Weirdness in Surrey...
Back in the mid-80's when I was around 9yrs old, my family moved. We'd upped sticks from the big shitty and found ourselves in the semi-rural idyl of Haslemere, Surrey.

For us kids it was great - went from tiny flat with balcony, to huge house with endless gardens. The street we moved to was a real mix - some very tired, old terraced cottages and a larger number of 1930's semis - in which we lived.

At first I didn't want move, leave school, make new friends - so I was bribed. A shiny new BMX was waiting for me in the porch when we first arrived at the house and that did indeed take the sting out of moving.

I was in 9yr old heaven. Cruising the quiet streets, jumping kerbs, conducting massive back-brake skids down the hill. A decent place to grow up. The school wasn't bad - and I entered on a wave of popularity having not only been to London but lived there all my life. AND I owned a BMX. Things were going to be ok.

Everyday after school, I'd run home, get changed and jump on the BMX and ride aimlessly up and down our street. It was on one of these evenings that I met Janice.

Janice lived at the very end of the road, in the very last of the ancient terraced cottages. It was obvious even to my 9yr old self, that Janice and her family were exceptionally poor. There was no car in the drive, the front lawn was an overgrown mess of weeds, bare light bulbs hung in every room and Janice herself was a state.

She had pure fire-red hair, 'cut' by her mother into a perfect pudding-bowl. She wore hand-me down clothes and seem to live in a pair of faded, denim dungarees. And worst of all, was her bike. Janice's bike was not cool - well not cool for 1985. It was a Raleigh Chopper that she must have inherited from some older brother who had long since flown the nest.

But I liked Janice. At first she was shy. Slowly trailing me round the street as I showed off with my bunny-hops and attempts at wheelies. But her confidence grew and after a while we started chatting. I told her all about London, about the tube, about Harrods, about Oxford Street and she hung on my every word. Smiling shyly with a hand over her mouth, always trying to cover up the gaps where her adult teeth had yet to descend.

I soon forgot about her un-coolness and aching poverty and I actually began to look forward to seeing her each evening. On one particular summer's night, she didn't appear - which wasn't unusual, she often wouldn't come outside, despite me waving through the window. But on that night I really wanted to see her. I had new trick to show her (I could now bounce confidently on the front wheel) and I couldn't wait till the next day.

I wheeled my bike up to her front door, searched for a bell and finding none, I knocked on the door. An elderly looking gentleman opened the door, followed slightly behind him by a frail woman wearing curlers in her hair.

'Um...I live up the street and I was just wondering if Janice could come out to play'. I mumbled, fidgeting and staring at my shoes.

'Janice?' Said the old man.

'Janice?' Echoed the frail lady.

'Yes, Janice...I was wondering if she wanted to come and ride bikes again.'

I looked up at the couple and finally got a good peek into Janice's house. It was threadbare. No carpets, peeling wallpaper and those horrible, glaring bare light bulbs swinging gently from side to side. But hung on the wall by the stairs, was the one semblance of a normal family life - a large, framed photo of a grinning, missing toothed Janice, sat on her Chopper, leaning forward into the camera with her elbows propped up on the handlebars, resplendent in her favourite denim dungarees.

The woman approached me at the doorstep. Something was not right. She looked me up and down and then actually prodded me with her fingers. I began to back away.

'Janice?' The old woman said again. 'Janice?'

'Yes, Janice.' I managed to say in return, pointing up to the photograph, deperately trying to manoeuvre my bike to face away from the house and mount it at the same time. 'You know, Janice, she lives here.'

'Son,' said the old man in a detached, almost dream like voice, 'son, Janice was killed in 1973.'

Suddenly, the world seemed to turn too rapidly. I felt light-headed and knew I was gonna puke at any second. Whilst my head whirred and my balance deserted me, I noticed the frail looking lady had practically collapsed.

She ended up kneeling on the carpetless floor clinging to the old man's legs, wailing incomprehensibly whilst staring at me with a terrifying expression, one caught half-way between pure hatred and unadulterated love.

I staggered back. Managed to mount my bike and tore off down the street to the safety of home. It was weeks before I could tell my story. I told my Mum. She didn't laugh. But she did mention it to one of the other mothers at school. Later my Mum came to speak to me. She relayed what the other mother had told her. That there was a girl called Janice. That she went to my school. And that she lived on my street.

Janice was killed in the summer of 1973. A delivery van wiped her out as she cycled down the road that led to our street.

In later years I named my daughter Janice. It only seemed right.
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Fri 14 Sep 2012, 18:35, 12 replies)

Yeah, I read the Armada Ghost Stories books when I was a nipper too.
That Peter Haining was quite good really, wasn't he?
( stuj (^(^;;^)^) GO TEAM SPIDERS!(^(^;;^)^), Fri 14 Sep 2012, 18:44, closed)

The chopper was only really marketed in the UK when they introduced the mark II in 1974.

( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Fri 14 Sep 2012, 19:09, closed)

you mean...
Albert Marshmallow told a QOTW lie?
(dozers, do fuck off ur a nob m8, Fri 14 Sep 2012, 19:44, closed)

Maybe Janice was just WAY cooler than he thought.
And I don't mean that in the Cold Ethyl sense.
( stuj (^(^;;^)^) GO TEAM SPIDERS!(^(^;;^)^), Fri 14 Sep 2012, 20:05, closed)

Oh I dunno.
It's possible the Chopper was an earlier import. It's easier to believe than a fucking ghost child living down the fucking street. What the fuck sort of quivering subhuman shitterfuck would even begin to admit to that sort of moronic credulity on a public website?
( Dr. Shambolic je suis charlie, Fri 14 Sep 2012, 21:39, closed)

B3TA Most Haunted
Tell us your first-hand ghost stories and paranormal experiences, and we'll tell you that you are a mental.
Suggested by big_bluberry
( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Tue 18 Sep 2012, 12:42, closed)

You know, I can't even be arsed with this one.
Just fuck off, you creepy psychopath.
( BraynDedd Natasha Kaplinsky's labia majora, Fri 14 Sep 2012, 20:25, closed)

Fuck me
You even stalk ghosts, you ectoplasmic sex pest.
( CaptainCrackerjack live trout, slow motion, Fri 14 Sep 2012, 21:14, closed)

*click*

( mictoboy shitting in your cunt since, Sat 15 Sep 2012, 21:33, closed)

*likes*

( Albert Marshmallow is a completely irredeemable cunt, Tue 18 Sep 2012, 12:43, closed)

Here's something else terrifying involving Albert Marshmallow.

( Amorous Badger NAKED BEA ARTHUR PHOTOS 4U, Sun 16 Sep 2012, 18:18, closed)

I thought
This was a sure fire winner, until I realised it was borrowed. I'll click just in case you changed the story around enough.
(bROKEN aRROW PUA HVI Master, Mon 17 Sep 2012, 11:35, closed)