That Sunday evening I pulled over by the forest edge near Lakenheath — moon low, condensation fogging the windscreen — and hit record. What unfolded wasn’t meant to be a ghost story, but it became one.
Strange knocking in the dark. Lights where there shouldn’t have been any. The sense of a presence that wasn’t quite human but wasn’t unfriendly either — more curious, like it wanted to listen in.
I talk about poltergeists not as spirits in white sheets, but as energies that erupt when the veil thins — psychic discharges, bursts of intent made visible. They’re mirrors to our own turbulence. Wherever emotion or suppressed thought builds pressure, reality itself ripples.
Poltergeist RV, for me, was a liminal zone—half military, half fenland. Old airfield, Cold War echoes, radar ghosts on the edge of physics. You can almost feel the electromagnetic field whispering. It’s a perfect place for psychic bleed-through.
I didn’t set out to “summon” anything, yet the recorder caught a few anomalous sounds I can’t fully explain — taps, a low hum, shifts in air pressure. Maybe it was the heating system. Maybe it was something else entirely.
That’s the trouble with the borderlands — you never know whether you’re hearing the past, the psyche, or the Simulation talking back.
“Poltergeists aren’t ghosts — they’re feedback. Reality twitching when consciousness overloads the circuit.”
“The fens are psychic marshland — ideas and energies sink there and come back changed.”
“You don’t always go looking for the weird. Sometimes it finds you, late at night, when your mind is open and your defences are down.”
“Maybe the haunting isn’t out there at all — maybe it’s what waits when the mind goes still.”
