One childhood summer turned chilling when a terrifying voice told us to get out of our seemingly normal Blackpool home, writes DEBORAH CONTESSA
Sunshine poured through the back bedroom window of an ordinary terraced house — an unimposing, regular home, much like all the others on the pleasant suburban street in sunny Blackpool.
But what happened there one summer’s afternoon in the early eighties was far from ordinary.
My cousin, my brother and I were still children, interested only in the long summer holidays, playing outside and, if the mood took us, a spot of den-building.
On that particular day, our mother had arranged to visit a neighbour and left us in no uncertain terms to stay in the house — in my bedroom — and behave until her return.
We were instructed to remain indoors and not to answer the door to anyone. Then she left us to our own devices.
Books were read, board games played and drawings scribbled on sheets of paper, yet minutes last so much longer when you are young, and boredom settled in quickly.
We rummaged in the wardrobe looking for anything new to amuse ourselves, but each toy we unearthed was cast aside and dumped on the bed.
Nothing could match the glorious weather outside or the distant sound of our friends playing.
An argument flared between my cousin and my brother. As the eldest, I felt it my duty to step in and settle it.
My interference, though, only made things worse, and soon we were all embroiled in a full-scale dispute.
It was then we heard the voice — a low, guttural male voice, trying to push itself through the clamour.
At first, we thought it was an auditory anomaly, our ears playing tricks, but it came again, rasping through the walls with dreadful clarity.
Instantly we froze and glanced at one another. No words were needed; we were all petrified.
As clear as day, the voice growled, “Get out… get out!”
The silence that followed was almost worse than the sound itself.
The air seemed to thicken, heavy and charged, as though the very room was holding its breath.
From the corner of my eye, I thought I saw something stir — a shadow that moved where no shadow should.
My cousin’s lip trembled, and none of us dared to so much as blink.
Then, as if released from a spell, we clung to one another, grasped hands and made for the bedroom door.
Almost tripping, we hurtled down the stairs toward the front door and salvation — until we remembered we were forbidden to leave.
Pausing in the hallway, unsure what to do, the voice came again.
This time it was meaner, closer, and laced with malice: it spat at us, calling us “gits… swines… b*stards.”
The words rattled around the narrow hallway, as if coming from inside the very walls.
Somewhere above, the sound of a slow dragging — like furniture being pulled across a floor — groaned through the ceiling.
That was enough. Fear drowned sense.
We flung the front door wide, ran from the house and didn’t dare look back, racing to the neighbour’s house where our mother was.
Between sobs we spilled the story to her, desperate for comfort.
Instead, we were sternly reprimanded for disobedience and marched back home by a very angry parent.
Once inside, we begged not to be made to return upstairs.
Our mother had calmed and, reluctantly, agreed to come up with us to see what had caused such hysteria.
The air on the stairs felt lighter, though still threaded with unease.
A faint chill clung to the banister as we climbed, and more than once I was certain I could hear soft footsteps following behind — though no one was there.
Then, as we tentatively pushed open the bedroom door, the biggest fright came.
Everything we had left strewn about the room — books, games, toys — had vanished.
Every last thing had been tidied away.
Neatly, carefully, deliberately stacked back in the wardrobe… by hands unseen.
The room smelled faintly of something burnt, though nothing smouldered.
Our mother listened, sceptical but unsettled, and asked that we tell no one — especially not our father — about what we’d allegedly experienced.
Later, I discovered she had witnessed strange happenings in that house on other occasions herself.
Whispers at night. Objects that shifted places. Doors that opened when they were locked.
But that, dear reader, is a tale for another night.
Until then… beware the places that seem ordinary, for they are often the ones that hide the darkest secrets.
Have you ever experienced something eerie in an ordinary home? Tell us your ghost stories in the comments below.
