Spirit of the ’70s: A Swansea Haunting (Part 1)

Del Hughes

Well, I did promise that once the Uncanny: I Know What I Saw live tour concluded, I’d share my ghost story with those of you who didn’t manage to snag tickets, or for whom the whole Uncanny phenomenon has passed you by.

This piece was initially slated for publication in Nation.Cymru last Christmas. However, due to the tour’s overwhelming popularity, it was extended into 2024, delaying this release.

But finally, here it is, in all its lengthy glory.

It was in June 2023 when I felt the intense, alcohol-fuelled need to share my story with the world (and you can read what prompted this here). What follows is the email I sent to Uncanny creator Danny Robins.

Although this account may not be polished, it accurately reflects the intensity of the emotions I experienced while recounting what my parents and I endured.

In fact, the haunting and vivid memories I experienced are akin to the eerie atmospheres found in Victorian Gothic ghost stories, which instantly spring to mind whenever I think of such spooky tales.

Foreboding

I picture decaying mansions and remote crumbling castles that exude a sense of isolation and foreboding. The atmosphere is always dark and brooding, with shadowy figures quivering on the periphery of your vision, only to be caught fleetingly in the flicker of candlelight.

Spectres pace endless corridors, their presence marked by unnerving silence, broken only by the occasional creak of floorboards. And an underlying sense of impending doom hangs in the air, amplified by the tragic backstory often associated with such places – tales of unrequited love, betrayal, and untimely deaths that fuel restless spirits.

Heads up, folks! My tale is nothing like that.

Nope, mine takes place in a 1970s suburban semi, replete with avocado bathroom suite, Ercol furniture, psychedelic wallpaper (in pleasing shades of brown, mustard, and burnt orange. Bleurgh!), and the obligatory shag pile.

Add a sunburst clock, a triffid-esque cheese plant, and a sprinkle of macramé, and you have the setting for this: a rather retro tale of terror with an all too real tragedy at its heart.

So, turn the lights down low, grab a glass of your favourite tipple (make mine an eggnog), and prepare to be spooked because, to snowclone Danny Robins’ now infamous words: I’m Del Hughes… and this is Uncanny!

Fri 16/06/2023, 17:21

Hi Danny,

After listening to your podcasts, which I thoroughly enjoy, I have a ghost story I’d like to share with you. It happened when I was a young child but still chills me to this day – especially after learning, many years later, the true story behind my experiences, and what my parents went through at that time.

I’ll apologise in advance for the length of this email – it’ll be a monster – but that’s because there are numerous details I need to include to give you the most precise account of all the events.

It was 1975. I was five, nearly six, and we had recently moved from an old prefab in West Cross, Swansea, to a modern semi in Vicarage Road, Morriston. My parents, Steph and John, had bought it because of its location – it was close to Dad’s work at Felindre’s British Steel plant, and Mum loved being within walking distance of shops, parks, and the local infant school.

Our attached next-door neighbours, Val and John, were also a young couple, with two daughters, Susie (6) and Samantha (8). Mum says that she and Val met over the kitchen sink, which was true because, as their house was the mirror image of ours, the kitchen windows at the back faced one another.

A couple of days after moving in, when Mum was up to her elbows in washing up, Val was doing the same. They waved, and then Val hopped over the fence that separated our gardens to introduce herself. Subsequently, hardly a day passed without Val and Mum getting together for coffee while we girls played. Our families quickly became firm friends.

So, I guess it was somewhat surprising that, barely nine months after moving in, we were back in West Cross, living with Mum’s parents, my gran and grandpa. Obviously, as a kid of five, it didn’t strike me as odd back then, and I quickly forgot all about living in Morriston. But when I finally learned the whole story… well, let’s just say it wasn’t the tale I’d been expecting.

Thirteen years later, on a dark and stormy Saturday – a total cliché, but true nonetheless – we were bound for the garden centre – Mum was mad for topiary. Sigh. I was in my late teens then, and being dragged around garden centres in the pouring rain was not my idea of a fun day out.

But as we passed our old house on Vicarage Road, it sparked my curiosity. I found myself asking about Auntie Val, Uncle John, and the girls, eager to know what they were up to these days.

Silence… and then a look passed between them, which I caught in the rearview mirror. Something was up, and I wanted to know exactly what it was. So, after some lengthy nagging – I’m nothing if not tenacious – we forgot about buying trees. Instead, Dad pulled into a Beefeater, and over steak, chips, and a couple of bottles of wine, my parents told me their story.

We’d been settled in Morriston for around six months when Val’s parents, Glynis and Dave, visited. They’d emigrated to South Africa six years earlier and had returned for an extended holiday, not least because they wanted to meet their youngest granddaughter.

After a fortnight in Swansea, they’d been visiting friends around the UK, and now, before heading home, they wanted to see the family one last time. Arrangements were made to meet Val, John, and the girls at their hotel near Heathrow Airport.

Dad was working long shifts at the steelworks (eight til eight), so Val asked if Mum and I fancied going with them for a day out. Though tempted, Mum decided it was too far for me – I was a terrible traveller, and even the anti-sickness travel pills made me throw up. So, instead, we waved them off and had a quiet day at home until…

… Early evening, when there was a sharp rap on the door. Mum opened it, and there stood two policemen. She said she knew at once it must be shocking news because my dad used to say, ‘They always send two if it’s really serious.’

Worst-case scenario

Naturally, her mind went straight to the worst-case scenario, and without giving them a chance to speak, she managed to gasp, ‘It’s John, isn’t it?’ And with sympathetic nods, they confirmed that it was and were sorry for her loss. At that point, Mum fainted clean away, waking up five minutes later on the sofa.

The way she explained it to me, it had taken some time for the police and Mum to realise they were talking at cross-purposes. It wasn’t my dad, John, who was dead – but John and Val were.

The tragedy struck on their return drive from Heathrow: a front wheel blowout on the M4 led to a catastrophic crash and both were killed instantly. Miraculously, the girls survived, but they were severely injured and had been taken to Chepstow Hospital’s burns unit.

With their only other family currently airborne, en route to South Africa, the police urgently requested that my parents go to Chepstow to stay with Susie and Sam until their grandparents could return to be with them.

And that’s what they did. I was sent to my grandparents for a couple of days, oblivious of the tragic events unfolding, while Mum and Dad stayed at the hospital. They said it was heartbreaking – the nursing staff had instructed them not to tell the girls that their parents had died, but if they should ask, they were to give them no hope either. It was a very distressing few days.

Understandably, my parents keenly felt the loss of their friends, and I noticed their absence, too. But when I asked where my playmates were, Mum or Dad said they were on holiday, and, in the way kids do, I soon forgot.

It was four weeks after the accident that marked the start of what was to become a series of increasingly unsettling occurrences. Moreover, Dad’s shifts changed, making things worse; Mum and I were alone in the house every night.

Everything began with the birds. My gran used to say that if a bird flew inside a house, bad luck or death would follow, but of course, Mum didn’t take notice of such old wives’ tales.

However, she well remembered the evening when, once more up to her elbows in washing up, a magpie flew into the kitchen window – smashing through the single pane – before expiring, noisily, on the kitchen floor.

A frantic phone call to my grandpa meant the bird was disposed of within the hour, and the shattered pane was replaced the following day. But Mum was shaken. And that wasn’t to be the only avian casualty.

Another night and it was a blackbird. It only cracked the new glass, but still died from the impact. And then, most upsetting of all, a tawny owl crashed in, and yet another bird perished on our lino. All within the space of two weeks.

Cursed

Dad said that Mum was starting to think our house was cursed after that, but he explained how birds sometimes attack their own reflections, thinking they’re defending territory from interlopers. Or, if the sky and trees were reflected in the glass, they would often attempt to fly right through. Yep, his explanations comforted Mum, but it was short-lived because next came the banging.

Every night the following week, Mum experienced episodes of what she described as ‘Hammering… no, pounding, on the back door. As if someone was frantically beating against it with their fists, desperate to get in.’

It mainly occurred as she was going to bed, though on two occasions, it happened during the night. Each time, Mum would creep into the kitchen, grab a torch and frying pan, and tentatively open the door… only for the booming noise to instantly cease. Not a soul to be seen.

The first night it occurred, she called my grandpa to come and check the back gardens. However, being surrounded by a very high wall meant that the only possible access was through our neighbouring property, and, of course, no one lived there anymore. Whatever was happening seemed to be escalating.

Dad’s response was muted, intended to ease Mum’s rising fears. Maybe the noise came from a neighbour’s house, maybe Mum had been dreaming. Or maybe it was just the wind. Maybe, maybe, maybe… But what came next seemed to defy explanation.

Woken in the dead of night by the phantom knocking, Mum crept downstairs to investigate. Finding nothing, she returned to bed, weary but on edge. She tried to read herself back to sleep, but an overwhelming sense of fear and loneliness gripped her, making it impossible to drift off. And, even if she had, what happened next would undoubtedly have roused her because… DUN DUN DUUUN!!!

And that’s it for tonight’s instalment. Sorry to leave you hanging, but you’ll discover the chilling events that unfolded tomorrow. Prepare for a night steeped in even greater spine-tingling terror and eerie surprises. And how fitting our finale will be on Christmas Eve… because who doesn’t love a good ghost story at Christmas? Nos da and sleep well – if you can.