Spirit of the ‘70s: A Swansea Haunting (Part 2)

Del Hughes

So, how did you sleep? Any spooks skulking in the shadows? Ghostly footsteps on the stairs? Lol! Now brace yourselves for the spine-chilling finale of my ghost story. (If you missed Part 1, catch up here.)

We’d just reached the point where Mum, once again, had been to investigate the mysterious knocking. (Gotta say, my mother was one plucky lady – I’d have been running for the hills.) After finding nothing, she wearily returned to bed. But the night was far from over. Okay, deep breath, and here we go… Gulp!

Email cont.

Fri 16/06/2023, 17:21

[And, even if she had managed to fall asleep, what happened next would undoubtedly have roused her because…] the bed began to shake!

At first, it was a barely noticeable tremor, but it quickly intensified into a violent bumping. Mum clung desperately to the thick binding seams at the edge of the mattress, trying to avoid being thrown off. The bed shook ferociously for what felt like an eternity (though she admits it was no more than thirty seconds or so), and when it abruptly stopped, the silence was even more terrifying. Panicked, she scooped me up, bundled us into the car, and drove to Gran and Grandpa’s house – and we didn’t return until Dad was back on day shifts.

When she recounted the event to my father, he was determined to find a rational explanation. He 100% thought she’d dreamt it. Still, her vehement objection led him to suggest (among other more outlandish theories), vibrations from the boiler, the shaking of the water pipes, and even an earth tremor. But there was no swaying her.

Mum knew what she experienced was real; she knew she’d been fully awake, and she knew that whatever was happening in our house was definitely not normal.

But three days later, when we returned home, the unsettling phenomena continued. Dad endured the relentless hammering on the back door and the violent shaking of the bed. Mum’s fears increased, though she took some perverse pleasure in being able to say, ‘I told you so.’

Chaos

Meanwhile, I slept like the baby I was, blissfully unaware of the chaos raging around me. The house seemed determined to unnerve us, each night more intense than the last. And now Mum’s fears could no longer be dismissed, and Dad’s attempts at rational explanations became increasingly frantic.

And then, the weekend. While Mum and I were away at my friend’s birthday party, Dad was home alone, fully immersed in the Five Nations and enjoying a couple of Double Diamonds. Halftime, and he nipped to the kitchen for another can and a packet of pork scratchings when music suddenly flooded the house. It wasn’t faint or distant; it was overwhelming and almost drowned out the singing crowds at Cardiff Arms Park.

The temperature seemed to plummet, and Dad’s skin was slick with clammy sweat as he searched for the source of the music, but each step he took was burdened with the certainty that his efforts would prove futile. And, as ‘Bye Bye Baby’ reverberated through the walls, he felt his grasp on reality begin to unravel.

Desperately, he checked outside – perhaps it was a car radio? He searched the back garden – maybe someone in a nearby house? But upon returning to the kitchen, there was no doubt: somewhere in that forsaken house next door, Radio 1 was blaring. As he toyed with the spare key that Val had entrusted to him, ‘for emergencies’, he heard something more – the unmistakable sound of a woman sobbing.

He froze, the weeping mingling with the Bay City Rollers to form a haunting symphony that quickened his pulse. Dad might have been as pragmatic and gutsy as the next man, but he knew he wouldn’t… couldn’t… use that key.

Too much to bear, he threw essentials in a bag, locked up, and came to collect Mum and me, all thoughts of the rugby forgotten. Despite my loud protests (what child wants to leave a party before the cake?), I was hastily buckled into the back seat, and we drove straight to my grandparents’ – yet again. And that’s where we spent the rest of the weekend, my parents deeply absorbed in conversations about selling the house.

On Monday, they cautiously returned to Vicarage Road, leaving me in West Cross, ‘for safety’s sake’. They told me that, as they walked in, everything was perfectly silent, and they felt welcome in their own home once again. All disturbances ceased; no banging, shaking beds, music, or crying. And for the first time in two months, they tentatively returned to the rhythms of everyday life. Making every effort to forget what had gone before, they brought me home, and talk of moving was shelved.

Calm façade

Even when Dad had to cover a couple of night shifts – and Mum asked Grandpa to stay with us for peace of mind – everything remained wonderfully undisturbed… but this calm was a façade destined to shatter.

And to shatter in the strangest way possible. The first hint that things were about to take a turn for the worse began, somewhat unexpectedly, with my Magic Roundabout Playground. This was my favourite toy, and I can still remember the sheer delight I felt when I unwrapped that Christmas present.

 Inside the box was a roundabout, complete with small plastic figures of all the characters and a track that circled the playground, which the wind-up train would chug along. I played with it endlessly, and I’m sure Mum and Dad were often irritated by the constant and surprisingly loud rumbling of the plastic wheels. The shrill theme music didn’t help either. Lol!

On the afternoon in question, Mum had collected me from school, and I was in the front room, eager to play with my train. Since Dad had just come off nights and was asleep upstairs, Mum told me to leave it until later, as the noise might wake him. (Though our house was modern compared to the surrounding Victorian cottages, soundproofing was deffo an issue.) So, instead, I grabbed Bear and Ballerina Sindy and enjoyed a quiet play session, with Sindy teaching Bear how to perform a pas de deux.

I’d only been in the living room for a short while when I heard a familiar clattering, and my train began rattling around the track. I hadn’t touched it, let alone wound it up. But to a five-year-old, this didn’t seem strange at all. I watched in fascination as it circled, over and over, the clattering noise filling the room.

Mum, busy peeling potatoes in the kitchen, heard the noise and rushed in, ready to tell me off. I vehemently protested my innocence, but she didn’t believe me, at first. However, as the train continued its persistent journey, showing no sign of stopping or slowing, she finally realised I was telling the truth.

Sinister

And I noticed something I couldn’t fully grasp… Mum seemed genuinely scared. Her eyes darted around the room, searching for an explanation, but there was none. And still, the eerie, inexplicable motion of the train continued… marking the beginning of something far more sinister.

She grabbed the train and the rest of the paraphernalia, threw it back in its box, and shut it firmly away in the sideboard. Then she suggested we pop across the road to get an ice cream from the local shop – a rare treat indeed. Of course, I realise now that it was her way of distracting me, but it certainly worked.

When we got back, Dad was awake. He told me my train was broken, and he’d had to throw it away. Sensing an imminent temper tantrum, he quickly promised to buy me a new one, and you can bet I made sure he kept that promise!

The second episode, which I directly experienced, occurred later that evening. The bedtime routine –being tucked in and having a story read to me – was so familiar as to be unremarkable. My bedside lamp, a china bear with a lemon-coloured shade, was always left on, along with the landing light, and my door was propped open.

I had been asleep and recall waking, though what disturbed me, I can’t say – since babyhood, I’ve always needed a solid eight hours. Anyway, as my eyes adjusted to the light, I could clearly see a female figure silhouetted in the doorway. Initially, I thought it was Mum, but as the figure moved into my room and was illuminated by the lamp’s glow, I saw it was Auntie Val.

She wore her favourite miniskirt – brown corduroy adorned with large daisies – and a beige roll-necked sweater. Her hair was in its usual bouffant style, and she sported her signature cat-eye glasses. But that night, she wasn’t the cheerful, smiley lady I knew.

Her cheeks were streaked with tears, and I felt a wave of confusion and fear. Perhaps it was because I had never seen an adult so distressed before.

She stood at the foot of my bed, and our eyes locked in an intense, unnerving silence. Her voice, low and rough, broke the stillness: ‘Where are my girls?’ The question hung in the air, heavy and bewildering. They’d been on holiday, hadn’t they? Her words made no sense.

I desperately wanted to explain this to her, but my voice failed me. The room seemed to grow colder as I sat there with the blankets pulled up to my chin, mute and helpless, shaking my head in response. Her eyes bored into mine, searching for answers I didn’t have.

She repeated that question, over and over, moving a step closer to me with each iteration, her voice becoming more strident. I drew my knees up to my chest and wriggled to the other side of the bed, distancing myself as much as possible.

This Auntie Val was a stranger to me, and I was petrified.

Finally, she leant over me, so close that if I’d tried, I could have touched her face, her eyes level with mine. Then she shrieked, ‘WHERE ARE MY GIRLS?’ loud enough that my parents (who were downstairs) heard her, and they scrambled to get to me. I began to sob, and as I did, she flung out her left arm and knocked my lamp to the floor with a resounding crash.

I screamed then and, without looking back, bolted to the top of the stairs just as my parents reached the landing.

Once I was safely nestled in Mum’s arms, and Dad had cleared away the broken china from my bedroom, I managed to explain what had happened. And, as I spoke, I noticed Mum and Dad exchange a look—one I couldn’t interpret back then, but I certainly sensed it held a deeper meaning.

That night, I slept with my parents, too frightened to sleep in my own bed. The following morning, I was packed off to stay with my grandparents, joined days later by Mum, Dad, and all our belongings. And, except for when Dad met the removal men and the estate agent, we never returned.

Terror

To me, it was all a big adventure; I quickly bounced back from my encounter with Auntie Val. But for my parents, it was the culmination of two months of tragedy and terror. And that’s pretty much the end of my narrative.

… Except, since hearing the true story, I’ve driven past our old house many times. Invariably, an estate agent’s board will be propped up in the front garden, a silent testament to its frequent vacancy. And that worries me dreadfully because I can’t shake the thought that Auntie Val might still be there, still searching for her girls.

If that is the case, it’s deeply disturbing and desperately sad — and a haunting reminder of a restless spirit forever bound to her tragic quest.

If you’ve read this far, thank you so much, and I apologise for the long-winded storytelling. If you need any more info on my case, feel free to email me.

Regards,

Del Hughes

P.S. In early ’76, around six months after the eerie events documented here, Mum received a letter from Glynis. The girls had recovered from their injuries and were gradually coming to terms with the loss of their parents. Despite the tragedy, they had adapted well to their new life in South Africa and were thriving. So, at least we can end this strange and poignant story on a slightly brighter note.

And that’s a wrap! Phewee. So, what’s your take on ghosts now? Have you joined #TeamBeliever, or are you still firmly #TeamSceptic? Or maybe you’ve got a foot in both camps and are happy to be part of #TeamOnTheFence. Whatever your thoughts, I hope you found my family’s eerie experiences intriguing and entertaining.

And now, the gentle prancing of reindeer hooves on the roof and the cheerful jingle of harness bells can only mean one thing — Santa’s almost here! Eek! So, let me wish you all a very Merry Christmas and a

Happy New Year. Oh, and don’t have nightmares. Mwahaha!