The ghost of Bircham Newton

On a dark and windy night in Norfolk last month I was haunted. Yes. Haunted. Well, either that or I dreamt it, but for the purposes of this blog I am sticking with the spooky version of events.

Whatever did happen, I was genuinely terrified. Though I don’t believe in ghosts, I will not be staying in Block A at the National Construction College ever, ever again. And, should you find yourself round that neck of the woods and in need of a stop over, I would strongly advise you keep on driving.

The best thing about this “ghost story” is that absolutely everything about it fits in with an archetypal slasher movie.

The location: a strange collection of creaking, unkempt buildings miles from civilisation with no transport links.

The weather: howling gales and horizontal rain plagued the college during my three-day stay.

The people: Or lack of. In the evenings the campus felt deserted. For a block supposedly full of young building apprentices it just didn’t add up.

Then, please humour me here, there was the feeling. When I walked into my room I instantly didn’t like it. And not just because it smelt like industrial disinfectant and didn’t come with a hairdryer. It was a gut reaction and I found myself checking the cupboards and peeking behind the bathroom door before I’d even got my coat off.

That night I just couldn’t sleep. The room was cold, then hot. The TV was making a buzzing noise, even when I unplugged it at the wall and a draft would float out from under the bathroom door. A light from somewhere in the grounds glowed dimly through the paper thin curtains so everything had a shadow. I hate shadows.

Eventually I must have drifted off because at around 3am I started to slowly wake up. It took me a second to realise I could feel a very slow, deliberate pressure on my mouth.

It wasn’t constant though. It was moving. Then I knew exactly what it felt like - a finger. It was slowly tracing back and forth and at first I assumed I must have been doing it in my sleep. But when I looked down, my arms were firmly by my sides.

A quick shake of my head and the sensation stopped. I decided not to give much more thought and fell back to sleep. Things always seem better in the morning after all.

The next day, in true horror film style, I am in for a scary revelation. Chatting to one of the PR contacts at the college he asked if I drove to the NCC. I explain I got a taxi: “That’s good,” he says. “When people drive they Google the place for an address and than all that stuff about the hauntings pops up.”

“What?” I shriek.

“Oh, you know,” he continues. “That this is one of the most haunted places in the UK. It being an old RAF base and everything. The hauntings of Bircham Newton? What’s wrong?”

On site at Constructionariam my story has already reached most people and everyone is chattering about it. Turns out I am literally the only person who didn’t know about the famous hauntings.

I tell my story. Prefixing almost every sentence with “but of course I don’t believe in any of that stuff” and, “I’m not saying it was a ghost or anything but…” and then it’s his turn to go sheet white.

“Right, so you must have read the stories then?”

I explain once again that I really, really hadn’t and, if I had done, I would not have been too keen on this two-night stay.

“OK. In that case are you sure you want me to tell you?” he says. I nod.

“There are lots of ghost stories surrounding the college,” he says. “But the main one goes that a fighter jet crashed here, near Sandringham (where I am staying, of course) and all the pilots died.

"They were on their way home from war, desperate to see their wives and girlfriends and the legend is that they now wander the corridors looking for women. Sleeping women. That’s why I am so genuinely freaked out by what you just told me.”

On site at Constructionariam my story has already reached most people and everyone is chattering about it. Turns out I am literally the only person who didn’t know about the famous hauntings.

All day, the stories flow. Slamming doors, mysterious screams and shapes, old women sitting at the edge of beds. You name it, according to these guys it had happened within a foot or so of my room.

The winds are howling and the rain is torrential and I cope in the only way I can think of. Four gin and tonics. When I eventually pluck up the courage to go back to my room I am too scared to sleep so instead record a video diary of my experience – see link – I feel like Yvette Fielding on Most Haunted. Another scary thought!

I get absolutely no sleep – not because of late night visits from the airmen but because I refused to turn the TV off. Or the light, my ipod or the alarm clock radio.

So that’s my story. Three days at NCC and no sleep! You may all laugh but it’s true what they say. No one in Norfolk can hear you scream.

And if you still don’t believe me take a look at this…

The Ghost Database