Listening To The Echoes, York House, Stony Stratford

Everyone local knows York House. It’s one of those buildings that quietly marks the boundary between past and present – a tall, symmetrical, Georgian-style house set a little back from London Road, with three neat rows of sash windows and an elegant stone porch that seems to watch the traffic go by. 

Built around 1860 as a family home for local banker John Oliver, it was once known as Clarence House. Later, it became York House School, a small boarding and day school that ran for more than a century. For decades, children lived and studied behind those red brick walls – lessons in the front rooms, dormitories tucked beneath the eaves, the smell of ink and floor polish lingering in the corridors. The school finally closed in 1957, but I’m sure some former pupils still remember the sound of the creaking staircase and the echoing hush of the dining room after lights-out.

Today, York House is best known as the community centre, home to local groups, exhibitions, and the ever-popular street-food nights held in the courtyard outside. But behind its friendly façade, the building carries a reputation for something darker. Local paranormal investigation teams visit regularly, drawn by whispers of cold spots in the upper rooms, childlike voices in the night, doors that close on their own, and the feeling that someone is standing just behind you on the landing. 

While working on City of Secrets, I’ve heard more than a few accounts of odd experiences there but I wanted to see whether there were any others to find. So, I put out a call on Facebook – to the local noticeboard, the “past and present” group, and two dedicated to life in Stony itself – and many of the comments talked about the same reputation. There’s certainly something about the house that haunts us here in Milton Keynes, and it’s been great to dive deeper into the memories people have about it.

One of the reasons I chose York House was because I’ve got a personal connection there! Every Tuesday night for a few years, I used to go along to a roleplaying group that met up in the big room on the first floor. Now, I should say, I’m not a natural roleplayer! But it was my late husband’s favourite hobby, and he’d been one of the founder members of this group – and you know, he wanted me to be part of it. Mainly the spooky games, Call of Cthulhu. So, I tried – but I’m useless at mental arithmetic, and incredibly shy and self-conscious – so even if I could work out whether I had the strength or dexterity to attack the shoggoth, I hated speaking up, so I was a bit useless and generally, didn’t find the same delight in it that everyone else did. But I always found the building unsettling – there was something about the stairs that always felt a bit creepy and oppressive. As Jef was one of the organisers, we often ended up staying back late, and I’d wander about while they were sorting out subscriptions or bills, and the stairs and the landing always seemed a bit ominous – I really didn’t like the car-park late at night – and as we played till 10pm, it was always eerie leaving. 

I stopped going when I started my PhD – so this would have been 2009, ages ago. And no, I never saw or heard anything I can’t explain – there’s a bit of a thing emerging that although I immerse myself in all of this spooky stuff, I’ve never had any kind of experience myself – but other people in the club certainly did. I’m not in touch with any of them any more, but Jef carried on for years afterwards, and I do remember him telling me that one of the few female members in the club wouldn’t go into the kitchen on the ground floor on her own – she thought she’d felt something standing behind her, and as I’ve found, she’s not the only one to have had experiences there.

My first interview with Rob came out in October, and I was delighted that some of his listeners happened to live in MK, and got in touch to share their stories with me! The very first one that came in was from a listener called Tom, who’d grown up with York House almost in his back garden. There was just a narrow strip of allotment between his family’s fence and the grounds, and as a child he’d often wander across to explore.

He told me that he’d never felt comfortable inside the building – particularly on the upper floors. I know that part of the building well, where the air seems to thicken and every creak of the boards makes you turn your head. For Tom, it didn’t sound like fear exactly, more that curious, instinctive unease that makes you aware of being watched when no one’s there. 

There’s one detail that he shared that really stayed with me: out in that no-man’s land between his home and York House, half-hidden by overgrown shrubs, there had once been a little summer house… with a single rocking chair left behind. There’s something delightfully eerie about that image, isn’t there? I can’t help imagining it as twilight deepens – the air cooling, leaves whispering against the broken windows – and that lone chair giving the faintest creak, as if someone has only just stood up and slipped away.

It’s such a small, ordinary thing that somehow feels wrong, as though the place itself remembers who used to sit there. And that’s what people keep telling me about York House: that it’s less about what you see, and more about what you sense – the quiet conviction that you’re not alone, even when the rooms are empty.

The next story about York House came from Anne, one of my very first ever witnesses and these days, a very good friend! If you’ve been reading for a while, you might remember her from Fancy Dress Phantoms, The Judge’s Room and Shadowed by Sentinel Pines. This time, though, her experience was something much more ordinary on the surface: a weekly community group that meets on the ground floor of York House.

It’s the sort of gathering that sums up what the building is used for today – friendly faces, a bit of chatter, everyone knowing one another. One of the members even brings her pug along each week, a small, good-natured companion who usually sits quietly at her feet while the session goes on. But not here. Not in York House.

Anne told me that every time he’s there, the little dog reacts strangely. He’d stiffen the moment they entered the room, then begin barking – short, urgent bursts that echoed off the walls – at what appeared to be nothing at all. Every week it’s the same: he fixes his gaze on one particular patch of wall, trembling, growling softly, completely transfixed. It’s become a running joke among the group – the York House ghost that only the dog can see  but it’s the kind of joke that leaves a trace of unease behind. Because it never changes, and it’s always that same spot.

Of course, there could be a simple explanation. Maybe there’s a faint vibration, or the scent of something long absorbed into the plaster. But even so, Anne says that room has a strange feel to it – close and heavy, as if the air itself were listening. A few of the regulars have quietly admitted that they find the space uneasy.

And that’s the thing about York House: it doesn’t shout its hauntings. It suggests them, in small unsettling ways: a dog that won’t stop watching something no one else can see, a still patch of air that feels somehow occupied.

When I put out my call for stories about York House, one name kept popping up in the comments again and again – Claire Evans. It honestly made me laugh; she was tagged so many times it became a running joke. Claire is the go-to ghost person around here – lead investigator with the National Paranormal Investigators UK, and someone who knows York House inside out.

Over the past few months, it’s been great to get to know Claire and her team, and she’s been incredibly generous in sharing some of her team’s experiences from the building. When she saw my post, she kindly tagged me in one of her older reports about their investigations at York House – and it was there that I came across Zia’s story.

Zia had commented to say that she’d held her wedding reception at York House a few years back, and that although the evening had been a happy one, the building had left a strange impression on her. “Definitely haunted,” she’d written. When I followed up, she explained that nothing dramatic had happened – no rattling doors or cold spots – just that unmistakable sense of being watched. The sense that even in the midst of laughter and music and clinking glasses, something unseen was standing quietly at the edge of it all.

It’s that thread running through so many of these stories, that a kind of awareness that doesn’t depend on belief. Whatever you want to call it, York House seems to look back at those who enter.

Another voice in the comments belonged to Sophie, who used to volunteer at York House, helping with the “get-ins” and “get-outs” for different groups using the space. She’d often stay behind afterwards to finish bits of admin while the rest of the building emptied for the night – and that’s when she began to notice the sounds.

Clear, steady footsteps moving up and down the staircase, and the creak of floorboards on the level above her. At first, she assumed someone else was still in the building, perhaps a late-leaving group or another volunteer, and would call out a cheerful “hello” into the echoing corridor. But no one ever answered. The noise would stop, the silence would thicken, and then, a few minutes later, the footsteps would begin again.

It happened often enough that Sophie developed her own quiet routine. Instead of being frightened, she started to acknowledge whatever it was. She’d speak softly into the stairwell: “Hi, I’m just doing a bit of work in here. I hope I can be your friend and have a good evening.” And when she was ready to leave, she’d call out “Goodnight” up the stairs before locking up.

Claire said that the stairs are something of a hotspot for activity – her team have caught unexplained sounds there on their recordings too, including what she once described as “the clatter of a bottle bin being dragged across the landing” when no one else was around.

There’s something wonderfully human about Sophie’s approach: that instinct to turn fear into courtesy. It’s as if she and York House reached an understanding – a nightly exchange between the living and the lingering, played out on those echoing wooden steps.

The background to this final story came from Caz, who many people will know as one of the bright voices of Stony Radio, keeping everyone company over breakfast with her 8–10 a.m. show. These days she broadcasts from home, but Stony Radio’s main studio is still based at York House, and regular programmes are broadcast from there every week..

When I joined her on air for what was my very first live interview about Revenants on the Redway, I was more than a little nervous. I knew friends and family were listening in and I was quietly terrified of saying something daft, forgetting my name or the name of my website! But once we started talking about hauntings, the nerves quickly melted away, especially when Caz began to share a story of her own.

Back when she used to broadcast from York House, she and her co-hosts had long suspected that they weren’t alone in the studio. Time after time, they’d be chatting away, perfectly in sync, when both would suddenly turn – certain that someone was standing just behind them. Of course, no one ever was.

Stranger still, their equipment seemed to have a will of its own. Settings changed, sound levels drifted, even controls seem to have been altered. It happened so often that the team started to joke about their unseen colleague – and gave him a name: George.

When I caught up with Caz recently, she told me that those incidents were most common during the first three years of the breakfast show. She never actually saw anything, but the presence always felt real – a weight in the room, a shift in the air. Her co-hosts Sean and Paul were especially receptive to it; Paul, she said, refused to spend any longer than necessary in the room next door.

All of that was fascinating enough – but what happened during our interview took things to another level. As we wrapped up, Caz asked me to introduce a piece of music I’d chosen to end the segment. I went for something suitably on-brand, if a little mischievous: Mike Oldfield’s “Tubular Bells” – better known as The Exorcist theme. It also carried a deeper meaning: it was my late husband’s favourite piece of music.

I explained all of that on air, said goodbye – and then everything went silent.

At first, dialling in from home, I assumed Caz had just ended the call. But the seconds kept ticking by. Dead air. When I glanced at the station’s Facebook page, I saw the messages starting to pour in: “What’s happened?” “Anyone else lost the broadcast?”

Caz came back a few minutes later, laughing nervously. The moment she’d hit play on that track, her whole system had crashed. The broadcast had gone down across the board. It took her a while to get it back online – long enough for “George” to make his presence felt in the most theatrical way possible.

And then, the final twist. Stony Radio usually archives every show so listeners can play it back later – except this one. For reasons no one could explain, that particular broadcast never recorded at all. No file, no backup, nothing.

I know it happened – my friends and family remember listening live, and a few messaged me afterwards to say how proud they were – and how spooked! But now, there’s no evidence. It’s as if the whole thing has slipped quietly out of existence, leaving only our recollection behind.

A coincidence, maybe. A technical fault. Or perhaps George decided to make his entrance with a little theatrical timing – stepping in at the precise moment when one of the most famously unsettling pieces of music ever written was about to play. Maybe he thought he could out-creep even The Exorcist.