All good fun. I’d seen the stage play many years ago with a school group, and had, as everyone else, jumped with shock as the lights revealed the ghost woman rocking furiously on her chair. I’d always been amazed how a stage play could be so frightening, more frightening, as it turned out, than the film version of the same story. Perhaps it was because Harry Potter was the hero, but it was rather that it seemed little more than a Scooby-Doo story – haunted house, everyone sceptical, gradually realise it’s real – but without the “It’s Mr Jones the caretaker!” moment. The child deaths (after each sighting of the Woman) made it, however, more painful to watch than just another ghost story, in that the ghost could actually do more damage than merely scare people; and the bizarre ending (changed for the film? I can’t remember: Google, dear reader) gave an ambiguous twist (happy ending or not?) which brought on the pensivity.
And it was great recognising the beach at Othona Bradwell (where I write these words).