Gisborough Hall - the most haunted hotel in Yorkshire

Gisborough Hall is said to be the most haunted hotel in Yorkshire, with at least three ghosts regularly entertaining guests; Prior Pursglove College has twice been exorcised to try to settle the spirit of a principal who took his own life in the 1920s, but the most enduring story is set amid the 12th Century ruins of Gisborough Priory.

An undated picture from The Northern Echo archive showing the glorious east window of Gisborough Priory

Here, at midnight on the first new moon of every year, a ghostly monk in a black habit appears. In the late 1960s and again in the early 1980s, crowds of living eyewitnesses were convinced that they had seen him lower a long-vanished drawbridge so that he could cross an invisible moat – perhaps the gateway between two worlds. It was as if he were going to check that an enormous chest of treasure remained safely hidden, as it had for centuries, in a secret tunnel.

The priory was founded in the 12th Century, as Memories 545 told when we were marvelling at the cathedral of trees in the Monk’s Walk.

When it was dissolved by Henry VIII in 1539, it was the fourth richest religious institution in Yorkshire.

Not that the king got all of Gisborough’s riches: it is said that some great wealth was concealed in a tunnel beneath the priory, and that is what the monk is returning to check on by the light of the first moon of January.

In 1966, women in the crowd which had gathered to watch his annual perambulation fainted and required medical treatment because he was so frighteningly lifelike. In 1967, two members of Guisborough Rugby Club tackled him to the ground, and he ran off into the night leaving his all-too-human habit behind…

However, still there are reports of the real ghost walking on his allotted night, and there are lots of half-remembered versions of his story.

A horsedrawn dray delivering beer in Westgate, Guisborough, in 1907

One, for example, says that the treasure he is checking on had nothing to do with the dissolution but everything to do with the monks dissolute behaviour. It is said that they dug a secret tunnel one-and-a-half miles long that went from inside the priory and headed north towards the township of Tocketts, where they found pleasures of a feminine kind that were otherwise forbidden to them.

It is said that the monks paid in gold to make sure their entertainments remained secret; some stories say that should a Tocketts woman find herself mysteriously pregnant, the monks would ensure she would she had riches aplenty to look after the child. Either way, the monks needed a lot of gold, which they kept in a large chest hidden deep in their secret tunnel beneath the priory.

One day, Crispin Tocketts decided he was going to get his hands on the monks’ gold. He carefully prepared for his journey into the darkness: he took a lantern, wore waterproof clothing and sturdy shoes, and he laid a trail of wool behind him so that he could easily retrace his steps.

It wasn’t an easy journey. There were pitfalls and rockfalls; there were strange scurryings just out of sight; there were bats flapping about as he disturbed their roosts.

But eventually he arrived at an underground cavern where, on a table of stone, stood a large wooden chest, its metal bands and hinges glinting in the light of his lantern.

To his amazement, it was unlocked. He threw back its heavy lid and his eyes feasted on untold riches inside: glittering gold ingots, sparkling silver coins, shiny precious plates and a bishop’s mitre studded with jewels that gleamed like stars in the night. He was rich beyond his wildest dreams.

But then, in the darkness, he felt a blast of wind and the rhythmic beat of giant wings as a large, black raven – the protector of the chest – swooped into the cavern, its talons outstretched. It landed on the lid, forcing it shut, and as the reflected light of the booty was snuffed out, the raven turned into the devil himself, cackling manically and his eyes crackling with flame.

“In the name of God, no!” shrieked Crispin in utter dismay.

“I serve no god,” replied the devil, lunging at Crispin and trying to gather him up.

Crispin naturally turned and fled, crashing and splashing through the tunnel, tripping and stumbling, but always following his woollen thread. Behind him, he could feel the downdraft from the raven’s wings at it pursued him at breakneck speed.

A late Victorian photograph of Westgate, Guisborough's main street

There are two endings to the story. In one, Crispin escaped, but he was so traumatised by his ordeal that he could not speak of it for years. When it eventually came out, the people of Guisborough were so dismayed that they filled in the entrance of the tunnel so no one could ever find it again.

In the second version, as Crispin dashed down the tunnel, he could hear it falling in behind him, with the devil getting closer and closer and closer the nearer he drew to the light at the end, and just as he reached the opening, the devil caught him, bringing him down and collapsing the tunnel in on them both. Only Crispin’s arm and hand escaped as the ground swallowed him up, and it remained sticking out for years, with no one daring to touch it.

So if you do go to Guisborough in search of ghosts this hallowe’en, be very careful if someone offers you a hand of friendship, because you have absolutely no idea whose hand you might really be shaking.

Gisborough Hall in 1966 when its time as a council-run old people's home was ending and it was beginning the transition into a much haunted hotel

GISBOROUGH HALL was built by Admiral Thomas Chaloner in the 1850s on the site of an old farmhouse. One of its ghosts is a butler, who is seen at reception and who walks above the Rose Room. He is so lifelike that guests ask him for advice.

Then there are two elderly women. One turns a corridor corner and disappears, while the other walks into the Old Nursery and kneels at the foot of a bed that is no longer there.

A beautiful picture of Guisborough's cobbled main street in the mid-1960s. Have you heard the spooky story about the ghostly girl in a cape who mysteriously flits among the spring shadows of the trees trying to read newspapers over the shoulders of people sitting on a bench? No, we haven't either...