Hello and welcome back to Monday Mail Time with me producer Dom on the Paranormal Activity podcast,

where as you know, we dive into your experiences and your stories, what have you seen happen, what has happened to you.

So, without further ado, let's dive into that mailbag for our first story of today's episode, and this comes from Oscar.

My name is Oscar, and I'm going to be honest with you, Yvette. I almost didn't send this in. Not because I was embarrassed, but because writing it down made it feel real again in a way that I've been trying to avoid, really. You know, this happened to me two summers ago on the North Yorkshire Moors. I've been wild camping alone for three nights, just me, a small tent and a route I planned across the high ground near Filingdale's. I want to be clear. I'm not a nervous person. I've camped alone dozens of times. I don't spook easily. I'm telling you that because of how badly what happened unsettled me and still does. On the second night, I pitched up near a low rise in the land that I later identified as a bronze age burial mound. I didn't know that at the time.

It just seemed like a good windbreak. I ate, I read for a while by torchlight, and I fell asleep

easily enough. I woke at some point in the deep of the night. I have no idea of the exact hour

to the sound of weeping. Not distant, close, directly outside the tent. It wasn't like anything

I could easily dismiss. It was a woman's voice. I was certain of that.

Low and rhythmic, almost like being recited rather than spontaneous grief. It had a pattern to it. The same fall and rise over and over.

I lay completely still for what felt like several minutes trying to rationalise it all.

A fox, an animal in distress, sound carrying across the mall from somewhere

far off, but it didn't stop, and it didn't vary. The same phrase, and I say phrase,

because it didn't feel like language, though I couldn't make up words, repeated again and again.

I unzit the tent. Of course, there was no one there. The mall was empty under a partial moon,

pale grass stretching out in every direction, and yet the sound continued. I was standing outside, turning around, trying to locate it, and I realised with a deep and horrible clarity that I couldn't place where it was coming from. It wasn't behind me or ahead of me. It felt like it was underneath me. I stepped back from the mound, the weeping stopped immediately. I didn't sleep again

that night. I sat my back against my pack and waited for the light. When I got home, I started reining about the folklore of the moors, trying to make sense of it all. What I found though just didn't really comfort me. There's an old belief documenting accounts going back centuries, as we hear a lot on paranormal activity, especially Monday mail time, that disturb in the ground near a burial site, or even simply camping on it, resting your weight on it, can

wait something that was not long settled. Not a ghost in the modern sense, something older,

something placed there of intention to remain. The term I kept encountering was the unquiet

dead. The idea that certain burial sites hold not just remains, but a residual grief. A morning that

was sealed into the earth alongside the body. Some accounts describe it as protective. Others describe it

as a warning. I've gone back and forth from what I experience. Some days I'm most convinced

it was an auditory hallucination brought on by isolation and poor sleep. But then I remember

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