My mate's parents have a holiday flat in Cornwall.
A couple of years ago he offered me & Mrs V the use of it for our holiday in late September, which was kind.

It being described as a "flat", we figured we'd use it as a drunk tank and take lots of trips, but it's actually the ground floor in a lovely big old Victorian house which has now been split into these flats.

As such, it's got four bedrooms, high ceilings, echoing tiled corridors, and doesn't stop going back until you get to slightly east of Narnia.

As such Mrs V wasn't too keen on taking a shower if I wasn't in the near vicinity (settle down at the back), but best of all, we were instructed to make full use of the real fire in living room, which required me to get coal. From the basement. Which was lit by a couple of very old 40 watt bulbs, down ten stone steps, and then along that corridor. Then turn left. Down to the end. Then turn right. That one there. Not the first or second - the third one.

You know that opening scene of the Sixth Sense, when she get the bottle of wine?

Yeah. Like that.

It was only on our return, thankfully, that my mate decided to tell us about how his brothers little kids had been really freaked out by the "children with dusty clothes" that they'd apparently seen playing around the old well, and outside the door to the basement.
( Je suis un vagabond is an unfunny, up your own arse middle class knob, Mon 11 Apr 2011, 12:45, 2 replies)

LOL

( emvee cruor deo cruoris, Mon 11 Apr 2011, 13:20, closed)

I've seen
far too many horror films which have led to me firmly believing that old houses inevitably contain spirits of murdered people. All of them.

And you've not put my mind to rest. Not a bit.
( Ultimate Cakes & Sweets Why,what are you planning to do - photosynthesize?, Thu 14 Apr 2011, 12:43, closed)