The Sixth Vector

They Opened a Door They Couldn’t Close

A late-night séance was meant to be a curiosity—until six undergraduates found themselves pulled into something far older and far less forgiving. Drawn to Pluckley, widely known as Britain’s most haunted village, they attempt to reach the spirit of Sarah Sharp, a woman who died in flames over a century ago. What begins as an experiment quickly becomes a confrontation with forces that refuse to stay buried.

Calling themselves The Sixth Vector, the group navigates unsettling encounters, fractured belief, and the growing tension between skepticism and fear. Their actions seem to bring temporary peace, but Pluckley is not finished with them. Months later, new disturbances ripple through the village—visions, lost time, and a rising sense that the past itself is shifting.

As they return, they face not only restless spirits, but a deeper mystery: the village may be holding its ghosts captive. Through archives, rituals, and uneasy alliances with locals, The Sixth Vector must decide whether the dead need releasing—or remembering. Rooted in English folklore and layered with psychological tension, The Sixth Vector explores friendship, doubt, and the cost of disturbing what should remain untouched.

Step into Pluckley. Discover what waits beneath its quiet surface.

Excerpt from the book

Around campus echoed “fine fellow, Sheila”—this second-year archaeology student who seemed most at ease among men, neither girly nor mannish in her demeanour. Something about her drew the eye, though not in any conventional way. Perhaps it was how she wore her hair cropped close, a style that laid bare the elegant architecture of her face: those high cheekbones, that perfect oval.

Sheila nursed her pint of bitter in the Mooch Bar, shoulder-to-shoulder with Johnny. They weren’t exactly dating—more like orbiting each other with convenient gravity. As captain of the university’s second XI football team, Johnny turned heads; as the woman at his side, Sheila drew envious glances from across the bar.

Their circle completed itself with four others: Angelo from Physics with his Rom heritage, which he defended against campus whispers; Pete from Classics, who wore knowledge like armour; Matty, the rock-climbing Zoology major; and Dave Ossie Blair, the Biology student whose Lancashire hometown of Oswaldtwistle never failed to provoke snickers.

“We should have a name,” Angelo announced suddenly, gesturing with his glass. “Something just for us.”

The suggestion met with drunken enthusiasm despite its questionable necessity. After several false starts, Angelo turned to Pete. “Come on, Latin boy! Give us something proper!”

Pete’s eyes narrowed in concentration. Cerebrum Noctis?

Brain of the Night? Ossie translated, his grammar school education showing.

“Mind of the Night,” more like,” Pete corrected.

Angelo’s face lit up. “That’s brilliant!”

A few disgruntled noises of disagreement said otherwise, Matty’s being the loudest. “It’s too obscure,” he grumbled. “Nah, I just don’t see its relevance,” he added.

“Can you do better, then?” Johnny challenged.

Matty lowered his head, looked sulky for a moment, and then said, “What about The Sixth Vector—there are six of us, after all?”

“Let’s put it to the vote, either Cerebrum Noctis or The Sixth Vector,” Sheila murmured.

The latter won by five votes to one, the majority believing that the alternative was too obscure.

They could not know then that The Sixth Vector would prove to be a happy choice because it was easily transformable and close to the sixth sense that they would so much need.

The bar’s closing bell rang like a summons. Johnny leant in, eyes gleaming. “My room. Now. I’ve got coffee, biscuits, and a Gerry Rafferty album that’ll blow your minds.”

They stumbled down the moonlit slope towards Lincoln Hall, the night air electric with possibility. Four flights up, crammed into Johnny’s room, the coffee bitter on their tongues, Ossie suddenly fixed Angelo with an intense stare.

“Those Romani bloodlines of yours—can you read palms? See the future?”

Angelo’s face darkened. “No. But my mother… she’s a medium.”

“What?” Dave jolted upright, knuckles white around his mug. “Communing with the dead? That’s absolute horseshit!”

“Not communicating,” Angelo’s voice dropped to a whisper. “She channels them.”

Sheila leant forward, her eyes wild. “What if you inherited the gift, Ange? What if it’s in your blood?”

“Never dared find out,” he muttered, avoiding their eyes.