With Halloween approaching it's an apt time to share an eerie ghost story written by an anonymous pupil for 'The Bradfield Chronicle’ of December 1931:

              It was absurd that the house at the corner of the street should always remain empty; yet there it stood, year in, year out, with the grimy notice-board announcing it to be “For Sale or To Let” drooping ever more wearily forward, the legend that it was a “desirable residence” growing ever more pathetic.  The house itself seemed to change little with the passing of the years: as long as the people of Frampton could remember it had stood there, shuttered, dirty, gradually falling into disrepair.

The house agents had long ago given up hope of letting the house; so that it was with surprise that they received a visitor early one February who demanded the keys of “The Grange” on an order to view from its owner, who was living at that time on the Riviera.  The visitor proffered a card bearing the legend: “Mr. Robert Duddon, The Society for Psychical Research.”

With the air of hauteur common to such people, the assistant produced the keys and a large book. “Sign here, please,” he said; “you’re not thinking of taking the house by any chance, sir?”  Mr. Duddon answered that he might be doing so; he was a student of the occult, and if he found evidence at “The Grange” of spiritual visitation on this first visit, he would not hesitate to make a fuller acquaintance with the place.

“That’s funny, sir” replied the assistant; “fancy liking spooks! I wouldn’t go near that place for a thousand pounds!” “Our opinions differ, then,” rejoined Mr. Duddon sharply; “I will return these keys when I have satisfied myself of the truth of these rumours.  Meanwhile, good morning.”  He picked up his stick and gloves and walked out.

By the next train he met an acquaintance from London, a tall hearty man with horn-rimmed glasses.  “Here you are, Duddon,” he exclaimed.  “I came down the moment I got your wire.  Do you really mean to say that you’ve got the goods this time?”  “I certainly mean to convince you this time, Rich,” replied Mr. Duddon.  “I got the keys at the house-agents’ this morning, and I have already had a look at the house; but I preferred to wait for you than to sample the place myself first.”  “That’s good of you,” replied the other; “but meanwhile what about dinner?  I’m ravenous and there’s nothing like a good square meal to keep your pecker up when you’re going spook hunting.  You and your spirits!” he chuckled, digging Mr. Duddon in the ribs, who looked if possible, even more serious than he had before.  “No, but seriously, Rich, I wish you wouldn’t talk about them as though they didn’t exist; you might at least respect someone else’s convictions.”  “Sorry if I annoyed you, old man,” rejoined Rich; “but after a good dinner and a bottle of Chablis I’ll be ready for anything, even your haunted house.”

After dinner at the rather mediocre hotel which was the best Frampton could offer, the two men put on their coats and went out into the frosty night.  The noises of their footsteps on the icy pavement echoed and re-echoed from the rows of tall houses in which few lights now shone; Rich strode briskly along at full pace, while beside him hurried Mr. Duddon, anxious to keep up, swinging the keys in his hand.  “Are we there yet?” queried Rich after they had travelled some two thirds of the distance.  “Not yet,” answered Mr. Duddon and the conversation lapsed.  To Rich as he walked the night air seemed cold, more so somehow than when they had left the hotel; he was about to ask again how far they had got when Mr. Duddon broke the silence.  “Nearly there now; in fact it’s just at the end of this street.”  Something seemed to stir in Rich; he had to swallow once or twice, and felt a sudden sensation of cold; but he mastered the impulse to run and followed Mr. Duddon through the gate and up the weed-grown path.  They halted at the front door; Mr. Duddon produced the keys and began to fumble at the lock.  Rich switched on the torch he had brought and played it on the keyhole.  Suddenly the other straightened himself up and smiled at Rich, showing his teeth: “Do you still want to go in?” he asked.  “Of course I do,” replied Rich irritably, and at that moment Mr. Duddon managed to get the door open.

It swung back, creaking and shuddering; and a musty dead smell met them as they stood in silence on the threshold.  In the half light from the distant street lamp they could see dimly the foot of the stairway that descended into blackness; and a dark oblong on the wall to the left showed the position of a door.  With obvious reluctance Rich stepped into the hall, and waited just inside for Duddon to join him.  Duddon slowly came in, and made to shut the door; a warning motion by Rich stopped him.  “We may have to go quickly,” he whispered.  “Afraid - already?” queried Mr. Duddon in a low voice.  “No… but-“  “I know; the atmosphere of the place; it’s bound to affect you like that at first.  Turn on the torch.”    

A beam of white light pierced the gloom, lighting up the stairhead, where a stretch of dark wall showed that the stairs turned, the darkness of a corridor to the left of the stairs, ending in a glass fronted door, finally the door to the left itself; over the rest the darkness seemed thicker than before.  Rich saw the figure of his companion cross to the door on the left and turn the handle; the door opened and Rich played the light through the doorway; the same dead musty smell met them.  

They stept in, Duddon leading: as they did so Rich distinctly heard a door shut upstairs.  Leaving the door open behind them they went on through the dark room, Rich keeping as close as he could to his companion.  They threaded their way through the sheeted furniture; for an instance Rich had an odd sensation of hearing Duddon call his name twice from the hall.  Impossible… this was Duddon whom he was following… surely this was Duddon… his companion turned and for a brief instance his face was illuminated in the light of the torch; it was not Duddon’s.

Mr. Duddon stood petrified just inside the door of the hall, and watched Rich go up to the door on the left, which seemed to open in front of him; for a moment he had an odd persuasion that Rich was following somebody.  He waited; he saw Rich vanish inside, the flickering reflections of the torch on the sheeted furniture.  “Rich!” he called urgently; “Rich!”  The footsteps sounded further away.  Suddenly a thin scream rising to an awful crescendo, sounded from the room, and was as suddenly cut short; and Mr. Duddon turned, stumbled blindly down the steps and down the path, fumbled wildly at the gate, ran madly down the road, sobbing, the fear of death at his heels; ran as he had never run before to safety and the companionship of men.