Confessions of an Estate Agent

At Richardsons we’ve heard it all from our agents – late-night viewings, unexpected pets, quirky vendors and mysterious neighbours.  But recently one of our colleagues shared a story that left even him unsettled.  It happened about a decade ago on a row of mid-nineteenth-century terraces just off Southwark Park Road in Bermondsey – a house full of character, long-neglected, and, as it turned out, hiding more than just peeling wallpaper.  Here is the story of the house on Southwark Park Road....

I’ve been in the property game for over twenty years now, and in that time I’ve seen pretty much everything - from hoarders who wouldn’t let you through the door, to tenants who’d vanished overnight leaving only a mattress and a half-eaten takeaway.  But there’s one place that’s stuck with me more than any other.

The house in Southwark Park Road and the scene of our Estate Agents' spooky encounter

It was about ten years ago, on Southwark Park Road in Bermondsey.  A short stretch of mid-19th-century terraces, one of those rare pockets that somehow escaped the Blitz.  Lovely character houses, solid old brickwork, though most had seen better days.

The property came to me through a probate case.  The owner had passed away, and the nephew who inherited it lived up north somewhere.  He didn’t want the hassle, just said, “Sell it as it is.”  I remember picking up the keys from the solicitor’s office - a proper old-fashioned brass set on a faded tag with the door number.

When I first went round, it was a grey, drizzly afternoon, typical south London weather.  The kind where your shoes are soaked before you’ve even parked.  The house looked tired but charming, sitting a bit back from the pavement with a short front path and a leaning iron gate.  I could tell straight away it hadn’t been touched in years.

The key stuck in the lock - they always do with those old mortice types - and when I pushed the door open, a wave of stale air came out.  Damp, dust, and something else… metallic, maybe.  Hard to describe.  The hallway was narrow and dim, the wallpaper yellowed and peeling in places.  A faint mark on the wall showed where a picture must’ve hung for decades.

There were still a few bits of furniture about - an old hall stand with a cracked mirror, and a sideboard with a single porcelain figure still sitting on it.  Upstairs, a couple of rooms were empty, but one still had a small bed in it, perfectly made, with a folded blanket at the end.  It was the sort of thing that felt oddly respectful, as if whoever had lived there had just popped out for a bit and never come back.

I’d planned to do my usual notes for the listing - room sizes, general condition, that sort of thing - so I went back downstairs to fetch the laser measure from my bag.  That’s when I heard the first noise.

A dull thud.

It came from the back of the house, near the kitchen.  I froze for a moment, listening.  Then there it was again - not loud, but definitely a sound.

Now, you get used to old houses making noises.  Pipes groan, floorboards shift.  But this wasn’t that.  It had a rhythm to it, like someone moving about.

I called out - “Hello? Anyone in?” - and waited.  Nothing.  Just the sound of rain ticking against the back windows.

When I went into the kitchen, I noticed the back door was open just a fraction.  A thin line of cold air cut straight through the room.  I was sure it was closed when I came in, but I told myself I must’ve missed it.  As I went to shut it, I looked down and saw something on the floor - a few muddy footprints, small ones, like a child’s.

I remember standing there, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation.  Maybe the solicitor had been round with a cleaner, or a local kid had come in.  But the footprints led away from the door - into the house, not out of it.

That was when the atmosphere changed.  You know that feeling when the air just seems to thicken around you?  I suddenly became very aware of how quiet it was.  No traffic outside, no neighbours, just that heavy silence.

I decided to do one quick sweep - make sure I wasn’t sharing the place with anyone - and then leave.  I went room by room downstairs: front room, dining room, kitchen.  Nothing.  But when I came back into the hallway, something caught my eye.

The door to the cellar was slightly ajar.

Now, I hadn’t noticed a cellar on the floor plan, and I definitely hadn’t opened that door.  The smell coming from it was cold and earthy, like wet stone.  I stood there for a good thirty seconds, torch in hand, debating whether to look.

Curiosity won, of course.

The steps creaked under me as I went down.  The beam of my torch danced across brick walls, old shelves, a few empty jars, and some newspapers so brittle they disintegrated when the light breeze hit them.  Nothing out of place, really.  But when I turned to head back up, I thought I saw something move at the top of the stairs.  Just a flicker of light - like a shadow stepping aside.

I called out again, my voice coming out tighter than I’d meant.  No answer.

When I got back to the hallway, the first thing I noticed was the front door - it was wide open.  I know I’d shut it when I came in, I remember the sound of the latch.  But there it was, gaping, letting in the drizzle and the sound of traffic from Southwark Park Road.

I stepped outside, heart thumping, and took a few deep breaths.  Maybe someone had been inside all along, maybe they’d slipped out while I was down in the cellar.  That was the only explanation that made any sense.

I locked up, made a note to have the locks changed, and left it at that.

A week later, I arranged for one of our maintenance lads, Rob, to pop in and give me a quote on a deep clean and some light decorating.  When he came back to the office that afternoon, he looked a bit off.

I asked him what he thought of the place.  He said, “Yeah, fine, bit of a tip.  But you could’ve warned me about the woman.”

I said, “What woman?”

He looked at me funny.  “The one upstairs.  In the front bedroom.  Didn’t say a word, just sat in that chair by the window.  Gave me a right start.”

I told him there was no one living there - the place was empty.  He swore blind he’d seen her, described her as an older lady, grey hair tied back, wearing a dark blue cardigan.

I didn’t argue.  I just thanked him and said I’d check it out.

When I went back later that day, the house was cold and silent again.  I went straight up to the front bedroom - the one with the small bed.  There was indeed a chair by the window, an old wooden one.  But no sign of anyone.

What unsettled me, though, was that the chair was facing the door, not the window.

And right there, on the dusty floorboards beside it, were the faint marks of small muddy footprints - the same as before.

The house sold eventually, to a young couple from Peckham.  They did a full renovation, turned it into one of those lovely light-and-bright places with open-plan everything.  I happened to walk past a year or so later.  They were outside chatting to a neighbour, so I said hello and asked how it was going.

The house today - looking a lot more inviting

They both laughed and said it was great - apart from the odd noises at night.  The husband joked, “We reckon we’ve got a friendly ghost.  Always hear someone walking up and down the stairs.”

I smiled, wished them luck, and carried on walking.

But even now, I can’t help but think of that house on Southwark Park Road - and that chair, turned to face the door.

Like it’s still waiting for someone to come back.