IT HAPPENED TO ME...

First-hand accounts of strange experiences from FT readers

“Please, for God’s sake find this paperwork and let’s go!”

Here’s the paperwork

My story takes place sometime between 1994 and 1998, when I was in my early 20s, working as a Housing Officer for a large Housing Association in Hampshire. This involved managing social housing flats and the tenants who lived in them, often working on my own. I would be dealing with rent collection, debt and benefit advice, neighbourhood complaints and the like. I managed a large block of flats in Laburnum Road, Waterlooville, Hampshire, which included many bedsits. These seemed to house the most needy, dangerous and weird people you could imagine. I particularly remember Jock, who always wore a sun hat with a clothes peg pegged on the top covered with dense and nonsensical writing (in felt tip) in concentric circles all over the brim. When he died and I cleared his flat, I found that almost every surface, including kitchen cupboards, every wall and even his headboard was wallpapered with ‘page 3’ girly pictures with the eyes cut out and various, rather personal, comments attached to each picture. I also remember another tenant who had created a ‘safe room’ inside his bedsit entirely enclosing him in a 6ft x 6ft floor-to-ceiling box with a locked door and even chains around it with just a chair and a radio inside.

One day my boss told me to deal with a flat of a tenant I had never met. He was a recluse whose rent was always paid by his benefits and had never been a problem to anyone. The neighbours had complained to Environmental Health about the smell, and when the police broke in they found the unfortunate man dead in his bed where he had lain undiscovered for at least six weeks. When I was notified of the situation the body had been removed, Environmental Health had fumigated and the flat was ready to be prepared for reletting, which was my job.

The first task was to make an inventory, check there was no next of kin recorded on file and if there were, to ask them to clear the flat; if not, I had to arrange a contractor to do it. Luckily for me, the police had already found a nephew who lived some distance away. I contacted him and discovered that he had no intention of helping to clear the flat and probably didn’t have the means to pay the bill if I got someone else to do it. However, he had a simple request: his uncle had been something of a war hero and he wanted to retrieve his medals as a keepsake. We arranged to meet at the flat while I made an inventory for the flat clearance company.

Millions of dead flies filled the flat, creating ‘snow drifts’ on the windowsill and a crunching noise as we walked about. The deathbed had the sheets pulled back and a stained imprint of a human body. There was even a stain on the headboard. Every surface of the bedsit was covered with dead flies, as well as paperwork and documents dating back decades. Torn curtains kept out the light. Rubbish littered the floor and a sofa had a perfectly laid out set of women’s clothes including stockings and high heels presented as if a semi-clad woman had sat there and then just vanished. Strange porcelain dolls sat on the sideboard staring at me.

The nephew seemed unfazed and quickly discovered the medals he was after. However, he also wanted some paperwork that went with them – the man’s service record, I assumed. I just wanted to leave as quickly as possible and wasn’t interested in what he wanted. He told me that this paperwork was most likely kept in the kitchen, in the bottom of a cupboard under the boiler, situated at floor level. We went in together. The kitchen was surprisingly tidy and uncluttered with a dirty but otherwise empty lino floor and nothing else apart from an overflowing bin. I looked in the cupboard; there were indeed a few bits of paper, but nothing related to the medals.

I got up and the nephew then had a look. He rifled through every bit of paper without taking anything out, but also drew a blank. Slightly perturbed, the nephew went back into the living room and started looking through all the detritus there. Whilst he did that, and keen to stay out of the horrific sitting room, I searched the kitchen again, looking in other drawers and cupboards. I checked the first cupboard again as well – but still drew a blank.

By now I was fed up and a little spooked, so I walked into the sitting room and told the nephew his time was up. Begrudgingly, he agreed but as we prepared to leave he suggested we check the kitchen one more time. I remember thinking to myself, “Please, for God’s sake find this paperwork and let’s go!”

We both walked into the kitchen and the first thing we saw was a roll of paperwork in the middle of the floor held together with an elastic band. There had been nothing there when I had left a few moments before. I picked it up and unrolled it. It was indeed the paperwork relating to the man’s service career and particularly the medals. I showed it to the nephew and he confirmed that it was what he had been looking for.

The realisation that this paperwork had suddenly appeared dawned on both of us at the same time. We looked at the paperwork, looked at each other, and both said “That was weird” at the same time. Then with a shrug the nephew left, and I followed on quickly behind. I never went back. The flat was cleared, re-let and a new tenant quickly

moved in.

Did the dead tenant want to help us, or did he just want us to go and leave him in peace? Was the nephew a messenger perhaps there to help guide the dead man to a peaceful afterlife? Who knows?

Dominic Clarke

Blackmoor, Hampshire

Chicken portent

I had a strange experience on the cusp of the Covid-19 ‘Lockdown’ in the UK, It was Monday, 16 March. My husband had been laid up in bed for a week suffering from a virus that may or may not have been the infamous one, and I had been at work. At about 5pm he rang me to say that he had watched the Government press conference and that I now needed to ‘self-isolate’ as I was in the household of someone who was unwell, so I called off the remainder of my work and set off for home.

On the roads there was a tangible sense of anxiety that went beyond the usual Kentish rush-hour angst. People pulled out of junctions a couple of feet from me with a dazed look on their faces, ignoring give-way lines. Our stretch of the M20, temporarily restricted to 50mph, was suddenly back to 70-80mph with most drivers, as they flew past, ignoring the cameras.

I got home, somewhat relieved, and looked in the side mirror as I backed onto the driveway alongside my husband’s car. As I did, I was astounded to see quite clearly in the mirror, two large, pale, bald chicken legs, each with three long toes, edging furtively into his nearside wheel-well. The legs stepped very deliberately backwards, as if they were in the process of emerging and had seen me and been caught out. I had the peculiar feeling that I shouldn’t be witnessing this event and my senses were telling me “This isn’t right!” I stared in disbelief as they went out of sight. If there was a bird attached to them it must have been about the size of a large domestic chicken. We live in a suburban area and I have never seen chickens being kept anywhere near us.

I finished backing onto the drive and immediately got out and knelt down beside my husband’s car to inspect. There was nothing there, but a piece of trim on that side was hanging loose. Still, no bird was visible under or behind the car and our drive is very open, so there’s nowhere it could have quickly hidden. There was no evidence of feathers or excrement, bits of straw or other debris that might suggest a nest. An inspection under the bonnet with a torch yielded nothing – neither did turning the wheels or driving the car around the block. There wasn’t even room under the wheel arch for a bird of that size to roost.

I still refer to this creature as ‘Chicken Legs’ in a jokey way, but I am convinced I saw something weird and out of place that day and I wonder if it could have been some form of nature spirit or liminal entity, stirred up by the sense of panic and uncertainty in the air. It reminded me a little of the crisis apparitions that visited people during wartime or other times of great stress.

Have any other readers had any similar pandemic-era sightings?

J Rosina Harlow

Ditton, Kent

Barney’s drink habit

Recently, my wife and I went for a short break to a small village in North Wales. It was quite isolated, so when we were in the local chip shop and heard a Derbyshire accent (we are also from Derbyshire) we were surprised. We asked the man where he was from and were amazed that not only was he on a short break in the village like us, but also came from only about 10 miles from where we lived. While we were chatting, another man came in, and he also had a Derbyshire accent. He had moved to the village 20 years ago, but originally lived in the village next to ours in Derbyshire.

This reminded me of another coincidence that happened to me some years ago. I went to college in Merseyside and had a friend called Barney. We lost touch after leaving college. About 10 years later I was in my local pub, reminiscing with friends about old times. I mentioned Barney and that I hadn’t seen him since college, when Barney walked in. The pub wasn’t his local and he had never been in before. He said he was passing and just decided to come in for a drink. Five years later I was the manager of a pub, once again in North Wales. This was very much a pub for locals, and when once again I was reminiscing about old times, who should walk in but Barney? I was astounded. He had no knowledge of the area and was on his way to meet some friends for a holiday. Once again, he just had the urge to call in for a drink.

William Jones

By email

Obliging spook

In 1998 (or thereabouts) I was living with my then-girlfriend in a flat in North Yorkshire that she had bought at a bargain price. The flat had a basement that she rented out to a friend of ours. One night we awoke to the sound of slow deliberate footsteps crossing our yard before crunching to a stop outside our bedroom window. We didn’t look outside. I don’t recall the footsteps walking away again. We didn’t think much of it at the time, but now I wonder if this was connected with later events.

When we had been there a few nights, we both started to hear an unmistakable rustling sound around the bed. This happened a number of times, but nothing could be seen when the light was turned on. I assumed it was mice, and mentioned it to our flatmate. He pointed out that we had two cats, so mice seemed unlikely. He then gave me a bit of a look and said, “Yes, I think there’s something in this flat” – and told me that he had been reading downstairs one evening when the door had been slowly pushed open. Expecting to see either me or my girlfriend (or one of the cats), he had waited.

No one came into the room. The door in question was in any case very difficult to move, because of the thick carpet in the basement. It certainly wouldn’t drift open on its own. He added that the basement window had been closed at the time. I asked him if he had been scared, which made him grin. “Whatever it is, it’s quite weak,” he explained confidently. “I told it to get lost, and I haven’t heard anything since. It must have gone upstairs.”

The next time I heard the rustling sound, I thought I would test out our flatmate’s theory. In my mind I started thinking over and over, “It’s time for you to be on your way. Off you go.” There was no further disturbance after that.

Matt Stanhope Pocklington, Yorkshire