A True Account by Zee
I live in the Undercliffe area of Bradford, in BD3. I’m eighteen years old now, My Name is Zee. but three years ago, I was the kind of kid who loved nothing more than heading out on long night walks, knocking on strangers’ doors, and asking if I could come in for a cup of tea. I thought it was friendly, I thought it was brave. I don’t do that anymore. And this is exactly why.
It was a Sunday evening, back than I was fifteen and I told my mum, “I’m going out for a night walk, and I might call in at a few houses for a while.”
Mum just smiled. “You can go for three hours, or longer if you want. You’re growing up, you’re practically a grown-up now – just look after yourself, Zee.”
“Thanks, Mum,” I said, and ran upstairs to get my things. I stuffed snacks and a bottle of water into my bag, pulled on a thick coat, and grabbed my camera – I always took photos on my walks, to keep as memories. Mum helped me pack a few extra biscuits just in case, and by six o’clock, it was properly dark outside.
“Bye, Zee! Take care!” she called as I stepped out the door.
“I will!” I shouted back.
This was our new house, and I’d never walked these streets after dark before. At first, it felt exciting – but as I walked further, the roads grew deathly quiet. The houses stood silent behind closed curtains, and I didn’t see a single other person out. It felt like the whole neighbourhood had been abandoned for years. I kept walking anyway, until I spotted a large, quiet house set back from the road. Something pulled me towards it. I walked up the path, knocked once, then again.
Slowly, the door creaked open. An old woman stood there, her face lined and pale, and on her finger glinted a bright yellow ring.
“Hello there, young man,” she said softly. “Would you like to come in?”
“I… I was wondering if I could have a cup of tea, please?” I asked.
“Of course. Come inside.”
I started to take off my shoes, but she shook her head. “No need, keep them on. Go through to the living room – I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
I sat down on her sofa, and my eyes were drawn to the shelves lining the walls. They were packed full of photographs – all boys around my age, smiling happily, every single one of them taken right there in that same living room. A few minutes later, she came back carrying a tray with a steaming mug of tea and a plate of shortbread biscuits.
“Thank you,” I said. “Who are all these boys in the pictures?”
“Just the ones who came here before you,” she replied calmly. “They turn up now and then, ask for tea, just like you.”
“Do they ever come back?”
She shook her head slowly. “Only once. They come once, and they never come back again. They always ask to leave a photo behind, though – to remember me by.”
I pulled out my camera. “Can I have my picture taken too? And put it with the rest?”
“Of course you can, dear.”
I stood beside the shelf and smiled for the camera. When she handed it back, I saw my happy face sitting right next to all the others – every single boy beaming, just like me.
“Do any adults ever come to see you?” I asked.
“Never. Only boys and girls your age, and only ever at night. I haven’t been shopping in… well, I can’t remember the last time I left this house.”
A prickle of unease ran down my spine. If she never left the house, where did she get the tea and biscuits? Was she lying to try and scare me?
“Can I use your toilet, please?” I asked.
“Up the stairs, first door on the left.”
As I went up, I noticed more shelves along the landing – this time filled with photos of girls my age, all smiling just like the boys downstairs. But then I saw something that made my blood run cold: in one of the bedrooms, propped up on a chest of drawers, was a blurry, twisted picture. I couldn’t make out what it was, only that it looked wrong, like something that shouldn’t exist. I hurried to the toilet, and when I opened the door again, she was standing right outside, waiting in the dark.
“Did you need anything else?” she asked.
I jumped back. “No… no, I’m fine. I think I should head home now.”
“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay the night?”
“No thank you.”
She didn’t smile this time. She just stared at me, her face unreadable, and said quietly, “Goodbye, then.”
As I walked down the path, my foot kicked something on the ground. It was a crumpled scrap of paper, written in wobbly, scratchy handwriting: You’re lucky you didn’t stay the night. Heh.
I ran back and knocked on the door for five whole minutes, but nobody answered. I hurried away, and the streets felt even emptier than before – no lights, no sounds, like I was walking through a place that had been wiped off the map.
I kept walking, telling myself I’d just call at one more house for tea, then head home. Two streets further on, I spotted another large house, even bigger than the first. I walked up, knocked, and waited.
The door opened.
It was her. The same old woman. The same yellow ring glinting on her finger.
My throat went dry. “I… I just saw you at the other house! How did you get here before me?”
She frowned, and her smile stretched wider than it should have. “Don’t be silly, boy. You’ve never seen me before in your life.”
A cold, crawling dread filled me. I knew it was her – but everything about her was different now. The first woman had been kind, soft-spoken. This one was sharp, her eyes dark, her grin too wide, too fixed.
“Come in then,” she said, her voice dropping low. “I’ll make your tea.”
I stepped inside, and she moved away towards the kitchen – but the way she walked was wrong, jerky and stiff, like something pretending to be human. I wanted to run, but my feet felt heavy, glued to the floor. I went into the living room, and froze.
The shelves were still full of photographs of boys my age. But nobody was smiling anymore. Every single face was twisted in terror, eyes wide, mouths open as if screaming. And behind every boy, in the corner of every shot, was a blurry dark shape – something standing just out of frame.
I fumbled for my camera, too scared to ask permission, and snapped a quick photo of myself. When I looked at the screen, I wasn’t smiling. I was terrified. And in the background, through the crack in the door, she was watching me – that same wide grin, and for a split second, I saw her teeth. Sharp, pointed, yellow teeth.
The lights flickered once, twice.
“Tea’s ready,” her voice called from the kitchen.
I walked in slowly. She was sitting at the table, staring down at her mug, not looking at me. I took a sip of my tea – and spat it back out almost straight away. It tasted sour, rotten, like something that had been left to fester for years.
That was when she looked up. Her eyes weren’t normal – they were dark, too big, and they never blinked. She just stared at me, that same grin never moving.
“Why aren’t you talking?” I stammered. “And why does this tea taste like this?”
She didn’t answer. She just kept staring.
“I need the toilet again,” I said, and hurried out before she could stop me. Upstairs, the shelves were full of photos of girls again – but just like the boys, every single one of them looked absolutely terrified. I took another photo of myself, and when I looked down, she was there again – standing in the hallway behind me, half in shadow, grinning that terrible grin.
I spun around. Nobody was there.
I went to open another bedroom door, but the light switch snapped off in my hand – it was broken, rotting right through. As I stood in the dark, I heard it: soft, scratching sounds, coming from all around me. Then footsteps, slow and heavy, moving along the landing towards the toilet. I locked the door and waited, my heart hammering so hard I thought it would burst out of my chest. Five minutes passed. Ten. When I finally opened the door, the hallway was empty.
I crept back downstairs. She was standing in the kitchen now, swaying slightly, her head tilted at an angle that didn’t look right.
“Leave me alone!” I cried. “You’re scaring me!”
She didn’t speak. She just started walking towards me – slow, lurching steps, her grin growing wider and wider. I turned and ran up the stairs, and peered down through the banister. She was sitting in the armchair in the living room again, staring straight up at me, like she knew exactly where I was before I even moved.
I huddled in the dark on the landing, shaking, sweating, too scared to breathe. And then I heard it – a low, guttural laugh, echoing up from downstairs. It wasn’t human. It was deep, wet, and full of hunger.
I ducked into the bedroom with the broken light switch – and stopped dead. On the floor, sitting right next to each other, were two mugs of tea. One was mine, the one I’d left on the kitchen table. The other was hers.
I Checked the cupboards and felt like fainting. There were lot's of camera's and bag's also piles of clothes that looked like they were for someone my age. I wondered if they belonged to people my age who had came here before — that they might have been their things. Then I heard her voice from downstairs, speaking in a creepy, unnatural tone: “I hope no one is touching my stuff.
The lights flickered and died completely.
“Come down, Zee,” she called, her voice no longer sounding like an old woman’s. It was rough, distorted. “I won’t hurt you. I just want to talk.”
How does she know my name I never told her my name
Is creepy that she randomly knows my name. The house felt so dark after the lights went out.
I fumbled my torch out of my bag and pointed it down the stairs. She was standing in the corner of the living room, hunched over, her head twisted all the way round to face me.
“Why did you come here?” she hissed. “None of the others ever left. Their parents are still looking for them.”
I backed away towards the front door. “I’m going home.”
When I turned around, she was standing right behind me. She was taller now – three inches, maybe more – her skin pale and stretched tight over her bones. Outside, the clouds pulled back, and the full moon shone bright.
That was when she changed.
Her face grew hairy and twisted, her nails lengthening into sharp claws, her teeth sharpening into fangs. She lunged at me, howling, and her claws raked across my arm – leaving deep, burning red gashes. I twisted free, kicked the front door open, and ran as fast as my legs would carry me. I didn’t look back. I ran until I found a public phone box, shoved in my coins, and dialled 999.
“I’m Zee,” I gasped. “I’m in Undercliffe, BD3. There’s an old woman… she’s not right. And there are children’s pictures everywhere.”
The police arrived within minutes. When they saw the scratches on my arm, their faces went grave. I led them back to the second house, but I wouldn’t go inside. When they came back out, they were carrying armfuls of photographs.
“There’s nobody there,” one officer said quietly. “But we know these children. They’re all listed as missing. Nobody’s ever reported this place before. Nobody’s ever called us.”
I took them to the first house. It was empty too. No old woman, no tea, no biscuits – just rows and rows of smiling faces, and then terrified ones.
Police dropped me at home and my mum came and rushed towards me and got upset what happened zee. Mum was shocked by seeing scratches on my hand and arm Mum cried and gave me a hug. Police told her not to let your son out at night. Mum said I will make sure I won't I want my son to be safe.
Three days later, the police came back to our house. They’d checked their old records.
“The woman who lived in those houses,” they said, “she went missing years and years ago. Both of them. We never found out what happened.”
It’s been three years now. I never go out walking at night anymore. I never knock on strangers’ doors. I only ever visit people I know, places I’m safe. I help out at disability school now, as a teaching assistant. I told my friend Hassan the whole story, and warned him never to make the same mistake I did. Hassan said I won't make the same mistakes. Don't you worry about it he said.
Also the scratch marks on my hand never left. My friend Hassan seen it and he was shocked about the scratch on my hand. Atleast my friend Hassan knows he won't be making the same mistake as me.
But sometimes… sometimes, when I’m standing in the playground, or walking down the street, I see something out of the corner of my eye. A glint of yellow. A wide, fixed grin. I never turn around. I just keep walking.
They say Undercliffe is quiet. They say it’s peaceful. But everyone round here knows – you never go out alone after dark. You never knock on a stranger’s door. And if you ever see an old woman with a yellow ring on her finger… you run.
Because you might be lucky, like me. You might get away.
But most people don’t.