Hello there. I think I’ve worked it out. It’s all in there, its just the wrong way round: everything is the wrong way round. It’s not what I said, not the past haunting the present, not at all. Its both past and present being haunted. Its the house, or something older, the place. Its all in the posts – all of them – it is him: he’s trying to tell me something. I’ve been rereading them all day over and over – didn’t want to talk to anyone else. He needed to tell the story, all the stories, he needed to warn us. It happened to him, I know it did. Once upon a time. It always happens. Every story down the years, what he says: the same story – three people – the vicar, the knight, the king. Me, Jon, Jo. Always the same story with the same ending, its in all of them: murder, death, blood. It happens every time. Its happening now, right here in the house, his clockwork he talks about, pushing us on. Pushing me on. It can only end one way. Murder, death and blood. We’re caught up in the machine, the awful workings. I can’t push against it. I can feel it beating in my brain. I must push against it. It will eat us alive. The house. It will destroy us or drive us mad. Drive me mad. Someone has to stop it. Someone has to stop.
Hello there – I feel I must write online just to express my extreme frustration at where we seem to be going at the moment with this investigation – I feel that I have completely lost control of both the investigation and the TV programme – I feel that certain individuals have taken over and are just pursuing their own ends: we are embarking on sensationalist and stupid stunts that only serve demean our original purpose here. I just wanted to say that.
Hello there, Stephen here – I just wanted to share the really exciting news about what happened last night – yet again we saw some really exciting EMF readings from round the house and this time we – in fact, I – actually recorded some physical phenomena accompanying them: what are commonly called orbs in paranormal circles. Of course, orbs are often derided as just artefacts of the equipment we use, or just natural effects taken out of context. but I think what I have recorded here is beyond anything I have seen before – partly helped by the fact that I was having to record in semi-darkness, right at the top of the house, while everyone blundered about below.
Add to this the other events of the evening – the possible psychokinetic activity with the crockery in the pantry and the strange behaviour of a lot of the electronic equipment in the house – along with some of the most impressive EMF activity we’ve seen to date, I think we can call this investigation a considerable success! It seems incontrovertible to me that there is paranormal phenomena in this house and that we’re uncovering some significant evidence for it.
We also, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, had another lot of mysterious text added to the site last night – I’m rapidly also becoming convinced that these additions are related to the EMF activity and to other pasranormal activity in the house. This is, I think, the largest amount of text we’ve had so far and the most specific in its references to people and places. There is a definite theme emerging, though, a rather grisly one of death and murder – which is there, I suppose, in the history of the house – which is, really, what the text appears to be getting at – ewhat we’re all getting at, I suppose – some idea of how the past can haunt us in the present – us and the places we live in.
It definitely feels like something is gradually being revealed, though, growing in strength and clarity. I can only look forward to what the next few days bring.
The Reverend Brightley killed but the ghosts remain, universal, eternal, geographical.Stories themselves are certainly ancient, old as the am sure. The King falls in love with the maid, but the maid of wakeful nights and wordless fears, of gooseflesh, of suspicion. Of haunting. The yet: the squire, Sir Francis Day, murdered his half-sister, bride of competing for the honour of keeping the Quean they may, perhaps, just for a spell, it of them, or do we following in their footsteps? These I had mine. A soldier went mad in that house find ourselves there? Are we haunted, not by the pat: the wizard, bereft, gladly gives his by far’, as the traditional telling goes. The beating of that coiled story. A piece for three, a piece made of again. Spring is eaten up by paths because we demand These universal stories the secret clockwork of myth that drives on place. I am thinking of a house. This haunts a place still. That still haunts me. The Quean is a doll made of dried was the horror of itself, rendering it barren and fruitless in his anger and sorrow. My woman, made all of flowers of the meadows and hedgerows people come and go: the dynasties, the day after night. And house and a woman died as a consequence and mankind and stronger. So strong that it can conjure its own unspringing, make old as make the living its ancient tragedy in jungles and foreign deserts, but it a house in the Northumbrian countryside that have, I hope, a little of that power that is ancient too, and it is the country, we all know, that the seen and done worse things, in foreign that drove tanist, the man dies in his place. A into the landscape, drives out history, they always do, had a history, or, rather, phantom parade of jilted lovers and sister in marriage to the devil. And the tragic its own recurrent doom, when the traditional Corn dried flowers, these days the subject of fevered competition among in love with her creator, the wizard. The King, discovering their treachery has over-enthusiastic Victorian antiquary). It is a local variation on while that inspired them, a have now, that we are haunted by myth, their well worn stories that accompany us down the generations: not the only lives that ourselves in them, or the past, but rather by the story?
Hello there. I’ve just come from the very odd experience of watching myself on video and realising that not only do I have no idea what I’m talking about, but I also don’t really remember recording the piece at all. I’m talking about my video diary which was uploaded yesterday and in which Gary has noticed some very odd phenomena: a shadow that grows from the left-hand side of the screen across the wall behind me as I speak.
That in itself is an odd thing, as I don’t remember anything casting a shadow – but then I don’t actually remember recording the video diary at all. Jon asked me to record a few words, to get some private thoughts, I suppose, and I recall that I had something very specific I wanted to say, but watching the recording back I realise that whatever I meant to say, I certainly didn’t say it. In fact what I did say appears to make no sense whatsoever.
What I do recall is a sense of relief at being given an outlet, a place to express some of the misgivings I’m having about where our investigation is going at the moment, but in some way that relief seems to have just overwhelmed me. Its very odd – but it, even more oddly, it feels familiar – there have been a few moments in the last couple of days when I’ve felt dislocated from what I was doing – something which I’d put down to tiredness and stress from working on the project.
In fact my sleep has been very broken recently, which does at least mean that I’ve been able to note down my dreams for my dream diary – the most recent being a version of the one I’ve been having since I moved into the house – running around the house looking for someone – although in this case that someone being a figure I thought was our producer, Jon, but who, when I caught up with him, turned out to be the writer Ranulph Williams.
It worries me that I must stay focussed on the project and not let myself get too stressed out or worn out by the television nonsense – the Mazehouse is the thing that matters.
Their stories are house in the Northumbrian countryside that drove him mad and subject the parish, while the men the horror of a made him a murderer. Theirs were not the only a jealous rage. The loved. The rest you guess, I am sure. that consequence and have already myth that drives out history, our mystery, onwards. I am thinking, in fact, marriage to through the house, ticking heard that ticking, too. My ending was, I think, old as the seasons, some of be born again, the the landscape, the secret clockwork of fact, of one too to save his the again. Spring is eaten and go: the dynasties, the histories, are wound into landscape thinking of a house. Are we haunted, not soldier went mad in already seen long And I had mine. A written down elsewhere. A fabulous King, woman, made all ridding itself, rendering it barren Francis Day, murdered his half-sister, haunts book are not, thank the gods, have, I was were its own and the long time winter, revivified by the dying tanist. That country is ancient too, landscape can conjure its own bring Arthur, Launcelot and Guinever, in particular, on place. The holy and unhappy marriages. Romance story have of flowers strong.
Hello there, Stephen here – as you may know if you were online with us last night, very little happened during our ‘seance’ – which, for me, doesn’t signify really, although I hoped those of you who joined in enjoyed yourselves, at least. What does matter is that later last night we had some very exciting EMF readings on our monitor network – something that you’ll see on the show this evening I expect. Sadly EMF readings is all we had at the time – no associated phenomena – or so I thought until this morning, when I discovered that we had had another text posting on our website during the night.
It’s tempting to suspect that the two things are related – the EMF readings and the posting on the blog, but without records to match up with past appearances of the text, its impossible to know for certain.
I can’t help but feel that the online text is significant, however. The text that arrived during the night mentions Sir Francis Day by name and seems to be hinting at the tragedy of him and his half-sister. The references to Arthur and Guinevere certainly chime with a lot of Ranulph Williams’ interest in Arthurian myth and, in particular, that great betrayal of the King by Guinevere his Queen and Lancelot his trusted champion. There’s something else, though – something that definitely sounds like Williams’ other writings, with its fascination with myth and the effect of history on the present. I’m pretty convinced now that this text is coming from a piece of Williams’ writings, although how I don’t know.
One possibility that we have to admit is that, as Jo has very reasonably pointed out, it could simply be that whatever is causing the electro-magnetic field we are detecting could be interfering with our machines, causing the computers to post the text themselves, as a bug or glitch. And that’s a possibility that we really ought to take seriously – as tempting as it might be to get over-excited about these phenomena, Jo’s right to remind me that we’re here to investigate these things scientifically, not by having online seances!
Hello there, Stephen here, just adding my welcome to the newest member of our team, Louisa McMurray. Louisa’s been brought on-board to give her point of view of the paranormal phenomena in the house – although she’s very insistent on not being a psychic – apparently she prefers the term sensitive.
I’m pleased to have her on board, though – I’ve worked with plenty of sensitives and psychics before in my work and its always useful to have an alternative point of view. Although we in the project are obviously a lot mroe focussed on a scientific approach to what might be happening in the house, it can be very helpful to have someone who can interpret things in a more human way.
So welcome to Louisa, and welcome to all the TV people who have joined us today to start the programmes. Its really very odd to have so many people about the house when I’ve got so used to it being empty and quiet. It’s already beyond hectic and we’ve hardly started.
Well, this should be interesting, at any rate
buried drove him mad and made him a tales: the lurid squire who sold his sister in marriage and contracts, of genealogies and plumbing, but it our mystery, onwards. I am goes. The rest you guess, I am sure. the whole country had its several, endless tragedies, ‘lovelier than nature by far’, fabulous King, despairing of woman-kind, a priest’s hole in the attic. But the secret history was more winner of this singular duty is called Ladies and Headless Highwaymen, this phantom parade haunted, not by the past, but rather by the story? The haunt you. Brightley killed his Doctor in a jealous rage. The soldier house at a time the world itself was of an over-enthusiastic Victorian antiquary). It is of the parish, while the men have themselves are certainly ancient, old as the love with the maid, but the maid is in love bride locked in it? Is there an attic it can conjure its own unspringing, as a consequence and to make her bloom again. Spring is eaten up of deeds it also has its unwritten history of as old as mankind and stronger. So strong all around us, and they may, perhaps, just for a spell, and his tanist, the man rhythm of our own country’s eternal little of that suspicion that into the landscape, the secret clockwork of myth seen and done worse things, in these days the subject of fevered competition the country, we all know, I hope, Reverend destroyed the woman he loved. The dance is history was very readable itself. A Roman mosaic was that coiled story. A piece for three, a are haunted by myth, in the earth land of nature itself, rendering it barren and fruitless in his anger particular, on place. I am thinking of a house.