The Night I Almost Walked Away—Unexplained and Terrifying Paranormal Activity at Wales’ Most Haunted Hospital

The Night We Got Locked in Bronnagarth

There are places that feel wrong in daylight.

Bronnagarth is one of them.

By the time we pulled up outside the old hospital, the hills of North Wales were already swallowed by darkness. The building sat hunched against the slope, a massive Victorian shell silhouetted against the sky like a waiting animal.

“What is up, explorers?” I said into the camera, breath fogging in the cold. “We are back on another haunted adventure, and tonight we will be locked inside one of North Wales’s most haunted locations: Bronnagarth Hospital.”

The words were routine. I’d said variations of them a hundred times before in a hundred abandoned places. But tonight, under the weight of the building’s outline, they felt thinner.

“If you enjoy exploring haunted and abandoned places,” I continued, “then hit subscribe, help the channel get to four hundred thousand by the end of this year. And with all that said, guys, let’s check out the history of this absolutely amazing, historical, haunted building.”

I lowered the camera for a moment and glanced up.

The windows were black.

No street lights here. No distant glow of a town bleeding into the sky. Just us, the wind, and the shape of a building that had once been three things no one wanted to end up in: a workhouse, a prison, and a hospital for the dying.

You can almost feel when a place has been used to contain suffering. It gets into the mortar.

Bronnagarth had soaked up more than most.

The House for the Unwanted

Tucked away in these hills, the building had begun life as a Victorian workhouse—a place where the poor and desperate were sent to be hidden from sight, scrubbed into usefulness, or punished for the crime of having nowhere else to go.

Later, it became a prison. Steel doors. Barred windows. Pavements worn by the same footsteps over and over.

After that, it transformed again, into a hospital. Not the kind with maternity wards and hopeful waiting rooms, but the kind where people came to die—long‑term chronic cases, terminal patients, the ones too sick, too poor, or too forgotten to go anywhere else.

Behind these walls, thousands lived out their final days in pain and isolation.

You could almost hear them if you stood still enough: the cries of the poor in the workhouse dormitories, the shouts from the cells, the rasping breaths in the old wards. A lifetime of being a dumping ground for people no one wanted to deal with anymore.

And then there were the stories that came after the building was abandoned.

Locals speaking of shadows that moved without light. Screams echoing through empty corridors. A male presence—angry, territorial, violent—that seemed to hate anyone intruding on his domain.

Paranormal teams had recorded intelligent voices, doors slamming on command, a thick, almost physical dread in the old mortuary. People talked about a little boy that darted between wards crying for his mother, disappearing whenever someone approached. Others had seen a nurse in old‑fashioned uniform gliding along the corridors at night, forever stuck on her rounds.

Some teams refused to come back.

Others said whatever was here tried to follow them home.

And tonight, we were going to find out why.

The Corridor of the Little Boy

It took a lot more than a loose board to get into Bronnagarth. The place was technically sealed, but we had permission to be there and a key—along with a slightly unnerving promise from the caretaker:

“I’ll lock you in at nine,” he’d said. “I’ll be back in the morning. Don’t call me unless it’s an emergency.”

“What counts as an emergency?” I’d asked.

“You’ll know,” he’d replied, and that had been that.

When the last of the daylight vanished behind the hills and his car pulled away down the lane, leaving us alone with the hospital, the sense of isolation locked in with us.

“Okay, explorers,” I said, stepping into the main building, camera light casting a harsh cone ahead of me. “We are in the hospital. Just going to have a little walk through. Spirit Talker is on…”

The app chimed almost immediately.

My lungs, it said.

“Bloody hell,” I muttered. “Straight off.”

I slipped the phone into my pocket and let the torch beam lead the way. The corridors were wide and echoing, paint peeling from the walls in curling strips. Wheelchairs sat abandoned along the edges, their metal frames catching the light like bones.

Sean walked beside me, scanning doorways.

“So, we’ve been told,” I said, “that if you look through that far window, you can sometimes see a little boy running down this corridor.”

The story went like this: he appears first at a window halfway down the hall, watching from the glass. Then he runs—past the parked wheelchairs, down the corridor, and straight into the end ward where his father had once lain dying. There, he’s seen playing by the bed, laughing, as if still trying to wake a man who never gets up.

The corridor itself was pure atmosphere.

The strip lights on the ceiling were dead, leaving everything in a washed‑out grey. Every sound we made echoed too loudly. Far at the end, the open doorway of the little boy’s ward sat like a black mouth.

“The hospital,” I whispered, “is vibes.”

“Big vibes,” Sean agreed quietly. “I’m definitely scared.”

Spirit Talker chimed again in my pocket.

Harmony.

I glanced toward the far room—the one the boy was meant to run to, the one where his father had died. It sat at the end of the corridor like a full stop.

We moved down the hall, our footsteps too loud.

“You ready?” I asked Sean.

“Yeah,” he said. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”

We stepped into the ward.

Beds lined the walls, stripped of mattresses, metal frames dusty and cold. At the far end, one bed sat slightly separate, like a focal point. This, the stories said, was where the father had passed away. This was where the boy ran.

“You ready?” I asked again.

“Yeah,” Sean replied, taking a breath.

We stood near the father’s bed.

“If there’s any spirits that want to communicate with us today,” I said, “my name’s Adam.”

“I’m Sean,” he added.

“We don’t mean any harm being here,” I continued. “Any disrespect. We’d just like to welcome you to speak to us.”

The app chimed.

Steven.

“Steven,” I repeated. “Is that the boy? The father?”

No obvious answer, but the room felt thicker. The air wasn’t just cold; it had presence.

“He Has His Eye on You”

We moved back into the corridor, positioning ourselves so I was directly lined up with the view from the story: the window halfway down, the length of hall, the open doorway of the father’s ward.

“Is the little boy here?” I asked. “The one who runs down this corridor?”

Spirit Talker vibrated in my pocket.

He has his eye on you.

A slow wave of goosebumps rolled up my arms.

“I’m literally in direct eyeline with where he runs,” I said. “Scary.”

“Can the little boy come and play?” Sean called softly.

Nothing visible moved.

Then the app chirped again.

Behind you.

I turned so fast I nearly hit Sean with the camera.

“Go find yourself,” Spirit Talker added.

Sean sucked air through his teeth. “Did that just say what I think it said?”

“Yeah,” I said. “That’s… not very nice.”

I stared down the corridor, the camera light painting pale rectangles on the walls. For a second, I thought I saw something in one of the window reflections—a flicker of movement, a darker patch in the dark.

Then it was gone.

“Hey,” I called, forcing my voice to stay even, “if there’s anything here, show yourself now. Make that door close.”

We waited.

The air shifted in a way I couldn’t quite define. Somewhere distant, a dull bang rippled through the building.

“Four lights,” the app announced suddenly.

Sean and I exchanged a look.

“Sean,” I said slowly, “two on the camera and two torches.”

“What the hell,” he breathed.

“Are you saying that you can see us?” I asked. “Four lights?”

No printed answer.

But the idea settled over the corridor like another kind of watching.

The Child Who Wants Help

We moved on through the ground floor, weaving through small wards, waiting rooms, and old offices.

In one room, a draft snuck under a blown‑out window and slid along the floor like a living thing.

“This room’s got a right draft,” I muttered. “Oh, love this—check this out.”

A noticeboard still hung on one wall, decorated with a child’s picture: a smiling girl, missing a couple of teeth, her handwriting proudly naming her “Brenda Evans – 11/03/2002.”

The date punched me in the chest. 2002 wasn’t history in the way 1830 was. 2002 was childhood memories, mobile phones, PlayStation 2. Not quill pens and workhouses.

Spirit Talker chimed.

The child wants help.

“Literally who we were talking to,” I breathed. “Oh my god.”

“It sounds like somebody else coming through,” Sean said quietly.

I stared at Brenda’s picture.

“Is there a child in this hallway with us now?” I asked. “This corridor?”

The answer wasn’t in words.

Footsteps—faint, quick—scuffed somewhere near us. Then silence. Then a sound like someone lightly tapping their fingers on glass.

“You hear that?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Sean replied.

We both went still.

“Be extremely quiet,” he murmured.

For a few seconds, the building breathed its own slow, heavy breath around us.

The Ouija Room

Some rooms tell you what they’ve been used for the second you enter them.

This one did.

“This room’s been set up for when people have done Ouija boards,” Sean said, sweeping his torch across a table in the center. “Table tipping. All that.”

There were candles melted onto saucers. A ring of chairs placed deliberately. Chalk markings faint on the floorboards.

“Be careful in here,” Spirit Talker said.

My torch flicked to the screen.

“Is that because people have been doing occult practices in here?” I asked.

“That’s crazy,” Sean muttered. “We literally just walked in here.”

“Has somebody not closed a Ouija board or a séance properly?” I continued. “Is that why spirits come through here?”

“Orb,” the app replied.

I scanned the room again, suddenly painfully aware of every shadow.

“Is there something bad in this place?” I asked quietly. “Obviously you’ve already told us to go—ourselves.”

Silence.

But the feeling in the room was… wrong.

Like sitting in a chair that had just been vacated by someone whose anger was still hanging in the air.

“Is there anyone in this room with us now?” Sean called. “Maybe in one of these chairs?”

“Be careful in here,” Spirit Talker repeated.

I wasn’t planning on doing anything except exactly that.

The Door That Closed Itself

The corridors came in clusters: wards, offices, waiting rooms, nurses’ stations. The building was a maze, the kind you could get lost in even on a good day.

We found an old waiting room, chairs still lined up along the wall, glass partition between it and a reception area. The air was heavier here, and the silence felt less empty.

“Do you have any toys?” I asked the space, thinking of the child spirits people had reported.

“Waiting rooms,” Sean said softly, peering through a glass panel. “Ooh. I’m here for the chaos.”

His words hung in the air for a second before Spirit Talker answered:

You’re here for the chaos.

As it did, something tapped the glass.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Sean said. “I was just about to say—”

We both went quiet.

“You want to wait there,” I told him, stepping closer to the door. “Let’s hold that door. Maybe tapping on the glass…”

The next few seconds played out in slow motion.

Sean stepped into the waiting room, his hand reaching for the inner door.

The corridor behind him hummed with a cold I could feel on my face.

“Sean,” I began—

The door swung.

Not a gentle movement. A sharp, decisive slam inwards, aimed at trapping him inside.

“Sean!” I shouted.

He leaped back, eyes wide.

“You saw that?” he gasped.

“Yeah,” I said. “Did the door close?”

“Yep,” he said, voice shaking. “It tried to shut me in there.”

My heart was pounding.

“Oh, I’m scared,” Sean admitted. “You’re crying?”

“No,” he said, half laughing, half panicked. “I want to, though.”

“That is crazy,” I said, adrenaline making my voice louder than I intended. “It told us to go left, and when you did, it tried to shut you in the room.”

“Children are playing,” Spirit Talker chimed.

We both stared at the door.

“That is absolutely terrifying,” I said. “It told you to go down there, and then when you were on your own, it tried to shut you in. Did you see anything?”

“No,” Sean said. “Just heard the door.”

It was something else we heard next that turned the corridor from creepy to deeply wrong.

Tapping again.

And then, faintly, the sound of children’s voices in the distance.

“Me.”

We moved back to the main corridor where the little boy was said to run, my nerves rawer now.

“Okay,” I said into the recorder, “we’ve come into the main corridor of the old hospital. Lots of rooms. This is where the little boy’s been running. We’re going to use an EVP, see if we can capture any movement, any voices.”

My hands trembled slightly as I lifted the recorder. Sean stayed close, his eyes flicking constantly to the doorway where the door had tried to trap him.

“Okay,” I said, “so the spirit that’s just tried to trap me into a room—can you use your voice now?”

We stood in the corridor like two kids waiting outside a headmaster’s office.

Playback brought mostly the usual: distant car noise from outside, the echo of my own voice.

Then, under the hiss, a faint whisper. Hard to make out.

“If there’s a little boy in this corridor with us,” I said, hitting record again, “the one that sits by his dad’s bed, can you run down this corridor now?”

During playback, we both heard it: a light patter, like footsteps, stuttering along the length of the hall.

Cars rumbled faintly in the background, but the pattern of the steps was clear.

“If there’s a nurse in this building with us,” I recorded next, “can you use your voice? Tell us why you’re here.”

On playback: a soft murmur. Two syllables, maybe three. Not enough to be sure.

“Who was it that tried to trap me in that room?” I asked.

We recorded.

We listened.

At first, just the quiet.

Then, clear as if someone was standing a foot in front of the mic, a single word:

“Me.”

We rewound it three times.

Each time, the same voice, the same word.

Me.

“That one hundred percent says ‘me’,” I said, hairs standing up on my arms. “That’s wild. Freaky.”

“Who are you?” I asked the empty corridor. “What’s your name?”

On playback, there was something at the start of the response. A woman’s voice—faint, like she wasn’t quite close enough to the recorder—speaking over me.

Not clear enough to put into words.

Clear enough to know she was there.

The Ward of the Angry Man

If Bronnagarth had a heart, it was the main ward.

“Okay, explorers,” I said as we stepped into the large room. “We are in the main ward. This saw a lot of action back in the day. A lot of people passed away in here, and it’s a nice room with a lot of furniture, maybe a lot of attachments.”

Beds lined both sides, some with old blankets still folded at the foot, others with Bibles on the bedside tables. The air felt thicker here, the sense of watching more focused.

We set up the gear: Spirit Talker back on; REM pods on the floor; a strip of light and a music box across the doorway, so anything moving through would trigger both.

“If there are any spirits that we’ve contacted tonight,” I began—

“Don’t mess with me,” Spirit Talker cut in.

I stared at the screen.

“Oh, we got an aggressive one at the start, didn’t we?” I said to Sean. “In this area. That’s interesting.”

“Apparently there’s like a man that’s quite aggressive,” Sean added. “Maybe that’s him.”

“My ashes are here,” the app said.

We both went quiet.

“Maybe that’s the dad,” I suggested slowly. “Maybe that’s what we got before. Maybe ’cause we were shouting out to the boy, the dad’s seen his arse, you know what I mean?”

“Okay,” I said, raising my voice slightly. “Are we along the right lines? Was your son who we were calling out to earlier? Is that why you shut the door on me?”

No answer at first.

Then, a new word:

Sinister.

“You getting sinister vibes?” I asked Sean.

“Bit, yeah,” he said.

“We’ve got cat balls on each bed,” I called to the room. “If you are on one of these beds, or have some sort of attachment to them, could you set one off, just to let us know?”

One on the far side flashed suddenly, flooding the space with a brief pulse of color.

“Okay,” I said quietly. “Is there somebody in that bed?”

The temperature dropped so sharply my breath showed.

“Can you tell us why you’re still here?” I asked. “We don’t mean to be disrespectful whatsoever.”

“Pearl,” Spirit Talker said.

“Pearl,” I repeated. “Old name. Two hundred years ago. So you were here when this was a workhouse for the poor. Were you in the prison back there, in the jail? Made to work for your food?”

“Scratch,” the app replied.

“No,” I said out loud, firm for the first time. “You’re not allowed to touch us. You’re not allowed to harm us in any way. We’ll stick to our rules, try not to be disrespectful, and you can stick to ours. I think that’s a fair trade‑off.”

The cat ball near the Bible lit again.

“Okay,” I said. “Is that you saying you’d like to move on?”

“That one again,” Sean whispered. “All on this side, isn’t it?”

“We’re not bad,” Spirit Talker insisted. “We’re not bad. Misunderstood.”

“Maybe,” I said. “Why do people mistake you for being bad? Have you done something for them to think that?”

“Yes,” the app answered.

“What did you do?” I pressed. “Can you use your voice?”

“You felt me,” Spirit Talker said.

“That’s a weird thing to say,” I muttered. “Yes, I can use my voice. And then, ‘you felt me’…”

“Can you touch any of the other devices in this room?” I asked. “Maybe make the colors change again.”

The cat ball by the father’s bed lit up once more.

“Business has just picked up,” Sean said.

“I wonder what would happen if I got in this bed,” I said, half to test the spirit, half to test myself.

“It creeps behind you,” Spirit Talker replied instantly.

I paused.

“That’s horrible,” I said. “I’m going to see how comfy this bed is.”

I lay down carefully, the metal frame creaking under my weight. The sheets were long gone, but the shape of the mattress remained etched into the springs.

The cat ball at the foot of the bed lit almost immediately.

“So, I’m just putting myself in your position,” I said, staring at the ceiling. “The position you may have been in once upon a time.”

“I’m cold,” the app said.

Goosebumps rippled across my arms.

“Is this where you lay once?” I asked. “Is this where you passed away? Am I in the spot where you passed away?”

“Yes,” Spirit Talker answered.

“Can you come and sit next to me in this chair?” Sean asked, indicating an empty seat near his end.

Silence.

“Is there nobody on Sean’s side of the room then?” I asked. “Why don’t you come over and touch this red light over here? That’d be amazing.”

“Worried,” the app said.

Sean looked up. “It’s nothing to be worried about,” he said.

“Think about it,” I mused. “They kept men and women separate here when it was a workhouse. I’m on the men’s side. Sean’s on the women’s side. You just asked him to go over, and it said ‘worried’.”

“Are there any women in here?” I called. “Can you set off any devices on this side?”

“Black hair,” Spirit Talker said.

“You’re describing yourself?” I asked the air.

“Apparently you can be quite aggressive,” I added. “Is that right? Is that because you’re frustrated? Because you’d like to move on?”

“What family?” the app said. Then: “One. Two. Three. Family.”

“Wife?” I asked.

“No.”

“Children?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have a child here?” I continued. “A boy?”

“Katie,” Spirit Talker replied. “Katy. A girl. You have a daughter here.”

“Can she come into this room with us?” I asked quietly. “Can she go over to where Sean is? Maybe set one of the devices off.”

Silence.

“Do you want Sean here alone?” I asked.

“Better watch out,” the app said. “Darkness.”

I sat up in the bed.

“I don’t trust it,” I said. “I don’t believe it at all. Trying to make out he’s misunderstood and all that. But as soon as you start getting fresh with it, it starts coming out with all this darkness. The mask slips.”

Sean nodded slowly.

The ward suddenly felt less like a conversation and more like a negotiation.

And I wasn’t sure we were on the winning side.

The Nurse in the Corridor

We decided to change location and tools.

“Okay, explorers,” I said, walking carefully up to the first floor, “we’re going to walk through the upstairs with the SLS camera. There are stories of a nurse who runs through the corridors, barging people out of the way.”

The SLS—Structured Light Sensor—camera uses infrared dots to map shapes. It’s notorious for picking up false positives on furniture, but when it shows you a human figure standing where there’s only air… it gets under your skin.

“Is it this way?” I asked, trying to get my bearings in the identical corridors.

“Could be,” Sean said. “You get lost here.”

“So, if there’s any spirits that want to show themselves tonight,” I called, “maybe the young boy that’s seen here, maybe the nurse—can you show yourself?”

I panned the SLS along a corridor.

On the screen, lines of green dots painted the space.

Then, on the left, a stick‑figure appeared.

There was nothing there in real life. No chair. No coat stand. Just a blank stretch of wall.

“Okay,” I said. “There’s a figure on the left. There’s nothing there that should be picking up. I think the one on the right might be the bottom of the banister. But the one on the left—I’m curious about.”

The little green stick‑figure rippled, as if moving.

“Is there somebody here now?” I asked. “Can you wave your arms?”

The figure jerked, arms twitching.

“You hear that?” Sean whispered suddenly.

“Yes,” I said. “Did it come from down there?”

We paused, listening to a new sound: faint footsteps somewhere on the floor.

“This is the corridor where the nurse is said to run down,” I said quietly. “She’s barged people out of the way as she’s run.”

“If there is a nurse,” I called, “we’d like you to show yourself now. Can you manifest into our world? The physical world?”

The SLS glitched for a second, then painted another figure—this time in a doorway ahead that was, in reality, completely empty.

“Sean,” I said, “right in front of me. In this doorway. There shouldn’t be anything there at all, but there’s a figure.”

I stepped forward.

“Hello,” I said to the empty space.

As I approached, the figure disappeared from the screen.

“Is it gone?” I asked.

“Yeah,” Sean said. “Just flashed. Nothing there, though, that should have caused that.”

“If there’s a little boy,” I tried, “would you like to play hide and seek?”

The SLS pinged again—this time picking up a tiny figure low on the left, like a child crouching.

“It disappeared as I properly looked at it,” I muttered. “Hello. Can you show yourself?”

“Whoa,” Sean said. “Right in the middle of the corridor.”

I swung the camera.

There, in the center of the hall where nothing physical stood, the SLS showed a small figure again—arms, legs, torso, head.

“That’s the stuff I’m looking for,” I said quietly. “There’s nothing that should be picked up. Is it still there?”

“It just flashed again,” Sean replied. “Yeah, still there. Can you move your arms?”

The figure’s limbs twitched.

“It’s quite small,” I said. “Maybe a child. There’s literally nothing there that this should be picking up. The same size, the same shape. I was literally about to say, ‘Can you show yourself?’ and it did.”

As if in answer, tapping sounded from the same direction the figure was mapped from.

“Right where this is coming from,” I said. “Hey.”

We both stared into the emptiness.

The emptiness stared back.

The Voices of the Dying

We saved the Estus Method for last.

“Okay, guys,” I said, setting up in one of the palliative care rooms. “We are in the palliative care room where a lot of people passed away. Sean’s on the bed there, blindfolded, headphones on, listening to the spirit box. I’m going to ask some questions, see what comes through.”

The Estus Method works like this: one person, blindfolded and wearing noise‑canceling headphones, listens to a spirit box feed. They can’t hear the questions; they just repeat any words or phrases they hear. The idea is to cut out bias and let whatever’s coming through speak without leading.

The room itself was simple: a bed, a chair, a small table. You could picture it easily as it once was: a patient lying where Sean now lay, nurses checking vitals, whispers of family in the corner.

I took a breath.

“Is there anybody still here from when this place was a hospital?” I asked.

“Me,” Sean said immediately.

“How many spirits are with us right now?” I asked.

“Why?” he replied. Then: “Good. Yes.”

“Do you remember this place when it was full of people?” I asked.

“Who’s there?” he said. “Just me and Sean,” I answered. “Can you tell us your name?”

“Shh,” he whispered. Then, softer: “Hello.”

“Why haven’t you left this place?” I asked.

“Mary,” he replied. “I died. I’m scared.”

“Were you a patient or a member of staff?” I asked.

“Hello,” he said. “I’m here.”

“What happened in this ward?” I asked.

“Crying,” he said. Then: “Pain.”

“Did you die here?” I asked.

“Hello,” he answered. Then: “Yes.”

“Why were you here?” I asked.

“Who?” he said. “Alone.”

“Did somebody hurt you here?” I pressed.

“Dark,” he replied. “Yes. No.”

“What’s keeping you trapped here?” I asked. “What’s keeping you here?”

“Help,” he said. Then again, more urgently: “Help.”

“Can you see me?” I asked gently.

“I can hear you,” he answered. “Can’t see you.”

“Are there others here?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. Then: “Yes. Yes.”

“What do you think of us being here?” I asked.

“Leave,” he said sharply.

I glanced at Sean. Under the blindfold, his jaw had tightened.

“She doesn’t like you,” he added suddenly.

“Who doesn’t she like?” I asked softly. “If there’s something evil here, I want it to speak. Don’t touch me. Who tried to shut the door on me earlier?”

“See,” he said. “You wanted me to see you.”

“Did you pass away on the bed Sean’s on?” I asked.

“The children,” he said. “Children passed away here.”

“Is there a little boy still here?” I asked.

“Yes,” he answered. Then, almost immediately: “No. No. No.”

“Can you tell us his name?” I asked. “Can you give me a name of someone here?”

“Why?” he said. “Just curious,” I replied. “Just like to know who I’m speaking with.”

“Close,” he answered. “Yes. Sleep.”

“How many are here?” I asked again.

“Nine,” he said. Then: “No.”

“Do you mind me being here?” I asked.

“Why?” he responded. “Because I want to speak to you,” I said.

“She’s here,” he said suddenly.

“Who?” I asked. “Who is?”

“See me,” he replied. “Writing. Louder. We are. We are.”

“Is there anything demonic here?” I asked quietly. “If there’s something bad here, tell me your name now. Right now.”

“Pain,” he said. “Touch you now…”

I ended the session.

“What do you think of that then?” I asked, lifting Sean’s blindfold.

He blinked, disoriented.

“You alright?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he said slowly. “I was in a bit of a trance, I think.”

“You got some wild, clear answers,” I told him. “I tried to get it to touch you. Got some that lined up with questions I wrote down before we came.”

“Really?” he said.

“Yeah,” I nodded. “Some of them were like shouty. When you said ‘help’ a few times, it sounded desperate?”

“Yeah,” he said. “It felt like shouting. Like pain.”

I looked around the room.

The bed.

The chair.

The empty air that might not be empty at all.

If Bronnagarth had a soul, it was tired. Scared. Angry in places. Desperate in others.

Not ready to let go.

What Follows You Out

We left the building when the caretaker came back in the grey smear of morning.

Outside, the hills of North Wales looked peaceful. Sheep grazed. The sky was a flat sheet of cloud. The air smelled of earth and damp grass.

Behind us, Bronnagarth sagged against the hillside, stone and brick soaking in a silence far older than our cameras.

Activity?

We had plenty.

EVPs: a clear “me” claiming responsibility for trying to trap Sean in a room. Childlike sounds on the recorder. Voices—Mary, others—coming through the Estus.

Equipment: doors closing on command, cat balls lighting near beds, SLS figures where nothing stood.

Atmosphere: thick, constant, and often hostile.

We’d gone looking for the little boy, the nurse, the angry man.

We’d found pieces of all three.

And under it all, something deeper: a place that had served too long as a dumping ground for the unwanted, now full of presences that didn’t know how—or didn’t want—to leave.

As we walked back to the car, I kept glancing over my shoulder.

People say whatever’s here tries to follow you home.

I don’t know if that’s true.

But I do know this: for days afterwards, in the quiet moments between sleep and waking, I kept hearing voices.

Little fragments.

“Me.”

“Help.”

“He has his eye on you.”

Maybe it was just my brain replaying the night on a loop.

Maybe.

Or maybe Bronnagarth doesn’t let go that easily.

Some places don’t.

Some places stay in your head.

And some, if you’re not careful, follow you all the way back into the light.