About

I am a writer of ghost stories, short stories and comic verse inspired by the supernatural.

I've also written and presented on the subject of ghost hunting. I believe I've seen a ghost and I've heard strange footsteps, weird voices and experienced the ghostly scent of perfume and tobacco.


 Follow me on Twitter @RosieO_writer and I'll follow you back.

On Facebook, I'll be happy to like any fellow author's pages. You can find me at Rosie O'Carroll author

YouTube - you can see me at ghostlyrosie

TV appearances

 I've been interviewed on TV and Radio about my work with The Ghost Club including the Discovery Channel's - Haunted London, London Tonight and German TV. I recently featured as a ghost expert on Sam and Colby's Youtube Channel when the American Vloggers visited the Langham Hotel in London.

Professional bodies

I am a supporting member of the Horror Writers Association


I am a member of the Society of Psychical Research and I am currently the media officer for The Ghost Club.



Popular posts from this blog

Mad Annie

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I could still hear her shouting above the screech of the brakes.  I stamped down hard and the car kangarooed to a halt only inches in front of her. ‘Keep out,’ she screamed ‘We don’t want strangers in our village. Go away.’ ‘Connor, are you ok?' I called out to my son, who was sitting in the back seat. ‘Are you hurt?’ ‘No Mummy,’ he replied. ‘Did you hit her with the car?’ ‘No just missed her, stupid old fool.’ The woman certainly looked crazy, judging by her voluminous black dress that looked two sizes too big for her. She was wizened and ancient, like something out of Hammer Horror. A battered top hat sat crooked on her head, and a cascade of grey hair spilt out from underneath it. She was carrying an old-fashioned birdcage and inside, a pair of dead crows lay sideways on top of each other. Their pointy black beaks protruded through the bars, and two pairs of dead eyes stared back at me.  The woman hobbled around to the windows at the back and peered in at Connor. ‘Is t
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The Violinist

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Stravinsky, Shubert and Tchaikovsky. Jacob's violin honoured their memory in the cold street for an hour. Perfect pitch, not a single note missed, not a semibreve off-key. Beads of sweat peppered his collar despite the chill. His concentration never wavered; the intensity of sound heightened by a sense of sweet revenge, edging closer with every sweep of his bow. Catgut, metal, horsehair and wood. Sticky resin irritating his skin, yet on he played until the last strains of the Shubert melody died away. On the final note, the metal e-string snapped and recoiled like a spring. Pain seared through his fingers as the string curled around the violin’s neck. Always the e-string. In the distance, Big Ben struck seven O’clock. Jacob bent down, inspecting the empty fedora hat at his feet. The commuters of London showed no love for his music, but he played for himself, not for them. His violin returned to its case; Jacob walked the short distance to the Cellar bar he had chosen
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Rest in peace

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Grandad’s photo clattered off the back of the  mantlepiece as Julie and David watched Strictly  Come   Dancing . The frame glanced off their boxer,  Alfonso, who woke up with a loud woof and  lumbered towards the kitchen in search of biscuits. ‘How on earth did that happen?’ said David. ‘Shh,’ snapped Julie, who was lying sprawled across the sofa in her onesie. ‘The scores are in.’ David got up from his armchair and picked the photograph up from the rug. ‘Lucky the glass didn’t break. Really odd. It’s never done that before.’ ‘It’ll be a vibration from the lorries outside. Move out the way; it's Anton Du Beke.’ ‘Anton Du Lally, more like.’ The Viennese waltz was drowned out by a crash in the upstairs bathroom. This time, even Julie looked up. ‘That can’t be a lorry’ said David pulling on his slippers.’ I’ll go and have a look.’ He returned a few minutes later. ‘Well, there's a funny thing. The shaving set your Grandad bought me for my fiftieth was ly
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