‘Some Games Children Play’: The Winning Entry In Our Short Story Competition

Published on: 19 Oct, 2025
Updated on: 20 Oct, 2025

Today we are delighted to publish the winning entry in our short story competition, run in conjunction with Guildford’s new independent bookshop, Paper Moon.

We were overwhelmed by entries and would like to thank and congratulate everyone who took part.

The winner was Christine Reeves’ story “Some Games Children Play”.

Christine will receive £50 in book tokens donated by Paper Moon, based in Jeffries Passage off the High Street, and £50 in cash from The Guildford Dragon NEWS.

Some Games Children Play

By Christine Reeves

Thud, pause.

What’s that noise?

Thud, pause.

There it goes again.

The sound disturbs my dreams. Where is it coming from?

I open my eyes. It’s dark, only three thirty. Where am I? This is not my bed. How did I get here?

The bed creaks, then I remember. I’m in a hotel, Whitfield House in the North Down. We arrived yesterday for a weekend away.

I hear the noise again.

Is it coming from another room? Is someone watching television, although at this hour? It could be an insomniac.

Thud, pause.

Fully awake I analyse the regular thumping, which sounds like someone bouncing a ball.

I turn towards Jake. My husband’s regular breathing tells me he’s still fast asleep.

Our attic room is on the top floor of the hotel’s annexe. When we first clambered the private staircase leading to it and saw the networks of black beams reaching up into the roof, I wondered what we would find. The room was a delight, quite unlike any other I’d ever stayed in. Overflowing with an assortment of mix ‘n’ match furniture, dominated by a wooden half-tester bed, all the walls covered in pictures, everything from portraits and landscapes to religious icons, ornaments littering every surface, it resembled an antique shop. Walking across the uneven floor making the boards creak just added to the room’s character and charm.

Now, lying in the dark, I picture the ancient beams criss-crossing up into the apex of the loft space.

Roof. Loft. We are in an attic. There are no adjacent rooms. The noise must be coming from outside.

‘Mamma, Mamma.’ A voice cuts through the silence.

It is followed by a second shouting ‘Papa’.

Then comes a piercing scream and a child clearly says: ‘Mum. Mum. Help me’.

It’s mid-July but feeling cold, I pull the duvet up to my chin. All goes quiet and I shake Jake.

‘What’s that? What you want?’ he mumbles.

‘A child screamed, Jake, you must have heard?’

‘No, I was asleep.’ He turns round to face me. Although I can’t see his expression I can hear the concern in his voice. ‘You’re not… that nightmare about… you know…’

‘No Jake, it wasn’t that nightmare. I heard children playing and there was a loud scream.’

‘A scream. Where did it come from?’

‘I think it came from outside and there were several children playing with a ball.’

‘Children, playing ball? In the middle of the night? You’re imagining things.’

‘No, Jake, I’m sure I heard children outside.’

‘OK I’ll take a look.’

He gets out of bed, pads over to the window and uses his phone to illuminate the gloom as he peers into the darkness.

‘Well I can’t see any lights on anywhere and there are no signs of children or anyone else for that matter.’

He comes back to bed, puts his arms around me, kisses my cheek and we remain quiet until he says:

‘Perhaps you had too much wine last night.’

I think of the two bottles we drank the previous night, hoping that is the answer.

As dawn creeps into the corners of the room and tiredness overcomes my thoughts I become aware of three pairs of eyes staring down at me from their fixed position on the opposite wall.

***

‘This room’s quirky enough to get anyone’s imagination working overtime,’ Jake declares as we get dressed.

He’s right, the room is a real one-off, unlike many identikit places we’ve stayed in. As sunshine streams through the window, I try to convince myself there’s a logical explanation to the night’s events. Yet there’s something about the painting of the three children with their penetrating brown eyes that unsettles me.

The oldest boy, dressed in a dark jacket, white shirt and yellow waistcoat, stands in the centre with a hand resting on the head of a black and white spaniel. To his left is a young girl in a blue dress, ringlets framing her pale face, a doll clutched in one hand. The youngest boy stands on the right, wearing baggy trousers and a black short-sleeved top trimmed in white. He is holding a ball.

***

Marie, our breakfast waitress, is very informative.

‘Your room, the Hayloft, is in the oldest part of the building, over 500 years old.’

‘There’s a picture in there of three children. Do you know anything about it?’

Marie puts down the pot of coffee she’s holding.

‘That’s the three Camden children, Henry-John, William and Gwendolyn. They lived here with their parents back in the 17th century. Poor lambs, they were killed in a terrible accident.’

‘What? Where? How?’ I ask.

‘In the old hay barn.’ She glances across the room. ‘People from these parts still talk about that accident today. Terrible tragedy.’ She picks up the coffee pot. ‘Sorry, but I can’t talk now, there’s people wanting their breakfast. Best ask Mr Barnett, he knows the story.’

With that she walks away.

***

Mr Barnett the hotel’s owner is busy at reception and smiles as we approach. Tall, self-assured and efficient, wearing a pink and white checked shirt and jeans at odds with the period surroundings, he’s happy to tell us the story.

‘Henry Camden lived here at Whitfield Hall and was a wealthy landowner, well respected from all I’ve read and devoted to his wife Caroline and their family. The story goes that the children were playing in the barn when the upper floor collapsed. All three were crushed to death.’

‘That’s terrible,’ I say clutching Jake’s arm, ‘they lost all three of their children?’

‘They did,’ Mr Barnett continues. ‘The loss of their children was too much for the Camdens, who moved away shortly afterwards.’

‘Any idea what caused the collapse?’ Jake inquires.

‘Reports say it rained heavily throughout 1640 and a leaky roof let water into the barn saturating everything. It was already quite an old building, so we can assume some of the timbers were rotten. All that extra weight must have caused the roof to fall in. Much of this hotel was built after then, although parts can be traced back to that period, including your room the Hayloft.’

This piece of information suggests a link to the voices I heard the previous night.

‘So, tell me, is this building haunted?’

Mr Barnett is very matter of fact.

‘I’ve been here for twelve years and I’ve never encountered anything ghostly or otherwise.’ He looks straight at me as he continues. ‘You believe what you want to believe.’

***

‘There’s no such thing as ghosts,’ Jake declares as we return to the Hayloft. ‘Scientifically impossible.’

‘You’re probably right, but it’s a sad story. It’s a tragedy to lose one child, but…’ Memories overwhelm me and tears well up.

Jake takes me in his arms and holds me close.

‘Yes. Chloe. I know.’

We stand in silence remembering our loss. Jake kisses me:

‘Now, have I got something to worry about? I thought you had finally managed to move on.’

‘That child’s voice brought it all back.’ I hold Jake tight. ‘You know I thought it was Chloe and… we never said goodbye. The thought she was alone haunts me, it always will.’

I look into his face, notice the small creases around his eyes and manage a smile.

‘Honestly I’m okay. I will never forget Chloe, but as you’ve said it’s time to move on.’

The hotel staff has already cleaned our room, but my eyes are drawn to the portrait of the Camden children.

‘It’s gone, Jake, that picture, it’s gone.’

I look again and realise the picture of the children with their haunting brown eyes has been turned around and is facing the wall.

Jake stifles a laugh.

‘I bet it’s one of the staff, heard us asking questions and thought they’d play a practical joke.’

He turns the picture round and the children stare at me once again.

‘I’m not convinced and if they did, Jake, it was in very bad taste.’

We collect our things and leave. Half-way downstairs I realise I’ve left my phone on the bedside table and go back alone. On re-entering the room, three pairs of eyes follow me around, but I am distracted by the sun’s rays illuminating the bed. The snow-white duvet, smooth as an ironing board when we had left barely a minute before, now bears four small but distinct indentations.

I can’t take my eyes from them and recall a voice the previous night calling out, ‘Mum, help’. It definitely sounded like a young girl. I shake my head, remembering Jake’s words. Scientifically impossible.

Children’s voices drift up from the courtyard, they are laughing, giggling, they sound happy.

Thud, pause.

They’re playing ball, a harmless children’s game. I smile thinking how everything seems so different in the daylight. A girl’s voice shouts out, ‘Bye Mum’.

I rush to the window and look out. The courtyard is empty.

‘Goodbye darling,’ I whisper and leave.