In search of the Grafton Ghost

This spirited article from one of my favourite 19th century Auckland newspapers, the Observer, 10 August 1889.

OBSERVER EXPEDITION OF FREE LANCERS.

Who has not during the past week heard of the ghost that is said to be haunting the Grafton ward of our fair city? The Grafton Ghost has been a veritable nine-days' wonder, and has caused more talk and excitement than the "Stonewall," which is saying a great deal.

It is the Unknown that is terrible, and it is the Unintelligible that people can tell most glibly about. Dozens of "nippers" and bread-and-butter misses can give forth endless yarns regarding the terrible apparition that has been haunting the precincts of Carlton Gore Road, Grafton Road, and Cemetery Gully; but it is noticeable that they all become reticent when asked to describe it. It is nine feet high, it is white, and it jumps and yells, they say; but there the description ends.

The plain fact is that nobody appears to have seen the Apparition. We have questioned all sorts and conditions of people, and not one of them claims to have clapped eyes on the mysterious visitant from the pale realm of shades. It seems to be a very "shady" customer, indeed!

In the multiplicity of tales regarding the Grafton Ghost, it is allowable for us to tell how the Observer got on its track; the tale is a thrilling one, and is as true as — well, as true as any other ghost story.

It was the office boy who aroused the daring spirits of the Observer staff to go forth and grapple with the visitor from the spirit world. "I seen it!" he exclaimed bursting into the sanctum sanctorum the other day, his hair on end, his eyes and tongue protruding, and his breath coming in short terrified gasps. "I seen it!"

Pressed to tell what he had seen, he gave a realistic description to the assembled literary and artistic staff of a horrible-looking monster, clad in a shirt-tail arrangement, who leaped over a fence, with a blood-curdling yell.

There was no shaking of the circumstantial narrative of the veracious office boy, so a council of war was held, and it was resolved to equip an Observer Expedition to annihilate the haunter of Grafton, and the terrifier of our beloved boy.

Soon the Expeditionary Force was ready to start, for our weapons are ready to hand. The illustration shows the determined band in full battle array. No. 1 is the Artist; No. 2, the Police Reporter; No. 3, the Sporting Editor; No. 4, the Chief (that's us), conspicuous by his lordly presence and superior equipment; No. 5, the Society Editor, the giddy young fellow who does all the balls and weddings, and causes such havoc among the brides' cakes; No. 6, the Religious Editor, as anyone can see by his pensive look ; and No. 7 the fighting Editor, trained down to feather-weight, and a regular terror, we assure you. Leading the force is the real "boss" of the concern, the Printer's Devil or office boy aforesaid.

On our way to the deadly and the imminent breach we meet Sergeant Gamble and ask him for the latest news of the ghostly enemy. The Sergeant tells us how he spent a whole night crouching behind a fence, but the ghost did not walk.

"Forward, Free Lancers!" was the command, and in due course we reached the identical fence over which the Ghost had jumped at our imp. We seated ourselves on the fence in the murky night, all armed cap a pie, and determined to capture the "goblin damned" or perish in the attempt. See how the Sporting and Fighting Editors are on the qui vive, how "Blo" and the Police and Society Reporters are cracking witticisms, how the Religious Editor, free from fear, is quietly dozing, how the boy is alert, important, and determined, and how We — well, never mind what We were doing!

As we kept our vigil, many people passed, all seeking for ghostly comfort and finding none. There was a Political Quidnunc, toddling on two sticks, and with a tall white tile that was suggestive of a nine foot ghost; there was an Inventor with a bee in his bonnet, or a windmill on his hat; there was a Detective, an Archdeacon, and a City Councillor — all on spiritual business bent; but the ghost came not.

Didn't it? It did. The unexpected happened as usual. When nobody was looking or thinking of it, Something suddenly rose up behind us, weird, white and sepulchral, and uttered one long shrill cry, as of a lost soul in direst extremity.

What followed "Blo" has portrayed with a correctness which I should not have expected from the brief survey which he took of the scene prior to bolting. The Religious Editor stuck to his post the longest — perhaps owing to his having sat down on a particularly big and healthy nail, and to the fact that his pants were an extra (strong) pair of Dalton's. The Sporting Editor maintained his reputation as a marksman by potting the Office Boy, and the rest of us showed our military training by executing a brilliant strategic movement to the rear. The Fighting Editor is not visible in the picture; he is a brother of Sullivan, and had probably received a pressing invitation at that stage to attend a prayer meeting.

The Expedition retreated — not exactly in good order, and in an incredibly short space of time reassembled at the Observer Office. Few recriminations were indulged in, for it was generally admitted that all had acted heroically. The Fighting Editor did not appear till next day, and then he had one eye bunged up, and the other nicely blacked. He is very reticent, however, as to the manner in which he came by his injuries.

The Grafton Ghost is not yet laid, but we give it fair notice that if it continues to disturb the peace of Auckland, the Observer Regiment of Free Lancers will once more take the field, and rush on to death or glory, as they have done before!