IT WAS not a theatre break for the faint-hearted.

Having booked seats for Ghost Stories and a room in a haunted hotel, it was sure to be a night of pure terror.

But first I had to break the news to my husband.

“We’re off to London for your birthday,” I told him.

“That’s fab. What have you got in store for us?” he quizzed me.

“It’s a surprise.” I didn’t have the guts to tell him just yet about the horrors I had lined up.

We hopped onto the First Class carriage of our Virgin Train and relaxed for the one hour, 24-minute journey.

Once in London, we headed for The Georgian House Hotel in the trendy Victoria area of the capital.

As we walked up to the gorgeous building I broke the news to him.

“I’ve got a confession to make,” I said. “The hotel’s haunted – and we’re booked into one of the rooms where the ghouls are supposed to lurk.”

There was a stoney silence.

“Is that ok?” I prompted him.

“Not sure,” he replied, hesitantly.

As we checked in, I got the friendly receptionist to run through a few of the ghost stories so my hubby would know exactly what we were letting ourselves in for.

She explained that the hauntings remained in one part of the building and had spanned more than two decades.

The first was in 1989. The manager was showing a visitor around the hotel when they heard an almighty racket of children running around, shouting and laughing and banging the fire doors.

The receptionist was asked to have a word with the parents of the said kids. But she informed the manager that no guests had even checked in that day, and there were certainly no youngsters staying in the hotel. Two years later there was another significant incident. A new member of staff needed to stay in one of the guest rooms before moving into staff accommodation the next day.