Nicola Kirk: Author and Collector of Paranormal Stories and Other Strange Encounters

Posts tagged ‘ghost’

I’m Not Leaving.

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Like This House For Example!

Some people stick in your mind. Sometimes they stick in your house, too. Even long after they’ve died.

People’s first reaction when you tell them you’ve seen a ghost is often to try and convince you otherwise with explanations of what they think you’ve seen or heard. I am as guilty as anyone of this. Or at least I used to be. If you want to hear some great snippets of paranormal curiosity, I learned very quickly that the last thing you want to do is to tell someone that it was probably all their imagination and the peculiar scream they heard coming from within their house in the dead of night was actually kids playing outside (oh come on, I swear some kids are nocturnal), or the reason their Aunt Jackie’s vase threw itself onto the floor is because a particularly heavy lorry rumbled by and… um… well, vibrated it right out of its locked cabinet, obviously!

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Nothing makes a story more credible than when someone you know well tells you of a creepy occurrence.  Both of my grandfathers have passed away, which is a great shame as I never met my dad’s father and barely remember my mother’s father. My mother told me of a time after her dad had recently passed. My grandmother, Nanny H, was in the kitchen washing up when all of a sudden she came dashing into the sitting room with a face as white as flour and plonked herself down in a chair. When asked what was wrong she said ‘I just saw my husband walk past the kitchen window.’ The story still gives me the shivers when I think about it.  I’m sure my grandmother would have known if she’d seen her dead husband or not – to me, there seems very little room for error there.

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That Ghost Is Going To Wish It Hadn’t Bothered…

Something more recent happened to my South African correspondent and Co-Seeker of All Things Spooky, Tarryn. A couple of days ago she was at home, the house was quiet and she was just pottering about before going to pick up the kids. ‘Then I heard a man’ s voice in the house,” she said.  “I couldn’t make out what it said and I thought it was my husband until I realised he wasn’t home yet. I panicked for a moment, wondering if someone had broken in and when I looked at the dogs to see if they’d noticed anything, I saw that all three of them were just sitting there looking at me. I was feeling a bit freaked out so I locked up the house and got out of there.” When stories come from people you know and trust, it certainly gets you thinking. As does the following story from another of my friends, Marlena.

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When Marlena was 18 years old, her grandfather passed away. Not long after, she was at home with her grandmother when she heard the doorbell ring. She looked out of the window and saw someone standing out by the gate. She called her grandmother to tell her that someone had come to visit but when her grandmother got there the man… was gone.  On its own, that would be enough to put the wind up most people, so imagine waking up one night to see what appears to be the same man sitting in the chair in your bedroom but not being able to make out the face. She called out for her grandma but when her grandmother came the man had gone. Marlena saw him one more time and when she mentioned it to her grandmother’s sister, she suggested it was probably Marlena’s grandfather. Marlena said it then suddenly made sense and all the pieces fell into place for her.  Marlena felt he had come back to visit her and her grandmother again.  She said she never felt frightened by the apparition, just felt a bit sad.

And so, to finish off, I felt I must include the latest from Most Haunted and their 2017 Hallowe’en Special.  Whilst at Croxteth Hall in Liverpool, during an epic ghost hunt Karl went off on his own to one of the upper floors.  Watch from 1.14.20 to 1.19.05.  Whoever’s currently refusing to leave that place clearly doesn’t agree with the layout of the bedroom one little bit!


©Nicola Kirk and 2018




Well, we have a nice turn up for the books today – I am delighted to be able to present you with a one off interview with Bloody Mary herself.  Bloody Mary is known by many names (Mary Worthington, Mary Jane, Mary Whales and Mary White to name but a few) and she has taken time out from her hectic mirror stalking schedule to be here with us today.  Just in case you are not familiar with Bloody Mary’s work, take a few seconds to observe the following:

I’ll give you a moment to come out from behind the sofa.

Nicola Kirk: Bloody Mary, welcome to Weirdworld!

Bloody Mary: Hi, nice to be here, thanks for inviting me.

NK: Wow, where to start!  You seem to be doing very well for yourself these days?

BM: (Laughs shyly) Yes, well, there are a lot of mirrors out there.

NK: For those out there who aren’t aware of who you are, would you like to tell us a little about yourself?:

BM: Sure.  Well, I kind of popped up in the 1970s, at least that’s when the folklorists and urban legend people started to take notice of me.  I’ve built up a rather terrifying reputation for myself over the years, even if I do say so myself. I love Googling myself to see what comes up.  There are endless tales of people being terrified out of their wits after having summoned me and then have me crawl out of their mirrors and trying to kill them – ha!  I’m quite the horror celebrity these days.  But people always seem to have found mirrors fascinating, haven’t they?  People try everything with them –  from divining the future to, well, calling up dead people.  You know, historically, young women would try out a little ritual where they would take a lit candle and walk up stairs backwards with a hand mirror at midnight in the hope that they’d see their future husband in the mirror .

NK: Sounds like something exciting to try.

BM: Well, yes and no – if they looked in the mirror and saw a skull looking back at them then it meant they would die before they got married.

NK: Oh.

BM: Yes.  Although, from my point of view, this sort of ritual can be quite entertaining.  Some girls can’t decide which version of the ‘ritual’ to use.  Should they carry the candle, and eat an apple at the same time, whilst walking backwards and trying to brush their hair?  You know, some people just aren’t born multitaskers and the end results can be really amusing to behold.

NK: How have rituals progressed over the years?  Any bloody sacrifices?

BM: (Sighing) Nothing that exciting.  Sometimes, if they’re brave enough, people try to summon me on their own, in their bathroom with just with a candle, and other times, if they’re drunk enough, people try in groups with a bottle of vodka for backup.  The drunk groups are the best.  There’s always someone who runs into the wall while everyone else runs for the door.  Sometimes I don’t even have to put in an appearance, they spook themselves out before they’ve finished the chanting and run away.  That can be disappointing, especially if I’ve been gearing myself up for a grand entrance.

NK: So, if someone was minded to try and summon you, how would they go about it for the best results?

BM: The most generally accepted way is to stand in front of a mirror in a dimly lit room, candles are a nice touch, and to chant ‘Bloody Mary’ three times.  Some people call for Mary Worth or Mary White, I even had someone calling for Mary Whitehouse once – I’m not sure what they were expecting but they looked pretty shocked when I appeared and asked them what they thought about social liberalism.  Sometimes people try calling for the Candyman for a change but I don’t pull off the brutalised black male artist look too well. But a friend of mine, Hanako-San, she has a tough job.  She haunts toilets in Japanese schools.  People are forever banging on third cubicles on third floors and asking if she’s there.  They get horribly frightened when she actually says she’s home – I don’t know why people go looking for us if they’re just going to run away screaming when we answer.  I suppose it could be something to do with the way we sometimes attack them, but sometimes we can be nice.

NK: Hanako- San doesn’t know Moaning Myrtle does she?

BM: Who?

NK: From..uh… Harry Potter – okay, not to to worry, let’s move on.  What’s your average customer like?

BM: Young and female.  I don’t know why, but it’s always girls having slumber parties.  The number of times I’ve turned up to find everyone in a onesie.  It’s like no one makes an effort these days.

NK: What sort of thing can people expect when you appear in their mirror?

BM: Depends what sort of mood I’m in and if they’re interrupting me while I’m doing something important.  I’m not always a bloody faced screaming corpse you know, I do have quite a repertoire.

NK: Funnily enough, I did try to Google reports of people having met you on a good day and I thought I was onto something when the search turned up ‘A friendly welcome and a good Bloody Mary!’ but unfortunately it was just a pub review on Trip Advisor.

BM: (Shrugs) Yes, well, you can’t have everything.  I have to tell you, being summoned all the time by people looking for a bit of a thrill does get a bit tiresome so you can appreciate that I’m not always going to be sunshine and smiles.

NK: Um, not ever by all accounts.  Having read a few experiences left by people on the internet, they’ve reported being screamed at, cursed and apparently you sometimes try to strangle people?

BM: (Holds hands up) Guilty as charged.  Although I did see a piece of viral tat going around on Facebook once that if you didn’t forward a post on to at least fifteen people then I would appear at midnight to slit wrists, throats and pull eyeballs out with a fork.  I mean really…

NK: Bit over the top?

BM: I don’t even own a fork.

NK: Right.  You have become more famous as the years have gone on, haven’t you?

BM: I really have!  I’ve had films made about me and all sorts.  There was Urban Legends: Bloody Mary (2005), The Legend of Bloody Mary (2008) and I even got in on that Paranormal Activity 3 (2011).

NK: Yes, we featured a clip from that film at the beginning of this interview.

BM: Nothing like a little publicity.

NK: Have you see the doll they’ve made of you?

BM: Seriously?

NK: Bloody Mary Doll

BM: (Recoils in horror) Woah!  That’s… that’s just nasty.  I don’t look like that, do I?  What’s going on with the hair?  I do like her dress though, I think I could make that work.

NK: There are all sorts of back stories attached to your legend, aren’t there?

BM: Oh yes, I’ve got so many possible origins these days, it’s hard to keep up with them all.  The one I like most is that I am Bloody Queen Mary, famous for her violently imposed religious views.  Not that I’m particularly religious but being mistaken for royalty is quite flattering.  Other stories I’ve heard about myself is that I was a particularly vain woman who spent so long looking in mirrors that I came back to haunt them, and anyone who dares to call me up in a mirror will do so at their peril – but I don’t think I’m that vain.  I spend more time looking out of mirrors than into them these days.  One thing I did read (an essay by Alan Dundes called Bloody Mary In The Mirror: A Ritual Reflection of Pre-Pubescent Anxiety) was that elements of my legend could be linked to the onset of menstruation due to the similarities in feelings between that and how people feel when summoning me.

NK: Yeah, I’m not so sure about that one.  When I hit puberty I don’t recall experiencing mindboggling terror – certainly nothing in the same vein as being murdered by something leaping at me from my bathroom mirror.  Getting your monthlies is a bit different, I think.

BM: I think it’s also something to do with the association with blood and the bathroom, too.  An interesting notion but not one I personally like to be associated with.  I still prefer the ‘mess with me and I’ll rip your face off’ approach to my legend.

NK: And finally, do you have any words of advice for people who are considering summoning you to their mirror?

BM: Yes: bring a change of underpants.

NK: So there we have it, coming to a mirror near you: Bloody Mary!

BM: Thank you!  


©Nicola Kirk 2016 and







I think out of all the things I’ve written to date, this book is possibly my favourite.  Tiennador will always have a special place as it’s the first book I wrote, but I had a really good time writing A Ghost Of A Chance.  I’ve been lucky enough to have been on a few paranormal investigations and although none of them turned out quite like the investigations in this book, the experiences helped to lay the groundwork for the characters and events I’ve written about (I hasten to add that none of the events in this book are based on real people or occurrences, but I wish they were!).

Part of this book was cooked up out of one of my infamous dreams.  I can still remember it now – I dreamed I found a mummified bird in a box under my bed, and my mother kept referring to it as if it had been my baby and called it ‘my poor little bird’.  It was a very surreal and I awoke thinking I could add this to the story… I even write when I’m asleep, how about that…? Anyway, here’s a flavour of what this book is about:

Dee Matlock is 30 years old and fresh out of  a disastrous relationship.  In her desperation to meet someone else before she turns “thirty, single and crazy” she decides to join a dysfunctional paranormal group based at an old manor house.

Between the the founder of the group, the suave and sexy Aaron Myers, and The Manor’s owner, arrogant heiress, Amelia Haughton-Rose, who enjoys nothing more than trying to make Dee feel as insignificant as possible, Dee soon finds she has more on her plate than she can handle.  But just when Dee thinks things couldn’t possibly get more complicated, she soon finds herself embroiled in the dark and murderous history of The Manor…




©Nicola Kirk and 2012

Book Cover Image and Design ©Nicola Kirk 2011


Working at a museum can be anything but dull and dusty – you never know when history will reach out to grab you.

To receive a free copy, click The Final Chapter.

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©Nicola Kirk and 2010


Cats:  You can’t live with them, they refuse to die quietly…

To receive a free copy, please click The Whiskers Get Me Every Time

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©Nicola Kirk and 2010


Be careful what you wish for – you never know what might be listening.

Click for a free copy of Helping Hands.

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©Nicola Kirk and 2010

Someone To Watch Over Me

I am the Spook in my family.  I love anything to do with ghosts, vampires and things that go ‘wooo ha ha!!’ in the night.  So why is it that it’s my brother, of all people, who seems to have encountered all the weird stuff?  Stuart is a gentle soul who would rather have his nose buried in the latest Terry Pratchett novel than creep around in the dark looking for ghosts, but it so often seems to be the way that people who aren’t looking for ghosts are the people who find them.

Stuart was critically ill when he was born in 1977 and I don’t think my parents slept a wink for the first couple of months of my brother’s life.

One night when Stuart was finally on the mend and contentedly gurgling away in his cot after having been changed and fed, my parents stood together gazing down at their little boy.

“Goodnight, young man,” my mum said with a smile as she patted his full tummy.  Dad adjusted Stuart’s tiny bed covers and then stood up with a frown:

“We settled Stuart down,” my mother told me, “but just as we said goodnight his face took on the look of someone very much older.  It happened so suddenly that I wondered if I’d imagined it but when I mentioned it to your father a couple of weeks later he said he had seen the same thing but hadn’t said anything to me at the time as he thought he had imagined it, too.  It was quite a surreal moment, but it wasn’t frightening, at least I didn’t think so.  Your father thought whoever it was looking back at us from the cot was laughing at us, but I just saw a loving, peaceful but knowing face.  Perhaps one of his grandfathers came to say hello.  Stuart went to sleep looking quite content.”

What with Stuart having been so poorly and my parents being so anxious, who’s to say that someone from the other side didn’t decide to make themselves known via my brother and offer a little reassurance to my parents that their son was being looked after.

Although, knowing my brother, it could have been wind.


©Nicola Kirk and 2010

The Haunting of Hill Hall – Epping, Essex

A few days ago I received an email from Ann of North Weald, Essex.  Considering I’ve lived in the area for my entire life, I have to confess to feeling a little ashamed at never having heard of Hill Hall, Epping.  Especially as it happens to have its very own ghost.

Hill Hall boasts some of the earliest classical decoration on any surviving building in Britain as well as a series of late 16th century wall paintings including scenes from the story of Cupid, Psyche and the mother in law from hell, Venus.

The origins of Hill Hall date back from before the Norman Conquest when the site was owned by a Saxon chap called Godric. I’m sure Godric would be delighted to see what they’ve done with the place over the centuries.  The first proper house was built on the site in the early 13th century and the mostly timber framed building was then rebuilt by Sir Thomas Smith during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I. The Smiths remained in residence at Hill Hall right up until 1923.

During World War II, Hill Hall was used as a maternity home before becoming a billet for RAF officers.  The stately pile was then abandoned in 1942.  After a while the building was converted into the most unlikeliest of things: a women’s prison which opened for business in 1952.  Things ticked on quietly at Hill Hall until one unfortunate day in 1969 when an inmate started a fire. This is where Ann’s story begins:

“When I was about seventeen, I was doing a project on Hill Hall.  The building has been converted into flats now but it was a women’s prison many years ago.  I was allowed special access to take photos and at the time the place was boarded up due to the fire that had taken place while it was a women’s prison, caused by one of the inmates setting light to herself in her room.   I had access to the grounds only as the building was unsafe to enter.  I was round the back of the house with my dad and I was looking at the back of the house when I saw a woman in a long white night dress.  I watched her for about a minute as she walked along the back of the house and then turned to my dad and asked him who he thought the woman was.  He hadn’t seen her.  When I looked again she was gone but there was nowhere for her to go.

I know it was a ghost I saw that day and I can see the image in my mind even now, as if it happened yesterday.  Hill Hall is reported to be haunted by the lady who set herself alight and caused the fire.”

English Heritage now look after Hill Hall and even though the building has been converted into some rather swanky private houses, the public are still able to view certain areas by prior arrangement.  If you’re lucky, perhaps the lady in white will join you on your tour.


©Nicola Kirk and 2010

I’m Watching You…

Things from the ‘other side’ seem to take an active interest in what Doreen Philps of Chigwell, Essex gets up to. One particular experience that has always haunted her happened 30 years ago:

In 1980, Doreen, her husband, Charles and their son, Stuart, who was nearly three at the time, went on holiday to Torrevieja in Spain.  They were sharing a villa with another couple, Bernard and Cheryl.

Stuart had his own room next to Doreen and Charles, and on the other side was Bernard and Cheryl’s room.  They had decided to leave the passage light on at night in the hope that Stuart would feel a little more secure sleeping in a strange place.

One night, Doreen awoke and got up to go to the bathroom.  She went to the bedroom door but paused when she heard noises coming from the passage beyond.  She glanced down and saw that the light was being blocked at the bottom of the door as if someone was walking about in the passage.  She assumed that it was one of their friends, also up in the night, and decided to wait until they had gone back to their room.  After what felt like an age, she could wait no longer.  She opened the bedroom door a crack and peered out into the passage.

There was no one there.

She opened the door a little further and looked into the bathroom.  There was no one there either.

Initially, Doreen shrugged off the strange night’s events until the following morning when Cheryl appeared for breakfast.

“You were a bit noisy last night,” Doreen smiled.

“Noisy?” Cheryl repeated, looking puzzled.  “What makes you say that?”

“Well, I woke up in the night and all I could hear was you wandering up and down the passage.  Couldn’t you sleep?”

“We didn’t leave our room all night,” Bernard said.  “Actually, we thought it was you.”  Doreen shivered and looked to her husband.

“Don’t look at me,” Charles muttered into his coffee mug.  “I was asleep.”

Then Stuart piped up.

“Who was in my last night?” he asked, innocently.

“In your room?” Doreen frowned.  “When?  No one went into your room last night.”  She looked around the table in case it had been one of the others but they all looked just as confused as she was.

“There was a man in my room last night,” Stuart insisted.  His parents went cold at the thought that someone might have broken in to the villa while they were sleeping.

“A man in your room?” Charles asked.  “Are you sure?  You must have been dreaming.”

“No, I saw him.  He was old.  He stood at the end of my bed.  But I wasn’t scared.  I liked him.”   The adults looked at each other blankly but Stuart, despite being so young, was quite adamant about what he had seen. From that evening on, all windows and doors were double checked before going to bed but Doreen couldn’t quite shake the feeling that whatever had visited them in the small hours had not been of this world.

Who, or what, was it that had decided to pay the young family and their friends a visit that night at the villa?


©Nicola Kirk and 2010

The Farmhouse – Lathbury, Milton Keynes

Simon King from Bletchley, Milton Keynes, is one of my poor, unsuspecting contractors from work whom I annoy on a regular basis.  He sent me the following story.  I initially read the information he sent and thought, what a cool story.  I went home.  All was fine.  Until 2am in the morning when I heard a pair of cats screeching at each other outside my bedroom window like a pair of banshees.  The sound was something akin to a baby wailing and, I kid ye not, I thought I was reliving part of Simon’s rather eerie tale.  Cheers for that, King.  Took me ages to get back to sleep.

Anyway, I’m afraid the compulsion to illustrate the facts overtook me somewhat (I’m a writer, it’s what I do), and although the dialogue is fictional, the events described are factual.  I hope you enjoy today’s post:

Somewhere just outside Newport Pagnell, Milton Keynes, in a small and very old village called Lathbury, there is an old farmhouse.  For a while, the farmhouse was rented by a man who lived on his own.  He had no time for people, preferring the company of his two hunting dogs and his birds of prey instead.  He avoided the people of the village and they avoided him because he was a bit too different for their tastes.  The man rented the farmhouse for a while but then, for some reason, no one saw him anymore.  It was assumed that he had moved on or, as the village gossips liked to tell anyone who would listen, had fallen behind on his rent and had been thrown out.

The house was a big, five bedroom affair, about two hundred years old with a dank, badly lit cellar, a stuffy, cobweb-strewn loft and two staircases, one at either end of the house.  In 2001, Simon and one of his colleagues, Jay, were hired to give the house a lick of paint in readiness for it to be let once more.  The house was cold and unwelcoming at best and, if he was honest, Simon found it an eerie and unsettling place to work.

Halfway through the day, Simon found they were short on paint and nipped out to get some more.  When he returned, he found Jay waiting for him and he didn’t look too happy.

“Yeah, you’re not funny, you know,” Jay told him sullenly.

“What are you on about?” Simon asked as he put the newly acquired paint down on the floor.

“You.  Messing about with the radio.”

“I haven’t touched the radio, mate.  I’ve been out buying paint.”

“Yeah, okay, so who was it that turned off the radio twice when I left the room?  Christmas fairy, perhaps?”

“Must have been, because I’m telling you, it wasn’t me, I was out buying paint,” Simon protested pointing at the tins by his feet.  Jay didn’t look convinced but dropped the subject anyway.  The atmosphere in the old house seemed to weigh heavily on Jay and Simon’s shoulders as they rushed to get the work done so they could finally get out of there.

A few weeks later in November, two women from the local letting agency dropped by to take some photos of the freshly painted house.   Val got out of the car and gazed up at the front of the old building.  It was getting dark and it was threatening rain but they only needed a few internal photos so that didn’t matter too much.

“Doesn’t look too inviting, does it?” Frances muttered as she fumbled in her bag for the keys.  “I wouldn’t want to live here.”

“Let’s just get these photos and go,” Val said, pulling her collar up around her ears.  “It’s freezing out here and I hate driving in the rain.”

The two women let themselves in and set about taking pictures as quickly as they could.  For some reason neither of them could quite put a finger on, they didn’t want to spend a moment longer in the house than absolutely necessary.  Fifteen minutes later, and with a feeling of great relief, they locked the front door behind them and climbed into the car.  Just as they were about to pull away, a light shining from a window at the top of the house caught Val’s attention.  She sighed.

“Fran, you’ve left a light on upstairs.”

“No, I didn’t,” Frances squeaked.  “You were the last one up there.”  They stared at each other for a few seconds before Frances gave in and unbuckled her seatbelt.  “Okay, fine, I’ll go turn it off then, shall I?” she grumbled as she climbed out of the car.  “But just so you know, if I don’t make it out alive…”

“God, you make such a fuss,” Val sniffed.  “Look, I’ll come with you if it makes you feel better.”  The two women went back inside and Val loitered on the stairs while Frances went up to turn the light off.  When Frances reappeared she found Val looking rather pale and listening intently to something.  Frances said nothing but rushed past Val and headed straight for the door.  Neither of them spoke a word as they locked the house up again, got into the car and drove off.  After a mile or so, Val finally spoke.

“Did you hear anything while we were at the house?”  She didn’t take her eyes of the road and her hands gripped the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles stood out proud and white.  Frances remained silent.  “Frances?  Did you…”

“I heard you,” Frances said softly.  “I heard a baby crying somewhere in the house when I turned that light off.  I thought I was hearing things.”  Val swore under her breath and slowed the car to a stop.  “What are you doing?” Frances asked.

“I heard the same thing but I thought I was imagining things, too.  If we both heard the same thing we’ve got to go back and take another look.  What if someone’s dumped a child there or something?”

“That’s ridiculous,” Frances snapped.

“Yeah, maybe it is ridiculous, but are you going to get any sleep tonight if we don’t go back and look?”  Reluctantly, Val turned the car around and headed back to the farmhouse.

The two women stuck together this time as they trawled through the house looking under the pathetic bits of furniture littered around the house, but they found nothing.

“I’ve had enough of this place,” Val said as they made their way down the opposite stairway to the one they had gone up.  “There’s nothing here.  It must have been a noise from outside or someth…” she stopped mid sentence as they entered the kitchen.  “Where did that come from?” she asked quietly.   Frances looked over her friend’s shoulder and felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention.

“Oh… no way,” Frances whispered.  Lying on the floor in the middle of the kitchen was a baby doll, the kind that has a pull string on its back.  “That was not there before.”  Val picked the toy up and, with her eyes fixed on her colleague, pulled the string.  The toy emitted a loud wail that seemed to echo around the rest of the farmhouse.  Val dropped the toy without a second thought and, catching her friend by the sleeve, dragged her to the door.  She didn’t bother to lock up this time and neither of them stopped until they were both in the car with the doors locked and on the way back to the office.

“Someone else had to have been in that house with us,” Val said shakily.  “Someone was messing with us.  Heaven only knows what they could have done to us. Call the police, Fran.  Tell them they have to go straight away because someone’s broken in and they might still be there.”

“There was no one else there, Val…”

“Just call them!”

The police arrived, made a thorough search of the house, found nothing and left.  No one could explain who might have left the doll on the floor of the house, or why.   The strange events that happened at the farmhouse in Lathbury still remain a mystery.


©Nicola Kirk and 2010

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