Do you believe in ghosts ?

[Huskyxantia]

really?

[Huskyxantia]

[Huskyxantia]

Well that was the spooktober done and dusted I'm still to post my personal experience but don't feel ready just yet . As I was writing about the events of all them years ago , ive ended up having some pretty bad nightmares.... not nice I can say.

[myglaren]

[Huskyxantia]

Made me laugh

[CitroJim]

That'll be me then I look just like that when changing a duvet cover

[Huskyxantia]

Must admit I've climbed inside a few over the years , each corner first then a good shake ?

[myglaren]

I was taught by my Swedish girlfriend, before they became popular here.

Take them off so they are inside out, then once they are washed and dried it is easy to locate the duvet in the bottom corners and pull it over the duvet.

But just the day before seeing that, I did spend ages putting one on a duvet. I have no idea why but it took ages and three attempts. First time that has happened.

[Huskyxantia]

WHOS UP FOR ANOTHER SEASON OF SPOOKY STUFF THEN ????? ..... Drop your comments below

[Huskyxantia]

Im working on a book regarding an incident that happend yrs ago , here is part of chapter 2.... as this is the incident.. part off...

CHAPTER 2: THE NIGHT ON HUNTON HILL (1983)
​The heater inside the Ford Cortina blew a weak, lukewarm draft against the windscreen, barely fighting off the October chill creeping into the cabin. It was late on a Friday evening, and the car was packed to the gills—Ron at the wheel, Freda in the passenger seat, and the four kids crammed into the back, their breath fogging up the side glass.
​They were making the journey back from visiting family down in Chainhurst, cutting across the back lanes toward Tovil. Ron loved that Cortina. He was an experienced lorry driver by trade, a man who spent his life on the tarmac and took immaculate pride in his machinery. The engine purred like a clock, the oil pressure was spot on, and the distributor cap was checked and cleaned every weekend without fail.
​As the car crested the dark ridge leading down toward the Hunton Hill crossroads, the familiar Kent countryside vanished.
​The transformation was subtle at first. The warm amber glow of the dashboard lights felt dimmer. Outside, the pitch-black stretch of unlit road was swallowed by a sudden, unnatural bank of fog. It wasn't the light, drifting mist you’d expect off the fields; it was a thick, heavy soup that rolled out from the dense chestnut trees, heavy with an icy, biting dampness.
​Then, without a single sputter, backfire, or warning flickering on the dash, the engine died.
​The power cut out completely. The headlights extinguished in a split second, plunging the interior into total, suffocating darkness. The power steering went heavy, and Ron guided the silent, coasting Cortina to a halt right alongside the shadow of the thick woodland canopy.
​"What's happened, Ron?" Freda asked, her voice tight in the dark.
​"Ignition's cut out," Ron said calmly, pulling the handbrake up with a firm clack-clack-clack. "Probably just a loose lead. Stay put, all of you."
​Ron clicked open his door. The moment his boots hit the tarmac, a strange sensation washed over him. The night air was dry, but the moment he opened the bonnet and clicked on his torch, his jaw went slack.
​The engine bay was drenched. Cold, clear water was dripping off the battery terminals, running down the ignition coil, and pooled heavily over the distributor cap and HT leads—as if someone had dumped a bucket of ice water straight over the engine block.
​Before Ron could process the wet machinery, the heavy silence of the woods shattered.
​A loud, frantic crunching of dry leaves and snapping branches tore through the tree line directly to their left. Out from the black abyss of the woods burst a young woman, her bare feet tearing across the gravel. She was wearing a pale, tattered hospital gown, damp and frayed at the hem, her chest heaving in absolute panic.
​She didn't run down the road. She threw herself straight at the Cortina, slamming her bare hands against the glass right next to Freda’s side window with a wet, heavy thud.

[Stickyfinger]

Boo

[Huskyxantia]

PROLOGUE: THE HALF-TERM BREAKUP (OCTOBER 1983)
The build-up to that unforgettable weekend
started on a crisp Friday afternoon in late
October 1983. I was ten years old, and Friday
lunchtimes at school were electric because it
was the last day before the autumn half-term
break. Back then, half-term was pure joy—it
meant Halloween, Bonfire Night, and a whole
week of freedom stretching out ahead of us.
While queuing up in the school hall for dinner,
my best mate Ant and I would stare at the
massive world map pinned to the wall. We’d
search for Düsseldorf, completely obsessed with
Auf Wiedersehen, Pet, which was our absolute
favorite Friday night show. As we stood in line,
Ant mentioned casually that he and his whole
family—his dad Ron, his mum Freda, his brothers Ron Jr. and Albert, and his sister Sue—were
piling into their Ford Cortina over the weekend to
drive down to Chainhurst to visit relatives.
Half-term in Tovil meant one thing: building a
"Guy" for Bonfire Night. We’d take turns taking a
lifeless old pram, dressing up an old set of
clothes as Guy Fawkes, and sitting outside the
estate shops asking passersby for a "penny for
the guy."
Before Bonfire Night came trick-or-treating. We’d
roam the estate in the dark—getting chased off
by grumpy neighbors at some houses, but
getting a decent haul of sweets when we
ventured over to Forest Hill. Forest Hill was the
posh side of town, a completely different world
from ours. They had huge houses with massive
floor-to-ceiling windows, sprawling driveways,
and garages housing shiny modern cars.
To a ten-year-old kid from Tovil, Forest Hill felt
like Hollywood. Only four years prior, in 1979, I was still using an outside toilet at my
grandparents' house down Courtney Road. Tovil
was coal smoke, outside loos, and hard manual
work—making the grand houses of Forest Hill
look like something out of a magazine.
Ant’s family trip to Chainhurst that Friday
evening was supposed to be a simple family
visit. None of us knew that by the time we
returned to school after half-term, the story Ant
brought back from Hunton Hill would change
everything we thought we knew about our town.

[Huskyxantia]

Names have been changed for personal reason
Theres 21 chapters, who wants more , this is all true ive changed the names of the family and got the permission off my mate whom this happened to all them years ago .. who wants more ??

[Huskyxantia]

CHAPTER 1: THE SHADOW OVER THE VALLEY
​Tovil back then wasn’t just a location; it was a self-contained world carved out of farmland, heavy industry, and deep woodland. Life revolved around Coombe Road. I lived down at one end, and Ant lived up at the other. Everything in between was our domain—a maze of narrow alleys, gravel shortcuts, and steep tracks tailor-made for tearing through on our bikes.
​It was an area steeped in real working-class pride, heavy labor, and a thick, ever-present industrial smog. Down in the valley sat the massive paper mills—Albert E. Reed’s Upper Mill and the old Lower Mill. They were the beating heart of Tovil, churning out paper day and night, their tall chimneys belching heavy smoke that hung low over the rooftops. Near my old infant school, the boat yard sat right alongside the old railway spur, where you could still hear and see the steam engines chugging past to feed the goods yard right up into 1980.
​The men who worked those mills were cut from a different cloth entirely. My granddad was a stoker down at the mill for years, shoveling coal into the roaring furnaces day in and day out. One shift, he took a terrible fall and burned his arm brutally against the hot metal. He didn't complain, and he certainly didn't go home. He just walked over, washed his arm down under cold water, wrapped it up, and went straight back to shoveling coal to finish his shift. That was the spirit of the valley: no fuss, no backing down, just hard work in the smog and heat.
​And then, of course, there was the local legend every kid grew up hearing about: the infamous Tovil Treacle Mines. The older mill workers and local characters used to pull our leg about the sticky brown gold mined right out of the local earth—a piece of quintessential Kent banter that every youngster in Tovil eventually fell for.
​By 2026, people look back or see Tovil now and call it run-down, but to a young kid back then, it was just home. Fifty years ago, people took genuine pride in what they had. Front gardens were immaculately kept, back gardens were packed with home-grown veg, clucking chickens, and rabbit hutches, and coal smoke drifted thick from every chimney. You couldn't walk down to the sweet shop or the chip shop—where the old-fashioned shopkeepers served proper homemade pies wrapped in paper—without half the street greeting you by name.
​While Tovil felt warm and tight-knit despite the industrial smog, the mood changed the moment you crossed over toward Barming. Barming carried an underlying, unshakeable nervousness, dominated entirely by the massive, Victorian presence of Oakwood Asylum.
​Our mate Paul lived just a street away from the asylum gates. Whenever we hung out at Paul's house, you learned the local drill fast. Every kid in the area knew the sound of the asylum escape alarm—a long, eerie, wailing siren that echoed over the rooftops and through the trees.
​The moment that siren sounded, the atmosphere in every home shifted instantly:
• ​Step 1: Lock the front and back doors immediately.
• ​Step 2: Shut every window and pull the curtains tight.
• ​Step 3: Do not answer the door or ring the bell for anyone—no matter what.
​You’d see the trusted patients in their light clothes wandering the outer grounds during the day, which was normal enough, but everyone knew about what lay deeper inside. Whispers ran through town about the sprawling network of subterranean tunnels underneath Oakwood—gloomy underground passages where the most violent patients were allegedly chained to stone walls away from the light of day.

[Huskyxantia]

Ive got it down to 7 chapters and its in keeping with the October fight stuff