A Christmas ghost story

As you read this, we are in the last days of Advent, my time to let my imagination fly and regale you with a tale worthy of a Christmas evening, sitting by the fire with a glass of eggnog or mulled wine, letting my words chill you, just as the events I describe did me, back in the summer...

The Children of Harptree House
Last year I turned 60, celebrating with a week in a barn conversion near Ivybridge, surrounded by my family and with easy access to the moors. It was a most memorable time.
So this year, on my 61st birthday, it didn’t bother me so much when my partner, Sarah, had to work, and I decided to celebrate alone by taking myself off for a special letterboxing walk in the area around Jay’s Grave. My love of that spot, with its tragic tale, attached folklore and possible hauntings, is well known. So when the clues for a new set of boxes pertaining to Kitty Jay’s story were released a few days before, I wanted to be the first to find them all, as my birthday treat to myself.
With the grid references marked on my map I set out into brilliant sunshine. The Glorious Twelfth never ceases to fail me, especially when it comes to the weather. The route started at Bowerman’s Nose and crossed over to Cripdon Down before finishing in sight of the grave itself. Perfect, as it also took in part of my Witches Triangle walk.
Suited and booted, I headed out of the car park below Hound Tor towards Swallerton Gate Cottage and then took the right-hand fork in front of it, passing fields of interesting farm animals, including llamas/alpacas, goats, sheep and the odd pony.
I passed through the gate, heading to the famous pillar of granite, a warning not to upset the local witches, for the first two boxes were to be found on the slopes below, and I found them fairly easily. As it was a circular route, there was a visitor’s book in one of the boxes towards the end, so at this early stage, it was hard to tell if I was the first to undertake the task, although the stamps did look pretty unused. If you’ve seen the TV series Race Across the World, I had that feeling the competitors have, eager to see if they will be the first to sign in...Crossing over the road below the Nose, I picked my way through the undergrowth to find a track that led me up to the fence marking the boundary to Cripdon Down. Hopping over, I found the next box near to the stile, then I headed towards Cripdon Down Sacred Pool, somewhere I’d only recently visited as it featured in a set of boxes covering these pools, put out in the vicinity of each one. They are called Sacred Pools as some have been known to contain votive offerings left there by our Dartmoor ancestors, honouring whatever deity they believed resided below the waters.
I had enjoyed my walk in this area, having not had reason to visit it before, so to visit it again so soon after added to the pleasure of the task in hand.
I quickly found the various boxes dotted around the down, which afforded me excellent views of the surrounding landscape, including such landmarks as Manaton Church and Canna Farm, where it is said Kitty lived and died.
Having taken some pictures I set off to find the next box, attached to an outcrop on the roadside of the down... it was then that things started to turn a bit odd. Up to that point, I hadn’t seen another soul, which I thought unusual as it was a glorious summer day, but as I approached the outcrop mentioned in the clue I suddenly became aware of the sound of children playing, the incessant chatter and laughter that you get in a school playground.

Heatree (previously Harptree) House

As I crested the ridge, I realised I was in sight of Heatree House, a well-established activity centre for young people. Probably the source of the noise I was hearing, but wasn’t it the school holidays? Maybe they were holding a summer camp.
As I continued to walk, the noise persisted. I could see the house and surrounding buildings rising above the trees but they also served to shroud the sight of any children present.
Locating the next box, I was struck by how well they depicted the various stages of Jay’s life... this particular one just showed a noose hanging... and still the playground noise persisted.
Just two boxes remained, including the visitor’s book, both situated near the grave, but as I looked from the outcrop I could see a herd of cows grazing between me and my next target. I’m not especially afraid of cows, although I’ve had my fair share of run-ins with them over the years, but these had young ones with them, of which they can be particularly protective, so I decided to take a route away from them which meant dropping down onto the road.
Changing direction, I headed down a slope between big boulders and ducked under overhanging branches on a tree. Standing upright again, I could see the road below and a lone deer happily munching on the vegetation in the wall opposite. Suddenly it stopped and its ears pricked up. I had spooked it and in one bound it leapt over a nearby gate, but instead of disappearing into the gloomy treeline it turned to look back at me, giving me the impression that it was daring me to follow.
Accepting the challenge, I crossed the road at the foot of the slope and, following the example of the deer, got over the gate. Once my eyes had become accustomed to the gloom beneath the trees I realised I was standing on a long-disused driveway that might once have served Heatree House as another main entrance. The deer was standing a few yards in front of me, still waiting for me to follow and, as I ventured forward it too moved onwards along the driveway, maintaining a safe distance in front.
After a while, I spotted a large sign to one side of the path, now faded and overgrown; I was able to make out the lettering by shining my phone torch on it. It read, “Harptree House, boarding school for boys, aged 11 to 15, founded 1958”.
That’s strange, I thought; I’d always known it as Heatree House. Moving on, I eventually came to the overgrown end of the driveway, where the deer stood waiting. Peering through the undergrowth, I could make out a building which had obviously seen better days. I presumed it was part of the school mentioned on the board I’d just passed.
Standing there in the dimpsy light, it suddenly dawned on me that the distant sound of children had thankfully ceased. No sooner had that thought passed than I heard the sound of raised boyish voices shouting out, “Don’t do it you fool!”, “Get down you little idiot!”...no one was there, just the voices. I was transfixed to the spot; the coolness in the shade beneath the trees had changed to the chill of the unknown but I had to remain to see what happened next, as did the deer now standing next to me.
Next minute, a voice from on high declared, “Look at me! I can fly!”
 A moment of silence was followed by the sound of something hitting the ground hard. I felt physically sick, I could imagine what must have just happened.
Then all hell broke loose. As boys started screaming, there was the sound of running feet and women’s voices shouting at the boys to stand back, presumably the school nurse and matron trying to reach the body.
Then silence, as though the playback I had just witnessed had abruptly ended. Suddenly, the sound of the distant children’s playground noise started up again and the spell was broken. Realising I was probably somewhere I had no right to be, I headed back to the gate; the deer had the same thought, skittering off into the trees.
The whole journey home, my mind was full of what I had just witnessed. I needed to know more, so at the first opportunity, I put Harptree House into a search engine and got some interesting results. Harptree House, now known as Heatree House, had changed its name and shut down part of its premises after a tragic incident involving one of its young boarders. I uncovered an old newspaper account from around the time of the tragedy stating that a 12-year-old schoolboy, staying over at Harptree House during the summer holidays because his parents were working abroad, had died after a fall from the roof. It was understood he was under the influence of a hallucinogen, presumably magic mushrooms, that he could have foraged off the moors.
Then it got weird for his name was David Phillips. Now I’ve come across a few others with my name, including one a few years below me at school, so it is a common name, but he too came from Bristol... and died on  August 12, 1963... the same day I was born... and here he was, 61 years later, sharing with me how he died. Was his spirit in the deer, leading me to the very spot where he passed? Whatever the case, I felt very honoured that my namesake had allowed me to witness the event, all these years later.
You might like to know that I picked up those last two boxes, and I was the first in the visitor’s book.