What follows is a 100% true account of something that happened to me as a child. I know, how many ghost stories begin with “but this totally happened”? Far too many, I’m sure.
But this did happen.
And whether it has a logical answer or not, whether it’s scary to you or not, it freaked the hell out of me.
As a teen, my friends and I would sometimes spend evenings on Dundry Hill – a large area filled with farmland and small village homes. At the top, past a few cow fields, was a small pit used for fires and barbecues. We spent many summer evenings there, staying out until the sun had gone and the embers flew into the air to join the stars. Once the fire had burned out we all made our way home together in the dark, drifting off one by one as we approached home.
On one of these evenings, I was staying with a friend of mine and so rather than heading off to my house, we turned towards hers.
Ten people became five, became two.
We walked alone, in the dark, down a road lit with street lamps. Talking quietly, happily, as teenage girls do. To our left was a small field. It was there we heard it first.
A young girls laugh.
This was odd, certainly, but it was an area with a lot of children. Near a school. It was ten o clock at night, sure, but it was still an explainable event. We didn’t even acknowledge the sound, we only kept walking.
We moved past the field, down a small alley that took us through a cul de sac. We went through a small gate and heard it again. This time we looked at each other, quickly. You heard it too, the wide eyes said. But we brushed it off. Continued our talk.
We saw nothing, heard nothing, until we were back on the road.
To our right, a garage.
Again, the laugh.
The same pitch, the same tone, identical in every way.
People roll their eyes at children in horror, it’s so overdone it’s become a cliche. But when you hear a child laughing on deserted street in the dark, it is the scariest sound you could ever imagine.
We looked at each other again, eyes wide. Both realising what we had heard. Both unsure of what to do. The sound had followed us, but there had been no way to move from the field to the garage without being seen.
It was not explainable. Not to us.
To the left.
We ran the short distance back to my friends house, almost laughing with fright as if unsure what else to do.
We slept with the lights on.
And we never heard the sound again.
An unsatisfying ending to a ghost story, perhaps. But a real ending to a true story.
Baylea Hart is currently crowdfunding her debut novel with Unbound. You can find out more information here – https://unbound.com/books/the-log-house