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.

So, without further ado, let's dive into the mailbag for the first story of today's episode.

This comes from Tom.

Hi, I'm Tom and I'm from Sheffield.

I don't really believe in ghosts, but something happened to me last autumn that's hard to explain.

A few friends and I went for a long weekend in the Peak District. We were hiking during the day and one afternoon I decided to split off from the group for a bit of quiet.

I found a small overgrown walled garden at the edge of the country path, not marked on any map, past wallow by ivy and brambles. It was sort of mossy stone sculptures, angels,

animals, even a few faces, most of them worn down until they barely looked human anymore.

It was oddly peaceful at first, as I walked deeper into the garden, I realised the air felt

still, like the wind outside the walls couldn't get in. Then I heard a faint scraping

sound like stone shifting against stone. I turned around and one of a statues, a bird,

had changed position. He'd been facing away when I entered, now it was slightly turned toward me.

I thought my mind was playing tricks on me. Maybe I'd just misremembered, but then another sound came,

a slow grinding, this time from behind me. I spun around again, and one of the angel figures had its arm raised pointing toward the exit. I didn't stick around to see if anything else moved. I left quickly, climbed over the crumbling wall, and when I looked back from the path, the whole place was gone. I mean, I could see the trees and hedges, but there was no gap, no wall, no statues, just empty woodland. When I met at my friends later and told them, they laughed it off, so they probably found some old garden folly. But when I went back the next morning to the exact same spot, there was nothing, just brackening and earth. To this day, I don't know if it was a trick of the light, a strange pocket of history, or something else, but I can still hear that scraping

sound on my head sometimes, like Stone turning to watch me walk away. Tom, your story from the

Pete District is the kind that doesn't just give you goosebumps, it rearranges something in the mind of

anyone who listens. It's eerie because it doesn't just rely on a ghostly figure or a tragic backstory.

It's eerie because the land itself

behaved in ways that land shouldn't. And the more sit with what you described, the still air, the statue

shifting, the place vanishing behind you, the more it feels like you walked into something extremely rare,

something that doesn't want to be understood in a simple way. Your story feels like a brush with

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