When I was a kid, my mum worked as a cleaner in a house on the grounds of a 13th-century castle. Sometimes my dad, brother, and I would go help her—usually late at night when the place was quiet. One evening, the old grandfather clock that had never worked suddenly started ticking. Then a heavy door, always stuck open, slowly creaked shut on its own. We were unnerved, but brushed it off. Until we drove away. That’s when we all saw her—a figure in soaked, tattered clothes walking straight through a brick wall. Mum stopped the car. None of us spoke. We just stared, wide-eyed, unsure if it was a ghost or our tired minds playing tricks.
I remember the silence in the car more than anything. No one wanted to be the first to say it out loud. We just sat there, headlights dimming, watching the spot where she vanished.
The figure wasn’t blurry or shadowy—it was clear. A woman, drenched, her clothes clinging to her like she’d just climbed out of a river. And then she was gone, swallowed by stone.
The castle grounds always felt heavy, like the air held memories. That night, it felt like something was watching back. Even Mum, who never believed in ghosts, looked shaken.
We never talked about it again. Not really. Just a few glances when we passed that road. A shared memory we didn’t know how to explain.
I still don’t know what we saw. Maybe it was headlights and exhaustion. Or maybe, just maybe, some stories never leave the walls they were born in.
