MONDAY MAILTIME: The Cemetery That Corrects & The Angel That Follows
Paranormal Activity with Yvette Fielding
adam.foster@createproductions.com
4.6 • 571 Ratings
🗓️ 23 March 2026
⏱️ 19 minutes
🔗️ Recording | iTunes | RSS
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Summary
This week on Monday Mailtime, Producer Dom dives into two listener stories that feel less like ghost encounters… and more like something territorial, ancient, and watching.
First, Daniel takes us to a vast Victorian cemetery in Birmingham, where something unseen appears to correct the living. Flowers are repositioned with precision. Soil smooths itself flat. And a slow, deliberate exhale follows him each time he leaves, as if the land itself is enforcing order. This doesn’t feel like a loved one watching over him… it feels like something that owns the ground.
Then, Charlotte shares her chilling experience at the Angel of the North after dark, where the towering sculpture doesn’t just loom… it responds. Metallic groans fall into rhythm with her movements, unseen footsteps track her down the slope, and for a brief, impossible moment… the Angel itself appears to have shifted.
Expect theories around territorial entities, land-bound forces, and why some locations seem to reject human interference entirely.
Because sometimes… it’s not about what’s haunting the place.
It’s about what the place is.
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Transcript
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| 0:00.0 | Hello and welcome back to Monday Mail Time on the Paranormal Activity podcast with me producer Dom, where we dive into your experiences and your stories. |
| 0:08.0 | So, without further ado, let's dive into the mailbag for our first story of today's episode. |
| 0:13.0 | And this comes from Daniel. |
| 0:14.0 | Hi, I'm Daniel, and I've gone back and forth about sending this in, because even now, I don't really fully understand what happened, and part of me worries that talking about it might stir |
| 0:23.9 | someone up again. |
| 0:25.0 | This took place in Birmingham at a vast Victorian cemetery that stretches across a steep |
| 0:28.8 | hill overlooking the city. |
| 0:30.4 | It's the kind of place where the headstones lean at odd angles, where Ivy swallows names |
| 0:34.0 | whole, and where the past twisting ways that make you lose your bearings, even if you walk them for years. My grandfather was buried near the top. I visit alone, usually close to dusk. I don't know why I chose that time. Maybe because fewer people are around, maybe because it feels more honest in the half-light. While in October evening, the sky was bruised purple and the air felt unnaturally still. Not calm, just suspended. |
| 0:56.0 | Even the crows that normally gather along the higher branches were absent. |
| 0:58.9 | I bought fresh white lilies. |
| 1:00.2 | I remember kneeling, pressing them gently into the soil beside the headstone. |
| 1:03.9 | I angled him slightly, not perfectly straight. |
| 1:06.2 | I even brushed some loose earth back into place with my hand. |
| 1:08.7 | I'm certain of it. |
| 1:10.3 | As I stood and stepped |
| 1:11.0 | back, I heard a sound directly behind me, a deliberate heavy exhale. Not breathing exactly, |
| 1:16.2 | more like air being forced out slowly, as though something had been holding it for a long time. |
| 1:20.8 | I turned immediately. No one. The nearest grades were 20 or 30 feet away. no footsteps, no movement, just the oppressive |
| 1:28.2 | silence settling back into place. When I looked down again, my stomach dropped. The lilies |
| 1:32.9 | had moved, they weren't toppled, they weren't disturbed in a messy way, they were |
| 1:36.7 | repositioned neatly, pressed flush against the base of the headstone, aligned with unsettling |
... |
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