"Statement of Kieran Woodward, regarding items recovered from the refuse of 93 Lancaster Road, Walthamstow. Original statement given February 23rd, 2009. Audio recording by Jonathan Sims, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, London."
Jon cleared his throat. "Statement begins."
Kieran Woodward had spent years working as a bin man for Waltham Forest Council. It wasn’t glamorous, but he liked the pay and the early finish to the day. The work offered glimpses into people’s lives—strange glimpses, unsettling at times, but usually just peculiar.
That changed one morning on his regular route, when his crew arrived at 93 Lancaster Road.
It began with a black refuse bag, set outside the recycling bin. At first, it seemed ordinary—until the rip in its side revealed rows of small, plastic faces. Doll heads. Hundreds of them, discolored and scraped as though dragged across concrete. Each one bore a vacant expression, wide eyes staring in every direction as the bag tore further, spilling its contents onto the pavement.
The crew laughed it off, nicknaming the house "The Doll House," but Kieran couldn’t shake the feeling of wrongness. Nor could Alan Parfitt, the truck driver, who found the scene hilarious but unsettling. Alan made a habit of checking the bins at 93 thereafter, convinced the house was hiding something more.
Weeks later, another bag appeared. This one was lighter, bulging oddly with what felt like paper. When the crew opened it, they found a long, continuous strip of writing paper curled tightly to fit. The words, written in Latin, repeated the Lord’s Prayer endlessly. The edges were singed, blackened as though brushed by flame.
Matt Wilkinson, raised Catholic, turned pale. He insisted it was a bad sign, hesitating before throwing the bag into the truck. Alan, however, seemed excited. His fascination with the house deepened.
Two weeks later, the third bag arrived.
Kieran approached it cautiously, feeling its weight and the strange shifting sound within. He hoisted it but snagged the bottom against a brick wall. The bag split open.
Teeth. Hundreds, thousands of teeth poured out in a rattling cascade, forming a pale and jagged pile. They looked human but varied wildly in age and condition—some pristine, others yellowed or decayed. The sight left the crew stunned. David Atayah vomited into a nearby drain. Even Alan went quiet.
The police were called. Officers gathered statements and knocked on the door of 93 Lancaster Road. An elderly couple answered, bewildered and apologetic. They claimed no knowledge of the bags and seemed genuinely disturbed.
For a time, the strange bags stopped. But Alan’s obsession grew. He became erratic —losing sleep, snapping at coworkers, and downing energy drinks to keep himself awake. Eventually, he confessed to Kieran that he’d started watching the house at night, desperate to see who left the bags.
Kieran warned him to stop, but Alan was resolute. His fixation culminated in disaster when he fell asleep at the wheel and crashed the garbage truck. Fired and humiliated, he disappeared from Kieran’s life.
Months later, Kieran awoke to a text from Alan: "FOUND HIM."
Kieran’s reply went unanswered. He called repeatedly but received no response. Fear tightening his chest, he decided to investigate 93 Lancaster Road himself.