The Archive
Haunted Locations
Dusty parish records, crumbling ruins, and restless spirits — every entry in our archive has been unearthed from the darkest corners of East Anglia.
The Archive
Dusty parish records, crumbling ruins, and restless spirits — every entry in our archive has been unearthed from the darkest corners of East Anglia.
The Archive
Dusty parish records, crumbling ruins, and restless spirits — every entry in our archive has been unearthed from the darkest corners of East Anglia.

A thousand years of prayer doesn't stop just because the roof falls in. At Binham Priory, the Benedictine brothers are still processing through their ruined nave — and they have no intention of stopping.

Deep in the North Norfolk woods, mysterious hollows scar the earth — and from the deepest, a woman's scream splits the night. Nobody has ever explained the pits. Nobody has ever silenced the White Lady.

Where ancient trees have swallowed a ruined church whole, and the roots of something older still claw upward through the earth. East Somerton's cursed ruins are Norfolk's most unsettling woodland walk.

Built in 1862 on the ruins of a medieval monastery, Borley Rectory endured seven decades of relentless paranormal activity — phantom nuns, scrawled wall messages, hurled objects, and a séance prediction of fire that came terrifyingly true. Investigated by Harry Price and witnessed by three successive families, the case remains one of the most documented and fiercely debated hauntings in British history.

Each year on the anniversary of her execution, the ghost of Anne Boleyn arrives at Blickling Hall in a phantom coach drawn by headless horses, her severed head cradled in her lap. This grand Jacobean mansion in Norfolk — built upon the ruins of the Boleyn family seat — is one of England's most haunted houses, where cold spots, spectral weeping, and grey figures have been reported for centuries.

In the reign of King Stephen, two children with green skin crawled from a wolf pit in Suffolk, speaking no known tongue and refusing all food but raw beans. The boy perished. The girl survived — and told a tale of a twilight land that has haunted scholars for nine centuries.

In 1644, a failed lawyer named Matthew Hopkins declared himself Witchfinder General and unleashed a campaign of terror from this quiet Essex town on the Stour estuary. Over two blood-soaked years, he sent more people to their deaths than all other English witch hunters combined. The real evil in Manningtree was never supernatural.

In December 1980, United States Air Force personnel stationed at RAF Woodbridge encountered something in Rendlesham Forest that defies rational explanation — a glowing triangular craft, hieroglyphic symbols, beams of light descending from the sky, and radiation readings that were off the scale. Multiple witnesses. All military. All with security clearances. This is Britain's Roswell, and the forest is still waiting.

Within the grand staircase of Raynham Hall lurks England's most photographed phantom — the restless shade of Lady Dorothy Walpole, captured on film in 1936 and witnessed by a pistol-wielding sea captain before that. Her hollow eyes have gazed from the darkness for three centuries, and the chill that accompanies her descent has never been satisfactorily explained.

In August 1956, RAF and USAF radar operators tracked a UFO over the Suffolk fens that outmanoeuvred two Venom interceptors. The object was real. The radar returns were confirmed. The official explanation? There isn't one.

Not the snarling church-wrecker of Bungay — this is the other Black Shuck. The silent one. The one that follows you along the Roman road and never, ever overtakes.

An iron-bound medieval chest that brings ruin to anyone who opens it. Families have burned, fortunes have crumbled, and the chest sits in the dark, waiting for the next pair of hands.

In a cellar in South Norfolk, a group of mediums produced phenomena so extraordinary that the Society for Psychical Research spent five years trying to explain them. They couldn't. Nobody can.

In 1381, the Peasants' Revolt reached Norfolk — and ended in a bloodbath. The Bishop of Norwich rode in with sword and mace, and the screams of the dying still echo across the fields on midsummer nights.

Every year on the stroke of midnight, a ghostly coach and four thunders toward the narrowest bridge in the Broads — and every year, it never makes it across. The horses scream. The coach splinters. And then silence, until next time.

On the coldest nights, when the Broad freezes solid and the mist sits low on the ice, you can hear him — a steady, distant drumming from somewhere out on the frozen water. He fell through two centuries ago. He's still marching.

William Windham III loved his books so much that death couldn't make him stop reading. At Felbrigg Hall, the candles still burn in the library — and the pages still turn.

Norwich's oldest theatre was built inside a medieval church. The congregation left centuries ago, but something in the gallery never did — and it watches every performance.

Ghostly lights that drift across the darkest reaches of the Norfolk Broads, luring the unwary into black water. The old marsh folk knew them by name — and knew never to follow.

When villagers moved an ancient stone from a crossroads in Great Leighs, Essex, they unleashed something that had been pinned beneath it for centuries. The disturbances that followed made national headlines.

On a Sunday morning in 1577, a monstrous black dog with blazing red eyes burst through the doors of St Mary's Church and killed two worshippers where they knelt. The beast has stalked Suffolk ever since.