The Priest’s Cottage—Horrifying Paranormal Activity Caught on Camera in the Dead of Night!

The Priest’s House on Branch Road

Some buildings you visit because they’re famous.

Others you visit because they’ve started to show up in the wrong kinds of conversations.

Priest’s House, on the corner of Branch Road in Armley, Leeds, belonged firmly in the second category.

“Okay, explorers,” I said into the camera, the traffic noise of the city muffled by old brick. “We are back on another haunted adventure, and today we’ve come to Leeds to investigate a place called the Priest’s House.”

The building looked unassuming enough from outside—red‑brick, corner plot, the sort of structure you’d expect to find a dental surgery or a small office in. Not a cemetery of memories.

“This is new on the paranormal circuit,” I continued. “A few people have been here and caught paranormal activity. This place is supposed to be absolutely amazing.”

Behind me, the owner, Rian, waited with keys. Inside, she’d already shown us something that made my stomach drop.

Children’s blocks, stacked neatly in the nursery upstairs, had tipped over by themselves.

Not once.

Not in a draft.

But repeatedly. On camera. Sometimes standing for two or three days with traffic rattling past outside, and then falling when nothing moved nearby.

“We’ve had these blocks sometimes stay up for two, three days at a time,” Rian said, showing us the CCTV. “You can jump around them, stamp near them. They don’t move. And then… they do.”

On screen, the blocks sat still.

Then, suddenly, one toppled, knocking others flat.

“If that’s micro‑movement,” she said wryly, “it’s got a sense of humour.”

I watched the playback twice.

Whatever we were walking into tonight didn’t just want to exist.

It wanted to be seen.

A House of Many Faces

Inside, the building felt smaller than it looked, the rooms layered on each other like sediment.

“This building has worn many faces,” I told the camera as we started our walk‑through. “A chapel. An orphanage. A cinema. And later, a carpet shop. Built in 1905 by the Primitive Methodists, it once offered sanctuary to the forgotten and the faithful.”

Sanctuary.

I’ve learned to be suspicious of that word.

“But behind those red‑brick walls,” I continued, “faith soon turned to fear.”

The history Rian had shared was grim even by haunted‑house standards.

Four children dead here.

Not in one accident.

Not in a bombing.

One by one.

Tragic. “Unexplained.” Connected to someone linked to the church. His punishment, such as it was? Paying for their funerals. Covering the costs. A neat financial bandage over a moral amputation.

“Everyone involved with the church knew,” Rian had said. “They let him get away with it.”

Locals spoke of lights flickering for no reason, footsteps following them through the dark, the faint sound of children crying when the streets outside were silent. Workers had felt cold hands brush against them. Whispers drifted from the old vestry—where no one had stood for decades.

“Whatever took root inside this place has never truly died,” I summed up. “It waits in the shadows, watching, remembering the souls that it once claimed.”

Tonight, we were going to see if it remembered us.

Dolls, Brooches, and a Bed Someone Died In

We started, as we always do, with the lights on and no equipment—just eyes, ears, and a willingness to notice.

“Okay, explorers,” I said. “We are inside the priest’s cottage now. We’re going to take a look around, see what we can discover, see what’s actually in this place, and then we’re going to investigate.”

The front room looked like a Victorian parlour that had been curated by a horror fan. To be fair, most of the objects were documented as haunted, not just decorative.

“Look at her,” I said, torch light catching a doll’s painted eyes. “Very strange‑looking.”

She wasn’t the only one.

A singer sewing machine sat ready on its stand. An antique pram slumped in the corner. Another doll lay in it with carved wooden fingers, her hands so detailed they looked unsettlingly human in the half‑light.

“This table’s for séances,” I said, gesturing at a round table with chairs around it. “Even though you’re not actually allowed Ouija boards here. Knocks, taps, shouting out—we can do that later.”

Behind us, a tipping table waited—delicate and suspect.

“Not a big fan of them,” I admitted. “They can be messed about with.”

Upstairs, the priest’s bedroom carried its own weight.

“This is where he slept,” I said. “Some haunted objects in this room, including this bed. Somebody actually died in this bed. It’s over a hundred years old.”

The mattress sagged in the middle, blankets tucked neatly, as if waiting for a body that didn’t know it was gone.

Against one wall stood a dresser. On it, a crucifix, a small collection of personal items, and a brooch.

“This brooch,” I explained, “belonged to a lady. We weren’t told her name. But this brooch has to be in this special place. If you move it, she gets a bit ugly. She doesn’t like anything moved on there, apparently.”

“What we’re going to do,” I said, eyeing it, “is put that there for now…”

I moved it a few inches out of place.

“…because I’ve come for paranormal activity. And if that’s going to help, we’ll put it back later.”

Sean gave me a look that said you’re asking for it.

Maybe I was.

In the bathroom, repurposed from whatever the room once was, children’s clothes hung near an old tin washboard. People had reported hearing giggles in here. Kids laughing in a bathroom that didn’t exist when they were alive.

Back in the hallway, a loose floorboard near the top of the stairs creaked sharply when we stepped on it.

“There it is,” I said, bouncing on it. “So if we hear this and we’re on the landing, it’s probably us. Anything else…”

We didn’t finish that sentence.

We both knew where it ended.

The Nursery and the Blocks

The nursery was the heart of the house.

“That’s the room I’m most looking forward to,” I admitted, “besides the basement.”

It was packed.

Edward the Blitz Bear sagged wearily on a chair, his fur worn, his expression permanently resigned. A high chair waited near a window. Balloons, bells, blocks and toys lay scattered with deliberate care.

On the floor, near a rug, the children’s blocks stood stacked again, exactly as they had before they fell earlier.

“And I’ve been jumping all around them,” I said, demonstratively hopping near them again. “They do not shift unless you properly slam your foot.”

I slammed a foot.

One block toppled.

“Okay,” I conceded. “So, you can force them if you’re clumsy. But earlier, when they fell for Rian, no one was near them. And they’ve stayed up for days before that.”

Nearby, a doll with a name we weren’t sure about sat staring at the door. Next to her, another—Timmy, apparently—looked mischievous even by doll standards.

“I don’t like the look of Timmy,” I said. “He looks a bit… shifty.”

We’d been told not to meddle too much with the doll’s house in the corner.

“The lady who owned it,” Rian had said, “had lots of bad things happen in her house. She wanted to get rid of it, so she donated it. You can hear taps coming from it, sometimes.”

We left it alone.

For now.

On the landing, Sean pointed to a door.

“That one,” he said. “That’s the one that opened by itself earlier when I was reading the names on the wall.”

We tested it.

It was light, but not loose. It didn’t swing with every draft. And it hadn’t moved since.

“Invitation,” Sean said.

“Come on down,” I agreed.

We both looked at the basement door and knew that’s where we were heading next.

The Room for the Dead

Basements are always bad.

Basements that used to be mortuaries are worse.

“I almost have to crouch down,” I muttered as we ducked through the low entrance.

The air changed immediately—cooler, stiller. The war and the workhouse years sat thick on the walls.

“In the war,” I said, “this is all original. Look at the doors.”

Old timber, old brick, old shadows.

“This machine,” I added, directing the camera to a large piece of metal equipment, “was originally to get rid of the dead‑body smell. Later converted to a heating unit. As this was a poor area, the priest would embalm the bodies himself, get them ready for burial, funerals in this room here.”

“This,” I said, panning down to a dark, concreted hole, “is the coffin pit.”

The floor around it was uneven, damp, smeared with old stains and fresh sludge.

“When they were digging it out,” I explained, “they found original coffin nails. They believe there are people buried under this concrete.”

There was a chair placed neatly beside the pit.

“I mean, there’s a chair perfectly set up there,” I said. “Nothing creepy about that at all.”

Sean kept glancing toward a curtained section off to one side.

“I keep hearing noises,” he said. “Tapping.”

We moved deeper.

“This,” I said, stepping into another chamber, “is an original mortuary refrigerator. From a morgue. Used to keep bodies cold while they were being worked on.”

The metal felt icy even to look at.

Beyond that, a long low chamber stretched away—a converted air raid shelter.

“When the sirens went off over Leeds,” I said, “this is where the children and staff were brought. Right here. Imagine it—crowded, dark, bombs overhead. Bodies scared, senses heightened.”

An old gas mask hung on a hook, bringing the whole thing into brutal focus.

“Traumatic for the kids,” Sean murmured. “Terrifying.”

“You could get a lot of residual energy from that alone,” I said.

“So,” I concluded a few minutes later, “little tour of the place before we get the equipment out and turn all the lights off. We’re going pitch black in this place, see what we can get.”

Sean nodded.

“I definitely feel different down here,” he admitted.

“Me too,” I said. “And Rian’s kid telling us about his ‘friends’ who live here didn’t help.”

We headed back up.

Lights off.

Time to see who wanted to talk.

“You’re a Horror Show Already”

We started in the front room with the basics: K2 for EMF, Spirit Talker for word responses.

“Okay, explorers,” I said. “We begin. Sean’s got the K2, which is already going off. I’ve got Spirit Talker.”

The K2 never got the memo you’re not supposed to start strong.

It went straight to red.

“So,” I called, “if there’s any spirits in this building that would like to communicate tonight—my name’s Adam. I’m with Sean.”

Spirit Talker spoke immediately.

“Device,” it said.

“So you know what the devices are,” I replied. “If you could go towards Sean’s, that she’s holding, that would be absolutely amazing. Make it change colour.”

The K2 obliged.

“Can you feel us?” the app asked.

“Can you feel us?” I echoed. “We can certainly feel you.”

The K2 danced up and down like it was on a rubber band: blue, green, amber, red, back down, then up again.

“Can you tell us who’s with us tonight?” I asked. “Maybe tell us your name. If you speak to the device I’m holding, we should be able to communicate that way.”

“You’re a horror show already,” Spirit Talker said.

I blinked.

“Wow,” I said. “That’s so rude. Odd thing to say as well. Don’t think I’ve ever heard that one.”

“Never,” Sean agreed.

“Do we have a priest with us tonight?” I asked.

The K2 answered with another spike.

“Is that the priest,” I asked, “coming close to this EMF meter?”

The meter flashed again.

“I’ve seen what’s inside,” Spirit Talker said.

“What’s inside?” I asked. “Can you be more specific? Seen what’s inside what?”

No answer. The K2 settled into a more erratic rhythm, as if whoever we’d touched had retreated, but not left.

“Should we head upstairs?” I suggested.

“Yeah,” Sean said. “Nursery?”

“Nursery,” I agreed. “And those blocks.”

Whatever was watching us seemed content to follow.

“Strangled”

On the first floor landing, the K2 went wild again.

“Who’s talking?” Spirit Talker asked.

“As I said,” I replied, “my name’s Adam. I’m Sean. Can you tell us who’s talking with us? Maybe you could give us your name?”

The K2 surged as if someone was leaning right over it.

“It’s almost like somebody’s stood in front of me,” Sean said.

“Are you stood by Sean?” I asked.

No printed answer—but the meter said enough.

We tried the priest’s room.

Different vibe. The brooch sat where I’d left it, the clock quietly watching. Something about the space felt… contained.

“Contain,” Spirit Talker said.

“Do you like that?” I asked. “Being contained?”

No reply, but the EMF stayed steady—not flat, not screaming, just simmering.

In the nursery, the energy shifted.

“I’m going to put that on the bed,” I said, placing the K2 there. Spirit Talker chimed: “Approach. Approach.”

I set the blocks up again carefully, trying to replicate their earlier positions.

“I’m not going to stand near them,” I said. “If there’s anyone in this room, if you want to show us that you’re here somehow, we’re not going to move. Can you move these blocks at all? Maybe one of the toys?”

“Strangled,” Spirit Talker said.

“I wasn’t expecting that word,” I admitted.

We’d been told four children had died here. Linked to a man associated with the church. Punished only with the cost of their burials.

“Maybe that’s one of the ways he killed people,” I suggested. “Strangled. Is that true? Can you tell us the name of the man that killed children here?”

The K2 quieted.

Something creaked softly in the corridor.

“Retaliate,” the app said.

“Okay,” I said, gently. “Why don’t you roll a marble instead? That would be very cool. Like the blocks before, if we could capture that, that would be insane.”

We waited.

Nothing moved.

K2 flatlined.

Quiet.

Suspiciously quiet.

“I don’t trust this guy,” I said, staring at Timmy in his little wooden prison. “Maybe if I let him out…”

I opened the door slightly.

“Dark,” Spirit Talker said. “Fallen.”

The K2 blinked again.

“You don’t want us here?” I asked. “If you could give us a sign, maybe a knock. If you could stamp your feet…”

“You are not safe,” Spirit Talker said. “Go. You are not safe.”

“Why?” I asked. “What’s the issue?”

Somewhere in the room, wood snapped—a short, sharp sound like something flexing.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Sean said. “Sounded like it came from that corner.”

“She won’t like this,” Spirit Talker said.

“Who?” I asked. “Who won’t like this?”

“Archald,” it answered. Then: “Archie.”

An old name for an old anger.

The K2 flickered again, uncertain, like the room couldn’t decide whether we were worth the trouble.

“They Mean You Harm”

We didn’t stay in the nursery forever.

Something about the air upstairs started to feel tight, like a breath being held.

In the hallway, near the loose board, Spirit Talker piped up.

“Ada,” it said. Then: “Generosity.”

“Is there any children in this room?” I asked. “It’s me they see,” the app answered. “Mommy. Mommy.”

“That’s a child answer,” I said quietly.

We both heard something then—a sound from further along the landing. Not quite a footstep. Not quite a knock. Enough to make us move.

As we stepped into the nursery doorway, a cold shiver ran all the way down my back.

“Shivers,” I muttered. “All down my spine as I walked in.”

“They mean you harm,” Spirit Talker said.

“Really?” I asked. “Who means us harm?”

No answer.

“Make that noise again for us, please,” I called, but whatever had spoken had stepped back.

We decided to change the battlefield.

Basement.

Lights off.

All in.

“Killer”

The corridor outside the basement door felt different with the lights off—more vertical, somehow. Narrower.

“Hall,” Spirit Talker said.

“We are in the hall,” I replied. “We’re literally in the hall.”

“Am I alive?” it asked next.

“No,” I said softly. “Unfortunately not.”

“Justice,” it said. Then: “False. Candle.”

“Are you looking for justice?” I asked. “Or false justice?”

The K2 lit again as our torch beams cut down the stairs.

The basement in darkness was a different country.

“Okay,” I said, taking a breath. “If there’s anyone down here now, we’d like to communicate with you. Can you make something physical? Some knocks?”

“Machete,” Spirit Talker said. Then: “Something tickled my finger.”

“Felt like it touched your finger?” I asked Sean.

“Yeah,” he said. “Bit weird.”

“Plague,” the app added a moment later.

“Must have definitely changed since then,” I said, trying not to imagine rows of bodies down here, disease doing what bombs and poverty didn’t.

We moved deeper, near the coffin pit, the mortuary table, and into the air raid shelter.

“This is mine,” Spirit Talker said suddenly. “The darkness is yours.”

“Well, we’re sharing it right now,” I replied. “If you don’t want us to, let us know. Make a knock. Use your voice.”

“My life was great,” the app said.

“That’s fantastic,” I said. “Who are we speaking with? Can you give us a name?”

“Graveyards hide secrets,” it replied. “Killer.”

I went still.

“Is that who we’re speaking with now?” I asked. “Killer?”

“K2’s going nuts,” Sean said quietly.

“Murder,” Spirit Talker added. Then, again: “Killer.”

I shifted my weight. The air felt heavier, colder against my skin.

“My arm’s hurting,” Sean said suddenly. “Back of my arm. I thought it was from holding the camera, but it’s the other arm.”

We checked. No obvious marks. Yet.

“Rope torture,” Spirit Talker said. “Camera.”

Weapons.

Killer.

Rope.

Bodies prepared on the table.

“Wonder if that’s something to do with how people died,” I murmured.

Knocks echoed from somewhere near the pit.

“He scares people,” Spirit Talker said.

“Does he scare children?” I asked. “He’s not scaring us.”

“Trigger,” it said.

The dead bell rang as if on command.

Boo Bear and the Children’s Room

We decided to change the energy.

“Should we give Boo Bear a bit of time in the nursery?” I asked. “See if the children will play?”

Upstairs, we set Boo Bear—the interactive teddy—on a small chair. The REM pod in the hallway was already pinging.

“I feel warm,” Boo Bear said in his tinny voice. “Fuzzies. Is that your hug?”

“If there’s any spirits in this room now,” I said, “we’d like you to go into the hallway there…”

The REM pod outside the nursery door screamed.

“Do you want to play a game with me?” Boo Bear asked.

As he ran through his cycle of prompts—asking for names, games, jokes, songs—the equipment backed him up. The hallway REM flashed. The SLS camera momentarily picked up a small figure where there was nothing but doorway.

“What letter does your name start with?” Boo Bear asked.

We didn’t get a letter.

We got a feeling.

Cold.

Drafts that weren’t drafts.

Whispers on the EVP.

“Should we do an EVP?” I suggested. “See what we get.”

The Bang in the Nursery

We set up in the nursery, the REM pod humming, music box quiet, blocks stacked again, a few extra added for good measure.

“Okay,” I said, “if there’s any spirits that want to communicate, now’s the time. You can do it through knocks, bangs, footsteps, or use your voice. Can you do that now?”

We recorded.

We listened.

On playback, my question echoed.

Then—clearly, from somewhere near the mic—a knock.

“Can you tell us your name?” I asked.

Playback: a faint noise we couldn’t identify. Maybe shifting. Maybe a distant tap.

“Whoever made that knock,” I said, “we’d like you to do it again, please.”

We recorded.

The room itself stayed quiet.

“Why are you still here?” I asked. “Are there any children here?”

Longer silence.

“We’d like you to make a clear, obvious knock or footsteps for us right now,” I said. “If the priest is here, can he make any knocks or use his voice? If there’s a woman here, can she? If there’s any children, we’d like to hear you. Let us know where you are.”

Knocks again.

On playback, one section stood out. After I said, “If you’re angry about us being here, let us know,” something answered.

Loud.

Sharp.

“What the hell is that?” I asked, replaying it.

“I don’t know,” Sean said.

On the recording, it came after the word “angry” like punctuation: a heavy bang that sounded like something significant being moved or falling.

My arms erupted in goosebumps.

“That is so clear,” I said. “Should we go up to the nursery?”

“Yeah,” Sean said. “I want to check that out.”

We didn’t bring the recorder.

We just went.

The landing felt different.

“Did we leave the light on?” I asked.

“I must have,” I muttered, flicking my torch.

The nursery door yawned open.

The blocks were on the floor.

Again.

“Oh, you’re joking,” I breathed.

“Which ones?” Sean asked.

“All of them,” I said. “We heard it from downstairs, I think.”

“That’s not all,” Sean added, pointing at the chessboard on a low table. “See all those chess pieces? There was a white piece that was on the floor when we got here. I picked it up, put it back on the board. Now it’s on the floor again. Different spot.”

I stared.

Timmy looked smug.

“Well,” I said, “that’s just decided for me that we do the spirit box in here.”

The Spirit Box in the Playroom

“Okay, explorers,” I said, stacking the blocks again, “we’ve come back into the nursery after these blocks have fallen. We’ve added a few extras. Going to do a spirit box in this room. Hopefully we can get some voices through. I don’t trust this guy here.”

I nodded toward Timmy.

The PSB‑11 spirit box crackled to life, sweeping through stations with its familiar wash of noise.

“So,” I called, “the spirit that knocked those blocks over—we’ve come to speak to you. Do you want to speak to us? Can you tell us your name? Were you playing with the blocks? Do you want to play with them with us? Can you knock them over again?”

Static. Fragments of voices too brief to catch.

“Is this Timmy?” I asked. “Timothy? Tim?”

A faint voice slipped through. Hard to catch the word, but the tone was young.

“Can you use your voice for us?” I urged. “Is there a reason you’re still here? We’ve been told there’s a bad spirit here. Is he here with us now? Does he know we’re here?”

A knock thudded somewhere in the house.

“If there is a bad spirit, the bad man here,” I said, “we’d like to know his name.”

“Is there a priest here with us?” I asked.

A quick, clear burst of sound cut through the white noise—too fast for us to make out. Definitely a voice.

“Can you say that again for us?” I asked.

This time, when a voice came, it was unmistakably female.

“Is there a woman in this room with us now?” I asked.

“Kid,” the spirit box spat. Or “a kid.” Hard to tell—but the word “kid” was clear enough.

“Can you tell us your name?” I asked. “Why are you still here?”

A cold draft brushed across my arms.

“Getting pure draft,” I muttered.

“All the front of my arms cold,” Sean agreed.

“Is that you making the room cold?” I asked. “Come and sit with us. Play with these toys. Knock these blocks over. Show us how strong you are.”

A faint “Hi” slid through the noise.

“If you can do it while we’re not in the room,” I told whoever was listening, “you can do it while we’re here.”

Nothing moved.

Not yet.

The Killer, the Children and the Cold

The rest of the night blurred into a pattern familiar only in retrospect.

We asked.

The house answered.

Not always clearly.

Not always kindly.

In the priest’s room, the spirit box coughed up short answers—none as sharp as the nursery, but enough to feel watched. In the living room, where we’d offered silver earlier as a “donation to the church,” the air felt heavy with expectation.

“We paid you some silver,” I reminded the house. “We’d just like to have a chat. See who’s here.”

Phrase after phrase came through the box, most too garbled to trust. But the pattern of knocks and bangs remained consistent: mostly near the nursery and the basement.

So we went back underground.

The Ghost With No Plans

“Okay, explorers,” I said, arranging gear in the basement, “we are now down in the basement. We have all the equipment on the go because this is a big place.”

Static camera. Music box. Dead bell. REM pod in the air raid shelter. Light strip along the corridor. K2. Spirit Talker. Polaroid camera ready for whenever the devices triggered.

“If there’s anyone down in this basement with us now,” I said, “we’d like you to interact with some of the equipment. Speak to us through this device.”

“Angel hierarchy,” Spirit Talker said.

“Sort of demonic,” I noted. “Demons were once angels.”

“I’m the ghost with no plans,” it added.

“If you could interact with any of this equipment now,” I said, “to let us know you’re ready to talk, that would be amazing.”

“He died,” Spirit Talker said.

“Who are you talking about?” I asked. “Who are you referring to?”

“Abundance,” it replied.

“We’re literally next to the coffin pit,” I said. “Right where a lot of death happened. The table from the morgue. The pit…”

“Mortuary,” the app said.

“Literally where we are right now,” I muttered.

We focused on the bell.

“Okay,” I said, “we’re ready to communicate with the bad spirit. The bad entity. Can he speak with us now? Show himself? Come towards my voice.”

Knocks answered from the corridor.

“K2,” Sean said, watching the meter spike.

“Albert,” Spirit Talker said. Then: “Bertie. Bell.”

The dead bell chimed.

“Is that Bertie that set the bell off?” I asked. “Can you set it off again for us?”

The bell replied instantly.

“Is there a reason you can’t leave this place?” I asked. “Do you need help?”

“People,” the app said. “Out loud. This way.”

We moved toward the air raid shelter.

“Come on,” I called. “If there’s somebody that wants to come in, you’re welcome to. Come towards my voice. We’d like to take a photograph if that’s okay.”

Next time the bell rang, I snapped a Polaroid.

“Pearl,” Spirit Talker said.

“She will hurt people,” it added. “She will hurt people.”

“Come on then, Pearl,” I said. “Let’s be having you. Why are you angry?”

The REM pod in the shelter flashed red.

I took another photo.

The energy in the basement felt like a crowd compressing around us—Pearl, Bertie, maybe children.

And something else.

“My name is Dorothy,” Spirit Talker said suddenly.

“Hello, Dorothy,” I said. “Would you like to speak to us?”

I took a few steps down toward the shelter corridor.

“Oh my god,” I muttered, as a shadow shape near the lock made my stomach drop before I realised it was just that—a shadow.

“Blight,” the app said.

Then the basement decided it was done with implication.

“F*** Off”

“Come on,” I called down the corridor. “Use all the energy you can. Touch these devices. Show us how strong you are.”

Something fell from the ceiling.

Not dust.

Not a flake.

A small piece of plaster hit the floor near my head.

Immediately after, a sharp knock banged from behind the blackout curtain.

“F*** off,” Spirit Talker said.

Twice.

My heart slammed.

“What happened?” Sean asked, wide‑eyed.

“Something fell from the ceiling,” I said. “Right here. And then a knock behind the curtain. And then—‘f*** off’.”

He shone his torch.

Rubble lay on the floor where nothing had been a moment earlier.

“That’s freaky,” he said. “I’ve got goosebumps.”

I walked back to the same spot.

“I’m going back,” I said. “Right back to where I was.”

“Equal,” Spirit Talker said, as if negotiating terms.

“Come on,” I called. “You wanted to show us how capable you are. You wanted to show us how powerful you are. We want to hear from the spirit that did harm to the children here. Four children on record.”

“I definitely just heard a noise from down here in the coffin pit,” Sean said.

We moved closer.

“We want to communicate with the person that harmed the children,” I said. “We want to hear from you.”

The REM pod near the stairs flashed.

“Is that all you can do?” I taunted gently. “Is your body down here?”

We listened.

“Would you like us to go?” I asked. “Would you like us to go upstairs, leave you sulking down here?”

No printed answer.

But Spirit Talker chimed one more phrase before we left.

“I drowned in the cold,” it said.

We both looked at the pitch‑black coffin pit, the concrete slick and damp around it.

It’s one thing to speculate about drowning on land.

It’s another to have a voice from under your feet spell it out.

Two Orbs and a Shadow

Back upstairs, we checked the Polaroids.

“The air raid shelter,” I said, showing the first photo to the camera. “Dead bell went off. Looks… just dark. Nothing obvious.”

The corridor shot with the light strip and REM pod was the same—shadows, wires, no obvious figures.

But the third photo, taken near the bottom of the stairs, was different.

“This is where the REM pod was at the bottom of the stairs,” I explained. “You can just see the aerial for the REM.”

Above it, in the flash‑bleached darkness, two bright spots hovered like small moons. Below them, a vague darker shape extended downward, thinner than a human body but suggestive enough. Off one side, a pale smudge that could have been an arm.

“If you take a look at the top,” I said, zooming, “it looks like two orbs. One there, one there. And then like a body, a shadow of a body, a little see‑through. That looks like an arm coming down from the side.”

It wasn’t proof.

But it was something.

Just like the knocks timed to questions.

The K2 spikes on command.

The children’s blocks falling when we weren’t in the room.

The whispers on the EVP.

The four children on record.

And the voice downstairs that said, very clearly:

“I drowned in the cold.”

Leaving the Priest’s House

By the time we wrapped up, it was late.

“Okay, guys,” I said to the camera, standing once more in the front room among the dolls and the old singer sewing machine, “this place has been absolutely amazing. If you’ve enjoyed it, remember to hit subscribe, leave a comment, hit the thumbs up. Let me know what you think.”

I looked around.

The brooch sat where I’d left it.

The dolls stared.

Upstairs, the blocks were stacked for the last time. The nursery lay still.

Downstairs, in the dark, the coffin pit held its secrets.

“The Priest’s House here in Leeds,” I said. “One of my favourites we’ve done in a long time. Haunted? Definitely. Definitely haunted.”

We signed our names on the board with the other teams.

Then we left, the key turning in the lock behind us.

On Branch Road, cars rolled by, oblivious.

In the red‑brick building on the corner, something watched them go.

A priest, maybe.

Children, almost certainly.

And somewhere in the dark—down in the mortuary, or up in the nursery, or hiding just off the landing—a presence that had killed before, that remembered the feel of rope and water and cold.

Whether it waited for justice, company, or something else entirely—

that, the house wasn’t ready to tell us.

Yet.