A Haunted Night at Bodsey House — Where History Lives and Legends Linger

I caught a fleeting glimpse of three figures walking away from me. I couldn’t discern any hands or faces…

This is a work of historical fiction based on real-life occurrences. It contains a collage of typical reports about a real place. I confess that I wrote it for fun. The genre is English Ghost story, and the sitz im leben is a cold autumn or winter night, preferably stormy, with a blazing fire, good coffee, and family and friends gathered around. It is meant to be read aloud. Please don’t take it too seriously, even though some of it actually happened—I swear!

I. The Ghostly Trio in the Farmyard

The leafless tree trunks wept with clear, melted liquid, as if they were stout gray candles, unlit against the leaden Cambridgeshire sky. I hugged my heavy coat tightly around my torso as gust after gust of icy New Year’s east winds howled over the fens, warning me against pushing further. A Kansas boy, I was not intimidated by flatlands and winds, even in January, mainly because I was eager to view a relic of history: war-era bunker installations on the farmland. They stood pristine after half a century, still awaiting a German invasion that never came.

I was on holiday with my family, invited to stay at Bodsey Lodge (or House) in the lowlands northwest of Cambridge, England. The core of the house was a thousand years old. It had once been a hunting lodge of King Cnut the Great—the Viking king of England, Norway, and Denmark—a generation before William the Conqueror triumphed over one of Cnut’s successors, Harald, at Hastings in 1066.

I had looked forward to this part of our European tour because I wanted to explore this historical structure and its grounds. I was eagerly anticipating an adventure, but no one else at the lodge wanted to join me after we unpacked. The warm fire, friendly company, and hearty food and drink were too tempting, even for my usually adventurous children. Only a history professor with an insatiable curiosity would venture out in weather like this. Our host had considered accompanying me to examine the site, but suggested we do it the following morning. I, however, could not wait. He told me to walk north, past the farm outbuildings, where I would find the bunker on a little knoll with an unobstructed view of the fens before me.

I was doing my best to navigate the area when, for a brief moment, I forgot about my mission to curse the blustery wind. To my left, to the west, there was a line of trees that marked the toll road, hiding the lodge grounds from the usually busy two-lane road. The friends we traveled with had been here before and mentioned that the lodge was surprisingly quiet, given the steady traffic motoring north toward the historic bridge a kilometer away. The lodge building itself was a break in the trees, its west walls nearly touching the toll road—what an American would call a zero setback, a dangerous faux pas in either architecture or road construction, or perhaps an intriguing conspiracy involving both. To my right, there were impenetrable empty pens and more outbuildings. The only way was forward.

Suddenly, a cloth that had been blowing free wrapped around my ankles, and I struggled to free myself. When I finally raised my head, I caught a fleeting glimpse of three figures walking away from me. I couldn’t discern any hands or faces, only guessed at their gender because they all wore capes— or were they robes? The adult walked between two children, arms draped around their shoulders. I had just enough time to see that the adult’s robe was a dusty black while the children’s capes appeared to be made of soft animal skins. I imagined their coats lined with some wool, but I saw no evidence of that.

I heard nothing, but in an instant, they rounded a corner of an outbuilding and vanished from sight. Was our host aware that they were on the property? They were not far ahead of me, but I knew my shouts wouldn’t reach them over the roar of the wind. So, I ran after them. As soon as I turned the corner, they had disappeared! Before me stood the knoll and bunker. They either went down the knoll, out of my line of sight, or entered the bunker. I assumed the latter and recklessly ventured inside, though I have no recollection of how I did so.

The interior of the bunker was still, damp, and dark compared to the outdoors, but there was enough light to see. The trio was nowhere to be found. I peered out through the slotted openings of the bunker, scanning the fens. They had vanished completely. Without having completed the study I had intended, I dashed outside, looked in every direction, and returned to the spot where I had first seen them, as if I could somehow recreate the sighting. All my efforts were in vain. A deeper chill settled within me, surpassing even the wind, as I made my way back to the lodge, determined to report my experience to our host.

I began to question my senses. Had I really seen them? Had I done everything I could to locate them after I rounded the corner? Who were they?

II. Cnut the Great and the tragedy on Whittlesea Mere

As I walked, I remembered that this place had once been Cnut’s processionary home. Cnut apparently had no central palace; instead, he moved his court with him throughout his realm, showcasing his power rather than focusing on administrative efficiency. The current house was constructed around an eleventh-century hunting lodge, and to the northwest lay Whittlesea Mere. This shallow ancient lake was once the largest lowland lake in England. It measured three miles long and two miles wide, growing in size due to flooding. This flooding issue troubled the Victorians, who undertook a massive drainage project that led to the lake’s disappearance in 1851. The hunting lodge survived because it was built on what would have been an island during flooding. This situation offered a strategic advantage but also made it a dream location for hunters, as wildlife was attracted to the lake. Although the site was isolated, it was connected to village civilization on the other side of the mere by boat.

The most famous story about Cnut concerns his alleged standing on the seashore, commanding the tides to remain still. We may interpret this story in two ways: either as an act of arrogance or as a display of wisdom. The intention behind this event was to convey an essential lesson about spirituality—only God is sovereign. The second most well-known story of Cnut as an English king involves Whittlesea Mere and this particular lodge.

According to A Catalog of Cambridgeshire Folk Tales by Maureen James, published in 2014, a well-known local story recounts:

Cnut built a hunting lodge at Bodsey, near Ramsey, which he could reach by crossing Whittlesea Mere. It was said that Cnut’s twin sons would travel across the mere on their way to school at Peterborough Abbey.

One day, while the sons and their servants were sailing over Whittlesea Mere, a sudden and turbulent storm arose, surrounding them and leaving them in utter despair for their lives. However, by the mercy of God, some were rescued safely from the furious waves. Conversely, others, according to divine judgment, were allowed to pass from this life.

One day, while the sons and their servants were sailing over Whittlesea Mere, a sudden and turbulent storm arose, surrounding them and leaving them in utter despair for their lives.

After the storm subsided and Cnut realized his sons had drowned, he ordered his soldiers and servants to use their swords to mark out a ditch in the marshes between Ramsey and Whittlesey. Then, he commanded workers to clean up the area. The causeway that the soldiers made with their swords became known as the King’s Ditch or Cnut’s Dyke.

The lasting nature of this story is shown in an event that happened in February 1913, reported in the Cambridge Independent Press. During excavations at a monastic cemetery in Peterborough, two tiny coffins were discovered. At first, many believed this finding confirmed the final resting place of Cnut’s twin sons, as the coffins were dated to the eleventh century. But, the bodies inside were only about 2.5 feet tall, suggesting they were infants or toddlers.

The problem arose from this: by that time, Cnut’s sons would have been between six and ten years old, the typical age for attending the abbey school. In the twentieth century, popular opinion shifted back to a local tradition that the sons were buried beneath the flagstones in the central hall, or ermitage, of Bodsey Lodge, the very house where my family was staying for a few days. I suddenly found myself intrigued by that central hall. I didn’t need to wonder if I would be able to see it, as we would be dining in that room tonight—perhaps over the graves of two princes from pre-Norman England.

My history training usually dismisses undocumented tales, but I had to admit, with a chill running down my spine, that I was curious about the three cloaked figures I had seen in the farmyard. I was determined to keep this apparition to myself and see if a reasonable explanation surfaced. I returned to the lodge, put on my best face, and joined in the warm fellowship. Yet, at the forefront of my mind were those three cloaked figures. I wondered…

III. A Bump in the Fright

The hosts had instructed us to gather in the dining room, the oldest part of the lodge, which remains from Cnut’s main hall. As I entered the room, I noticed it didn’t seem very grand or spacious, but I was surprised to find that the ceiling was higher than I had expected. I went up to our room on the second level, which the British call the first floor. Our bedroom overlooked the toll road on the west side, alarmingly close. I wanted to change into something more appropriate and found my wife, Precious (yes, that is her real name), there. She was fastening an earring and appeared to be preoccupied.

“Where are the kids?” I asked.

“They’re already downstairs,” Precious replied, fastening her earring. “They’re excited about the story our host told them—laughing about dining on the graves of Viking princes.”

“Well, that’s understandable,” I said, smiling faintly. “I have to admit, I love the idea of this place. Imagine—a thousand-year-old building.”

“Hold on there, professor,” she said, her voice flat. “Only that dining room is that old. The rest of the house was added bit by bit over the centuries.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” I said, shifting my weight. “But tell me… what’s wrong? You don’t quite seem yourself.”

She hesitated. “I don’t know. The whole idea of eating dinner over the graves of those little boys creeps me out, even if it was a thousand years ago.” Her eyes flicked toward the door. “And…”

“And what?” I asked. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”

She toyed with the earring for a moment, as though buying time. Then she met my eyes. “Liam, twice, walking between here and the bath, I felt… something.”

“And?” I prompted.

“Oh, it’s silly. I’m probably tired and imagined it. Anyway, we should get to the dining room. The kids have been there for a while.”

I know that tone. Precious was trying to close the subject. But something in her voice made me press. “Not until you finish. What happened in the hall?”

“Nothing. I imagined it. A muscle cramp or something.”

“A muscle cramp?” I said, raising an eyebrow. “You’d better tell me.”

She exhaled, resigned. “All right. When I walked to the bathroom, it felt like someone pushed me against the wall.”

“That doesn’t sound like a cramp.”

“Fine,” she said sharply. “It felt like someone was hurrying down the hall toward me and brushed me aside. It happened again a few minutes ago. The floors are uneven. I must have slipped.”

It was true—the place had no accurate angles, no level floors. Still, I shook my head. “You didn’t slip. And deep down, you know it wasn’t a cramp.”

She stared at me. “Then what?”

“You were pushed.”

“Oh, Liam,” she whispered. “You’re scaring me. There was no one there.”

I mumbled, more to myself than to her, “Yes, there was. Someone’s come to play.”

“What? What did you say?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “Forget it. We’d better get to dinner.”

She seemed relieved to let the subject go.

IV. Voices and Comfort in the Central Hall

The dining room was warm with firelight, but our children were unnervingly still. Hope and Jesse sat rigidly in their chairs, their usual mischief replaced with blank stares. I tried to sound cheerful.

“Hey, guys. How long have you been here?”

“Shush, Dad,” Hope hissed.

“Shush?” I echoed. Hope was eleven and spirited, but she had never told me to shush before.

“He’s gone, Hope,” ten-year-old Jesse said quietly.

“Dad scared him away,” Hope snapped. “We want to go find him.”

Precious’s voice cut through. “I don’t want you wandering around this house by yourselves.”

“I’m staying here,” Jesse said quickly. “I don’t want to go with Hope.”

“I can’t go alone!” Hope shot back. “You have to come with me.”

“Hope’s a scaredy-cat,” Jesse teased.

“Am not! Besides, you almost cried,” she retorted.

I raised my voice just enough to stop the squabbling. “Hope, who’s gone?”

“The little boys,” she said. “We heard them crying, but we couldn’t see them.”

“Yeah,” Jesse added, “but the light thing was swinging back and forth. Like a monkey was playing on it.”

“Liam!” Precious snapped, as though this were somehow my doing.

Just then, our hosts and friends entered. I leaned toward the kids. “Keep this to yourselves, all right?”

“Why?” Jesse whispered.

“Just do it,” I hissed back.

Our host appeared—a slight, balding man with a fringe of white hair and a short grey beard. His glasses caught the firelight; his blue eyes sparkled with the look of a man who knows something. He set down a plate of rolls and honey.

“I’ll do as you say, Liam,” he chuckled. “But what do you want me to do?”

I felt my ears burning. Precious later told me they’d turned scarlet.

“Oh, nothing,” I muttered.

“I imagined you might have met one of our ghosts,” he said lightly.

“So you know about them?” I asked before I could stop myself.

He looked amused. “Know about them? I live here. They’re buried under us.” He tapped the flagstones beneath the table. “Two Viking princes. Cnut’s twin sons. They’re not always around, but with children here…” He let the thought dangle.

His wife swept in with more food. He moved easily around the table, watching our faces with quiet amusement. “Oh, come on,” he said finally. “You don’t believe in ghosts, do you?”

“No,” I replied automatically.

“Neither do I,” he said, his voice softening. “But I do believe in the supernatural world. Just like C. S. Lewis did, and as you do.”

“Of course,” I said, matter-of-fact, as if we were discussing the weather.

“I can’t prove what they are,” he continued, “but I believe they’re… playing roles. Their activity’s been increasing lately. But let’s not spoil the evening. We’ve grown used to them over the years. You may, too.” And so we ate.

The food was warm and familiar; the flagstones beneath our feet were not. The princes—or whatever they were—kept their distance but, as our host put it, stayed “underfoot.” We lingered at the table longer than was wise, reluctant to part with the firelight and company. But eventually, we climbed the creaking stairs and retired to our rooms. The house settled around us—or perhaps it didn’t.

V. The Flashing Lights

All four of us encountered the hallway bully that night. My wife and I were unsettled; the children, perversely, found it thrilling, making extra bathroom trips as though it were an amusement ride. The wind grew sharper outside, the house colder. The bedclothes were heavy, almost oppressive. Still, they slept—blissfully unaware of what might walk those halls.

I awoke to a crash. Our door had slammed open, striking the wall with a force that shook me out of half-sleep. Beside me, my wife stirred, mumbling, “No… no, no, no!” Her fear was contagious. For a heartbeat, I expected to see the caped figures looming in the doorway.

Instead, it was Doug and Carrie.

“Don’t you knock?” I snapped, my heart still hammering.

“Take it easy, take it easy!” Doug hissed, hands raised like a man talking down a wild animal. “We’re losing our minds and just got a little excited.”

“Losing your minds?” I said. “I’m guessing it’s not the plumbing.”

He gave a nervous laugh. “The lights in the north bedroom kept turning on after we switched them off. Five, six times. We thought it was a short.”

Carrie picked up where he left off. “I told him to unplug it. He did. And then the unplugged lamp came on.”

“That,” Doug said flatly, “was the limit.”

My wife had gone to check the children and returned shaking her head. “They’re still asleep somehow. I brought extra sleeping masks. Why don’t you try them?”

Doug grimaced. “I doubt sleep’s in the cards.”

“It’s two in the morning,” Carrie coaxed. “Let’s try. We need rest.”

“You know,” I said, leaning back, “your room overlooks what used to be the mere. There’s a storm blowing in. People have reported lights out there for centuries, long before there was electricity. Some say it’s someone still trying to guide the boat back to shore.”

Doug’s jaw slackened. Carrie laughed softly. “See, Doug? They’ve been here long before us, and they’ll be here after we’re gone.”

She herded him back down the corridor with masks in hand. They passed the rest of the night almost without incident. I wish I could say the same for myself.

VI. Confrontation in Cnut’s Ermitage

I opened my eyes at 4:00 a.m. exactly. The kind of hour when night has thinned but refuses to let morning in. One look at the clock, and I knew I had finished sleeping. I sat up. Precious wasn’t there. I pulled on my robe and slippers, checked the bathroom—empty. I wasn’t alarmed yet. I thought she might be in the children’s room. But when I opened their door, I froze. The beds were neat, untouched. The room was empty.

The panic came swiftly. The only other possibility was Doug and Carrie’s room. I made my way down two turns of an older, narrower corridor, the air colder with each step. At the end of the hall, a faint flicker of light shone under their door. The lamps were still going mad. I didn’t bother knocking. I pushed the door open. The light blinked off almost the instant I entered—but not fast enough to hide what I saw: two perfectly made beds. No one inside. The room was as empty as the rest of the house.

There was nothing for it now but to go downstairs and check the hosts’ apartment. The door to their section of the house stood ajar, the darkness behind it unbroken. There was no one there.

I passed through the kitchen, my steps muffled on the uneven floorboards, and stopped before the swinging door that led to the dining hall. For several long seconds, I just stared at it, weighing my nerve. Even if my family wasn’t inside, I felt certain the answer to this mystery lay there. I told myself, they may need me. I have to find out what’s waiting.

That sounded melodramatic, but fear has a way of pulling odd performances out of a man. I felt like a poor understudy thrust into a role he didn’t want.

I pushed the door open against the cold brass plate and stepped into the hallway. If anything, the air here was more frigid than in the rest of the house. But something was off at once: in the massive medieval fireplace, a roaring fire crackled and spat—yet the room remained icy. My breath fogged in the air, and the flames threw long shadows across the flagstones.

My eyes, drawn first to the fire, slowly scanned the rest of the room. Then I saw them.

Or rather—them.

The three caped figures stood in the shadows on the far side of the hall: an adult and two smaller shapes, most likely children. Their faces were turned away from me toward the blank wall. For a moment, I couldn’t move. I was frozen, rooted to the spot like prey that knows it’s already been seen.

When I get nervous, I talk too much. It’s a reflex, a bad one. So I blurted out, “What have you done with my family and friends?”

A high, metallic voice answered, brittle as breaking glass.

“The children need playmates. They will stay with us.”

“And the others?” I demanded.

“We will deal with them as we see fit. You should not have come to the Fens. The king is not pleased. This is his domain.”

I swallowed hard, forcing my voice to steady. “Before I ask the obvious question, can I satisfy a historian’s curiosity?”

“Your time is short,” the voice hissed. “But ask.”

“What kind of eleventh-century ghosts speak modern English? You shouldn’t even know what a historian is. Historical consciousness didn’t exist in your era.”

The temperature rose sharply, the heat biting into my skin. Though the figures’ faces were hidden, I could feel the fury in the room shift toward me like a physical force. This fellow didn’t care for history.

“You have talked too much. The children are bored. And as for your unspoken question—we know you wonder what we will do with you. Step toward the fire.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You already know. You have no choice.”

Before I could move—or refuse—my body lifted from the floor. My toes scraped the stone as an invisible pressure propelled me forward. My arms and legs were locked. Slowly, inevitably, I was drawn toward the flames. The closer I came, the hotter it grew, until my eyes burned as though they might melt before my skin.

Then came a violent surge forward—a jolt of unbearable heat—

—and everything went black.

VII. Denouement

“Liam. Liam. Wake up.”

It was my wife’s voice, warm and familiar. A hand pressed my shoulder. For a moment, relief flooded me. Then came the slap—a hard, ringing slap across my face. That wasn’t heaven.

“Liam, you’re scaring me to death. Wake up.”

I opened my eyes. Precious was nearly sitting on my chest, wild-eyed. Behind her, Hope and Jesse giggled in the doorway, clearly delighted by the spectacle of their mother whacking me awake.

“It’s morning,” she said briskly. “We’re dressed, packed, and ready to leave for London. Doug and Carrie are coming with us. Our hosts thought it best—apparently, the children have attracted a little… interest.”

“Fine with me,” I muttered, still half dazed. “But wait—how did you escape the caped ghouls?”

“What?” they said in chorus.

I realized I’d never told anyone about my earlier encounter in the farmyard.

“Did he say cape gulls?” Carrie asked, sticking her head into the room.

I felt like Dorothy waking up in Kansas after Oz. “I thought they were going to immolate me,” I said weakly. “I challenged their ghostly credentials.”

My wife rolled her eyes. “Liam, that was your dream. It didn’t happen.”

My children laughed again.

But the smell of wood smoke still lingered in my nostrils. And my feet, strangely, still felt cold.

“Well, whaddaya know?” I said, my voice still groggy. “Just like Hollywood. All a dream. The next thing you’ll tell me is that the credits are about to roll. Why, when Doug and Carrie crashed our room—”

“No, Liam.” Precious cut me off. Her tone was firm, and that alone made me sit up a little straighter. “That part was real. They had to change rooms. Even with the sleeping masks, the lights kept going on and off.”

I blinked. “Then… all the other stuff happened too? The voices in the hall, the crying children, the bumps in the night—”

I stopped.

For reasons I can’t explain, I held back the one detail that mattered most: the ghostly trio I had seen in the farmyard. That was mine alone—or it had been.

“Yes,” Precious said quietly. “All of it happened. But I’m not as scared as I was last night. Maybe I should be. Now, can you please get up so we can leave before I change my mind?”

The room was filled with the cheerful clatter of morning packing—zippers, footsteps, muffled laughter—. Still, under it all, the memory of that cold fire and those figures pressed against my chest like a weight.

We never spoke about it much after that day. But the truth is: except for that final, terrible dream, we all knew something had happened in that house.

We left Bodsey house with the winter sun low over the fields. Its light, thin, and cold. The wind had quieted, but the house stood there.

Watching just as it had for centuries. I didn’t look back often; once was enough.

Only I knew what I saw in the farmyard

And now—for the first time—so do you.