Half-Seen at St Mary’s, Shenley Church End

We’re getting very close to the end of the year, and it always feels like the right time for stories like these. The days shorten, familiar paths grow quieter, and places we think we know well begin to feel just a little less certain. Tonight’s stories come from somewhere I know extremely well – I walk through St Mary’s regularly, so it was particularly eerie to read about strange things happening so close to home.

Tonight’s witness got in touch after hearing my interview on How Haunted?, the wonderful podcast hosted by Rob Kirkup. (Thank-you again to Rob for inviting me on – and for all the amazing support for the project right from the start!) With listeners all over the world, we hoped someone from Milton Keynes might be tuning in, but it was a real delight to receive an email almost immediately from someone local with stories to share!

Alison has lived in Shenley Church End for over twenty years, walking the same paths around St Mary’s again and again – until two brief moments stood out, impossible to explain and hard to forget. What I found most striking about these experiences was the ordinary way they both began: these weren’t midnight encounters or moments charged with fear – just everyday walks, in places she knew well, interrupted by something fleeting and wrong.

The Legs in the Bushes

Alison was walking with her son along the path that runs beside the wide grassy area behind the church, close to the edge of Denbigh School’s playing fields. It was a route they’d taken many times before, familiar enough to barely need attention.

Then both of them noticed movement ahead.

Just legs – the lower half of someone running, vanishing into the bushes beside the path. The sight was so convincingly normal that they both reacted immediately, commenting on it as they walked on, their pace slowing as they approached the spot.

But when they reached it, there was no one there.

They could see straight through the bushes to the open field beyond. No figure crossing the grass. No sound of someone retreating. The space ahead of them was completely empty, as though the runner had simply ceased to exist the moment they were no longer being watched.

They carried on walking, but the path felt different after that – longer, quieter, and no longer quite as trustworthy.

The White Mist by the Stones

On another occasion, Alison was walking through the churchyard with her husband, heading toward the fields beyond the graves. The day was bright and clear, the sort of lunchtime where everything seems normal.

That was when she noticed something pale rising behind one of the gravestones – a soft white shape, curling upward.

“Oh look,” she said instinctively. “There’s a fire.”

Her husband saw it too. For a moment it did look like smoke – thin and drifting – and then it vanished completely. There was no mist elsewhere in the churchyard, no lingering haze, no sign that the air had changed at all. Whatever they had seen was confined to that one place, behind that one stone, and then it was gone.

Her husband suggested dew or mist, but the explanation didn’t quite fit. It was the middle of a summer’s day, any dew or mist should have vanished hours earlier. And yet, behind that one gravestone, something had stirred – briefly visible, and then completely gone.

I couldn’t help thinking about Alison’s stories the other day. I walked that same route behind the school and then stepped into the churchyard. It was mid-morning quiet, overcast and cold, and I was there by myself. It was hard not to think about how many lives pass through places like this. How many footsteps, how many moments of delight, grief, fear, and remembrance settle into the ground. Perhaps it’s no surprise that what surfaces here isn’t a full figure or a clear story, just fragments. Legs running where no one remains. A curl of white mist with no explanation.

For once, I wasn’t on my way to Sainsbury’s or heading over to Furzton for a long walk – I’d come over specially to add a couple of baubles to the Christmas tree by the church door, a quiet ritual shared by many people at this time of year. One was in memory of Jef, and one was just something beautiful I wanted to add to the collection, to mark the turning of this exceptional year.

I’ve been reflecting on just how many stories like Alison’s I’ve been trusted with over the past few months. What began as a small idea – to walk the Redways and listen – has grown into something far richer, shaped by the generosity of people willing to share moments they’ve carried quietly for years.

So far, Revenants on the Redway has gathered accounts from 31% of Milton Keynes’ grid squares. That means nearly a third of the city now has at least one documented moment of strangeness – but I’m sure there are so many more stories still out there, just waiting to be told.

As we head into Christmas, I just want to say thank-you. Thank-you for the encouragement, the messages, the tips, the quiet “me too” replies, and the trust you’ve placed in me to tell these stories carefully and respectfully. This project exists because of that support, and I’m deeply grateful for it.

I’m already looking forward to sharing more stories in the new year – including one more that’s come in from another of Rob’s brilliant listeners! With a bit of luck – and a few more brave emails – maybe 2026 can be the year we fill in the grid together.

Until then, I wish you all a very happy, safe, and peaceful Christmas. And if you find yourself walking familiar paths over the holidays, take a moment to really look – some things only show themselves at the edges.

Thank-you again to Alison for trusting me with her stories and thank YOU for reading! 
If you have a story of your own to share, I’d really love to hear it.