GI Journo visits historic homestead to summon ghosts with local mums who by night become ‘facilitators of energy’
FORGET The Sixth Sense — this is more like an episode of invisible Downton Abbey, writes Neil Keene who tried his hand at summoning ghosts.
FORGET The Sixth Sense — this is more like an episode of invisible Downton Abbey.
It’s the dead of night and I’m sitting inside historic Gledswood Homestead near Camden on the south-western outskirts of Sydney, cross-legged on the floor with my eyes closed and palms upturned.
It’s the classic meditation position, but I’m not meditating; I’m summoning ghosts.
I am flanked by “facilitators of energy” Libby Meacham and Karen Kent — amiable local mums by day, ghost-whisperers by night.
“Follow my breathing,” urges Karen as she edges closer, inhaling and exhaling at such a volume
I fear we’ll scare any lingering spirits away before they make an appearance.
But I needn’t be worried.
Libby and Karen tell me this place is literally crawling with ghosts.
We’re talking men, women, kids, babies, convicts, maids, gardeners ... even visitor ghosts popping in from other haunted homes in the region.
The pair not only can see these apparitions but chat casually to them, greeting them as they move invisibly about the room, sharing a joke with them about our unexpected presence and coaxing them to tickle my hands and play jokes on me.
I’m still motionless on the floor, peeking out of a half-closed eye like a naughty child. Libby laughs. I ask why.
She tells me that one of the ghosts — an evidently precocious young lad about five or six — is sitting on my lap, putting bugs on my arms.
I don’t feel this boy’s presence, but that, according to Libby and Karen, is because I’m not allowing myself to let go.
If ever there was a place to release my doubts and experience a first-hand X-File, this would be it.
The grand Gledswood Homestead and its vast, empty rooms are part of an estate dating back to the mid-1800s. Its inhabitants included French settlers, Italian immigrants and families with links to the famous Macarthur merino sheep farmers.
The house, and its adjoining buildings and grounds provide a spectacular setting for weddings, but the property enjoys an equal reputation as being one of Sydney’s haunting hot spots.
Staff and visitors who join Libby and Karen’s popular ghost tours insist they’ve heard children playing inside the long-empty house at night, and often find locked doors mysteriously opened, or lights flashing on and off without explanation.
In another room we stand in a line, eyes shut, while Libby beckons the ghostly maids who inhabit this part of the house to give us all a shove in the back.
Libby lurches forward suddenly as one of the ghosts apparently obeys her request, but, disappointingly, they appear to have lost interest in our game by the time they get to me. Libby tells me that the photographer I am with is definitely more tuned in to ghosts than I am, but even he can’t summon enough spirituality to make their presence felt tonight.
If this was Ghostbusters, we’d have been kicked off the team long ago.
I’d love to say we were visited by ghosts. Instead we were visited by mosquitoes.
Perhaps this was their way of punishing me for being such a cynic.
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