This Abandoned UK Artist House Haunted? We Caught Something Unexplainable Behind

The English countryside is home to many secrets, but few are as suffocating as the place locals simply call The Artist’s House. It is a sprawling, decaying estate shrouded in a silence so thick it feels physical. The locals won’t speak of it—not because they’ve forgotten, but because the memory of the owner’s death inside those walls is a “touchy subject” that still tastes like ash.

I stood at the gates with my heart hammering against my ribs. I was joined by Nighthawk Paranormal and Moxley, a man who carries enough electromagnetic equipment to light up a small town. We weren’t just here to look at peeling wallpaper; we were here to find out if the artist was still painting in the dark.

I. The Auction of the Damned

Our exploration began not in the house, but in a massive, vaulted barn that had been converted into a private gallery. As my torch beam cut through the darkness, I gasped. The walls were lined with hundreds of paintings, their colors still vibrant despite the damp.

“It looks like an auction room,” I whispered, pointing to the small, numbered stickers on the frames.

The room was frozen in a moment of commercial exchange that never finished. Sculptures—creepy, distorted figures—sat on dusty tables next to delicate tea sets. Easels stood like skeletons in the center of the room, holding unfinished canvases. But the energy was wrong. In the corner of the barn, Moxley’s equipment began to chirp.

“I saw a shadow,” Moxley muttered, his voice tight. “It moved toward the back of the barn. Too big to be a bird, too fast to be a person.”

Biologically, this is where Pareidolia kicks in. In an environment filled with painted faces and sculptures, the Fusiform Face Area (FFA) of the brain goes into overdrive. Every stroke of paint looks like a pair of watching eyes. Every shadow looks like a silhouette.

II. The Scent of a Life Interrupted

We left the barn and approached the main house. The front garden was a graveyard of stone sculptures, half-swallowed by thorns. Stepping inside, the “Time Capsule” effect was absolute. Jackets still hung on the pegs; glasses still sat on the sideboards.

But as I moved through the hallway, a sound stopped me dead. Drip. Drip. Pissing out.

Water was cascading from a burst pipe near the boiler, soaking the floorboards. “That’s how the rot starts,” I thought. I moved into the kitchen—or rather, the first kitchen. The cutlery was still in the drawer, the washing machine still closed.

Then I found the second kitchen. It was larger, and the floor was submerged in an inch of stagnant water. Paintings were leaned against the damp walls, their canvases soaking up the moisture. The black mold was everywhere—thick, velvet-like patches of Stachybotrys.

The air felt heavy. The smell of linseed oil and turpentine mixed with the scent of wet stone. Inhaling these particulates can cause mild lightheadedness, a physiological reaction often mistaken for “ghostly” disorientation.

III. The Room Where She Stayed

I climbed the stairs, leaving the boys behind to set up their gear. I needed to see the master bedroom. The air in the stairwell was colder, a “convective draft” common in large, unheated masonry buildings.

I pushed open the door to the attic room and stopped breathing. The bed was still made.

This was the room where the owner had spent her final days. Locals say she was bedridden for months before she passed. As I stood there, a powerful, inexplicable smell hit me: Smoke.

Not the smell of a fresh fire, but the stagnant, heavy scent of an old pipe or a chimney. Yet, this was the only room in the house that didn’t have smoke damage from the ancient heating system. I felt a sudden, sharp brush against the back of my head. I spun around. Nothing. Just the empty doorway and the fading light.

“Hello?” I called out.

Then, in the corner of my eye, a black shadow darted from the left of the doorway to the right. It was solid, human-shaped, and completely silent. I thought it was Moxley. I ran to the door. “Mox? That you?”

The hallway was empty. The boys were still downstairs.

IV. The Necrophonic Dialogue

We gathered in the “Auction Room” to conduct a spirit box session using the Necrophonic app. The atmosphere was electric.

“Is there anyone here?” I asked the static. A rasping, electronic voice cut through: “No.” “How did you answer me then?” I countered, my skin crawling. “Tell me your name.” The device hissed: “Three.” “Three? Are there three of you here?” Silence. Then: “Lady… died… here.”

Suddenly, a loud BANG echoed from the far side of the barn. We ran toward the sound and found a heavy wooden pallet—which had been lying flat on the floor—now propped up against the wall.

We moved back into the house for a final session. We sat in the dark for five minutes, letting the house “breathe.” In the silence, we all heard it: A girl’s giggle. It was clear, youthful, and came from the wet kitchen.

We turned on the Necrophonic one last time. “Are we in danger?” The response was immediate and chilling: “Walking… further… down.” At that exact moment, a black shadow—the same one I saw earlier—walked through the far end of the hallway. We all saw it. It didn’t flicker; it moved with purpose.

Conclusion: The Masterpiece of the Dead

We left the Artist’s House as the moon rose over the Midlands. Whether the “Shadow Man” was the artist guarding her work or a residual echo of the tragedy that ended her life, the house remains a masterpiece of the macabre.

The grave in the back garden, the noose in the second barn, and the smoke-filled room where no fire burned—it all points to a story the locals are right to be “touchy” about. The house doesn’t just hold art; it holds the artist. And from what we saw, she isn’t finished with her visitors yet.