26. A ghostly hand in Jo'burg

Going professional had long been a dream of ours. But it wasn't going to happening if we stayed in Rhodesia. No hotel or club offered rock groups a seven nights a week, fifty-two weeks a year residency. If we wanted to turn 'pro' we would have to travel - to name the song title - 'South of The Border' - to South Africa.

Lea, Mac and I were driving into town in Mac’s green Austin Mini van. It only had two seats, the driver and front passenger, which meant if there was three people one would have to squat in the back...which usually meant me. 

                                                        Similar to Mac's mini

We had stopped at a gas station when a car driven by a fellow musician pulled alongside. He had some startling news. A local rock band, The Etonians, had turned ‘pro’ and had been booked for a season at a club in Durban, South Africa.

Apparently The Etonians had sent South African talent agent Don Hughes a tape of them performing at  Bretts, a night club in Salisbury. Don Hughes liked what he heard, signed them up and a few weeks later phoned saying he had got them the gig.

We drove out the gas station completely dejected...the Etonians had beaten us to it. They had turned pro. We were green with envy. Then Mac pointed out that we had a demo tape of us playing and maybe we should post it to Don Hughes... it worked for The Estonians’ maybe it'd work for The Chequers too. 

Lea had a better idea. “We’ll drive down to Durban and hand the tape to Don Hughes in person!”

Mac made a U turn in the middle of Jameson Avenue, drove back to our respective homes, grabbed a change of clothes and the ½” reel of recording tape and headed down south...the three of us in Mac's green Austin Mini.

In the winter of 2005 Lea, Neil & I were in New York on business. We were staying in a fourth floor apartment on the upper West side. One night there was a heavy snow fall. The following morning when the curtains / drapes were drawn a large frosty hand print, perfectly preserved in ice, was discovered on the outside of the sash window. 

Leaning out the widow we tried every which way to position our hand on the actual print, but couldn't get to within two feet of it. We never worked out how it got there. I only mention this because on that trip to Durban I was confronted by a ghostly hand that scared the B’Jesus out of me.

We (Lea, Mac and I) had broken our journey in Johannesburg. Hodge had phoned ahead and organised it for us to stay the night at his his uncle and aunt’s who together with their two teenage daughters lived in a large Victorian apartment in Jeppe a suburb of Jo'burg.  We got on well with the family and sat around chatting well into the night. When it came time to crash we thanked them for their hospitality and were about to leave the room when one of the daughters murmured to her mom, “I think you should tell them?”...and tell us she did.

             “Okay, guys, if you see an elderly gentleman wandering around the place, not to worry it’s only Om Piet and he’s harmless”.

It transpired that the apartment was haunted by the ghost of an old man who had died there at the turn of the previous century. We waited for the give-away chuckle that would reveal it was all a wind up but none came. The whole family assured us it was absolutely true; they shared their apartment with a ghost.

The sightings mainly occurred in the bathroom when a family member or a guest was cleaning their teeth or washing their face in the wash basin. They would glance up and see Om Piet in the mirror standing directly behind them...not the kind of bedtime story I wanted to hear.

That night the time spent in the bathroom was reduced to the barest minimum. Ablutions were conducted in treble quick time with eyes tightly closed and faces averted from the mirror.

Much to my relief the spectre of Om Piet failed to materialise but I was under no illusion that sometime during the night in some shape or form he would. After all I was sharing the room with Lea and Mac.

After lights out I lay in the darkness in a state of acute anxiety waiting for the inevitable paranormal phenomena to be exacted on my person – as the youngest of the trio I expected no less.  I waited, listening for the sound, the tell-tale creak that one of them had left their bed and an attack was imminent. I waited and waited but no sound came. I started to relax...then, just as I was about to nod off, I felt something brush my chest. Instantly I was wide awake. I lay in the pitch darkness, holding my breath wondering if I had imagined it. Then it happened again. Through the covers I felt a light pressure on my chest. There was unquestionably something and that something was moving slowly down my body. I slipped my arms from under the covers and gingerly reached down.

Whatever it was, was cold, flat and had fingers...Jesus, It was a hand! I touched the area around the hand... as with ‘Thing’ in the Addams Family; it didn’t appear to be joined to an arm or any other body part and yet is still moved. Holy Mother of Christ! It was a phantom hand!

Then, under its own power and at an incredible speed, it shot off my chest. That was it. I freaked out. With a yell I leapt from the bed and scrambling for the light switch, turned it on.

There was nothing on my bed, around it or under it. With a trembling hand I whipped back the covers. Nothing.

              “Turn off the bloody light, man, I’m trying to sleep,” mumbled Lea.

Mac was silent, a humped outline under the bed sheets. I stared at the outline. It appeared to be shaking ever so slightly. I looked closer. There was no question, it was definitely shaking. The bastard was laughing or trying to stop himself laughing. I leapt across the room and pulled off the bed sheets to reveal Mac, tears streaming down his face, giggling like a school girl, clutching a ladies leather glove attached to a length of twine. 

I had caught him red handed, excuse the pun. The evil bastard had simply tossed the glove onto my bed and drawn it back, thus removing even the merest suggestion of movement and sound from his bed. Part of me was in awe of Mac’s ingenuity, part of me was angry at being taken in by it, and part of me, by far the greater part, was relieved that the ghostly hand hadn't belonged to Om Paul.