These technologies are still in their infancy, and they’ll continue to become more accurate and convincing. Some of the

“I didn’t know about the history of the witches,” Mitchell admitted. She did know that a skeleton believed to be Ursula Kemp had been discovered in unconsecrated land nearby, with iron stakes driven through its arms and legs to prevent the witch from rising and wreaking havoc on the villagers. She also knew that the alleyway behind the Cage was called Coffin Alley, because that was how dead bodies were carried from the jail to their burial sites. For many homebuyers, termites or faulty wiring can be deal-breakers, yet Mitchell seemed to mistake these morbid red flags for quirky historical details that added value to her home. “I was completely unprepared for what was to come,” she said.

Less than four years into her residence, Mitchell claimed her life was destroyed by paranormal activity that confounded investigators, police officers, and the church. She saw objects fly around the kitchen. She was punched, bitten, and thrown to the floor. Mysterious figures floated through her home and attacked her guests. During Mitchell’s ownership, the Cage became “the most talked about active haunting in the country,” according to John Fraser of The Society for Psychical Research. After an investigation, Fraser compared it to 112 Ocean Avenue in New York — the demonic family home in the Amityville Horror.

Despite being one of only seven medieval cages left in Britain, the St. Osyth Cage had languished on the market for several months. The owner jumped at Mitchell’s offer of £147,000 ($191,765). “I could see myself living there and one day meeting someone and getting married,” she recalled. “Just like everyone else when they get a new start.”

St. Osyth is a cursèd little village in the county of Essex, 83 miles east of London, at the edge of the North Sea. The town’s 4,600 souls live in medieval cottages arranged around a 12th Century monastery, and in cheap mobile homes that the British call caravans. St. Osyth’s exact origins remain a mystery, and over the centuries its townsfolk have survived floods, invasions, and monsters both imagined and real. In fact, every page of its wretched history is soused in the supernatural.

These technologies are still in their infancy, and they’ll continue to become more accurate and convincing. Some of the applications of these technologies are genuinely entertaining — check out the Avengers singing the “Sweet Child O’ Mine” scene from Step Brothers — but ultimately, these algorithms are also now much easier for anyone to use for malicious ends. And without any recourse, deepfake’s harms might outweigh their slight entertainment value.

While Kirtly unpacked her belongings, Mitchell plugged in her electric kettle to brew a celebratory cup of tea in her old-world kitchen. As the real estate agent’s listing described, the house retained its old-fashioned charm, with original wooden beams that criss-crossed the walls. When she heard footsteps, Mitchell turned, expecting to find Kirtly. Instead she saw an ominous “black fog” drifting through a door. Mitchell was aghast. She had broken out in a cold sweat. When she peered out the window into Coffin Alley, she watched Kirtly lift another box from the car, and vowed to keep the incident a secret from her sick friend — and paying tenant.

Mitchell heard about the suicide, but was not afraid of spirits. “My Dad never believed in ghosts. End of subject,” Mitchell said, curtly. She had grown up in another ancient house in St. Osyth with abandoned servants’ quarters and floors that groaned in the night. Hidden in the basement were ‘priest holes,’ she claimed, for when the monastery was raided “and the monks would need to escape.” Blood-curdling screams often rang out in the night, but they weren’t evil spirits: Mitchell’s mother was a foster parent who cared for the addicted babies of heroin and crack users.

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s more “free-range” and “organic” than any you can buy in America. He still screamed as he died. The other pigs watching screamed right along with him. They sounded like children. I cut his arm off with a machete. I heard that his body would taste better since we killed him ourselves, but his flesh tasted like that of any other dead animal. I tried to pet the other pigs afterward, but they ran to the opposite corner of their pen, climbing atop one another to get as far from the monster as possible.

The village is named after the granddaughter of England’s last Pagan king. According to legend, Osyth was beheaded by Danish Vikings but managed to walk to the nunnery carrying her severed skull in her hands. In 1171, the village was burned down by a fire-breathing dragon. Then came the witches. During a Satanic panic in 1582, 13 local women stood trial for witchcraft and two swung from the gallows.

Dark-haired Mitchell, who was single and free-spirited, didn’t want to live in a boring apartment like everyone else. The Cage was different: It had stories to tell. During the 1800s it had been rebuilt in brick and remained a jail until 1908, holding local scofflaws before their trial. In the 1970s a developer turned the cells into a living room and added two bedrooms upstairs with enviable views over the monastery grounds. It was just the kind of quirky home Mitchell desired — and a historical gem. She decided: “I’ve got to buy the house!”

Mitchell had returned to St. Osyth after 12 years working in the cutthroat timeshare business, selling vacation homes in Tenerife and Scotland. Working abroad had made her fiercely independent but also insulated her from rumors that swirled about the Cage. A middle-aged couple claimed that books flew off their shelves. Tenants broke their leases and fled. Ambulances often idled outside, their blue lights illuminating the ancient pub next door. Inside the King’s Head, drinkers gossiped about a previous owner who had recently hanged himself.

In the more peaceful era of 2005, 30-year-old sales executive Vanessa Mitchell arrived in St. Osyth to view a house for sale. Number 14 Colchester Road is a former medieval jail known as “the Cage.” It famously housed the 13 St. Osyth witches, including Ursula Kemp, who was hanged for murdering her neighbors with black magic. “I remembered seeing the plaque outside,” Mitchell told me on a Skype call. “I don’t remember being scared of it.” She had grown up in the village and used to walk past the mustard-colored building on her way to school. “My earliest memories are just being fascinated by the house. I remember being drawn to it,” she said.

Mitchell couldn’t wait to move in. One afternoon in mid-2005, she and her roommate, Nicole Kirtly, 27, carried boxes up the creaking wooden stairs. They had grown up together in St. Osyth, and were polar opposites: Mitchell was iron-willed and outspoken, while Kirtly describes herself as a blonde ditz. Kirtly was recuperating from cancer treatments and worked casual shifts behind the bar in the King’s Arms. She’d heard all the rumors about the Cage: “There was one family that lived there while I worked in the pub,” Kirtly told me. “And the son kept setting fire to his bedroom. Someone said it was because he was possessed.”

Mitchell showed Kirtly around their new home. Downstairs, the former prison room and ominous wooden cage door were considered original. In the fireplace, Mitchell found an iron chain with a large hook that appeared to be a relic from the building’s prison days. During a spring cleaning, Mitchell sifted through decades of creepy old photographs and documents left behind by tenants.

In 2005, Vanessa Mitchell moved into her dream home, a former medieval jail where England’s witches waited to hang and burn. When paranormal phenomena forced her to flee, she became convinced it was possessed by evil spirits. This is her true story.