‘I went to Wetherspoons haunted by famous ghost – and was left stunned’

BROCARDE’S TERRYING TRAVELS: Brocarde decided to visit a Wetherspoons that is allegedly haunted by the ghost of Mary Shelley. Let’s take a look at what the paranormal expert found

I’ve seen some creepy things in my time. But, nothing – absolutely nothing – prepared me for what happened the night I followed a ghost across a Bournemouth graveyard and straight into Wetherspoons, while she carried a still-beating human heart.

It began in the early hours as I wandered through St Peter’s Churchyard, visiting Mary Shelley’s grave. Mist curled around the gravestones, clinging to the ground like it had a life of its own. Then a shadow rose from the Shelley family tomb. I stopped dead, and that’s when she appeared. It comes as Brocarde visited Frankenstein’s castle where the freaky scientist allegedly dug up bodies.

A gothic woman in a heavy velvet cloak glided from the earth, moving with an unnatural, silent grace. Her face was the first thing that struck me.

It was pale – almost luminous – with a ghostly softness that made her look ethereal.

Her skin seemed untouched by time, smooth and delicate as porcelain. Her cheekbones were high and elegant, her lips faintly tinted like they carried the last whisper of life, and her eyes, dark and glassy.

They held a sadness so deep it felt like it reached straight through me.

She looked fragile and hauntingly beautiful, like a figure carved from moonlight.

I wasn’t trying to summon her. I wasn’t performing a séance. I was simply paying my respects, but her presence pulled me in completely.

There was no fear, only a strange, intense fascination. I felt drawn to her, as if following her was the only thing I could do.

She drifted across the graveyard and into the street, and as I followed, a loud rhythmic thud filled the night air. At first I thought it was my own heart pounding, until I saw the truth.

She reached into her cloak and lifted out a heart, a human heart, still beating, its dull throb echoing through the darkness.

She held it carefully, almost lovingly, as she floated straight through the locked doors of the Mary Shelley Wetherspoons.

I stood rooted to the spot, stunned. I’ve explored haunted forests, abandoned mansions and tunnels that made my skin crawl, but this was on a different level completely.

Strange, mesmerising, terrifying, and impossible to forget.

And honestly, with the pub named after her and her grave right across the road, maybe she really does think of it as her local.

I just hope she doesn’t end up dropping that heart into someone’s pint, because a freshly pumped bloody mary would take on a whole new meaning.

Still rattled, I looked deeper into the story of Percy Shelley’s heart. The real history is as unsettling as the ghost herself. When he was cremated, his heart refused to burn.

It was taken from the ashes and given to Mary, who kept it close for years. When she died, it was buried with them, or so the records say.

But after what I witnessed, I can’t help thinking Mary still carries her husband’s heart with her, even now, and every so often she slips from her grave for a quiet drink, heart in hand, face pale and delicate as ever.