Hi, so as promised, here’s a story for you.

When I was young, we lived in quite a strict house. We were told to read a book and rarely allowed to watch TV, not that we wanted to watch Grand Prix or war films anyway, lol. We weren’t allowed out on the front to play with the other kids either.

I used to spend most of my time sitting on an ottoman reading my favourite Enid Blyton books (love her books). The sun would shine through the window onto the pages of Swallows and Amazons, and I’d be completely immersed, imagining I was one of the Secret Seven on an adventure (to escape this prison I found myself in).

I’d been reading for about an hour when I heard music coming from the closet in the corner of my room. It was faint, but definitely there.

I went to investigate. There was nothing but clothes and an old pinball machine in there. The music had stopped, so I went back to my spot in the window.

Twenty minutes later, it started again. This time it was loud.

I got up, cautiously looked again… and the pinball machine was on. It was playing itself—lights, sounds, the lot.

I ran out of my room and told my mum. She looked at me and said,
“Vikki, that’s impossible. It doesn’t even have a plug on it.”

Totally freaked out, I begged her to come and look. She did—and sure enough, it was still playing.

That same day, it was taped up in its box and put away in the attic.

Ten years later, when we moved out, that pinball machine was back out of its box. Standing upright on its legs. In the middle of the attic.