In the latest instalment of Buried Treasure by ArtsGroupie CIC, the team delves into the chilling world of Ghost Stories for Xmas, their much-loved festive tradition that blends Victorian ghost tales with immersive theatrical spectacle. This feature revisits the project’s roots and presents the winning story from the 2023 Ghost Stories for Xmas Writing Competition, inviting readers to embrace the dark magic of seasonal storytelling.
As we head into the depths of winter for the fourth year, ArtsGroupie is once again busy with our annual ‘Ghost Stories for Xmas’ events across the U.K. Praised by The New York Times as the “late-night sensation that revived a time-honored tradition” and consistently selling out, our latest offering is an expanded theatrical experience that began in November and is running throughout December 2025 in the North West of England and Wales.
The Theatrical Spectacle
Continuing the Victorian tradition of sharing spooky tales during the festive season, the production features classic works from masters of the macabre, M.R. James and Algernon Blackwood.
The show is far more than a simple reading; it’s a whole theatrical spectacle. We incorporate signature shadow play and puppetry to enhance the eerie atmosphere. Local writer David Griffiths and I perform the tales in atmospheric venues designed to maximise the chills, such as the historic Liverpool Central Library Hornby Room and the Shakespeare North Playhouse.
Our goal is to engage the audience’s imagination in a dark, candlelit setting—to encourage people to read and listen to ghost stories, move away from digital screens, and perhaps write or tell a tale of their own.
Looking Back: The 2023 Writing Competition
Looking back to 2023, we were kindly supported by Arts Council England. We facilitated 14 creative writing workshops across the Liverpool City Region in community hubs and libraries, focused on crafting new ghost stories. We also ran a competition and were delighted to receive over 142 entries for our Ghost Stories for Xmas Writing Competition, showcasing a remarkable wealth of talent and creativity in the region.
The competition was fierce, with exceptionally high standards of entry, making the selection process challenging. A shortlist of ten was then presented to our friends at the Liverpool Literary Agency to select the top three winners.
The 2023 Winner
So, for this month’s Buried Treasure, we want to share the 2023 winner with you. Perhaps it may inspire you to pen a tale to share with family, friends and colleagues. Please note, candlelight is best!
The Advent
By Jason Teasdale
The first door was as it should be. The figure ‘1’, depicted as a candle. Seasonal.
‘2’ was a swan, not very Christmassy, but on reflection, the least of the artist’s worries.
‘3’ was a snowman – better as a figure ‘8’ surely?
His son Sam, unimpressed, had cast it aside as ‘weird rubbish’.
He wasn’t wrong.
But this was a gesture typical of Julia. Homemade, scrappy, even each ‘reveal’ was an abstract depiction of the date on its door. Pointless, weird rubbish. Acceptable in 1973 perhaps, but Advent had upped its game to chocolates, Haribo, Lego. Not this home-crafted tat.
So, here he was on Christmas Eve. He should be binning it, not opening it.
Why bother? Loyalty? Sentimentality?
No. An uneasiness.
Its arrival in this morning’s post came a week after her body was recovered. The envelope held a child’s drawing, smudged with what looked like mud. Inside, a handmade advent calendar.
He recalled how the penmanship on the calendar’s envelope had matched that of her final note. Curls in ink of emerald, green. The colour of her eyes. The colour of his too. Identical at birth, so very different after. He hated her now. Hated her for leaving him. To send this, perhaps even on the day she took her own life? To address it to his seven-year-old child… cruel didn’t cover it.
Hate couldn’t cover it.
It should have stayed lost in the post, like she had been lost to him. Instead, here it was on his kitchen table. A table set for one. Sam’s mum had collected the boy earlier than agreed, another cruel twist on this, their first Christmas apart. So, brandy in hand, he allowed tears to flow as his long fingers worked their way across the board, peeling, tearing.
Under each window, the artwork became progressively less seasonal and more disturbed: a blade and a bowed head to represent ‘19’. ‘20’ was fog, or water.
‘21’ a rope and gibbet.
Entrails for ‘22’.
A headstone with the figure ‘23’ picked out.
Shaking, he poured a fresh glass. One door left. This one more unnatural still, in a way he couldn’t identify. His heart stuttered. His veins chilled. His breath fogged before him. An uneasy, cold dampness seemed to grip his ankles, rising like a tide. But there was nothing there. He took another swig of warming brandy, before pawing at the remaining door. But the heat in his throat was short-lived. A cold, pressure fell hard on his chest. Panic? Impossibly, he felt his lungs fill. He coughed. Filthy, sour, grey water spewed from his mouth, mingling obscenely with the ribbons and glitter of the calendar. Beneath his panicked fingernails, the corrupted paper yielded, disintegrating to reveal a familiar green eye.
She winked.
You can read the other two winning selected stories via the ArtsGroupie CIC website.