Hi everyone,

We enjoyed MaddiLeFrog's scary stories so much that we thought we'd turn it into a Hallowe'en event! Maddi, we hope you don't mind our hijacking your thread like this :)

So, here's how it works: Between now and Hallowe'en (Friday 31st October) use this thread to come up with anything spooky, creepy, scary or sinister - be it a poem, a story or a picture! Share it with us here (or if it's a picture you can email it to youngcarers@carers.org and we'll put it here for you).

The contest closes at midday precisely on Hallowe'en, with a prize for the best - so get creating!

The Youngcarers.net team.

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and here's Maddi's first entry:

Christmas Spirit

In my town Christmas is a big deal. Every house puts up loads of decorations. Every house except Morton Mansion. No-one actually knows if anyone lives there. There are no kids there who go to the local schools, and no-one has ever been seen coming out. But every Christmas eve, when people walk past the house to get to the graveyard over the back, they say that they hear noises. Not spooky noises – although it is quite scary to hear any sound at all coming from a supposedly-deserted house – but normal, chatting noises, like people enjoying themself. Then, the noises are gone by the next morning, replaced by silence for a whole year until it starts again.

On my fifteenth Christmas Eve, I decided to go and camp out on the hill in front of Morton Mansion. Then, I’d be right beside the house and able to hear any noises. Then, I’d burst through the door and find out what it was, once and for all. I’d be the envy of all my friends, the town heroine, and all at fifteen years old. I would be like a real life detective, brave and so heroic. I didn’t tell anyone I was going – they would have tried to stop me, or wanted to come to. I wasn’t about to let anyone get in on my action. I wanted to do this alone.

It was no mean feat, climbing up Morton Hill in the dark. I’d forgotten to bring a torch, so every so often I’d bump into the rotting dead trees that stood like soldiers in the midnight air. Well, I assumed it was midnight. I hadn’t brought a watch or my phone to tell me the time. It had been half past eleven when I had crept out of the house. Mum and Dad always got a good night’s sleep on Christmas Eve, because they know just how early my little sister and I are going to wake them up in the morning. The house was silent, the streets were silent and now even the hill was silent. But as I neared the top, I realized that the mansion wasn’t silent. Sure enough, there were the sounds of laughter and talking. It sounded like a Christmas party.

I peered through the window. I gasped when I saw the sight. A Christmas party, full of laughing people. They were dressed in waistcoats and dresses, proper Victorian dress. Everyone was dressed extravagantly, and no-one took any notice of the servant girls and boys hurrying around under everyone’s feet, serving drinks and food. Some looked younger than me, and yet no-one was showing them any Christmas cheer. The Christmas spirit was alive in the rich, but not the poor.

I moved to the other window. The room was only lit by a candle this time, and it looked a lot less beautiful. Two boys, looking around my age or a bit older, were taunting a girl who was probably a year younger than me. The boys were servants, the girl was dressed in the same clothes as the partying people. The girl seemed to be putting up a good fight, but as one of the boys pushed her into the wall, it seemed that she lost some of her strength. I put my ear against the window to try and hear what was going on over the laughter and cheering from the next room.

‘You’ve stolen my doll!’ the girl cried, in a refined, English accent. ‘You’ve stolen her, I know you have! She’s an antique, Daddy bought her for me in India! Please, give her back! I don’t have anything else to remember Daddy by, she was the last thing he ever bought for me. She’s my Christmas present from him!’. The boys looked at each other and laughed cruelly.

‘We don’t ‘ave your dolly, Miss,’ they said, sarcasm dripping from each word. It sounded as though they resented working for a girl who was so much smaller than them. ‘We ain’t seen your dolly, although if we ‘ad...just bein’, y’know, “hypo’fetical” ‘ere, if we ‘ad we would’a put it in the coal scuttle...d’you know ‘ow long I ‘ad to spend, cleanin’ ‘er dress? D’you know ‘ow long it took me? It’s a doll, for cryin’ out loud! It don’t got feelin’s or nuthin’!’. The boy who’d spoken was a tall, dirty-faced boy who looked like he’d spent a long time cleaning out the chimney. He pushed the girl against the fireplace as I heard the clock in the town toll for midnight, and the cries of “Merry Christmas” rang out in the dining room. Then came the sound of the candle falling off the fireplace, the girl’s scream as the candle fell on her, and then silence. The lights disappeared, and the house was silent again. Silent..but not empty.

The girl, the girl I’d seen, the girl who’d been bullied – and no doubt killed – by those two horrible servant boys was standing on the steps of the mansion. She seemed to be glowing, as though illuminated by UV light. She was pretty, her long blonde curls dancing around a pale, doll-like face – but she looked as though she was in pain. She was wearing the same dress she had work before, but it bore a scorch-mark.

She moved, and I followed her around the back of the house to the graveyard. She moved swiftly, weaving through the graves, and I had to move fast to follow her. We stopped at a small grave, and the girl sat down. I managed to read the inscription on the grave through the moonlight.

Annabelle Marie Christmas

Born January 1st, 1845

Died December 25th, 1859

And below that, there was a smaller inscription. It looked new, as though it had been added by locals just a couple of years ago.

The Christmas Spirit Lives On In Our Town, In Our Hearts, And In The Mansion.

Wooooh, spooky, right? ;)