It was mid-November, a quiet period in property services with few new tenancies—most people avoid moving in the cold or save money for the upcoming holidays. The lettings sector can be seasonal, with summer as the peak. Work had been slow, so I was astonished when a new client requested an inventory itemisation for an eviction. The job came on short notice, but the compensation reflected this, and I was eager to accept, despite the limited time to research the property.
The property, known as The Clockhouse, lay deep in Surrey, its exact location elusive even to GPS.
Arriving in the area, I saw only one house matching the name but not the scale described. I parked and knocked on the door, where a man appeared in the back window, visibly annoyed as I approached. Meeting him at the front, I tried to confirm the address. His reaction was cold, bordering on hostility. “I’m tired of people mistaking this place for ‘The Clockhouse,’” he snapped. Frustrated by constant attention to the famous estate, he seemed ready to unleash his anger. But as I turned to leave, something changed. His face paled, eyes widened in shock as if he’d seen a ghost. His demeanour softened abruptly. Apologising, he directed me toward the real Clockhouse, now almost eager to help. Bewildered, I thanked him and left, wondering what he had seen in me to prompt this sudden shift.
Following his directions, I reached the property down a narrow lane, greeted by a black iron gate. Near the entrance stood a mannequin dressed in winter clothing, its hollow stare adding an eerie touch. The security guard who met me explained that the mannequin had been placed by a previous owner to deter fans and unwanted visitors—a necessary measure given the property’s history and reputation. As we entered, he mentioned something peculiar: he’d experienced unsettling incidents here, especially during night shifts. I nodded, acknowledging the possibility of such things without dwelling on them, for my own encounters had conditioned me to the supernatural.
The Clockhouse, a 16th-century marvel with a clock tower added in the 18th century, had been many things over the centuries—a school, a residence, a silent witness to history. Entering through the grand door, I noticed symbols in the kitchen, loose ropes, and spiritual runes hinting that the former owner may have practiced rituals of protection. Each step through the house revealed layers of mystery. Soon, I sensed a familiar presence—one that felt unmistakably like the veiled maiden who had haunted me in past encounters. But I had made a resolution to ignore her. Yet, as I moved room to room, her presence clung to me, attempting to draw my attention with faint sounds and flickering orbs. I resisted, focusing solely on the task at hand.
Surveying each space, I found The Clockhouse a vast and complex puzzle: eight bedrooms, four bathrooms, a banquet hall, study, private cinema, and wine cellar, each brimming with antiquities. The dining room housed medieval armor and furnishings, a treasure trove for any history enthusiast. Yet, as I prepared to take a photo, something unexpected happened. A sudden force struck my forehead, filling my mind’s eye with blinding white light. Reflexively, my head snapped back, and my camera captured the image. The shock was intense, but when I examined the photo, I saw an orb of light—the maiden’s manifestation—as if she was leaving the room but indicating she had more to reveal.
Intrigued, I followed her subtle lead to the next area, where I found statues of veiled maidens scattered in the hallways. Research after my visit confirmed the Clockhouse’s haunted reputation, with numerous sightings of a young girl, often seen wandering in distress. Yet, I did not feel her as lost or anguished; instead, she seemed to guide me toward answers that had long eluded me. Why had I been marked by her presence, her energy?
Exploring further, I noticed something striking: a Hermes statue near the veiled busts, identical to one I’d seen daily, years before at the Citi Group building in Canary Wharf. That same building was where I was working when I had my first encounter with the veiled maiden at home.
And like me, the former Clockhouse owner had lost his fortune—a curious parallel to my own loss of job, marriage, and property after my initial supernatural experiences.
Could these misfortunes be more than coincidence? Was the veiled maiden glorifying herself through our shared trials, or was she, in some way, facilitating personal growth?
The maiden’s presence faded after this realisation, but as I ascended to the upper hallway connecting two wings of the house, I felt new eyes upon me. Shadows lingered in the dim corridor, figures of men garbed in religious attire—a Puritan hat here, the robes of a priest or monk there, watching in silence. In one room, I discovered a hidden compartment, likely used during the 16th century to shelter Catholic priests from persecution under King Henry VIII. The spirits seemed bound to the house, their stories intertwined with the tumultuous history of faith and survival.
Just as I finished my survey, Fred Batt, former nightclub owner and a known demonologist, arrived to check on my progress. He expressed concern that I’d entered every room, including one carefully restored and consecrated for the young girl reportedly haunting the estate. I then recognised the house—The Clockhouse had been featured on Most Haunted, a show I once followed. Batt, too, had been haunted beyond The Clockhouse, trailed by a spirit from his club, Caesar’s Palace. We shared a kinship in our fates, each tormented by spirits that seemed to relish their attachments beyond any one location.
Leaving The Clockhouse, questions haunted me: was this veiled maiden’s influence a coincidence, or had she led me here to uncover deeper truths? Were we both caught in the web of entities masquerading as guides, hidden behind their veils? Or were we simply players in a vast, ancient cycle of light and darkness, reborn in the lives of those willing—or destined—to uncover the paranormal threads of history?