I’m Gladys Perkins, 68, retired dinner lady. Thirty-six years dishing up mash and gravy to ungrateful teenagers, but I don’t miss it, not terribly. Them kids got ruder every year, and the hair nets were never flattering.
I’ve got my little council bungalow now. One bedroom, bathroom with them grab rails I don’t need yet but the council put in anyway, kitchen big enough for a small table, and a living room where I spend most my time. Got a little garden out back, nothing fancy, just a patch of lawn and a few rosebushes Alan planted before he—well, we’ll get to that.
I like my puzzles. Got stacks of them books—crosswords, word searches, sudoku. Keep the mind sharp. Doctor Jones says it’s good for preventing what he calls “cognitive decline,” which is just a fancy way of saying “going doolally.” The telly’s usually on, but just for company, like. I watch Pointless with Alexander Armstrong every afternoon. Lovely man, very smart.
Not an exciting life, but it’s mine. The only real visitor I get most days is Shannon, my granddaughter. She’s fifteen, all legs and attitude, but she’s got a good heart underneath all that makeup. She comes round most weekends, which surprised me at first. Teenagers don’t usually want to spend time with their nans, do they?
Turns out she weren’t coming for my cheese scones, though they are quite good if I say so myself. No, she were coming for my garden.
“It’s got good light, Nan,” she told me, waving her phone about. “And them rosebushes make a proper backdrop.”
That were the first I heard of TikTok. Shannon tried explaining it to me, but it went in one ear and out the other. Something about short videos and dances and followers. Sounds like a cult, if you ask me, but I nodded along.
“You do what makes you happy, love,” I said, and she beamed like I’d given her a fifty-quid note.
So every weekend, there she is, prancing about between my rosebushes, phone propped up on one of my garden gnomes, music tinkling out of it like from an ice cream van. She does these little dances—nothing like the waltzing we did in my day. All hips and hands and facial expressions.
I watch from the kitchen window, cup of tea going cold in my hands. I thought it were just nice she wanted to come round, even if she only spoke to her phone. Better than being forgotten in my little bungalow, ain’t it?
People think I’m a widow. Simpler that way.
Alan didn’t die, not officially. He disappeared, see. That were twelve years ago now. Went on a fishing trip to Rhyl with his mate Dave. Never came back. They found his car in the car park by the beach, fishing gear gone. No sign of a struggle, nothing to suggest foul play. Just…vanished.
“Never like him,” I told the police at the time. “Never like Alan to leave without saying goodbye.”
They dragged the sea for two weeks. Found nothing. Dave swore blind that Alan had been fine when he last saw him, heading off alone for an evening cast while Dave went to the pub. Said Alan had been looking forward to coming home the next day.
They called it “missing, presumed dead” in the end. I got his pension, his life insurance. Became the tragic figure of the estate for a while. Casseroles and sympathy cards for months.
“Such a mystery,” they all said. “Poor Gladys, left all alone.”
I kept his shed locked after that. Told everyone I couldn’t bear to go through his things, and they nodded like they understood. Grief does strange things to people, they said. Take all the time you need, Gladys.
Twelve years is a long time to take, but no one mentions it anymore. The casseroles stopped coming. The sympathy dried up. Life went on.
I still get his pension. It’s not much, but it helps with the heating in winter. I sometimes wonder if they ever check these things. If there’s some government computer somewhere that’ll suddenly flash red and say “Hang on, this bloke’s been missing too long.” But so far, nothing.
The only one who ever asks questions is Maureen from number 16. Nosy cow with a yappy little Shih Tzu that shits on everyone’s lawn except her own.
“Never did find poor Alan, did they?” she’ll say, pretending she’s just making conversation while her dog sniffs around my front garden. “Strange how some people just vanish into thin air.”
“Very strange,” I’ll agree, and go back inside.
The truth is, I don’t think about Alan much these days. Not the real Alan, anyway. Sometimes I think about the Alan I invented—the one who loved me enough to say goodbye, the one who wouldn’t have left without a word. That Alan visits me in dreams sometimes, and I wake up reaching for him.
The real Alan’s fishing gear is still in the shed. Along with other things I don’t let myself think about.
It were Maureen who told me about the video. Came knocking on my door on a Tuesday morning, dog tucked under her arm like a furry handbag.
“Gladys! I seen yer garden on the lad’s Facebook! It’s gone viral, apparently!”
I hadn’t a clue what she were on about. Viral to me meant flu, not whatever she were getting excited about.
“Our Shannon’s dancing,” I said, not inviting her in. “She puts it on that TikTok thing.”
“Well, it’s everywhere now! Our Kevin showed me. Thousands of people watching it!”
I must’ve looked confused because she huffed, shifting her dog to her other arm. “Look it up, Gladys. ‘Dancing girl, weird grandad in background.’ That’s what they’re calling it.”
She left me standing there, cold dread settling in my stomach like a stone. I don’t have a computer, but I’ve got an old tablet Shannon set up for me years ago. Mostly use it for solitaire and looking up cake recipes, but I know how to search for things.
I sat at my kitchen table and typed in what Maureen had said. It came up straight away.
There was our Shannon, dancing in my garden to some pop song I didn’t recognise. Wearing them denim shorts that are more pocket than trouser and a cropped top thing that showed her belly button. Spinning and pointing and doing whatever dance were popular that week.
But that weren’t what everyone was watching.
In the background, through the bushes near the shed, there was a man. Sat very still on what looked like an upturned bucket. Wearing a green jumper.
Alan’s green jumper.
At first, I thought it were an old photo somehow stuck onto the video. But then it moved. Just slightly. A hand raising what looked like a mug to its lips.
I dropped my tablet. It bounced on the tablecloth and landed face up, Shannon still dancing, Alan still sitting.
“No,” I said to the empty kitchen. “No, no, no.”
I picked up the tablet again with shaking hands. Nearly 80,000 views already. Comments flooding in underneath.
Who’s the creepy old dude in the back?
Grandad’s just vibing lol
Yo is your nan’s house haunted??
I’d be checking that shed if I was you
Call the police, that guy’s just watching her wtf
I closed it down. Put the tablet in a drawer. Made a cup of tea with too much sugar. Tried to steady my hands.
Through the kitchen window, I could see the shed. Looking just the same as it had for twelve years.
Except now, the whole internet had seen what—who—was inside.
I rang Shannon as soon as my hands stopped shaking enough to hold the phone.
“Nan! Have you seen it? I’m famous!” She squealed down the line, voice high with excitement.
“Shannon, love, you need to take that video down.”
“What? No way! It’s got like, 80,000 views already! I’ve gained like 5,000 followers overnight!”
“Please, Shannon. There’s…there’s something in the background. People are saying things.”
“Yeah, I know! That’s why it’s gone viral! Everyone thinks it’s, like, a ghost or something. Or some random old man who snuck into your garden. It’s so creepy! My friends think I’m living in a horror movie!”
She laughed, actually laughed, like it were the funniest thing in the world.
“It’s not funny, Shannon. Take it down.”
“Nan, no. This could be my chance! I might get picked up by brands or something!”
“Brands? What are you on about?”
“Sponsorships! Money! People get rich from going viral, Nan!”
I tried everything. Pleading, threatening to tell her mother, even offering her fifty quid. Nothing worked. Shannon thought she were on the verge of internet stardom, and nothing I said could convince her otherwise.
After I hung up, I sat at my kitchen table for a long time, watching the shed. The sun set. The automatic security light clicked on, casting long shadows across the lawn.
Was he in there now? Watching me watching him?
I got up, found the key to the shed. Slipped it into my pocket. Walked to the back door, looked out at the darkened garden.
I couldn’t do it. Not yet.
Instead, I drew the curtains tight and tried to sleep, the key digging into my hip.
The messages started coming the next day.
Shannon had linked my TikTok account to the video somehow, and people were finding me. The tablet pinged and buzzed with notifications until I had to turn it off completely.
Is that your husband in the background?
Creepy grandad, lol
Do you know him?????
Check your shed, nan!
I tried to ignore them, but they kept coming, each one making me jump like someone had shouted in my ear. I felt exposed, like my little bungalow with its neat garden and locked shed had suddenly had its roof ripped off, everyone peering in.
I found myself checking the windows, making sure the curtains were properly closed. Jumping at every creak and groan of the old building. Watching the shed from my kitchen window like it might suddenly sprout legs and walk away.
That night, I took the key and went outside. The moon was bright enough that I didn’t need a torch. The grass was damp against my slippers. I stood before the shed door, key in hand.
The lock was old, rusty in places. Nobody had unlocked it in over a decade. Not officially.
I raised the key, then lowered it again. Turned and went back inside.
In my bedroom, I pulled the curtain back just enough to see the shed. Was that a light in there? The faintest glow around the edges of the small window?
Or was I going mad?
I let the curtain fall back and sat on the edge of my bed, heart hammering in my chest.
“You’re a silly old woman, Gladys Perkins,” I told myself aloud. “Seeing things that ain’t there.”
But I knew what I’d seen in that video. And deep down, I knew it weren’t the first time I’d seen it.
It took me three more days to work up the courage. Three days of barely sleeping, of jumping at shadows, of watching that damned video over and over, pausing it on the exact frame where you could see his face. Gaunt, bearded, but unmistakably Alan.
The video had over 300,000 views now. Shannon had been on some podcast talking about her “haunted nan.” People were making reaction videos, zooming in on the figure in the background, enhancing the image, drawing red circles and arrows.
Some thought it was a ghost. Others were convinced it was a homeless man who’d been living in my garden without me knowing. A few of the comments were genuinely concerned, telling Shannon she should check on her “poor confused nan” who might be in danger.
If only they knew.
I chose a Wednesday morning. Middle of the week, when most people were at work or school. Less chance of being seen.
I put on my dressing gown and slippers, like I was just popping out to check the washing line. The key felt heavy in my pocket.
The shed looked ordinary in the morning light. Just a wooden structure, maybe eight feet by six, with a small window too grimy to see through.
Hand shaking, I fitted the key into the lock. It turned with a rusty screech that made me wince.
Then I opened the door.
The smell hit me first. Not the rot and decay you might expect, but something almost domestic—cooking oil, cheap soap, the faint whiff of unwashed clothes. A lived-in smell.
It was dim inside, but not dark. A battery-powered camping lantern sat on a makeshift shelf. A camp bed was pushed against one wall. A plastic crate served as a table, with another upturned as a chair. Fishing gear leaned in one corner, largely undisturbed. A small camping stove. A stack of paperback westerns. A plastic washing-up bowl.
And on the camp bed, sitting very still, was Alan.
He looked up when the door opened. No surprise on his face. Just resignation.
“Hello, Glad,” he said, voice rasping from lack of use.
I stared at him. He’d aged, of course. His hair had gone completely grey, what was left of it. His face was deeply lined, his beard unkempt. He was thinner than I remembered, almost gaunt. But his eyes were the same.
“You’re in a video,” I said, because it was all I could think to say.
He nodded. “I saw the girl filming. Tried to stay out of sight, but…”
“She’s your granddaughter. Shannon.”
Something flickered across his face—pain, maybe, or regret.
“You should’ve been more careful,” I said.
“Harder to hide these days. Cameras everywhere.”
We stared at each other across the small space. Twelve years stretched between us like a chasm.
“Why?” I finally asked, though it weren’t really the question I wanted to ask.
He sighed, a deep, weary sound. “Couldn’t take it anymore, Glad. The job, the bills, the arguments. Felt like I was drowning. Went to Rhyl intending to end it all, if I’m honest. But when it came to it… I couldn’t. Just couldn’t. So I walked away instead.”
“And came back here? To hide in your own shed?”
“Not at first. Slept rough for a while. Then found work cash-in-hand at a few farms. Lived in a caravan. But I missed…home.”
“So you moved into the Hendersons’ abandoned shed next door. And crossed into our garden when you thought I weren’t looking.”
His eyes widened slightly. “You knew?”
I laughed, a harsh sound. “Course I knew, Alan. I saw you, that first week. Thought, if that’s how little you think of me, fine. Stay gone.”
I stepped forward and slapped him, hard enough that the sound echoed in the small space. Then I started to cry, great heaving sobs that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside me. He reached for me, and I let him pull me against his chest, his jumper scratchy against my cheek.
“You bastard,” I sobbed. “You complete and utter bastard.”
When the tears finally stopped, I pulled away, wiping my face with the sleeve of my dressing gown.
“I’ll put the kettle on,” I said. “Proper cup of tea, not whatever you’ve been making on that camping stove.”
He followed me into the house like a stray dog, hesitant and wary. Sat at the kitchen table while I made tea, looking around at the familiar space like he’d never seen it before.
Weren’t the reunion I’d rehearsed in my head all them times.
We talked for hours that first day. Twelve years of silence broken by words that tumbled out like water from a burst pipe.
He told me about his life in the shadows—how he’d lived in the abandoned shed in the Hendersons’ overgrown garden next door after they moved into a home, then increasingly in his own shed as years passed and it seemed I wasn’t going to disturb it. How he’d collected rainwater, used the outside tap when I was out, heated food on his little stove. Used the public toilets in town during the day. Watched me through windows and cracks in the fence.
I told him about life without him—how I’d grieved for a man who wasn’t dead, how I’d built a new routine, how Shannon was the only real bright spot in my days now.
“I saw you, that first week,” I repeated. “Coming over the fence at night. Thought I was seeing things at first, or your ghost.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?” he asked. “Report me?”
“And say what? ‘My missing husband’s hiding in his own shed’? They’d have carted me off to the funny farm.” I sipped my tea. “Besides, you were legally dead by then. Pension coming in, life insurance paid out. Would’ve been complicated.”
“So you just…let me stay?”
“Seems like.”
He nodded slowly. “Never came after me with the rolling pin, neither.”
“Thought about it. Many times.”
We fell silent, the weight of twelve years pressing down on us.
“What happens now, Glad?”
I’d been asking myself the same question since I’d seen that video.
“You can’t stay in the shed,” I said finally. “Not now people have seen you. Questions will be asked. That video’s not going away.”
“I could leave. Properly this time.”
I looked at him, this ghost of my husband, and felt something I hadn’t expected. Not love, exactly. Maybe not even forgiveness. But something like familiarity. A recognition of something that had once been important.
“We could say you had amnesia. That you saw Shannon’s video and it jogged your memory.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Would anyone believe that?”
“People believe all sorts of rubbish these days. Seen the comments on that video? Half of ‘em think you’re a ghost.”
Another silence.
“Or,” I said, the idea forming as I spoke, “you could stay in the shed. Out of sight. We don’t tell anyone.”
“You’d do that?”
“Done it for twelve years already, haven’t I?”
He reached across the table, tentatively took my hand. His was rougher than I remembered, calloused from who knows what. “Thank you, Glad.”
I pulled my hand away. “Don’t thank me yet. I’ve got conditions.”
First thing I did was delete Facebook from my tablet. Then I rang Shannon.
“That video needs to come down,” I said, no preamble.
“Nan, we’ve been through this—”
“It’s not a request, Shannon. Take it down or I’ll smash that phone of yours next time you come round.”
She spluttered, outraged. “You can’t do that!”
“Watch me. And no more filming at my house. Not in the garden, not inside, nowhere.”
“But Nan—”
“Some things ain’t for the internet, Shannon. Some ghosts need leaving where they lay.”
I hung up before she could argue more. The video stayed up—once these things are out there, they’re out there for good—but Shannon stopped filming at my house. Started doing her dances in the park instead, where the backdrop was less likely to contain unexpected figures.
Alan moved back into the shed. We agreed it were safer than having him in the house, where neighbours might spot him through windows. I started leaving meals by the back door at night, bringing in the empty plates in the morning.
“Like having a stray cat again,” I told him once, when we sat together in the kitchen late at night, sharing a pot of tea.
He laughed, a rusty sound he was still rediscovering. “Bit more high maintenance than a cat.”
“Not by much. You’re both grateful for scraps and disappear when visitors come round.”
It were strange, how quickly we fell into a routine. How the extraordinary became ordinary. I’d lived alone for so long that having Alan on the periphery of my life again was both jarring and somehow right, like a picture that had been hanging crooked for years finally straightened.
We talked more now than we ever had when we were properly married. Maybe because there were so many new boundaries between us, so many things that needed saying explicitly now.
People still commented on the video. Theories evolved, screenshots were analysed. Some thought it was faked for attention. Others became amateur detectives, trying to identify the mysterious figure. A few even drove by the bungalow, slowing down to peer at the garden, hoping for a glimpse of the “Wednesfield Watcher,” as they’d dubbed him.
Shannon moved on to Instagram, finding new ways to chase internet fame. She still visited, but less often, and always with a sulky reminder that I’d “ruined her chance at being an influencer.”
I sometimes replayed the video myself. Just to see him sitting there, unguarded, unaware he was being watched. There was something peaceful about him in that moment. Something honest.
Shannon came round last weekend with a new phone.
“It’s got, like, the best camera ever, Nan,” she said, turning it over in her hands like it was made of gold. “Everyone at school’s well jel.”
“Very nice,” I said, not really understanding why a phone needed three different cameras on the back, but nodding along.
She hovered by the back door, looking out at the garden.
“Nan…can I do just one more dance out there? For old times’ sake? I won’t post it anywhere, promise.”
I should’ve said no. But she looked so earnest, and it had been months since the original video. Things had quietened down. Alan knew to stay out of sight when Shannon was around.
“Alright. One dance. No posting.”
She beamed, already setting up her phone on the garden table, queuing up some song I didn’t recognise.
I watched from the kitchen window as she performed. It was a different dance to the one in the viral video, but the same energy—all excitement and youth and not a care in the world.
This time, there was no one in the background. Just Shannon and the rosebushes and the blank wall of the shed.
Later that night, after she’d gone, I took a cup of tea out to the shed. Unlocked the lock, pushed open the door.
It was empty.
The camp bed was still there, and the camping stove. The fishing gear still leaned in the corner. But the lantern was gone, and the paperbacks. The washing-up bowl. The small signs that someone had been living there.
On the plastic crate that served as a table was a note, written on the back of a receipt.
Didn’t want to be a ghost. Love, Al.
I sat on the camp bed, the note in my hand, and felt something that wasn’t quite grief and wasn’t quite relief. A space opening up inside me, familiar and new all at once.
The next morning, I found Shannon’s dance on TikTok. She’d posted it despite her promise. But this time, I didn’t call to scold her.
This time, I shared it.
