Déjà vu chills ran down my spine when I came across a story yesterday on the world’s most haunted castles. It’s a fun read – check it out.
I once stayed in a haunted castle. It’s the most memorable holiday I ever had, but not the nicest. It came about like this. Four of us decided to rent a cottage in the Scottish highlands. We were living and working in London and we all needed a break. A highland cottage seemed the answer.
Photo by: Paul Albertella
But, sadly, we couldn't find a cottage to suit. We wanted a bedroom each. In a moment of insanity, we decided to hire a castle instead. A seemingly extravagant compromise, but in fact the castle’s rent compared very favourably. This ought to have set alarm bells ringing. It didn’t. Fantastic, we thought. A castle to ourselves! What a laugh! And off we went, to a castle in Scotland that we knew just one thing about: we knew it was white.
Problems began when we reached its vicinity: our map was illegible, and the few people we encountered had never heard of 
a white castle. Finally, someone twigged. “You mean the Black Castle!” he bellowed. “It’s white, but it’s called black.” We didn’t like to ask why.
We found it at last, in (I promise this is true) wind, rain and pitch darkness. It looked seriously forbidding: tall and narrow, with slits for windows. We couldn’t open the single, 16th century door with the huge and unwieldy,16th century key. In desperation, we summoned the police. They opened it, but wouldn’t step inside. “Good luck!” they called, as they darted back to their car.
Photo by: Buho22
Our confidence began to ebb. That night, it vanished completely. After scraping together a meal in the dungeon-kitchen, we crept off to our separate sleeping quarters on the third floor. Within half an hour, three of us were crammed into one bed, terrified. We couldn’t say why, we just were. There was no way we could be in a room alone. There was no way we could sleep. We sat tensely alert all night, waiting for something to walk through the wall.
Jen (by far the most pragmatic) remained in her room. But the next morning, as we breakfasted in the dungeon, she told us she’d been woken in the night by an overpowering smell of perfume, and that she'd strongly sensed a presence - a calm, friendly, womanly one.
We others had heard enough. For the entire fortnight, we slept (or tried to) in one bed. We accompanied each other down long, dark passages to the ridiculous loo, which stood on a pedestal in the even more ridiculous bathroom. We jumped at the slightest sound - and there are lots of sounds in a 1590 castle. We lit enormous fires and switched on every light, trying to ward off evil. We tried not to look at the stags’ heads, swords and grim memorabilia hanging in every corner. We avoided playing the piano, as some kindly highland caller told us it summoned the ghost of a Blue Lady (did she wear powerful perfume, we wondered). She also told us that the "black" nickname came from the castle's very black past. We hated, truly hated, being there. But we didn’t see a ghost, and Jen never smelt the perfume again.
The castle is near Oban; these days it’s an attractive Bed and Breakfast, nicely renovated. One day I’ll go back. I even might pluck up the courage to play the piano, if it's still there. I’m older and wiser now. I admit it: the photo above is not our castle. It's the very famous Eilean Donan, also in the highlands. But it bears, believe you me, a striking resemblance!
Meanwhile, if you are really into haunted spots, have a read of these ones on Gridskipper about creepy haunted places in Los Angeles.