Growing up as the youngest of two siblings and the only one born in Wales, in a family of English heritage, meant that many holidays, birthdays, and festive celebrations involved road trips to Sussex. We’d visit my grandmother, uncle, and often a variety of relatives—some close, others more distant, depending on the occasion.
I have many fond memories of summers, Christmases, and seemingly random family parties. These gatherings, usually to celebrate a birthday or anniversary, often drew fifty or more relatives. To an eight or nine-year-old, they felt chaotic but magical.
That was before my parents divorced. After the divorce, those visits became quieter, more subdued.
Most often, my mother, sister, and I would pile into the car and make the three-hour drive to Crawley to stay with my grandmother for a week or two. These trips had their own charm but carried a different, more intimate tone.
During one summer visit, however, something extraordinary—and possibly otherworldly—happened.
I was about 12 years old, lying in bed one evening, engrossed in a book. It was late, the house was silent, and I felt cocooned in the safety of my uncle’s small bedroom, which I always used during our stays. The room, the smallest in the house, was furnished for practicality—shelves covered every available wall, and there was a built-in cupboard set over the stairs. The bed, a single, was pushed up against the wall under the window to make the most of the limited space.
As I turned another page, a loud, strange noise outside made me stop. My attention shifted immediately, curiosity overtaking the comfort of my book.
Instinctively, I glanced at the clock. It was one of those faux-wood digital alarm clocks with soft orange digits. It read somewhere around 1 a.m. My first thought was a skeptical who on Earth would be making such a noise at this time?
Setting the book aside, I sat up in bed and pulled back the curtains. At first, I looked down to the street. Everything appeared as it should: the familiar grassy square across the road, the quiet houses, and the dark streets leading off into the distance.
Then I looked up.
My peripheral vision, along with the persistent mechanical or electrical hum, drew my gaze higher. What I saw froze me in place.
Even now, the memory defies full comprehension.
The edge of a massive craft filled the sky, so close it felt as though I could reach out and touch it if only I opened the window. The surface was detailed, almost industrial, with pipes, wires, lights, and sensors visible even in the dim night. I shifted my gaze downward, trying to grasp the sheer size of it.
It was enormous—at least the size of several football fields. It wasn’t a sleek silver saucer, the kind you’d expect from movies or books. It was circular, but rough and mechanical, spanning over rooftops and the grassy square below.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My mind raced. This was no dream, and yet it couldn’t be real. Fear overwhelmed me.
In a panic, I threw myself back onto the bed, yanked the duvet over my head, and peered out just enough to see the clock. In less than 20 seconds, the terror had gripped me entirely. The clock now read nearly 2:30 a.m.
Had I lost time?
Was it real?
Could it have been a dream?
I didn’t know. I couldn’t tell. And fear made me unwilling to explore it further.
The rest of the night is a blur. I think I fell asleep eventually, though I can’t be sure. What I do know is that I woke the next morning and went about the day as though nothing had happened. I didn’t tell anyone.
When you’re a kid, you learn quickly that ignoring something makes it feel less real. If you don’t talk about it, it didn’t happen. At least, that’s what I told myself.
We finished the week at my grandmother’s, returned home to South Wales, and resumed life as usual. The strangeness of that night lingered in my mind, but I buried it beneath the routine of daily life. Still, I couldn’t shake the feeling.
A few days after we returned, I decided to ask my sister. It felt safer to test the waters with her—after all, siblings understand the fragility of childhood secrets. Without giving too much away, I approached her.
“When we were at Nan’s, on Tuesday night, did you see or hear anything strange?” I asked casually, trying to mask the nervous knot in my stomach.
Her reaction startled me. She paused, her eyes wide, and a curious expression crossed her face.
“It’s funny you mention that,” she said slowly, her tone sincere. “That night, I woke up, and it was so hot. Way hotter than a summer night should’ve been. I’d left my curtains open, so I looked out the window. That’s when I saw these strange lights reflected in the window of the house behind us.
“At first, I thought it was cars driving down the road, but… these lights were spinning, flashing, and… they weren’t on the ground. They were up in the sky.”
Her words chilled me. The coincidence, if that’s what it was, felt too perfect. Though we didn’t discuss it further, her experience validated something for me: I hadn’t imagined the craft.
To this day, I can’t explain what I saw—or what we both experienced. But it’s a memory I carry, one that still feels as vivid and baffling as it did that night.
Mathew James Ford 