Aleister Crowley, The Beast of Boleskine
FRANCES ABBOT remembers moving to her new Scottish Highlands community and discovering the mystery surrounding the former home of Aleister Crowley, The Beast of Boleskine
I am a city girl born and bred. I used to like the feel of pavements under my feet and the smell from exhaust fumes in my nostrils until I transferred my family to the beauty and tranquillity of the Highlands of Scotland to take charge of a small rural school on the bank of a peaty-brown river that flows down to Loch Ness.
We soon knew most of our neighbours (anyone who lived within a five mile radius) and it wasn’t long before we were invited to a party in a big house down by the shores of the loch, Boleskine House.
“I wouldn’t go there, if I were you,” the school cook told me. “That place is haunted.” She didn’t elaborate, just said that you wouldn’t catch her walking by there at night.
By this time I had been regaled with many stories of ghosts and hauntings. Just up the road there was the bridge over which a bridal carriage had fallen carrying bride and groom to their deaths over the waterfall and where you could hear wailing at a certain time of the year.