In the past, I have offered case notes similar to the one below to the Board for their future reference, but as we enter a new year, I’ve decided to send them to all the members as part of an expanded educational effort and with the belief that if we do not learn from our past, we will be forced to revisit it.  I hope you find it interesting. 

Source: Times of London, 20 February 1916

 After the burial of a Grenadier Guardsman named Jonathan Own in the mining town of Risa, Monmothshire, where he had succumbed to wounds suffered in France during World War I, he was buried in the cemetery of his native village in the same grave as his little daughter who had just pre-deceased him. After the funeral, the family was so taken by the assemblage of flowers that they embowered the site, that they requested that a photography be taken of the grave.

 When the plate was developed, the photographer revealed the faces of Owen and his little girl looking out from the foliage.  They are both, it is stated, plainly visible and the resemblance is convincing.  This mystifying incident has created great excitement throughout the district and is being investigate by those interested in psychical research, among them was Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, who reported that , “I have investigated the matter of the photograph and have found the facts to be as stated.” 

The irony of this report from 90 odd years ago is in line with more recent photos taken by an assortment of ASUP members in a number of locations in Texas, most recently the photo of a dog’s face among the foliage at Old Alton Bridge that is remarkably like living shots of Sarah’s dog LUCA, who recently died.   [Click here to see the photo.]

At first glance, some might suggest this is visual matrixing, and in fact, there are some photos on file that some see images in, while others see nothing. Allowing for that possibility, no one at ASUP is ready to proclaim that such a photo is testament to a ghost, but it does nevertheless lead us to be a bit more open minded when we see them.

I close with a second report, this one about another ghostly image.

 Source: The Daily Mirror of London, 13 May 1937

 “Four years ago, when visiting the beautiful Welsh village of Beddgelert, I went to see the grave of Gellert, Llewellyn’s faithful dog.  I took a photo of the gravesite, under the tree, whilst my companion stood nearby.  We were the only living persons in the field where the grave is found.  After the photo was developed, we discovered a third figure to the left of my friend, it was a large dog sitting on its haunches.”  Edward Lloyd of Swinford.

 Background:  For those of you not fluent in Celtic lore, Prince Llewellyn had a favorite greyhound named Gellert that had been given to him by his father-in-law, King John. He was as gentle as a lamb at home but a lion in the chase. One day Llewellyn went to the chase and blew his horn in front of his castle. All his other dogs came to the call but Gellert never answered it. So he blew a louder blast on his horn and called Gellert by name, but still the greyhound did not come. At last Prince Llewellyn could wait no longer and went off to the hunt without Gellert. He had little sport that day because Gellert was not there, the swiftest and boldest of his hounds.

He turned back in a rage to his castle, and as he came to the gate, who should he see but Gellert come bounding out to meet him. But when the hound came near him, the prince was startled to see that his lips and fangs were dripping with blood. Llewellyn started back and the greyhound crouched down at his feet as if surprised or afraid at the way his master greeted him.

Now Prince Llewellyn had a little son a year old with whom Gellert used to play, and a terrible thought crossed the prince's mind that made him rush towards the child's nursery. And the nearer he came the more blood and disorder he found about the rooms. He rushed into it and found the child's cradle overturned and daubed with blood.

Prince Llewellyn grew more and more terrified, and sought for his little son everywhere. He could find him nowhere but only signs of some terrible conflict in which much blood had been shed. At last he felt sure the dog had destroyed his child, and shouting to Gellert, "Monster, thou hast devoured my child," he drew out his sword and plunged it in the greyhound's side, who fell with a deep yell and still gazing in his master's eyes.

As Gellert raised his dying yell, a little child's cry answered it from beneath the cradle, and there Llewellyn found his child unharmed and just awakened from sleep. But just beside him lay the body of a great gaunt wolf all torn to pieces and covered with blood. Too late, Llewellyn learned what had happened while he was away. Gellert had stayed behind to guard the child and had fought and slain the wolf that had tried to destroy Llewellyn's heir.

In vain was all Llewellyn's grief; he could not bring his faithful dog to life again. So he buried him outside the castle walls within sight of the great mountain of Snowdon, where every passerby might see his grave, and raised over it a great cairn of stones. And to this day the place is called Beth Gellert, or the Grave of Gellert.