The Spectre of Bramley Hall

Bramley Hall, the once fine residence of a yeoman family, is in a decrepit state to-day. It stands with its gable-end to Town Street, and passers-by may easily miss noticing it. See from the outside it is a picture of forlorn decay. Within, the paper peels off the walls, and throughout is the atmosphere of a long dead past.

In a bow-windowed room on the ground floor is a fine, diamond-flagged floor. Like every other part of the building, it betrays patches of damp. But there is one dull stain on the diamond-shaped flags which no scrubbing nor drying will ever remove.

It is the stain of a murdered man’s blood; and from that obstinate blot, so some people say, there arises each midnight hour the shadowy form of Oliver Isles, the man who was slain for the gold he loved more than his soul.

The miser’s soul cannot rest, for Oliver died a violent death. Until that blood stain wears away he must return to count and recount his chinking coins while he chuckles in glee at the way the blood thirsty thief was foiled.

The Isles came of well-to-do stock, and they inhabited Bramley Hall for many generations. The name is mentioned in Thoresby’s “ Leodiensis.” They were land-owners, yet stinginess was in the marrow of their bones. In the old “Town Book” of Bramley, under date November 17, 1684, Thomas Isles was listed as owing the township the sum of 2s. 4d. “which he refuses to pay.”

Oliver, the last of the line, was a miser such as is rarely met with outside fiction. With the exception of the little affection which he lavished upon his dog “Chance”, he lived solely for gold. The home of- his fathers went to rack. The windows were always shuttered, and never a penny was spent upon the place.

Only through the chinks of one shuttered window was a light ever seen. Those who dared would stand outside that window. Nothing could they see, but they heard the rattle and tinkle of coin as Oliver trickled his wealth through his fingers.

One night a desperate stranger came to listen at that window. He had burglar’s tools; and before the miser knew that anyone else was in the room, he was struck down and the stranger’s hands were deep in the huge, iron-bound chest which harboured the gold.

Hastily the thief stuffed handful after handful of coin into his pockets, while his victim lay ignored upon the floor. Then Fate intervened. The heavy lid of the chest fell. It smashed the robber’s wrists and pinned him to the immovable box. He shrieked in agony, and Oliver, blood streaming from his head, staggered up and cursed the thief.

Neighbours came; but the old miser was dead. His murderer was there, a prisoner of the coffer which he had come to despoil. He was freed, but only to meet a murderer’s doom at York: and even today – for all this happened long ago – they say the place is haunted.