http://www.sharonrectoryireland.com/

Sharon Rectory Ireland, Donegal (2026)

24/04/2026

Part 2: The House Awakens Again!
(Continuing on from my previous post)

Not long after coming inside, I fell into my usual nightly routine, small comforts in familiar spaces. The kitchen light hummed softly as I cleaned up, trying to shake the unease that had followed me from the garden.

As I stood in the kitchen, I heard footsteps in the dining room. Clear and solid. Moving down the steps and through the room which was next door. I paused, expecting one of the boys to appear. I even waited, half-smiling, convinced one of them was about to jump out to frighten me. When no one came, I decided to catch them first. I slowly crept toward the doorway and leaned around the corner to take a peak… Nothing. The room was empty.
I called for the boys, but there was no answer. Then I stood at the bottom of the stairs and called again. Both boys responded, still in their bedrooms playing on their computers. Neither of them had been downstairs. But I know what I heard.

It's a regular occurrence to hear footsteps here. But it still makes my heart skip a beat knowing there isn't a body to create them.

It’s strange… ever since Gabriel left a couple of days ago for work, the house feels different again. While he’s here, it's settled. The air softens. Whatever lingers seems to retreat, as though his presence pushes it back. But when he goes… it returns.

Later that night, as I walked the upstairs hallway, I saw it. A mist. Lingering just outside my son’s bedroom door. I rushed in, heart racing, convinced something was smouldering. A faint haze hung in the air, enough to catch the light. I searched everywhere. Sockets, plugs, behind furniture expecting heat, smoke, something. But there was nothing. My son looked at me as though I was a crazy woman. As quickly as it had appeared… it began to fade. Within a couple of minutes, the room was clear again. I called for my eldest son to come down to the room to see if he could see it, but by the time he stepped into the room, there was no trace.

This part of the house has always felt… different. Not threatening. Not cruel. Just aware. As though it watches… and occasionally chooses to be seen. Maybe it was making itself known? Or maybe… I shouldn’t have joked about needing help from the original groundsman. Because something, somewhere… might have answered.😳

23/04/2026

Part one: The Garden Called Back!

For weeks, the house had been quiet. I felt it too quiet. The spirits of Sharon seemed to have settled… as though whatever lingered had finally drifted away. Until yesterday!

As evening fell, I was outside in the garden, wrestling with stubborn vines and weeds that had claimed the old pathway at the back of the house. It's the kind of work that leaves your back aching and wondering why the hell did I even start this in the first place. Half laughing to myself, I muttered, “Where is the original groundsman when you need him?”

The words had barely settled into the air when I heard... “EMMA!”

Sharp. Clear. Close. A man’s voice, right beside me, between the bare apple trees. I froze. There was no mistaking it. The tone carried the weight of age. An older man. It was firm but not harsh. I turned quickly, expecting... needing someone to be there. But the garden stood empty. No movement. No figure. No explanation! Just the quiet, stillness… pressing in again.

I told myself not to dwell on it. Tried to brush it off as imagination, as the wind, as anything else but what I knew deep down. And so I kept working until the fading light stretched shadows across the ground until the darkness finally drove me inside.

But once I entered inside, something had shifted. And the house… had notice...

23/03/2026

Last week, the house stirred again. But this time, it was in the main building.

It began in the early hours. That quiet, fragile time of the night when everything should be still. Mum had gone to bed, the house settled, the air calm… nothing out of place. Until it wasn’t!

She woke suddenly to a violent bang echoing through the hallway near the main staircase. A sound so sharp, so deliberate, it shattered the silence instantly.

That part of the house has never felt at ease. Many of you who have visited know the space, the heaviness that lingers there, the subtle shift in atmosphere as you pass through. It always has been a place of...activity. But then again, it's no surprise given the tragic event that once took place there.

This sound, she knew it. Not imagined. Not the house settling. Something had been thrown.

As the echo faded, another sound followed. A low, unsettling rumble… moving closer to her bedroom door. It travelled along the hallway, growing louder as it made its way toward her room. Not footsteps. Something heavier. It drew closer, and closer. Then. Nothing!
The silence returned as though nothing had happened.

Mum didn’t move. She didn't acknowledge it. She didn’t get up to open the door. After years in the house, you learn when not to go looking.

Morning came, bringing light, but not answers. As she walked down the main staircase, she found it. A picture that had hung on the wall for years now lying in the middle of the floor, facing upwards. Placed almost deliberately where it could not be missed.

She checked the wall. The nail was still there. Firm. Undisturbed. There was no sign of it slipping. No reason for it to fall. It hadn’t fallen. It had been removed. Or perhaps… thrown.

Moments like these are not new to Sharon Rectory. But what lingers is the question of timing. Why now? Why again? Was it simply a presence reminding us it is still here…

Or something else entirely…beginning to stir?

16/03/2026

People often ask Gabriel if he’s ever experienced anything otherworldly here in Sharon Rectory. His response? A very quick, very confident “Are you crazy?” 😅

He has always been the loudest sceptic in the room. Paranormal? Not a chance. There’s always a logical explanation. Old houses make noises. Pipes bang. Floorboards creak. End of story. Or so he thought…

After many, many years of living here, there have been a few moments that have quietly challenged that certainty.

Just a few weeks before we moved into the outhouses, Gabriel was finishing off some last bits around the house, getting everything ready for our carpenter to take over. On this particular day, he was completely alone.
While working away in the kitchen, he began to hear movement upstairs.

Not just a subtle creak, but clear walking. Shifting. Banging. As though someone was moving from room to room above him. He assumed it was me home early from work. Maybe I’d gone upstairs to grab something. So at first, he ignored it. But the noises continued. Loud enough. Heavy enough. Intentional enough. He eventually called out my name to check.

Silence.

No reply.

That’s when he walked over to the French doors that lead out into the courtyard, just to see if I had come in that way. They were locked. He didn’t brave going upstairs. (Which I found very interesting 😅) Instead, he simply carried on… quietly convincing himself there must be an explanation.

Later that evening he turned to me and said, very casually, “Something happened in the house today… of your kind.” “My kind?” I laughed. “Ghosts,” he replied. I couldn’t help but giggle. Over 15 years together, he had finally admitted to experiencing something he couldn’t immediately explain away. So of course I asked, “Are you starting to believe now?” He paused. “I’m still not convinced.”
And there it was, the sceptic holding on by a thread.

Maybe in time the spirits will try a little harder to convince him. Will Sharon Rectory turn another sceptic into a believer?

Who knows… 👀

11/03/2026

Following on from the incident at the back staircase, the flies, the heaviness, the sense that something unseen had gathered, the house did not settle. In fact, only days later, it reminded us once again that activity here rarely happens in isolation.

Our carpenter, Kevin, who was tying up the final pieces of the renovation, worked late on this particular evening so we could move into our new space as planned. It was sometime between 7 and 8pm. Dusk had already begun to wrap itself around the courtyard and surrounding space. He moved back and forth between the kitchen and the utility room, focused on the last of the finishing touches. That was when he heard it. The front door coming into the house opened.

Not a creak. Not a draft. Opened!

He paused, expecting to see me appear around the corner, perhaps coming to check on progress. He waited for footsteps. Instead, he heard the door close again. Firmly. Then silence.

Assuming someone had stepped in and back out again, he walked to the utility to greet whoever had arrived. But there were no wet footprints on the wooden floor, something that would be impossible to miss on a damp February evening. The front yard had been soaked in muck. Anyone entering would have left a trace. But there was nothing.

He asked me if I had come over. But I hadn’t. And neither had anyone else in our house. But the evening wasn’t finished yet.

At almost the exact same time, in the main wing of Sharon Rectory, my mum Lisa experienced something eerily similar. She heard the back door from the courtyard open and the unmistakable sound of someone stepping inside. She expected me, or one of my boys wander through for a chat.

Again, the door closed.
Again, no one appeared.

She too messaged me, asking if we had come in. Again, the answer was no.

Two separate wings of the house. Two separate doors. Two separate witnesses. The same time. The same unexplained entrance… and exit.

When I checked the cameras covering the areas, there was no one. No movement. No visitor. No logical explanation. It felt less like coincidence and more like routine. As though someone was making their rounds. Checking in.

Activity here does not always present itself in dramatic fashion. Sometimes it is subtle. A door opening. A door closing. A presence passes through as if it still belongs.

Another mystery added to the long list of unexplainable moments that seem to weave themselves into daily life at Sharon Rectory.

And as always…We were not alone. 👻

09/03/2026

Since the dust has finally settled and the sound of drills and sanding blocks no longer fills every spare moment of our days, something else has begun to stir again...my words.

For the past two and a half years, life outside of work was consumed by rebuilding walls, insulating cold bones of the house, painting, restoring, resurrecting. It was exhausting. Rewarding, yes, but relentless. And somewhere in the midst of it all, my creative voice quietly stepped aside.

Now, as we turn the page into this new chapter at Sharon Rectory, it feels only right to return to what I have always done best, telling the stories that live within these walls. And since the New Year… there have been stories.

Some moments I had almost forgotten, until I sat down and allowed the memories to rise back to the surface. But one occurrence in particular refuses to be ignored.

If you don’t follow me over on TikTok, you may not have heard about what happened at the end of January. An experience both unsettling and deeply strange.

There was a heaviness in the house again. A thickness in the air. It seemed to gather most intensely around the back staircase in the main building. An area many of you who have attended our Halloween tours will remember well.

That staircase has never felt quite right.
The temperature shifts without reason. The air turns sharp and cold. Even in daylight, there is the undeniable sensation of being watched as you climb the stairwell. My sister would have often spoken of something chasing her up those very stairs when she was younger. I would never linger there longer than necessary when alone.

You may recall me mentioning in my book, I would stare at that dreaded window above my childhood bedroom door... the door that would lead to the back staircase. It has always been an unnerving area in the house.

Then, one afternoon toward the end of January, Mum was descending those stairs, something she does countless times a day when she was stopped abruptly. The entire window at the bottom of the staircase was covered in blue bottle flies. Not a handful.
A swarm! They clung to the glass as though something lifeless lay hidden nearby. Yet after careful inspection, there was no source. No scent. No visible cause. And stranger still, they did not scatter when approached. Instead, Mum stood and watched as they began to drop. One by one. Falling to the sill as though something unseen had severed their life force.

She messaged me immediately. When I went to see it for myself, the air felt wrong. Dense, almost charged, but still there was no explanation. She cleaned the entire area thoroughly, even repainting around the window to refresh the space.

My first thought, based on years of research into similar cases, was one that many in paranormal circles will recognise...An infestation of black or blue bottle flies has long been associated with stagnant or negative energy in a location. It is documented in numerous accounts of hauntings and spiritual disturbances. We decided to watch and wait.

The following day, Mum descended the staircase again. They were back. More than before. And this time, she watched them appear seemingly from nowhere, gathering against the edge of the glass in front of her eyes. Again, no source. No cracks. No entry point. No logical explanation.

She cleaned the area once more, and this time followed with a sage cleansing which is something she practices regularly, alongside another simple but widely recognised ritual 'leaving a glass of water, vinegar, and salt within the space to absorb stagnant or negative energy.'

Since that day… The flies have not returned. We are not naive enough to believe that one cleansing removes all negativity from a house like Sharon Rectory. Energy comes and goes here, as it always has. But whatever lingered at the back staircase has, for now, retreated.
Whether it chooses to rise again is something only time will tell.

As I settle back into writing and documenting our life here, I will be sharing more of these moments with you. The subtle, the unsettling, and the unexplainable. Because when you live in a house with this much history… The quiet never stays quiet for long. 👻

06/03/2026

Chris Mc Kinnell, grandson of the legendary paranormal investigators Ed and Lorraine Warren will be hosting a special online event on the 14th of March 10pm GMT.

Chris continues his grandparents’ legacy in the paranormal field and will be sharing stories from some of the most chilling cases he has personally investigated. During the event, he’ll also explore fascinating topics such as near-death experiences, deathbed visitations, and haunting ghost encounters.

If you’ve ever been intrigued by the paranormal or followed the work of Ed and Lorraine Warren, this promises to be a truly captivating watch. It’s a wonderful opportunity to hear firsthand accounts from Chris.

From the words of Chris;
What really happens when we die?
Ed and Lorraine Warren came back to tell me. I’m their grandson. I have spent 44 years investigating the paranormal. And after they passed, they visited, several times! What they showed me will change how you see everything.

On March 14th at 6PM Eastern Time, I’m hosting a one-time live Zoom event sharing the cases, the crossings, and the visitations that left no doubt, including theirs.

Deathbed visitations. Near-death experiences. Ghost encounters that will chill you, and others that will bring you to tears. All leading to one place: a deeper understanding of what waits on the other side.

Once it’s over, it’s gone forever.
🎟️ $29 Live | $50 Live + permanent recording.

Message me directly through Messenger or my email to reserve your spot. I’ll send your Zoom link personally.
[email protected]
If someone you love needs to hear this, please share. 🌌

03/03/2026

Last night felt different in the outhouses of Sharon. Not dramatic. Not chaotic. Just… deliberate.

For the first time since moving into our new space, I was woken from my sleep by something I cannot place in this world.
It was around 1:30am. I stirred and rolled toward the empty side of the bed. My husband was working away, so the room felt larger than usual, quieter. I opened my eyes only slightly, still caught in that space between dreaming and waking. And that’s when I saw it.

Rising slowly from amongst the pillows on the empty side of the bed was something I can only describe as otherworldly. At first, in my sleepy haze, I thought it must be a moth, a large one. The way it hovered and shifted in the air. But as my mind caught up with what my eyes were seeing, I focused. It was a bright white orb. Perfectly formed. Luminous. And inside it, dark colours pulsed and swirled deep earth tones, moving like slow spinning circles within light. It wasn’t flat or shadowed. It had depth. Movement. Intention.

I stared at it for several seconds, trying to steady myself in the moment. Then instinct took over. I turned sharply and switched on the bedside lamp. It vanished. Not darted away. Not faded gradually. Just gone! Still unconvinced, I pulled the pillows aside. Threw back the covers. Checked the floor. Looked for any possible explanation. An insect, a reflection, anything that could tether what I’d seen to logic. There was nothing. I stood there in the dim amber glow of the lamp, the room silent, trying to process what had just happened. And then I heard it. Footsteps!

They began low in the hallway, near the far end by the staircase. Heavy at first. Measured. Moving toward my bedroom door. As they approached, the sound softened...fading just before they reached the threshold. I didn’t open the door. I didn’t investigate. Instead, I calmly pulled the covers back over the bed, slipped in, and lay still. I was too tired to challenge it. Too aware to ignore it completely. Quietly, I said, “Not tonight.”I switched off the light and, somehow, drifted back to sleep.

This morning, with clearer eyes, I began researching the description of what I saw. In many spiritual accounts, a white orb can symbolise protection or presence. Yet when darker tones swirl within it and with heavy, pulsing colours it is often described as a spirit in confusion, unrest, or carrying dense energy.

I don’t believe it meant harm. If anything, it felt… displaced. Perhaps a past occupant unsettled by change. Perhaps someone who once worked within these very walls. During renovations, I often sensed a strong male presence. Particularly in what would have once been servant quarters. A groundsman, a caretaker, a maintenance worker from another era perhaps?

Whoever he is, if it is indeed the same presence, he made himself known more clearly last night than ever before.
But there was no malice in it. Only weight. He knows we mean no threat. And, like us, he is simply adjusting.

Homes like Sharon Rectory do not shift ownership without stirring what lingers within them. It may take time for both the living and the unseen to find a shared rhythm again. For now… we coexist. And the nights, well it seems, are listening.

02/03/2026

On this day, the 2nd of March, 1797. Sharon Rectory bore witness to violence that would forever stain its stone walls.

During the unrest surrounding the 1798 Rebellion era, the house became a target. The United Irishmen laid siege to the property, surrounding it with anger and unrest that had been brewing far beyond its gates. Inside those walls were lives that would not see another dawn.

Sara Waller, wife of John Waller and by all accounts a deeply loved member of the local community, was struck when shots were fired through the windows of the house. The glass that once welcomed morning light became the instrument of her death.

Reverend William Hamilton, in a desperate attempt to escape the chaos, is said to have fled to the cellar, but refuge did not find him there. He was dragged from hiding and met a brutal end on the very doorstep of Sharon Rectory.

Two lives lost within moments. Two stories are forever woven into the fabric of this house. History is often written in ink. Here, it feels written in echoes.

There are days when the corridors feel heavier than usual. When the air shifts without warning. And I cannot help but think of that night. The fear, confusion, sorrow that pressed into these stones. Trapped forever.

Sharon Rectory has seen centuries pass through its doors. It has known joy, family, laughter… but it has also known violence and grief.

Today, we remember Reverend William Hamilton and Sara Waller not as ghost stories, but as souls who once walked these halls in life.

And perhaps, in their own way, still do.

26/02/2026

After two and a half years of dust, devotion, doubt, and determination, the courtyard of Sharon Rectory breathes once more.

The old outhouses, silent for nearly a century, now hum with life again… and yes, the irony of that word is not lost on me.

Renovation is not for the faint of heart. It tests patience. It stretches spirit. But somewhere between the crumbling plaster and the echo of forgotten footsteps, something beautiful began to return to these walls.

Gabriel, our two children, and I have finally settled into our restored wing of Sharon Rectory. To say we are proud would be an understatement. We have watched this transformation unfold day by day, beam by beam, and now we get to live within the story we helped rebuild.

Our space carries a slightly different mood from my parents side of the house. The aesthetic leans into our own rhythm. It's a little moodier, a little more us. But rest assured, I will always honour the era of the Rectory. The right antique, the right rustic touch, always seems to find its way home.

And speaking of home… it is a strange and comforting thing to once again sleep beneath the roof of Sharon Rectory.
Of course, we are not alone here.

After nearly 30 years on this property, I have experienced moments that would chill even the most hardened sceptic. There were years when fear lived close to my heart. But time, and perhaps the house itself has changed me. I have grown spiritually. I have learned about the unknown. I no longer fear it the way I once did.

As my children grow, they too are learning that not everything unseen is something to dread. We teach them awareness, strength, and how to gently close the door on energies that do not belong in our space.

The spirits remain… but so do we.
And now that we are home again, I look forward to bringing you along on this new chapter at Sharon Rectory, documenting the beauty, the history, and yes… the unexplainable moments that come with living in a renowned haunted house.

The story continues. 👻

Sharon Rectory Ireland

24/04/2026

23/04/2026

23/03/2026

16/03/2026

11/03/2026

09/03/2026

06/03/2026

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26/02/2026

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