It was an old, old house. Low; half timbered black-and-white with three jetted gables; Tudor headed plank front door; huge inglenook fireplace with Victorian black iron range; gas lighting on the ground floor; plaster floors in the attic story with dormer windows in the gables, a 'Priest Hole'. At the rear a 'Malt House' with whisky still and the 'Long Close'.  1580 perhaps - old, very old. In front a small Victorian Gothic church, rebuilt on the site of a mediaeval 'Chapel of Ease' of the local town, surrounded by a small 'Green'. Off the main road; surrounded by a Victorian mining village; a backwater.

The childhood home of my mother, born 1914. To her, a house of horror: Candles to bed, and flickering shadows. Doors hidden behind wardrobes, stairs that went down to nowhere, an abandoned derelict wing with an atmosphere of menace. Many people had died there; her mother's blood thirsty rantings; and the 'Noises' in the still of the night, always the 'Noises', as she lay in her freezing bed in the dark. Chests being dragged; knives being sharpened; and the desperate urgent pounding on the front door of  'Let me in, let me in' ignored by her father. She practised jumping from her bedroom window to escape:

'The Home of the Martyrs'.

Or more prosaically, ‘Yew Tree House’, 'Fir Tree House' (cut down long ago, but there was a Monkey Puzzle), 'The Priest's House', or 8 The Green.  'The Home of the Martyrs' – what martyrs? how had they died? when?  how many? why? Had dreadful deeds been committed in the house which were still echoing? It was very old and many things had soaked into its oak beams. The 'Little Parlour' was panelled with strange cupboards and drawers – it was said to have stored the Sacred Vestments and Plate and be the Robing Room for the priest that came from the town to officiate at the church.

Her childhood in this house marked my mother for life, she never really recovered. Indeed, her belief in the malevolent supernatural eventually was responsible for her death – she became convinced her new-build on a virgin site retirement home was haunted, and that an indescribably evil presence was watching her in her bedroom, culminating in a heart attack. Your childhood always gets you in the end.

So what was the truth? 8 the Green has gone through two owners since the death of my grandmother in 1965, been 'Listed' Grade II in 1972, and has been heavily restored. Wonderful how electric lighting can dispel horror. When the Victorian cast iron fireplaces were removed and the inglenooks cleared a Tudor shoe sole was found up each chimney-stack; they were put back – you can't be too careful. My brother and I visited the first owner and were given a tour when he had it up for sale - “Did you see the children?”, David said, “They were terrified; desperate to get out”.

I have desultorily tried to research Catholic and Anglican religious persecution and martyrs in the area, and as far as I can tell there were none – and each persecuted religion was meticulous in recording their martyrs, but I am not an expert in the subject, perhaps it was some obscure non-conformist sect like the Plymouth Brethren. When I finally came to research the house I was astonished to see 'Home of the Martyrs' confirmed by the Victoria County History:

MY MOTHER’S HOUSE OF HORROR

The church is in the middle of a small green around which are several houses, mostly of 18th-century brickwork, but the oldest to the south-east of the church is an early-17th-century building known as Fir Tree House or the 'Home of the Martyrs'. It is a low building with rough-cast walls, two gables in the north front, and tiled roof with an original central chimney-stack of thin bricks. This has an 8-ft. wide fire-place. Victoria County History 1947.

So where did the VCH get 'Home of the Martyrs'  from? I assumed it was from my grandmother, who had a very vivid imagination (to say the least!), and I can imagine the VCH surveyor knocking on the door in 1945 and asking to see the house interior, and my grandmother spewing out a blood thirsty tale, carefully preserved in the surveyor's scribbled notes (which unfortunately have disappeared). But my mother, when asked, said her mother had told her that one day 'a man' had knocked on the door and had asked to see the interior, and told her “he had read in 'a book' that it was called 'The Home of the Martyrs'”. So perhaps there is in some local history book (that I have yet to discover despite searching for it) independent confirmation. However, a second explanation is that the only other 'man' who would have knocked on the door and asked to see inside would have been Pevsner – and the 'book' would have been the VCH. So we will never know if the whole thing is an invention of my grandmother.

And the 'Noises'? Well, I once slept in an Edwardian house in Emsworth with high chimney stacks, and with the wind in the right direction the fireplace did give out weird noises very like 'chests being dragged'. The 'knives being sharpened?' - well presumably her father did have to sharpen his cut-throat razor. And finally the 4am 'beating on the front door?'

Well I surmise this was the local village louts playing 'Knock Up Ginger' on old Mr Starkey and his twenty five years younger second wife. There was/is a cart track down the side of the garden abutting the end of the house, with a low wall, only twenty feet from the door – I can imagine a group of lads crouching behind the wall and one of them vaulting over it, pounding on the door, running back along the facade, vaulting the wall, and then the group peering over the wall in glee to see what 'Old Man Starkey' would do. A common pastime of bored youths. This is why he did nothing, and why it was never discussed; he knew perfectly well it wasn't a spectral sanctuary seeker, but poor little mother didn't, quaking in her bed.

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