Terrifying Paranormal Encounter at Liverpool’s Most Haunted School—Unexplained Screams, Shadows, and Chilling Evidence!

The Cursed House at Holly Lodge

The rumours always sound the same at first.

A laugh in an empty hallway. A voice caught on an old recording. A shadow in a photo that no one noticed until later.

Most of them fade as quickly as they’re told—drunken stories and misremembered creaks blamed on ghosts for the thrill of it. But every now and then, one place keeps coming up no matter who you talk to, no matter how many years go by.

In Liverpool, one of those places is Sand Hayes House.

You won’t find it advertised on any ghost tours. It’s not a museum. It’s not a tourist attraction. It’s a forgotten piece of Holly Lodge Girls School, hidden in the quiet suburban sprawl of West Derby, behind overgrown hedges and rusting gates.

The locals call it cursed land.

The school records call it a rectory built in 1831, later absorbed into a prestigious girls’ school. After the First World War, it became something gentler and sadder: a refuge for orphans of soldiers and sailors who never came home.

Somewhere along the way, the stories changed.

Comfort turned to fear. Protection turned to control. The building that had once been a sanctuary began to collect different kinds of whispers—of tragedy, strange happenings, and something in the walls that never quite left.

That’s what brought me here.

Another haunted, abandoned adventure. Another building long past its intended purpose, still breathing in a way only the dead places do.

“What is up, explorers?” I said into the camera, the red light blinking to life. “We are back on another haunted abandoned adventure, and today we’ve come to the city of Liverpool to explore and investigate this abandoned one‑time girls’ school, said to have paranormal activity. We’re here to find out today if it really does—or if this is all just rumours.”

Behind me, Sand Hayes House loomed. The brick was cracked and stained. Windows were boarded over. Ivy clawed at the walls. It looked less like a school and more like a skull with the eyes put out.

“We’re going to get inside,” I continued, “have a little explore, get the equipment out, and see what we can find.”

I finished the intro—subscribe, four hundred K, all the usual—and killed the recording for a moment.

The air out here felt ordinary enough. Birds, distant traffic, the soft hiss of a breeze moving through trees. But even from the outside, the building seemed to drink in sound. It made everything quieter the closer you got.

With that familiar mix of excitement and dread buzzing in my chest, I headed for a way in.

Smoke on the Stairwell

Getting inside wasn’t difficult. These places are never as secure as they pretend to be: a panel loose, a lock half‑snapped, a board someone else has already prised away.

Inside, the world changed.

The first thing that hit me wasn’t the cold. It was the smell.

Smoke.

Old smoke, woven into the fabric of the place. A fire had hit this building hard at some point, and the air still remembered it. Beneath the char was another scent: damp, dust, and the sourness of things left to rot.

“Okay, explorers,” I whispered, switching on my torch. “We are inside the school now, and immediate vibes. It’s quite dark, eerie. There’s a smell of smoke where there has once been a fire. Very decayed, paint peel everywhere.”

My torch beam slid along a corridor lined with boarded windows. Classrooms opened off to each side, some doors hanging off their hinges, others sealed shut with boards and metal sheets. Every step I took crunched on peeling paint and broken plaster.

I pulled out my phone and opened Spirit Talker, the app I use to generate word responses during investigations. People argue about whether it’s legit. I don’t pretend to have all the answers. But sometimes, what comes through lines up too well with the context to ignore.

I slipped the phone into my pocket, microphone up.

“My name is Adam,” I said into the gloom. “If there is any spirits in this building, and you’d like to communicate with me, I’d really like to hear from you.”

I’d barely taken ten steps when the app chimed softly.

The little girl likes you.

I stopped dead.

“The little girl,” I repeated. “Straight away. In a bloody girls’ school. What are the odds of that?”

I swallowed, forcing a small, calm laugh for the camera.

“So, my name’s Adam,” I said, voice echoing off charred walls. “I’ve just come to see if there’s anybody here that would like to speak with me today. You say there’s a little girl here. Can you tell me your name?”

No answer—yet.

At the end of the corridor, a door stood blackened by fire, its panels bubbled and eaten away. The burn pattern radiated out from it like the fingerprint of something violent.

“Clearly where the fire started,” I muttered, stepping closer.

Through a narrow gap, I could just see the room beyond—a ruin of ash and collapsed ceiling.

The fire hadn’t just scorched this place.

It had tried to erase it.

The Caged Stairs

I moved deeper in, exploring each corridor, my torch sweeping over soot and slogans scrawled on the walls. Somewhere above, boards creaked in a way that made me feel like I wasn’t entirely alone.

“There is a basement, too,” I said quietly. “I’ve seen online. We will check that out.”

Part of me was already dreading it.

A flash of metal drew my attention. Ahead, a staircase rose upwards, side‑rails boxed in by metal cages like something out of an asylum. The effect was unsettling—stairs meant to move through, now trapped in a strange, claustrophobic exoskeleton.

“Oh, wow,” I breathed. “Check this staircase…”

“Kindness,” Spirit Talker chimed in my pocket.

“Is that what you’re after?” I asked. “Is that what you’re offering?”

I started up the steps.

“Hello?” I called. “Only one way to find out if we’re alone.”

The cages ran up either side like prison bars. Higher up, a skylight poured pale daylight into the stairwell, paint peeling away from the walls in curling sheets.

On the landing, a door was sealed. The banister was broken in places. I skirted the worst of the damage, trying not to think too much about how far the drop was if I misjudged a step.

More corridors. More doors. Some open to empty classrooms; others locked, the glass above them webbed with cracks.

Then Spirit Talker chimed again.

Hellfire.

Mine.

“Horrible things happened here,” I said slowly. “Can you tell me what happened here?”

The floor beneath my boots creaked. Somewhere down the hall, a soft sound—not quite footsteps, not quite dripping—moved just out of sync with my own movement.

“Tap,” the app added. “It watches from the dark.”

My torch beam swung automatically to the shadows at the far end of the corridor. There was nothing visible there. Just gloom and peeling paper.

“Can you tell me your name?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. “You mentioned a little girl. Is that possible?”

No voice—only the sense of being regarded from somewhere very close.

Then a single word appeared on the screen.

Demon.

“Oh, you’re a demon, are you?” I said, a little too quickly. “That’s interesting. And what would you be doing at this old school?”

“Follow us,” it replied. “Ahead. Tears.”

“I mean, look at these drawings,” I muttered, letting the torch skim over graffiti on the walls. Stick figures, odd symbols, childish scrawls mixed with more recent, cruder things. “Modern cave paintings.”

I read aloud from a patch of scrawled story on the wall, trying to ground myself in something human, even if twisted:

“So this was one very happy morning. Leah was still sleeping, and Ryan went downstairs and got a knife and killed Leah. The end. He was also cheating on her. He married the fat, ugly—” I snorted. “Fair enough. What a story.”

Spirit Talker chimed.

“I’m always here.”

“Would you like to leave?” I asked. “Is that a possibility?”

The stairs got narrower the higher I climbed. The air thinned. The boards sagged. Somewhere behind a locked door, something thudded—hard enough to make the hairs on my arms rise.

“Figure,” the app said. “Hand. I like you.”

“There’s so much coming through,” I muttered. “These stairs are making me feel sick.”

At the top, one door was braced with a metal cage over it, as if someone had wanted to keep something in—or out—very badly.

“Why has that got a cage on it?” I whispered.

“It’s watching you,” Spirit Talker replied.

The Boarding Rooms

“If there’s anyone in this room,” I said, stepping through one of the less-damaged doorways, “I believe this is where, in the boarding school, the girls would stay. They’d sleep here.”

The room was long and narrow. The floors bowed in the middle, giving everything a slightly warped perspective. Light leaked through cracks in boards nailed across the windows. On one wall, faint outlines remained where beds or lockers had once stood.

I checked the log on Spirit Talker.

Demon. Followers. Tears. Machine. I’m always here. Figure. Hand. Door. I lied to you. Understand. Door.

“Maybe that’s trying to tell me something,” I murmured. “What about the door? Can you tell me a name of somebody that’s here?”

“Many died here,” the app replied.

A chill worked its way down my spine.

“I thought I could hear singing,” I said suddenly.

It was faint—so faint I couldn’t be sure it was real. But underneath the groan of old wood and the distant rumble of street noise, there was a tone. A fragment of a tune. High, thin, like a child humming under their breath.

“You are inspiring,” Spirit Talker said.

“I’m ninety‑nine percent sure I just heard singing,” I whispered.

A door nearby sagged on its hinges, a cage bolted over its upper half. I pushed carefully. It gave, just enough for me to squeeze through into another room where mould crawled over the walls in pale blooms.

“Attractive,” the app offered.

“Oh, thank you,” I breathed, managing a shaky laugh.

“It’s watching you,” it added again.

“Hello?” I called into the room.

“Corrupted,” Spirit Talker said. Then: “He shot me.”

This place feels so off, I thought.

Out loud, I said, “Wow. This is coming through thick and fast.”

The floor here felt like a trampoline made of rot. Every footstep sank slightly, squelching faintly. The wall at one end bowed outward. The cage around the door had pulled partially away from the masonry.

“Can you tell me why you’re still here?” I asked, carefully picking my way back toward the stairwell. “You said horrible things happened here. And you can’t leave.”

The next word made my breath catch.

“Don’t be afraid.”

“Oh my god,” I muttered, gripping the banister as I descended the treacherous stairs. “Don’t be afraid, as I’m just panicking about this…”

“He wants to talk,” Spirit Talker said. “Justice. Don’t be afraid. He wants to talk.”

Whatever was here—demon or otherwise—it seemed keen on keeping my attention.

And, apparently, on telling me how to conduct my own investigation.

Voices on the Stairwell

It felt like the right time to change tactics.

“Okay, explorers,” I said, setting up my tripod on the main staircase—middle floor, middle of the building. “Starting in the main staircase. A lot of activity should have passed through here. Going to do a quick spirit box, see if the static will ramp this energy up. I mean, I love your energy.”

Spirit Talker chimed.

“We have eyes on you,” it said.

“Talking of energy,” I added, “they love energy, and while I was setting the camera up, we got ‘we have eyes on you’, so this is all seeming very promising for something intelligent here.”

I switched on the PSB‑11 spirit box. White noise filled the stairwell, a constant hiss punctuated by fleeting snatches of radio.

“If there is any spirits here,” I said over the noise, “you said there was a little girl. You said horrible things happened here. Can you tell me what… happened?”

Static.

“You can use my energy,” I added. “I’d just like to hear your voice. Maybe you can ask me a question. Would that be something you’d like?”

The spirit box spat fragments of nothing.

On Spirit Talker, a word appeared.

Ghastly.

“Come and use your voice,” I said. “Come and speak to me.”

Footsteps sounded behind me—clear, deliberate steps on the landing.

I turned slowly.

No one there.

“Is that you I can hear behind me?” I called.

“Obviously,” the spirit box crackled, the word cutting through cleanly between stations.

I swallowed.

“I have a music box,” I said, forcing myself to sound steady. “If you walk in this corridor, it’ll set a little tune off. I’ll show you.”

I placed the motion‑activated music box on the floor at the top of the stairs. A little ballerina tune tinkled as I moved away, demonstrating. Then it fell silent again.

“It won’t harm you in any way,” I promised.

“Buried,” Spirit Talker said. “You buried nearby.”

“Come and use your voice,” I encouraged. “Speak to me. Come close.”

The spirit box fizzed.

“Is… is…” drifted through the static.

“Can you tell me who this is?” I asked. “Elizabeth, have I just heard?”

“Elizabeth,” the spirit box answered, clear as if someone had leaned in to speak directly into it. “It’s me.”

A shiver ran through me.

“Is Elizabeth the girl here?” I asked. “Did something happen to her here?”

No answer.

But I wasn’t ready to move on yet.

The Most Terrifying EVP

Sometimes, the old ways work best.

I headed down a level where the traffic noise outside was muffled, and pulled out a simple audio recorder—no apps, no white noise, just a microphone and the hope that it would pick up what my ears couldn’t.

“Okay, explorers,” I said quietly, standing in what once had been a classroom. “Down on the first floor now. A lot darker down here. Going to do an EVP, see if we can get any voices. I feel like there’s definitely something here, and it was more physical than using equipment. So I feel like this could be a great opportunity.”

I hit record, held the device in front of me.

“If there’s anyone in this building that would like to speak with me,” I said, “any of the students, a teacher, maybe the headmaster, can you speak to me through this device?”

The room was still.

I thought—just for a second—that I heard a whistle. A faint, high sound cutting through the dead air.

“I feel like I definitely heard a whistle then,” I murmured. “Let’s see if this picked it up.”

I stopped recording and rewound.

We listened together, me and the viewers who would eventually watch this.

“Okay,” my own recorded voice said, tinny now. “If there’s anyone in this building that would like to speak with me, any of the students, a teacher, maybe the headmaster, can you speak to me through this device?”

Silence.

Then, under the quiet, layered over the hiss of the room, came voices.

Not one.

Several.

High, young, undeniably female.

Talking over each other in a rush, like girls in a crowded corridor. It wasn’t language I could make out, not clearly. It was tone. Urgency. Something between a giggle and a cry.

I felt the blood leave my face.

“I didn’t hear the whistle,” I said aloud. “But… definitely something. That is—”

I replayed the section.

It was unmistakable.

Girls’ voices.

“No way,” I breathed. “That is insane. I’ve never in all my life heard anything like that. That is the most terrifying EVP I’ve ever captured in my life.”

My hands were shaking slightly as I hit record again.

“Who is it that I can hear through this device?” I asked. “Can you tell me your name?”

We listened. This time, playback brought nothing intelligible, just murmurs and the occasional crack of static from somewhere in the building.

“When I asked your name, you said ‘demon’,” I said. “Is there something dark, like a demon, here?”

I recorded. Played it back.

Nothing clear. Birds from outside. The creak of the building settling.

But the EVP of the girls—that stayed printed in my mind. Less like a recording and more like the memory of walking into a room where a conversation stops the second you appear.

I was shaking with adrenaline now.

Time to change location.

Bells, Names and Cursed Land

Back at the central staircase, I deployed the full modest arsenal I’d brought: the REM pod at the top step, the music box halfway up, a small brass dead bell hanging where a gentle touch could set it chiming.

“Okay, explorers,” I said, repositioning the camera, “back on the main staircase. We’ve got the dead bell, REM pod, music box. As you know, when we do these abandoned places, we travel light because we never know what we’re going to find. But we’ve got the basic equipment out, and hopefully we can get some responses.”

The bell chimed suddenly, a clear, delicate ring that cut cleanly through the heavy air.

My head snapped around.

“Can you tell me who just rang the bell?” I asked. “Is that possible?”

“A pact,” Spirit Talker said.

“Thank you for doing that,” I added. “But can you set off one of the other devices for me? If you come up this bottom staircase, the music box will play. Or if you go to the red light on the top of the stairs, that would be absolutely amazing.”

Footsteps pattered faintly on the floor below.

“Walking,” the app said. Then: “Dark.”

“My name is Charles,” it added.

“Charles?” I repeated. “Did you work here? Were you a member of staff?”

The bell chimed again in answer.

“I heard a girl’s voice through the recorder,” I said. “Is she still here now? Was she a pupil here? Did she pass away here?”

Silence. Then, from Spirit Talker:

You are resilient.

“I ain’t going nowhere,” I muttered. “Did something happen to the girl here? Something traumatic? Is that why she’s still here?”

“You’re scared of me,” the app said.

“I bet you I’m not,” I shot back. “It seems like you’re scared of me, to be honest. I’ve come here to try and prove that there is something after people pass away, gather evidence, have a conversation. I have nothing to be scared of.”

“Is there anything that scares you?” I asked the air.

“Brown hair,” Spirit Talker replied.

“I certainly have,” I said, running a hand through it.

The bell tinkled again, delicately.

“This is cursed land,” the app said next.

My stomach dropped.

“This is cursed land,” it repeated. “Lisa. Blue eyes. Blue eyes.”

“If this is a girl with blue eyes,” I said softly, “Lisa—can you hit that bell?”

We waited.

The bell chimed.

“We like investigators,” Spirit Talker added.

“That’s very good,” I said. “Well, I like speaking to you—as long as you’re pleasant to me.”

Somewhere above, a dull thump. Somewhere below, a distant knock.

“This is a crazy place, guys,” I said to the camera, voice low. “I feel like they’re not interested in the equipment whatsoever. I mean, we’ve got the dead bell. But how old‑fashioned is a bell to them? This place has been here, like I said, a fairly long time. Hearing that EVP—wow. And a lot of relevant answers through the app. But it’s fairly quiet on the equipment, you know?”

“Would you like me to go to the basement,” I asked, “or would you just like me to leave?”

Spirit Talker buzzed once.

Then went still.

I already knew what I was going to do.

Down Where the Bad Things Happened

The deeper into the building I went, the worse the decay became.

“Okay, guys,” I said quietly, descending. “Heading down. And this place is absolute vibes.”

Paint didn’t just peel here; it hung in great, sagging strips, exposing bubbling plaster beneath. The air got thicker, heavier, carrying a smell that was less smoke now and more… rot. Old pipes lined the ceilings, rusted and dripping in places.

I found the doorway to the basement.

Caution tape fluttered lightly in the draft.

“Rumour has it,” I said, stepping through, “when this was a boarding school for girls, this is where all the dodginess happened. The illegal stuff, if you get my drift. Down in the basement—as always.”

Brick arches supported the ceiling. Narrow passageways ran off in multiple directions, each one with its own darkness. Bars on the small windows suggested these rooms had never been meant for freedom.

I decided, consciously, not to use Spirit Talker or any noisy equipment down here. The atmosphere felt wrong enough without adding bleeps and synthetic voices.

“Hello?” I called softly. “If there’s anyone down in this basement with me, I’d really like to hear your voice. Or if you could make a noise for me.”

The silence pressed against my eardrums.

“Look at these crawl spaces,” I muttered, sweeping the torch across low, bricked‑off hollows. “I dread to think what’s in there.”

Names were scratched into the walls here too, some in childish handwriting. Helen. Rachel. Kate. Jade. Cass.

The torch beam caught on something black and furry spreading across the ceiling—mould, thick and wet.

“Oh my days,” I whispered. “This ceiling has a thick layer of mould. Not too healthy…”

From somewhere deep within the basement, a sound answered me.

A single, hollow knock.

“Do that again,” I called, heart pounding.

Seconds later, another knock. Closer.

“I’m freaking out,” I admitted, voice shaking for the first time on camera that night. “I’m freaking out. This was not a great idea, coming down here alone. There are plenty of places for things to hide.”

Footsteps? Drips? Something shifted in the darkness to my right.

One from above, my mind supplied. And one from below.

“Oh, you know what, guys…” I said, backing toward a faint rectangle of light.

Daylight. Somewhere ahead, near a set of crumbling steps, day‑grey filtered in.

“Oh, daylight,” I breathed. “Daylight.”

I moved toward it as quickly as the debris would allow.

Whatever might have slunk through these corridors at night, whatever rumours of “illegal stuff” and tragedies this basement had collected—it didn’t want to show itself fully tonight.

Or it didn’t need to.

It had already made its point.

Some Doors Stay Closed

Back in the faded light of the ground floor, the building felt different.

Not safer, exactly.

More like it had exhaled.

“Okay, guys,” I said, turning the camera back toward my face. “So, I think we’re going to leave it here for this one. Head out through this basement.”

My boots crunched over broken glass and flakes of render as I picked my way toward the exit. Every corridor I passed now looked less like a set and more like something that had been lived in, hurt in, and abandoned because there was no other choice.

“Activity‑wise,” I said, “EVP—absolutely spot on. We’ve heard knocks, we’ve heard footsteps, voices. Equipment was quiet, but maybe the spirits here just don’t want to use equipment. They’re not interested in it, or don’t know how to use it.”

I thought of the girl voices on the recording. The word demon popping up again and again. The way the app had called the land cursed. The bell chiming on command. The feeling of being watched on the stairwell. The refusal to light up anything except the most old‑fashioned object in the setup.

“But still,” I continued, “very interesting place. I would say definitely haunted—which is what we came here to figure out.”

I stepped out through the basement exit.

Grey, cloudy daylight washed over me, harsh and flat compared to the layered gloom inside. The sound of birds and distant traffic rushed back full force, as if someone had turned the volume up on the world.

Behind me, Sand Hayes House slumped among the trees, its windows blind, its bricks flaking.

“If you’d like to see us come back,” I said into the camera, “and see who—or what—else we can find, hit the like button, leave a comment, subscribe if you’re new, and we’ll see how far we can take this journey.”

I paused, looking back one last time at the building.

From the outside, it was just another derelict shell. Just another abandoned school in a city full of them.

But I knew better now.

I’d heard the girls.

I’d heard the footsteps.

I’d heard something call itself demon and claim the land was cursed.

“Anyway,” I finished, “I’m on to the next one. Hope you’ve enjoyed it. I’ll see you next time, guys. Cheers.”

I turned off the camera.

For a moment, I just listened.

The world out here was alive, in that messy, human way—car doors slamming, a dog barking, the distant yell of kids playing somewhere down the road.

Behind me, the old school remained very still.

Trapped between its past as a place of learning and shelter, and whatever it had become when the laughter stopped and the doors were locked.

Some buildings are just bricks and mortar.

Some keep their ghosts like secrets.

And some—like Sand Hayes House—tell you, very clearly, that some doors are better left closed.