Two days later, as I'm sitting on the minibus heading towards this so called haunted manor, never has regret raged so strongly inside of me. The president of the society is relaying to us what she refers to as the rules of respect, which apparently plan out how to behave in the presence of spirits. They claim we mustn't swear around them, which is as dumb as it is nonsensical. Annabel swears more than I do.

Mrs. President doesn't elaborate on why we can't swear around them, just that they find it offensive. Which they don't. The best rule is that communication attempts must only be made at night because only then do they feel comfortable, and I've no clue what section of her arse she pulled that out of. I realise I probably just sound like a cynical hag here, but these stereotypes have gotten pretty exhausting over the past ten years or so. No wonder there are so many poltergeists in the world. I'd be pissed off at the extent of this bullshit too.

Mrs. President must notice the sour look on my face because once she's finished her speech, she wanders over to me at the back of the bus. Her hair is dyed jet-black, and I can't tell if her face is that pale because it's her natural skin-tone, or because she's so busy hunting ghosts away from the daylight they apparently loathe. I keep imagining how funny it would be if we suddenly had to break, and she went flying down the aisle. Sadly, we don't.

"A sceptic, I see," she says to me as she stops beside my row.

"Two, actually," Jamie pipes up from the row opposite, and I want to high-five the guy.

Mrs. President turns to him and smiles, then glances between us. "You'll soon change your mind."

With that, she quickly turns back around--I assume to make the unnecessary lace cape she's wearing swish dramatically, and saunters back to the front of the bus. I turn to the row of seats behind me to slowly shake my head at Carmen and Tom, as if cursing them for dragging me into this pit of crazies.

I have to admit, I'm impressed when we see the manor. It's far larger than The Cavern, and while some of the bricks of that place look as if they're crumbling away, you can tell this is a tourist attraction. There isn't a blade of grass out of place. It's turning dark now, and based on the mindset of this lot, I assume we've come this late to avoid making the spirits uncomfortable.

There are floor lamps shooting white light up at the house, creating the illusion of it being mightier than it is. Oddly, I've never visited a haunted house before. I've been to places I was told were haunted, and they never have been, bar one with a ghost dog who was pissed at his owner for losing his ball. I've never been to a place like this though, where the entire reason for its being is harbouring ghosts. Whether there will actually be any is another story.

The tour begins in the main living quarters, which I think is old-timey talk for living room. I was never really into in history. Our tour guide is speaking in such a patronising manner that I can't quite tell if he thinks we're small children, or just idiots. Probably the latter. I would if I were him.

Annabel couldn't miss this barrel of laughs, of course, so she stands beside me uttering sarcastic comments about our tour guide, who she thinks resembles a mix between 90's John Travolta and this homeless guy who used to sell rocks he'd painted in an underpass in Sheffield. It's a pretty accurate comparison.

"The Lord and Lady, unable to produce children of their own, resorted to thieving street children in an attempt to mould them into perfect boys and girls. If a child dare step out of line, they would be no sooner banished from the house. Though we must bear in mind that those are the official claims..." Our tour guide pauses for what I assume is dramatic effect, and lowers his voice.

Give me strength.

"The truth may be far darker. Some reports claim that if the street child was anything but perfect, the Lord and Lady would murder it. Dispose of the child, move onto the next one."

"What reports are those?" Jamie demands.

The tour guide stammers slightly. "What do you mean, sorry?"

"You referenced reports, but didn't provide any sources. It's hardly believable," he replies in a tone that's effortlessly casual.

I love this guy, and one-hundred percent regret throwing him into a lake.

Our tour guide mutters something about checking later. Honestly, it's hard to take a guy seriously when he's dressed in a pair of tights. This is a seventeenth century building, and so while I understand why staff feel the need to dress up like they crawled out of their mothers' wombs during that era, I'd rather they didn't. If I was a seventeenth century ghost, I'd be offended.

Our guide has a brown cap on, and a puffy white shirt with strings dangling from the collar, and I can't quite distinguish whether he's trying to channel a chimney sweep or a pirate. I want to know the source of this guy's information too; sounds a bit shoddy to me.

As we move into the drawing room, I actually begin wanting to see some spirits. Our tour guide has moved on to patronising us with stories about the time this manor was used as a refugee house in the Second World War, and a genuine dead guy would really spice things up. The room itself is pretty impressive.

Four enormous sofas form a square in the centre of it, two of them a deep red while the other two are a dark green colour. The walls match the red sofas, though not much of them can be seen because similarly to Ava's house, they're filled with portraits of men and women from another era. Tall windows adorned with bold paisley curtains fill the left-hand wall, and the outside lighting seeps in to varnish everything inside with a white glow. Oak tables are placed beside each chair in the room, and the back wall is almost fully covered by bookcases. If that wasn't grand enough, hanging from the ceiling is an enormous chandelier.

I soon realise that this room is as good as it gets. The others are impressive, don't get me wrong, but nothing quite stands up to that drawing room. Things only go from bad to worse when people begin claiming to feel things touching them, or a strange sensation in their gut. One guy from the paranormal society even jumped into the air at one point, claiming that something brushed against his ankle.

"This is shit. Can I throw a book at his face," Annabel, who was lingering beside me at the time, muttered into my ear. "Give him something to really scream about."

I immediately laughed out loud, and got some real cold glares from the Paranormal Society clowns. Thankfully, the only one of my friends seemingly falling for this bullshit is Tom, but that was a given. Ava is raising her eyebrows each time someone claims they sense something, Jamie just downright opposes every single thing our tour guide says, and while Carmen appears interested in the history and legends of this place, she doesn't seem fooled.

I hold out hope for some dead folk, but the more rooms we enter, the more my hope shrinks. We enter the kitchen; bullshit, we head into the basement; bullshit, we go back up into the hallway; more bullshit, we go to the master bedroom; oh look, bullshit. Not even a dead cockroach. Of course, people maintain to claim feeling things, and I don't think they realise how ridiculous they look screaming and yelping at thin air.

But then Carmen shrieks.

We're walking through the second floor hallway at the time, and it's a rare but greatly appreciated moment of silence on behalf of the tour guide. Carmen lets out a shriek, and her body cowers against mine as her hand manically scrambles for my own.

People turn to her questioningly, and I spot a small shoe quickly disappear into the crowd, so I follow the direction it was moving towards until my eyes stop at the tour guide. Standing beside him, barely reaching his waist, is a scruffy-haired boy wearing khaki shorts, knee socks, and a woollen jumper. Well, I'll be damned.

Carmen realises she's grabbed my hand, and swiftly releases it as she stammers. "I swear to god something just touched me." She glances between Ava, Tom, Jamie and me. "Something pulled on my skirt."

I flash my eyes back to the front of the group, who have now paused, to see the kid grinning wildly. He starts giggling at Carmen's shock, and I've never seen anyone look more pleased with themselves. I turn away, careful to avoid any eye contact. Jamie raises his eyebrows at her, and she raises her shoulders in response as if to say I shit you not.

I glance at Ava to see if she's picked up on the small child now leading our tour group, but nothing in her expression suggests it. When I look back to the tour guide, the boy has gone. A girl a few feet away from me yelps, and the boy flashes past my eyes. I like this kid.

"Don't worry yourselves, ladies," our tour guide says as we enter a guest bedroom. "It's only one of the refugee children messing with you. He has a liking for women."

The little boy is back beside our guide, who's stopped at the end of the king-sized bed that takes up barely an inch of the massive room, and his face lights up at the acknowledgment of his existence. His small chest is puffed up with pride. Holy shit, this is the cutest kid I've ever seen. I turn to Ava again, and while she now seems to be paying close attention to what's going on, nothing suggests that she can sense this child.

I turn back to the bed, and the kid is still gleaming as our guide starts discussing his mischievous habits. One time, he apparently tugged someone's skirt a bit too hard, and it ended up around the girl's ankles. That one makes him laugh, and I'm so engrossed in his freckle-faced charm that I forget I'm staring. Our eyes clash, and his widen. Shit. His jaw drops, his entire body freezes, and he vanishes.

Partly because my curiosity has gotten the better of me, and partly because I feel bad for terrifying the kid, I mutter something about toilets, and tell everyone I'll catch up with them as they move onto the next room.

Once they're gone, I whisper into the air. "Hey?"

"You scared the kid half to death, you really think hey is going to work?" Annabel scoffs as she sits on the perfectly made bed.

"Negativity isn't healthy, Annabel." I tut.

"I'm already dead, what damage is there to be done?"

"Touché."

I call for the little boy again, but get as dead of a response as I did the first time. I try once more, and when that reaps no response, I consider moving back into the hallway to see if he's anywhere there. If this kid really is a refugee, he's been stuck in this place for around seventy-five years, and that's way too intriguing to leave be. I try once more just in case, but with no result, I make my way out of the room and back into the hallway where Carmen was picked on.

Once out of the guest bedroom, I turn to look down the hallway, and what I see at the end of it is so typical that I actually want to laugh.