Spooky Sheffield. Take a look: Bunting Nook.

  

I was asked to write a horror story, a work of fiction that would best represent my part of the world. Being Sheffield born and bred, and proud of our great city, I researched local ghost stories and tales of folklore, only to discover that right here on my doorstep was one of the most haunted streets in the country, by all accounts. Frankly, I was overjoyed. Once I started looking, there came a flurry of stories connected to Graves Park, especially in the vicinity of a curious road named Bunting Nook.

I weaved a fantastical, creepy tale of a phantom carriage, a weeping child, a black shuck, a green mist man and a forlorn grey lady. I read it aloud, with gusto. A performance on Twitter spaces. Writers from all over the globe listened to my piece about my patch of S8. I received excellent feedback, and I should have been feeling on top of the world, except that I had this nagging sensation of being somewhat of a charlatan. I live here. I had written and read the story. But I hadn’t actually done that walk myself. I was determined to get up there, under the veil of February darkness, just as soon as I could convince one of my teens to accompany me. There was no way on this planet that I was going up there alone.

So, armed with my phone for random photographs, a voice recorder (because I’ve watched films) and a (terrible) torch, off we went. We made the foolish mistake of taking the short-cut up the never-ending, sleep slope of Cobnar Road. The pain in my calves was perhaps more evil than anything I might see or hear up at the top. We turned the corner on to Bunting Nook and I took a moment to recall the sorrowful story of the Broken Neck Lovers.

Legend states (I always wanted to start a sentence with that), much like a famous Shakesperean tragedy, that a young couple decided to elope as their parents were against their relationship. Escaping on horseback, down Bunting Nook, the terrifying black shuck appeared. The horse-sized hound spooked their ride, throwing the young lovers to the ground. They were killed outright, their necks snapping in the unfortunate fall. It is said that the sweethearts still haunt this place, hoping to find peace.

As much as I adore horror, I can also be a bit of a sucker for an ill-fated love story. I imagined their hope for a better life together, only for their dream to bring their instant deaths. Would I see or hear them tonight? My teen hoped to see the black shuck itself. We agreed to disagree. I really was not keen to come across this particular canine creature, with its reputed glowing red eyes and a howl to make my blood run cold.

Not to leave anyone out, there was also the headless horseman who had jumped his horse over the wall in a rush to fetch medical assistance for the mistress of Norton Grange who had gone into labour. Both the man and the horse were killed.

I switched on the voice recorder, feeling a little flash, and imagining how I would actually feel if it did pick up some eerie sounds. I pulled out my (terrible) torch, and off we silently trudged in single file down the dark narrow road. I wasn’t sure what to expect or how to feel. I just felt certain that I should remain impeccably quiet and I didn’t understand that in that moment. Even the sound of my boots crunching through the leaves felt wrong and I felt cross with myself for it. That’s when I realised that I felt this way because this street was unnaturally, eerily bereft of any noise whatsoever. That did spook me somewhat because it was deeply strange and verging on freakish. I couldn’t shake off the feeling of being watched, was I being paranoid?

More than halfway down, I lost hope that I would witness anything ghostly, which was a rather deflating sensation. Though, on that final stretch of Bunting Nook, I whispered to my teenage accomplice about the bitter cold that had come from nowhere. Suddenly, the air became abnormally chilly, a blast of ice across our faces, the impossibly freezing numb-nose kind of cold as it’s about to snow. By the end of the path, all was normal once more.

Was I disappointed that I didn’t see anything untoward? Yes. Was I relieved? Also, yes. As a writer of horror fiction, it’s Halloween in my heart all year long. But what would I have done if that god-awful giant dog had shown up? I perhaps realised that I wasn’t always quite as brave as I possibly made out to be.

It got me thinking though. Ghost stories exist because people talk to others about sightings and legends and folklore are born through word of mouth. Just because I hadn’t seen any misty figures, it didn’t mean that others hadn’t. What had other people seen?

Further research revealed that there is an actual current ghost walk doing the rounds, led by local author Adrian Finney. He’s written a fascinating book titled ‘Strange Sheffield’ about ghost stories and UFO encounters around our city. Reading the book, I was utterly dumbfounded to read his tale ‘The Woodseats UFO Encounter of 1998’ and the unusual orange orbs that had appeared in the sky. Later than that, I had seen precisely the same thing and I had never been able to explain it. I knew that I absolutely had to reach out and contact Adrian. I found him on Facebook and he was delightfully friendly and helpful when I explained that I wished to pick his brains. The first point we agreed on was the weird atmosphere up at Bunting Nook.

“The way I’d describe it, it’s like someone transported a remote country lane into a city. It’s like someone hits the mute button.”

Later that evening, I trawled through the few photographs I had taken and zoomed in to check that I hadn’t missed anything. I stared and stared at one of the pictures. It was completely bizarre, but I thought that I could maybe see a face? I sent it to Adrian and he agreed with me. I popped it on to my Twitter, without any context, simply asking people if they could see anything. I received a flutter of most varied responses.

“It’s got horns.”

“Looks like the devil to me.”

“I think I see yellow eyes.”

“Two figures?”

“Cloaked wolf.”

“A dog.”

 

And, of course, “Your Momma,” because there’s always one, isn’t there?

 

 

 I couldn’t particularly work out what it was I was looking at, though I was left reeling that I was seeing anything at all. The fact that I had walked by whatever it could be, and felt as though I was being watched, unnerved me. Perhaps there was something to these spooky stories, after all? Adrian told me that it’s often after the ghost walk, when people closely examine their photographs, that they then respond to him with their eerie sightings.

It made me listen to the voice recording again, making sure that all was silent as I listened to it this time. On the last part of the road, where I had felt the icy chill, I could hear the sharp intake of my breath a few times, responding to the physical effects of what I had felt at that time. I could hear the billowing wind of a storm, possibly even rain. Neither weather condition had truly appeared at the time. I may never have all the answers to this puzzle. But I definitely feel as though there is something considerably spooky going on at Bunting Nook.

 

I Will Remember the Time When...

Life halted.

We were locked down.

I didn’t go to work.

I didn’t leave the house.

I compared death tolls between countries.

I listened to repetitive daily briefings.

There was no other news.

I couldn’t get any shopping.

Toilet roll and flour were like gold-dust.

I couldn’t see my lovely sister.

I got creative with random ingredients.

My kids felt utterly lost.

I wanted to do things but lacked motivation.

Nature reclaimed territory.

Bluebells filled my garden.

The weather was annoyingly glorious.

We clapped our hands on a Thursday night.

It felt like Groundhog Day.

I missed my friends.

I yearned for cafes, the library, company and chat.

I didn’t wear make-up.

I lived in my dressing gown.

I wrote things like this because I didn’t know what else to do.

Lockdown Neighbourhood Watch.

He’s cutting the grass again.

It can’t have grown much since yesterday.

Incessant whir of the lawnmower.

My neighbour’s Lockdown OCD.

Another fucking barbeque.

Time to close the windows.

Goodbye, Fresh Air,

I will try again tomorrow.

Gaming teen screaming obscenities

Through paper-thin walls,

As I try to relax

In these “unprecedented times.”

The five thousand grandkids

Arrive to visit their Nan.

The rules don’t apply to them.

What Lockdown?

Someone has a supermarket delivery.

I see the van, and I want to cry.

How did they get that slot?

The bastards.

Every little domestic gripe,

I hear,

Simply because,

I am here.

If this ever happens again,

I’m blasting out Green Day.

Throughout.

Fuck it.

A Family in Lockdown.

My son concentrates

At the whirr of the sewing machine,

Thread making wondrous patterns on fabric.

My daughter paints her trainers,

Acrylics in blue, red and white,

Making something unique.

My youngest daughter giggles,

As she designs and develops online,

Constant calls from magnificent, chatty friends.

I bask in a glory

That my words will be published again,

That I still have something worthwhile to say.

We are a creative team,

Struggling, sometimes, in this lockdown,

But united in our imagination.

It's Been A Year

It’s been a year

Since you left us.

I listen to your funeral songs

On YouTube.

That used to hurt.

Now, it makes me feel better.

Since you left,

The world has gone quite mad.

We are in “unprecedented times,” you see.

We are cooped up

In our house-cages.

We are socially distancing, isolating.

You would hate this shit:

Being told how to wash our hands,

By politicians,

Who clearly don’t know

How to wash their hands,

Because they all have this virus.

I think about how you would rant,

And I laugh.

And cry.

We’re all afraid

Scared of sickness and death.

You were not scared of death.

I am writing again,

Words scribble and spill

All over pages.

Just not the same words

I was writing when you died.

They are locked away,

In a drawer,

My eyes cannot see them.

Not yet.

Apparently, we need to come together

As a country.

But families still hold grudges

And will not speak.

I miss you.

I wish I could have

An hour with you.

We could laugh

At the stupid shit I have done.

You always made me laugh,

Until my belly hurt

And tears would fall down my face.

This world needs chuckles.

And hugs.

This world tries to go on.

This world is so much more shit

Because you’re not in it.

The Little Things I Moan About. (That I now miss.)

Alarm clock.

School mornings.

Why isn’t it Friday yet?

“Where are my shoes?”

“I’ve lost my purse.”

Going to work:

Menial tasks.

Cut, cut, cutting

Jacket Potatoes.

Wipe the table.

Wipe the table.

Wipe the table.

Frantically dashing.

No time for lunch.

Waiting for the 76 bus

In the pissing rain.

No 76 bus.

Oh, fuck.

Noisy children.

Instant headache.

Low blood sugar.

God, I’m tired.

Clock-watching.

Finishing work.

To go home,

Which means more work.

Washing pots.

Making dinner.

Lunch boxes.

Permission slips.

Money for this, and that.

“Have you seen my PE kit?”

Washing machine full

Of school uniform.

Sit down.

Struggling to keep eyes open.

Defiantly watch Netflix

Until the crawl to bed.

Alarm clock.

Repeat.

I can’t promise that I won’t moan about these little things again, once this surreal time is over.

If I do complain, I will remember that I am fortunate to do so.

John

“Time is a great healer.”

Except that it isn’t.

And all the other hushed platitudes,

Probably meant well,

Are also pointless lies.

Because, nineteen years on,

The pain is crushing and unbearable.

You should be opening birthday presents.

You should be going out tonight,

To celebrate with friends.

Who would they have been?

But there are no balloons,

Nor banners,

Nor nineteen candles on a birthday cake.

There is nothing.

Silence.

I hear my own heart beating

And remember when yours stopped.

Born too soon.

Gone too soon.

Never forgotten.

So little time with you,

And your delicate skin,

And doll-like frame.

Charlie looks like you.

And your sleeping position was the same as mine.

You are still here.

In us.

This is no celebration.

It’s Hell.

It’s the eternal wondering

Of what could have,

Should have been,

But never was.

So many missed birthdays now.

I never took you home.

I never pushed you in a pram.

We never fed the ducks in Graves Park.

I never heard you laugh,

Or cry.

I only heard the silence,

Which still suffocates me.

I never took you to school,

And cut crusts off lunchbox sandwiches.

I didn’t meet teenage you.

You never met your siblings.

I went to your funeral,

And I think I might have been brave,

Though that has become a blur.

January comes and goes,

Each time leaving another scar.

I am covered now,

My heart slashed repeatedly.

Tears splashing down my face

As I remember you,

For the short time I was your mum.