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.