Shadows   Leave a comment

Sue and her teenage son Joe stood side by side, looking at the living room wall of their new house.
‘It won’t come off, son,’ said Sue. She poked at the stain on the wall with her paintbrush. ‘I’ve put two coats of paint on it already. It just seems to be soaking it up.’
‘I don’t like it, mum,’ said Joe. ‘It’s creepy. It looks like a person. Look, can you see the head, with the nose and mouth? And further down it looks like there’s hands sticking out, like they’re trying to grab something.’
Sue secretly agreed that the stain did indeed look like the shadow of a person in profile, but she didn’t want to scare her son. The two of them had no choice but to stay in this council house after her business had folded. It was either that or live on the streets. She had no money to rent a private house, or even a bedsit, which in any case would hardly be adequate for both her and a fifteen year old boy.
‘You’ve got too much imagination, you have.’ Sue ruffled Joe’s hair. ‘Come and get some tea now. I’ll have another go at it tomorrow.’
The next morning, Sue left for a job interview, leaving Joe, who had six weeks summer holiday from school, alone in the house.
Joe knew his mum was upset about the shadowy figure on the wall. That’s what it was, a shadow of a person. Not an ordinary stain. It creeped him out. Still, he wanted to make his mum happy, so he opened the paint tin, took up the paintbrush and began to rather inexpertly dab at the dark area.
The shadow moved.
Joe yelped and jumped back. A black, misty arm snaked out from the wall and an icy cold hand seized his wrist. He struggled, screamed, pulled against it. Another arm slithered out of the wall and another icy hand took hold of his shoulder. Joe felt himself being dragged towards the wall. He dropped the paintbrush and knocked over the tin of paint, spilling a pool of yellow onto the carpet.
Then silence fell.
Sue returned feeling happy. Her interview had gone well and she couldn’t wait to tell Joe the news.
‘Joe? Are you home?’ Sue stopped as she entered the living room, taking in the paint-covered carpet. ‘Ooh, I’ll kill the little sod when he gets back! He can pay for a new carpet out of his allowance.’
Then Sue noticed the wall. Now, two human-like shadows stained the surface. She stepped over the paint and poked at the stains.
‘This is too much,’ Sue muttered. ‘I’m getting the council in to sort this out.’
As she turned to use the telephone, a black, misty arm snaked out from the wall and an icy cold hand seized her wrist.

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The Four Poster Bed   Leave a comment

For my hen night, me and my friends rented a pretty thatched cottage in the country for the weekend. It had whitewashed walls, roses growing round the door, that sort of thing. We had a lovely first evening, drinking wine and watching Dirty Dancing on DVD for what must have been the hundredth time.

It was at night when it went wrong.

My friends insisted I sleep in the biggest room, which had a four poster bed in it. To be honest, I found the room a bit creepy. There was just something wrong about it, a spooky atmosphere, a heavy feeling in the air. Anyway, as I say, my friends insisted and as I was tired and rather drunk I ignored my feelings about the room. I’d always fancied sleeping in an old four poster bed, and it was so nice to climb up into it and draw the bed curtains around me. It felt cosy and snuggly, and I soon fell asleep.

I woke up during the night feeling absolutely terrified. I didn’t know why – I hadn’t had a nightmare as far as I could remember. I couldn’t see a thing because of the bed curtains, but I thought I heard a noise in the room. I told myself it was the old floorboards settling or something, but then I heard breathing next to the bed. It was a horrible, rattling sort of breathing, like a dying person. I didn’t know what to do and I was so scared could hardly move.

Then I saw a tiny bit of light and realised the bed curtains were moving. I saw a candle, and a figure behind it. A hand reached in through the gap and it was horrible, all blackened and burned. The hand groped about as if it was trying to find me. Then it brushed against my bare arm and it felt like ice.

I screamed and scrambled out of the opposite side of the bed. My friends came running when they heard me, but when they snapped the light on, there was nothing there, no horrible breathing, no candle, no figure with a burned hand.

We stayed in the cottage for the weekend – after all, we’d paid a lot of money for it. None of us went back in that room, though, and I can’t say I slept very well all weekend.

Once I got home, I did a bit of investigating and found out that a hundred years ago a man had been in the four poster bed and had accidentally set fire to himself when he fell asleep holding a candle. His servant had come quickly on hearing his screams, but he’d died, on the very same date I’d had my experience.

 

Alice   2 comments

My name is Alice. I came to Longfields when I was 14 years old, to be a housemaid. I was scared on my first day. The house looked huge compared to the tiny cottage I’d come from, with ten bedrooms, a drawing-room, a library and a big hallway with a high ceiling.

I soon learned not to cross the housekeeper, Miss Wickes. Everyone called her a dragon behind her back. She’d beat us if we were late in the morning, or if we didn’t do our work to her standard. She beat me on the second day I was there because I got a tiny bit of polish on a curtain. It wasn’t my fault. The table I was polishing was next to the curtain, and I was new, and I didn’t know what I was doing yet.

I’ve been at Longfields all my life. I’ve seen the sons of the house go to war, and one didn’t come back. I saw their sons go off to another war, but they were lucky and they survived, although one of them was never the same afterwards.

I saw the arrival of television, which was very odd at first. The servants (there were less of us by then) were allowed to join the family to watch the Queen’s coronation. One of the footmen actually thought all the people were really inside the television box and everyone laughed at him, the poor thing.

I’ve seen the strangest fashions come and go. In the 1960’s, one of the daughters of the house arrived from London, where she’d been living, in the tiniest skirt you could imagine. I thought it was indecent, and so did her father because he shouted at her to go and change or never darken his door again!

I’m very old now, and so lonely. I don’t work any more, but I still go about the house, and sometimes someone will catch a glimpse of me, but they usually ignore me.

You see, I’d only been at Longfields for two weeks when, one morning, I overslept by ten minutes. In my rush to get downstairs and avoid a beating, I didn’t tie my shoelaces properly. I tripped on the stairs, fell and broke my neck.

My name is Alice, and I am a ghost.

 

The Haunted Doll   Leave a comment

I bought the doll on Ebay. One of those walkie-talkie dolls – do you remember them? I had one when I was a child in the 1970’s and I loved her. She had a string at the back and when you pulled it, she said things like, I love you mummy, or, I’ve got a pretty dress. I eventually grew out of dolls and threw her in the bin. After the events I’m going to tell you about, I wonder if she somehow found me again after all this time and is seeking revenge for being discarded with the rubbish.

Anyway, the day the postman brought her, I was so excited. The cord had broken so she couldn’t speak, but she looked just as I remembered – golden hair, big blue eyes, the pretty (if somewhat worn by now) dress. I put her in pride of place on the chair next to my bed.

As I was getting ready for bed that night, I picked the doll up to admire her. For an instant, I felt strangely repulsed. She no longer looked pretty and her eyes had a glint of something almost evil in them. The feeling quickly wore off and I got into bed, dismissing it as tiredness after a busy day.

During the night, a rustling sound woke me. I half opened my eyes, but saw nothing in the dim room and prepared to go back to sleep. Then I felt a slight tugging at the bedclothes, the tiniest dip of the mattress. I opened my eyes again, and to my horror, saw the doll lying next to me. Her head slowly turned. She blinked. Then her face contorted in a horrible, twisted, snarl. I shrieked and sprang from the bed, my heart thudding hard.

I cowered on the far side of the room for a while, but the doll didn’t move again. I wondered if I’d had a nightmare – I do sometimes, they’re so vivid I wake up thinking they’ve really happened. I cautiously approached the bed, reached out a hand and gave the doll a quick poke with a finger. Instead of touching cold plastic, my finger felt warmth and softness. The doll’s head turned again and she stared at me. She giggled – a high-pitched, mocking sound. Then she said, I hate you mummy.

My blood ran cold. I grabbed my dressing gown, threw it over the doll and bundled it up. She kicked and struggled. She bit me through the fabric. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I dumped the whole lot in a bin bag, tied it up tightly and then threw it out of my back door.

I didn’t sleep at all that night. At first light in the morning, I peered out of the back door. The bin bag was ripped open. The doll had gone.

All of this happened a month ago. I haven’t seen the doll since, but sometimes, at night, I hear a faint scratching at my bedroom window. One evening, I heard the back door handle rattling, as though someone was trying to get in. And tonight, I heard giggling out in the garden. She’s out there, waiting for me.

The Rocking Chair   Leave a comment

My husband Sam and I had just moved into our first home together. After our experience with the haunted mirror at a house we’d previously rented, I had an aversion to second-hand furniture. However, money was tight and Sam persuaded me to visit an auction with him in order to furnish the house cheaply. We found a few things we liked including a table and chair set and an old dresser which would be presentable once I’d painted it. One item in particular caught our eye; a wooden rocking chair. It was nothing special and we didn’t need it, but we felt strangely drawn to it and in the end we bid for it and were successful.

We brought the furniture home a couple of days later and decided to put the rocking chair in a corner of our bedroom. Sam had the idea that I could use it for nursing once we had the baby we were trying for.

That night a storm battered our village. The wind and rain smashed against the bedroom window while thunder boomed overhead and lightning lit up the room with an eerie blue-white light. Sam somehow fell fast asleep, but I sat up in bed, wide awake.

All of a sudden, a gentle thud came from the corner of the bedroom. I looked across to see the rocking chair moving as though someone had just sat down in it. Then, slowly at first, the chair began to rock backwards and forwards, the wood creaking gently. I stared in horror. As the chair began to pick up speed, I grabbed Sam by the shoulder and roughly shook him awake. He sleepily looked in the direction I’d pointed to.

‘It’s just the kitten,’ Sam mumbled. ‘She must have jumped on the chair.’

‘The kitten is shut in the kitchen,’ I whispered.

‘Bloody hell,’ said Sam, his eyes now wide and alert. ‘You’re right.’

We sat in bed watching the moving rocking chair in terrified fascination for about half an hour. Every time the lightning flashed, we saw a shadowy figure sitting there. If the chair hadn’t been right next to the door we would have fled, but as it was, neither of us dared to move. Then we heard a terrible groan from the direction of the chair, followed by a thump on the wooden floorboards. The lightning showed us a shape on the floor – the shape of  human body.

The chair slowed and then stopped, and the figure on the floor vanished. We made a run for it, dashed outside and slept in the car, as we had when we experienced the haunted mirror.

The next morning I telephoned the auction house and told the auctioneer we didn’t want the rocking chair after all. I couldn’t bring myself to tell him what had happened the previous night; I thought he’d laugh.

‘You’re the second person to return that chair,’ said the auctioneer, slight irritation in his voice.

‘Do you know where it came from?’ I asked him. ‘Who owned it?’

‘It was from a house clearance,’ he told me. ‘The rocking chair belonged to an old lady. She sat down in it one night and had a heart attack; she fell off the chair and died on the floor next to it. Nobody found her for a week; isn’t that terrible? I hope I’m not that alone when I go.’

I thanked the auctioneer and put the phone down. Sam and I decided to only buy new furniture from now on.

 

UFOs Are Real: A Canadian Politician Goes Public   Leave a comment

Here’s an interesting post from ghost talk blog. I certainly believe in UFO’s and aliens – do you?

Posted June 30, 2013 by eramys in Uncategorized

Shipwreck   Leave a comment

It’s a warm June day. The sun is shining on a Cornish fishing village. The light reflects off the whitewashed cottages that tumble down the hillside to the sparkling sea. The villagers are going about their business, but quietly, as if they are all anxious about something. A few daytrippers picnic on the sandy beach beside the harbour, but they sense the nervous mood of the village and don’t stay long.

A thunderstorm is brewing out to sea. The heavy clouds are rapidly approaching land. The village shop and the pub close early. People hurry home, looking worriedly up at the darkening sky. They bring in their animals, lock their doors, close their windows and pull the curtains tightly shut. They know that any man or beast who witnesses the events to come tonight will die. It has been this way for over a hundred years.

Lightning crackles overhead. Thunder booms between the headlands on either side of the village. Heavy raindrops begin to splatter the slate roofs of the cottages. A gale rises up and the sea boils and churns, great waves dashing against the shore.

Up on one of the headlands, a fire bursts into life, the flames burning defiantly against the storm. It’s a ghost of the signal to guide the trading ship that once sailed into the harbour here. The fire was lit by smugglers on the wrong headland. The storm was so bad that captain of the ship could barely see. He unwittingly set course for the jagged rocks beneath the headland.

The ghostly ship groans as it runs onto the rocks and the wooden hull shatters. Cries of long-dead sailors mingle with the howling wind as they drown all over again. Those few who make it to shore alive are murdered by the waiting smugglers.

The storm begins to die and silence falls, broken only by the patter of rain and the rumble of retreating thunder.

Down by the harbour, there is movement. The ghosts of the drowned sailors come ashore and begin to drift through the village, seeking the homes they never found in life. They bang silently on doors and peer through windows, crying out in misery when they are denied entrance.

Then a beacon of fire leaps up in the churchyard at the top of the village. The ghostly sailors are attracted to it. The village priest, the only living soul not indoors tonight, bravely stands his ground as the shades gather in the churchyard. He holds up his cross and says some prayers. A great sigh rises up from the sailors. They gradually dissolve into mist and are gone, to be forever at peace.