midnight, expecting to have to kick out a bunch of rowdy teenagers they were quite surprised to find a very quiet bunch all sat round and very subdued.

I don’t pretend to understand what I experienced, but I do wonder about it from time to time.