Left to Rot for Decades—Exploring an Extremely Haunted Abandoned Family Farm with Disturbing Paranormal Activity

The House That Forgot How to Leave

Some abandoned places feel empty the second you walk in.

This one didn’t.

From the road, the farmhouse barely looked like a house at all. The Welsh countryside had done what it always does when people stop paying attention—the hedges thickened, the grass climbed, and the stone walls slowly sank back into the land.

“What is up, explorers?” I said into the camera, the red light steady against the green. “We are back on another haunted abandoned adventure, and we have come to North Wales to investigate this old time capsule house.”

Behind me, the building watched.

.

.

.

“This house was built over two hundred and fifty years ago,” I continued. “And it looks absolutely amazing. We’re going to head inside, check out what’s left, see if anybody remains in this house… and see if we can help them move on.”

I finished the usual: subscribe, four hundred K, all that. The words came smooth from hundreds of intros. But the more I looked at the boarded windows and sagging roofline, the more another thought crept in:

Sometimes, things that don’t move on don’t want to.

“So with all that said, guys,” I ended, “let’s check out the history and the mysteries of this time capsule house here in Wales. Let’s do it.”

A House Left Mid‑Breath

There are abandoned houses where everything’s been stripped—curtains gone, cupboards empty, just bare walls and old wiring. This was not one of those.

“Okay, explorers,” I whispered as we squeezed through a narrow gap and into darkness. “We’re inside the house now.”

The air felt stale, heavy with dust and age. There was no power; the place had been boarded up for years. The only light came from our torches, slices of white that cut through a darkness that felt thick enough to touch.

The K2 meter in my hand flickered.

Then it lit.

Not just a blink, but a full stretch into amber, then red, as if I’d just stood under a power line.

“Hello,” Spirit Talker said from my pocket—its voice a flat female synth. The app had already booted up.

“That’s interesting,” I muttered. “Really interesting. We’ve got Spirit Talker going, and the K2’s just decided to go on a mad trip.”

I swept my torch around.

We were in a living room that didn’t know it was dead.

An old record player sat on a table, its lid closed, a stack of vinyl beside it. Glasses still perched on a coffee table, faint tide lines of dried drink still visible. An ancient TV slumped in one corner, thick glass screen reflecting our lights in pale ghosts.

On a wall hook, a child’s jacket hung where someone had left it decades ago. Welsh dolls perched on the mantle, their porcelain faces staring out from under lace bonnets. A red Welsh dragon figurine snarled quietly on a shelf.

Sean moved beside me, quietly taking it in. “Look how dated the things are,” he said. “Kids’ jackets, toys… it’s like they just walked out.”

“If there is anyone that would like to communicate today,” I said softly, “my name’s Adam. I’m with Sean. We don’t mean any disrespect being here. We are just hoping to make contact with somebody.”

Spirit Talker chimed.

“Cool,” it said.

“Cool,” I repeated, glancing at Sean. “Straight off. Can you tell us your name?”

I aimed the K2 at a cabinet. The lights stayed on full.

“Check this stuff out,” I said. “Old record player. Welsh dolls. All left as it was…”

On a small plaque, a name glinted in the torch beam.

“Win,” I read aloud. “Proper Welsh name.”

“Can you tell us if you’re male, female, why you’re still here?” I asked.

The K2’s LEDs stayed nailed to red.

Spirit Talker buzzed again.

“I shouldn’t be dead,” it said.

The hairs on my arms lifted.

“You shouldn’t be dead?” I repeated. “Why shouldn’t you be dead? Did you pass away suddenly? Accidentally?”

No answer in words.

But the feeling in the room changed; the air pressed in, listening.

Footsteps in a House With No Guests

We moved toward the kitchen.

It was pitch black beyond the doorway, the boards over the windows blocking even the faintest hint of outside.

“There’s no electricity in this house whatsoever,” I reminded the camera. “So that K2 going off like that…”

I trailed off.

From the next room, clear as anything, came the sound of movement.

Not a drip.

Not the house settling.

Footsteps.

“Hello,” I called.

Spirit Talker buzzed.

“Hurting,” it said.

“Are you in pain now?” I asked.

No answer.

I edged toward the doorway.

“There’s somebody in there,” I whispered, more to Sean than the camera.

“Lisa,” the app said suddenly.

“Lisa,” I repeated. “Hang on…”

The kitchen was empty.

We checked the windows. All boarded. We checked the other doors. All blocked off. There was only one way in or out, and we’d just come through it.

“Don’t know what that noise was,” Sean said, still peering into corners. “Nothing. No one’s sneaking in on us, though.”

As we moved, our feet rasping on the old lino, the K2 spiked again, flat out to red.

“Who is it that we can hear?” I asked.

If there was a living person in this house, they were either very good at hiding or very, very small.

“You want to try that K2 again?” I asked Sean. “If there’s anyone in here with us…”

He held it out.

The lights went full bar immediately.

“Who’s in this room with us?” I asked. “Can you move away?”

The K2 dropped to nothing.

“See me,” Spirit Talker said.

“We can’t,” I replied. “Can you show yourself? Maybe you’d like to make a knock. Use your voice.”

“Oblivion,” the app said.

I opened the fridge door on instinct.

“Anything in that fridge, Sean?”

“Scared,” the app added. “I can’t see. Oblivion.”

The fridge was empty. The shelves were yellowed. The light inside, of course, did not come on.

“Is that where you are?” I asked quietly. “Is that what it feels like? Oblivion?”

At the edge of my hearing, something moved again in the dark.

“Should we head up?” Sean asked.

“No, it’s not,” Spirit Talker said.

“What?” Sean asked. “What did you ask?”

“Is that how it feels?” I answered. “It said, ‘No, it’s not.’”

Even in here, in a house where time had stopped, someone wanted us to know they were somewhere.

They just weren’t calling it oblivion.

The Child on the Stairs

The staircase was small and narrow, the kind of steep, twisting wooden steps you get in very old houses. They creaked in a different way than modern stairs—more like old ships than buildings.

“You have to watch these stairs,” I muttered. “Check that out. They’re dodgy.”

Spirit Talker chimed as we climbed.

“Natalie,” it said.

Then: “I am Eliza.”

“You notice it’s all women’s names?” I asked. “Lisa, Eliza, Natalie.”

My torch beam caught on something that made my stomach shift.

A doll.

It sat on a chair in the landing like a tiny landlord, staring down the stairs with cracked blue eyes. Faded dress, matted hair. In the beam of the torch, it looked less like a toy and more like someone watching.

“If there’s anyone up in these bedrooms that would like to communicate with us,” I called, stepping off onto the upstairs corridor—

“Burden,” Spirit Talker said.

“You feel like a burden?” I asked.

We stepped into the first bedroom.

It was small.

Wooden floorboards. A single bed—the mattress sagging, but the frame still made. On the wall, a girl’s dress hung neatly. Child‑sized shoes lined up beneath it. Stacks of old magazines and comics: Blue Peter annuals, children’s books with worn corners.

The air felt young. Not safe, exactly. But not old and heavy like downstairs.

“I like using this,” Spirit Talker said.

“You like using this?” I repeated. “That’s very good. Are these your comics? Were you young when you passed away?”

“Get out and leave,” the app answered.

“Why don’t you want us here?” I asked gently. “We don’t mean any harm.”

In the corner, another small jacket hung—another girl’s. No adult clothes in sight. Teddies sat along the top of a chest of drawers, their fur dulled with dust.

“Are these all your toys?” I asked. “Your books?”

“Pool,” Spirit Talker said. “I’m around the water and a pool.”

“Well, we’re on an old farm,” I pointed out. “There could be little lakes around here. What are you scared of?”

“Scared,” it said. Then: “Can’t breathe.”

I stopped.

“I’m around the water. Scared. Can’t breathe,” I repeated. “That’s all very drowning, isn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Sean said quietly.

“Did you pass away in water?” I asked.

The silence that followed felt less like refusal and more like memory daring the air.

“I mean, I feel like we’re talking to a kid,” I said. “You’re dead inside.”

“Not far off,” I added under my breath, “not quite though. There’s still something left.”

The K2 meter, which had gone mostly quiet in my hand, suddenly spiked when I passed it to Sean.

“Should try that K2 up here,” I said.

“Not as heavy,” he murmured, watching it flicker amber, then red. “But still.”

“I thought I heard…” I started.

“A giggle,” Sean said.

We both went still.

“Is there somebody that wants to talk to us?” I asked the room softly. “Play? Do you want to show us some toys? Your favorite toys? Do you want to make a knock near your favorite toy?”

The K2 lit again, this time in my hand when I moved it closer to the bed.

“That’s weird,” I said. “It wasn’t going off straight away, and now… it keeps going.”

“Stuck here,” Spirit Talker said.

“So you’d like to leave?” I asked.

Maybe try near that dress,” Sean suggested.

He moved the K2 close to the hanging dress.

Nothing.

“Is this your dress?” I asked.

Silence.

“I’m going to put this device near some of these toys,” I said. “Can you set it off when we’re near something that you like playing with?”

I placed the K2 down on a small table near the teddies. Its lights went dead.

“How strange,” I muttered. “Completely dead now.”

I picked it up again.

Nothing.

“Check out the old Blue Peter,” I said, trying to lighten the moment, pointing at the stack of kids’ annuals. “How crazy is that?”

“You can’t hide from your past,” Spirit Talker said.

“What’ve you been up to, Sean?” I joked weakly.

But when he took the K2 back, the lights flared into life again.

It liked him.

Not me.

Whispers in the Woodwork

We decided to try something different.

Downstairs again, in the living room, I pulled out a small audio recorder. It was an Olympus I hadn’t used before, supposedly very sensitive.

“Okay, explorers,” I said quietly. “We’re going to be doing an EVP. Got an Olympus, never used this before. Apparently, it’s really good.”

Even before I hit record, I heard it:

A faint rustle, like fabric moving in a room with no living people.

“I can hear something moving,” I said.

Sean nodded.

I set the recorder on the coffee table between us and pressed record.

“If there’s anyone in here that would like to communicate with us,” I said, “like to speak with us today, my name’s Adam. This is Sean. Can you use your voice?”

We held our breath.

I stopped and rewound.

On the playback, my voice sounded flat, the room noisy with a low, steady hiss.

Then, under my words, there was something else.

A whisper.

Not a word I could catch clearly, but that distinctive soft consonant sound—the hushed tone of someone speaking just out of range.

“Can you tell us if you’re a boy or a girl?” I asked on the next pass.

We waited.

A tap sounded—sharp, deliberate—on a piece of wood behind me, separate from the recorder.

“You hear that?” Sean whispered.

“That’s one,” I said. “Tapped on that wood. Can you tell us if you’re a boy or a girl?”

Playback this time gave us less: an odd click, another layer to the background noise. But the room itself felt like it was remembering how to speak.

“Can you tell us why you’re still here?” I asked.

The recorder hissed quietly on the table.

When we played it back, the question hung in the air.

Then, under it, something like a sigh.

Not dramatic. Not cinematic.

Just… human.

“I don’t know,” I said, feeling it more than hearing it. “I felt like a presence on that one, more than anything. Do you know what I mean?”

“Yeah,” Sean said. “Felt a bit different.”

“Whoever’s in this room with us now,” I said, recording again, “speak clearly to us. Let us know what you want while you’re here.”

On playback, after my own words died away, there was movement.

A murmur. A faint string of syllables. No single word clear enough to transcribe, but enough to raise goosebumps on both our arms.

“Can you hear it?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Sean said. “Like whispering.”

“Would you like to move on from this place?” I asked the next time. “Leave this place?”

Something knocked—louder, nearby, not captured clearly on the recording because it happened in real time, outside the tiny condenser mic’s limited, focused range.

“Make that noise again for us,” I called.

We waited.

A tiny sound came—high, thin.

A whimper.

“Sounded like a whimper,” I said. “Make that noise again for us.”

Nothing.

But the house felt like it was holding its breath.

The Stairwell Between Worlds

I’ve always liked stairwells for investigations.

They’re the spine of a house. Everything has to pass them to move from one floor to another. Stuff collects there—voices, footsteps, feelings.

“Right, explorers,” I said, positioning myself halfway up the stairs, “I am on the stairwell. Sean’s had to go at the top because there’s not enough room.”

His boots creaked above me. The darkness below pooled at my feet.

“I still think this is a good spot,” I continued. “Center of the house. I can hear downstairs. I can hear upstairs. Maybe something in between, you know.”

I raised the recorder again.

“So,” I said softly, “the spirit we heard giggle earlier in the bedroom, or the one we heard move something downstairs—we’d like you to come forward and speak. Use your voice. Talk to this device in my hand. Can you tell us your name?”

The house answered with its own sounds.

Creaks.

Tiny shifts.

The soft, almost musical groan of old timber.

“I think I just heard a voice,” I murmured, more to myself than the mic.

Playback confirmed it.

After my question, there was a whisper—three, maybe four syllables—from somewhere near the mic. Just quiet enough that I couldn’t make it out. Just clear enough that it wasn’t my imagination.

“What the hell was that?” I asked. “Is it the house?”

“I don’t know,” Sean said from above.

“You said ‘leave’ earlier,” I told the recorder. “What would you like? Can you speak to us? Can you tell us why you’re still here? Would you like to leave this place?”

Then, more pointedly:

“Did somebody pass away in water here? Did somebody drown on this farm? Maybe on the land?”

As if it had been waiting for that, the dead bell behind me rang—a clear, metallic jingle.

I jumped.

“I forgot about the bell,” I gasped. “Were they confirming? Right behind me. Thanks…”

The K2 flashed, too, as if something had moved through us.

“I thought somebody touched me,” Sean said. “I don’t know what’s behind…”

“Were you confirming that somebody passed away by drowning on this land?” I asked.

On the next playback, after the question, a little girl’s voice whispered something just beyond understanding, followed by another, slightly lower sound—a fragment of a man’s voice, as if two layers of time had overlapped for a second.

“Hello, darling,” I murmured without thinking.

The recorder kept running.

“Are you… are you… are you…” a voice seemed to echo through the static.

“This is active,” I said, more to the camera than the spirits. “We got a man’s voice through. Is that the farmer? Did he live here? Is this his land? Do you mind us being here?”

“I just heard a voice,” Sean said suddenly.

“You just heard a voice?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said. “A woman’s voice.”

“On that?” I nodded at the recorder.

“No,” he said. “Upstairs.”

“Is it upstairs or down?” I asked.

“I think down,” he said.

“If there’s somebody downstairs,” I called, “can you come up here?”

We waited in the stairwell, our breaths loud, hearts louder.

The house answered with silence that felt anything but empty.

The Bad Thing on the Land

It’s funny what you notice when you’re looking for ghosts.

“I haven’t seen a bath,” Sean remarked suddenly.

I blinked. “Neither have I.”

“In a house this old,” he said, “they probably would have had those tin baths. I haven’t seen a bathroom anywhere.”

“So if someone drowned…” I started.

“It might have been outside,” he finished. “On the land.”

Spirit Talker chimed.

“Some water,” it said. “Some water.”

“I think somebody’s drowned on this land,” I said slowly.

We went back to the question again and again on the stairwell.

“Did somebody drown on this farm?” I asked. “Did somebody drown in water here?”

Knocks, little girl whispers, the bell behind me ringing at just the right moment—it all lined up in a way that felt less like coincidence and more like confession.

“Is there something bad here that doesn’t want us here?” I asked finally.

“Jesus,” Spirit Talker said.

“Is it a bad spirit?” I pressed. “An evil spirit? Demonic spirit? Is there anything malevolent here? Maybe something we should be worried about?”

The dead bell rang.

“Is there somebody behind me setting the bell off?” I asked. “How old are you? Can you give me your name? I’d love to know who I’m talking to.”

The house creaked.

Spirit Talker stayed silent for a beat longer than it had all night.

“Can we get some more devices out?” I asked Sean.

“Yeah,” he said. “Sometimes it’s really when it makes noise… I don’t know if it’s like changing a bit or…”

“Okay,” I told the house. “We’re going to get some more devices out now. Would you like that? You’ll be able to play with some toys. We can go into the children’s bedroom.”

Spirit Talker answered one word.

“Yeah.”

Toys That Wake The Dead

“All right, guys,” I said, climbing back to the child’s bedroom, “we’re going to head up into the children’s bedroom now. This place is freaking me out.”

“It’s freaking me out as well,” Sean admitted.

We’d planned to set up slowly: position the dead bell, the REM pod, the music box carefully. Let the room settle around the equipment.

The room had other ideas.

“Okay, explorers,” I started, “so we have come up—”

The REM pod shrieked to life.

Full volume.

Full lights.

On the bed, the dead bell trembled, then chimed.

“What the…” I broke off. “We’ve come up to the bedroom. That’s full on going…”

I held my arm out.

Goosebumps flicked across my skin.

“I’ve got goosebumps all over me,” I said. “That’s crazy.”

“We have the dead bell,” I continued, forcing myself back into presenter mode. “We have the REM pod, which is already going off. And we have the music box, which is situated on the stairs.”

The REM pod screamed again, the bell ringing along with it, like someone small and excited was bouncing around the bed.

“They definitely like the toys,” Sean said.

“They do,” I agreed. “Okay. So, it’s clear that somebody’s in this room. Can you tell us who?”

“No,” Spirit Talker said, flatly.

“Can you tell us who we’re speaking with now?” I asked. “Who’s communicating with us?”

“We love talking,” the app answered cheerfully. “We love talking.”

“Can you tell us who he is?” I asked, thinking of the man’s voice we’d heard earlier.

Downstairs, something thumped.

“Did you hear that downstairs then?” Sean asked. “It’s like someone moving around.”

“Yeah,” I said. “And it’s bloody noisy down there when you move around.”

“Absolute vibe in here,” Sean murmured.

“If there’s anybody downstairs that would like to come up and communicate with us,” I called, “this is my happy place.”

“Your happy place,” Spirit Talker echoed.

“If you can come up the stairs now,” I added. “Touch the bell. Touch the bell.”

The bell chimed on cue.

“Who owns this amazing little dress on the door?” I asked. “Can you tell us? Is she in the room with us now?”

The music box on the stairs stayed silent—for the moment.

“Sentient,” Spirit Talker said.

“Okay,” I said, moving the music box so it lay across the top stair. “So if anything does come up, it should cross that threshold.”

We looked around the room.

“We’ve discovered something is here with us,” I said. “But we’re trying to figure out who’s the strongest. Who’s the one that’s coming through the most. I get a children’s vibe.”

“Yeah,” Sean nodded. “Like a little girl.”

“Is there a little girl in this room with us now?” I asked. “Can you press that bell for us, Katie?”

The app lit.

“Katie,” it said.

Sean and I stared at each other.

“No way,” I whispered. “Katie. Is this Katie that’s in the room with us?”

I barely finished the sentence before the bell chimed again.

“Press the bell if it’s Katie we’re talking to,” I said.

The bell rang once more.

Downstairs, two solid knocks answered.

“Whatever’s in here is intelligent,” I said quietly. “Definitely.”

Spirit Talker agreed.

“Pay attention,” it told us.

The Thing She’s Hiding From

We had activity: bells on command, REM pod screaming, K2 spiking, names coming through relevant to our questions.

Now came the bigger questions.

“Is there more than one person in this house?” I asked.

“Dog,” Spirit Talker said.

“Pay attention then,” it added.

Two taps sounded immediately afterward.

“Oh my gosh,” I breathed. “Okay, so you’re in the room with us. Thank you.”

“Is there a reason why you’re still here?” I asked. “Are you stuck here?”

“Empowerment,” the app replied. Then, after a beat: “Misery.”

“Would you like to move on?” I asked. “Is that possible? We’d love to be able to help you if we could. Hate the thought of you just being stuck here.”

The bell stayed silent.

A faint knock came from the wall behind the doll.

“Knock knock knock,” Spirit Talker said.

“If you’d like to move on,” I said, “I’d like you to set one of these devices off. Maybe, if you can really hear us, and you’re quite intelligent, could you go towards the red light by the fireplace? That red light there, where the truck is.”

The REM pod by the fireplace buzzed to life, its lights cycling.

“Nobody talks to us,” Spirit Talker said suddenly.

“Well, we’re here to talk to you,” I told the room. “Come with me, set this device off here.”

The REM pod screamed again.

“I’m hiding here,” Spirit Talker said.

“Who are you hiding from?” I asked. “Was there something bad in this house? Maybe on the land?”

“Yes,” the app replied.

“Could you tell us what it is somehow?” I asked.

The room went very still.

Then, from just beyond the circle of our torchlight, came a sound:

A small, broken noise.

Not quite a sob. Not quite a moan.

Something in between.

“That was like a moan,” Sean whispered. “A cry.”

“Oh my god,” I said. “That was definitely like a cry.”

“Whatever’s here,” Spirit Talker said. Twice. “Whatever’s here.”

“Celebrate,” it added, almost immediately. “Celebrate.”

“Is that because we heard you?” I asked.

“Name,” the app said. Then, insistently: “Name.”

“What is your name?” I asked. “We’ve had lots of names come through. My name’s Adam. This is Sean. Is that you acknowledging us?”

The REM pod kept screaming. The bell rang like punctuation. Somewhere in the house, something big shifted—timber complaining or something heavier moving.

“Whatever’s in this house is one hundred percent intelligent,” I said. “These are on‑demand answers.”

Outside the window, the wind moved through the trees.

Inside, the house listened.

Letting Go of the House That Wouldn’t

Eventually, you have to leave.

Even if the house doesn’t want you to.

“Two of the lights have gone,” Sean noted suddenly, looking at our gear. One of his bright video lights had died without warning.

“And now yours is gone,” I said. “Mine’s still on. Charged at the same time, used the same amount of time. That was very sudden. No warning. Just off.”

“Is that you using the energy?” I asked the room.

“No answer,” from Spirit Talker.

But the pattern felt obvious—one light used more than the other. One of us getting most of the hits on the K2. One side of the room more active than the other.

“Okay,” I said finally. “I feel like we’ve definitely figured out that this place is haunted.”

“Oh, definitely,” Sean agreed. “I think it’s intelligent.”

“Be interesting,” I said, “to see if we could help it move on.”

We stood in the child’s room one last time, surrounded by dolls and jackets and books that had never been packed away, and spoke to the air.

“So,” I said softly, “the spirit that we’ve been communicating with today—you’ve said that you’d like to leave this house. If you’d like to go towards any sort of light, if you’d like to leave this house, you can use our energy to do so.”

Spirit Talker was quiet.

“When we leave,” I continued, “we’d like you to follow us outside. Is that something that you’d like? Is that something that you could possibly do?”

“Quiet,” it said.

“Are you here alone?” I asked.

No answer.

“Should we head out?” Sean asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “Are you going to come with us?”

We stood at the top of the stairs and laid down the old rules.

“To any bad spirits,” I said, “you’re not allowed to follow us. You’re not allowed to attach yourself to us. But the spirit we’ve been talking to—the girl—we’d like you to pass on. We’d like you to use our energy to move on. We’d like you to leave this place.”

We descended the stairs, the house groaning softly under our boots.

In the hallway, I flicked my torch toward Sean’s gear.

“As you can see,” I said to the camera, “my light’s still on. Charged at the same time. Used it the same amount of time. Yours is gone. You had all the activity. Yeah. All the energies.”

“Crazy,” Sean said.

“Right,” I said. “Let’s head out.”

We stepped back into the Welsh air.

The sky above the mountains was low and grey. Sheep grazed in nearby fields. From somewhere down the lane, a dog barked.

Behind us, the house stared with all its boarded eyes.

Inside, the dolls watched the empty rooms. The record player sat in silence. The jacket hung on its hook. The farm waited for footsteps it would never get again.

Did Katie follow us out?

Did the man on the land let her?

I don’t know.

But I do know that for a long time afterwards, when I thought of water—rivers, lakes, even a full tub—I heard it:

A little voice:

“Scared.”

“Can’t breathe.”

And another, deeper, something like a warning:

“I’m hiding here.”

Yes.

There was something bad on that land.

But there was also a little girl who wanted someone—anyone—to pay attention.

In that sense, she got what she asked for.

In a tiny farmhouse on a Welsh hillside, with the power off and the boards nailed shut, a hundred small lives were still humming quietly in the dark.

We heard them.

They knew we did.

And in places like that, sometimes,

that’s the first step toward finally leaving.