Cut off from the world by a moat, ancient and mysterious Green Knowe is home to the spirits of the Oldknow family, their history being an essential part of its very fabric. Poor Ada is forced to clump around the house in big boots as her father believes children should be heard and not seen.
Not surprisingly she is rather lonely. Luckily the house ghosts — from the Attic Club to a little ghost mouse called Ishmael — are a friendly bunch. At the Sedgewick hotel in New York the ghosts come as complimentary extras. This is fine until the spirits get out of hand and guests start disappearing. The hotel management are forced to call in the Ghostbusters to clean up the problem. When James and his family move to an old cottage in the village of Ledsham, Oxfordshire, it appears idyllic.
But builders have smashed an old green bottle in the attic releasing its tricky 17 th century occupant.
Not only this — mysterious messages keep appearing from Thos. Kempe Esquire. Convinced that young James is his new apprentice, this badly-behaved poltergeist leaves a trail of destruction behind him. This Carnegie winner is both funny and unsettling. Canterville Chase is haunted by the grumpy spirit of Sir Simon de Canterville. The rambling gothic pile ticks all the boxes: black oak panelling, suits of armour, even a reappearing bloodstain on the floor.
Wickedly comic and brilliantly observed as ever.
Here baby Bod finds sanctuary beneath the wings of ghostly Mr and Mrs Owens after his family are brutally murdered. He grows up surrounded by its resident ghosts and ghouls within the protection of its boundaries. Darkly beguiling, this graveyard is a haunted home like no other. Luckily for Knitbone Pepper, a friendly ghost dog, tumbledown Starcross Hall fits the bill of haunted home perfectly. Tucked away down a grassy lane, the higgledy-piggledy house is a hidden heaven for loyal animal spirits.
We were not so naive. And yet, there was something unsettling about our new home, a personality, a sense that we were installing ourselves in a place already occupied. It never felt quite empty. Doors would shut of their own volition, footsteps would sound. It felt as if we were being watched, assessed.
Very soon, this phoney-war period became the subject of nostalgia. For, when the house kicked off, it kicked off in epic style. Once — comically, but in ghastly, unequivocal fashion — it even seemed to relieve its excess energy with a few strokes on her rowing machine. Ghost stories: Sailor tells the tale of a ship with a shadow. Ghost stories: The Wolf Man. Ghost Stories: Sleeping in England's most haunted bedroom.
Halloween scary cake pops recipe. Halloween: Britain's most haunted stately homes. This may sound like nothing, but I cannot tell you the uncanny monotony of its nightly repetitions. We refused to recognise it, of course, being sane, a family of atheists and, above all, British. In fact, we strove not to use any word at all — not to acknowledge our summer haunting, certainly not to discuss it.
And so the house tried harder, with what, I imagine, would be referred to as classic poltergeist activity. We would return home to find the taps turned on full-force, requiring wrenching back into inaction. After the second time it happened, we had it disconnected. It happened again.
And, believe me, as I write this, I too think it is mad. Matters became worse.
One night, the boarded-over fireplace in my room ripped open with a clamour. I wrenched my pillow over my ears, telling myself it must be a trapped bird. In the daylight, I investigated. My mother started behaving oddly — pensive, distracted.
We eldest and Nanny Williams, our beloved summer-holiday addition, interrogated her. Finally, she cracked. Waking in the night, she had seen a dead child.
At Bonnier Corporation, your privacy is important to us. A lot or a little? As a kid I was obsessed with an abandoned house in the cow pasture across the street from my friend Anna's house. By virtue of their sponsorship, these third parties may obtain personally-identifying information that visitors voluntarily submit to them in order to participate in the contest, sweepstakes, or promotion. To further elaborate, critics note the remade drawings are not only in fact insulting to horror, art, but also both Stephen Gammell and Alvin Schwartz themselves, new and old fans alike, and that the original messages and themes are lost when not paired with the drawings made for them.
This is how she described it — not a ghost, but a dead child dressed in Victorian clothing, visible from the knees up. It had a certain logic: a child appearing to a mother. I became determined not to see any such thing. Sounds could be denied; but sights would be too appalling. But my mother was not the only person to be so affected. It is colder than the rest of the house, now a repository for our old toys, which adds a certain Gothic element. Back then, however, my four-year-old brother occupied it.
Like all youngest offspring, he was a golden child: charming, vivacious. That summer he changed: rendered quiet, hollow-eyed, with the air of a tiny old man. I wonder] and the two men fighting over my bed, then one man hurts the other and the lady screams. My mother braved it to prove her wrong.
Next morning, the room was locked. Somehow this was — and remains — the most horrifying thing I had ever heard. One bright August day, drinking tea in the kitchen, we elders — me, my sister, Nanny and mother — finally admitted that something was happening. We laughed and teased each other but, my God, it was a relief.
Suddenly, a mirror sprang off the wall and shattered.