Growing up visiting my gran’s haunted house in Pilton, Somerset, I’m convinced the spirits of my ancestors never left and I saw them, writes KAREN HARRIS
From as early as I can remember, I always felt uneasy in my Nan’s house. It wasn’t just me – every room had this unsettling presence, and I had to make sure Nan was close by, no matter what I was doing. Even a simple trip to the bathroom during the day had to be done in pairs.
At night, it was even worse. Nan’s house was very old, built by my great-great-grandfather, and at the top of the stairs, they split – left to my room and right to the bathroom. I would wait until I could no longer hold it in before making a dash along the dark corridor. I was petrified that something was hiding under my bed and would grab my ankles when I put my foot down.
I wasn’t the only one who felt it. All of us grandchildren were scared, and I was the eldest. Even years later, my own children would feel the same uneasy presence whenever they visited. No matter how many times I asked Nan if the house was haunted, she would always say, “Well, if it is, they are only family, so they won’t hurt you.” But it took me years to realise she never actually said, “No, it’s not haunted”.
The house had been in our family for generations. My great-great-grandfather, who was the village blacksmith, built it, and only family had ever lived there – right up until the day it was sold. My ancestors grew up there, lived their lives, and many of them died in that house.
Back then, elderly relatives were cared for at home, so I always felt like they never truly left. I especially believed that about my great-grandfather, who was one of ten children, all of whom lived to adulthood. I remember one of his sisters being cared for in her old age during the early 1960s, and she stayed in the bedroom that I eventually had. I used to think it was her lingering in that room, still watching over us.
Even as an adult, I couldn’t shake the feeling of constantly being watched, especially on the upper floor of the house. That area always felt more dubious, not just to me but to everyone who lived or stayed there. The whole house carried this heavy, almost oppressive atmosphere.
There were photos of my ancestors all over the house—Thomas and Sarah Boyce, my great-great-grandparents; Gilbert and Alma Boyce, my Nan’s parents; and my Nan herself as a young girl. They were an eclectic bunch, full of character. Sarah, who had Romany heritage, was particularly striking.
But the family wasn’t without its dark stories. My Nan’s sister ran off with her Auntie Mabel’s husband, and poor Mabel was later found dead with her head in the gas oven. Nan always swore that it wasn’t an accident – she believed Mabel’s husband had killed her before disappearing with his niece.
One particular memory has stayed with me all these years. I was a child, spending one of my many weekends at the house, and I swear I saw my great-grandfather sitting in his chair. He was a big man, quite gruff-looking, and I remember describing him to Nan. She told me, “Yes, that sounds like him.”
The strange thing is, the only picture I’d seen of him didn’t match how I saw him in the chair. What I saw was him before illness had forced him into a bath chair – what we’d call a wheelchair now. To this day, I believe it was really him I saw, sitting there as if he had never left.
The house was full of memories, but it was also full of something else – something that never quite let me feel at ease. I spent so much of my childhood there, and even now, as I look back, I know those feelings weren’t just my imagination.
That house, with its family history and tragic stories, will always stay with me. The spirits of my ancestors never seemed to leave, and in some ways, neither have I.
Have you ever experienced anything strange in an old family home? Tell us about it in the comments section!
