I’m a ghostwriter and not a ‘ghost writer’. I don’t write about ghosts, unless they’re the ghosts of people’s memories (which is a different thing altogether). But as it’s Hallowe’en, maybe I should share a ghost story. A true one too – because it happened to me.
The setting was an old farmhouse by a loch in Renfrewshire, Scotland, that provided B&B accommodation. I won’t say exactly where it is – my experience was in 1985 and while the place is still running as a B&B I doubt whether the owners are the sort to cope with ghosthunters. But I could be wrong…
We were due at a family wedding in Glasgow. I was sharing a room with my younger sister and older cousin. I’d just turned 18 and was desperate to fill my hollow legs with as much ‘heavy’ and Scotch chasers as I could down in two hours. I begged my cousin to let me come with him to the local boozer and he said ‘yes’. Sadly, I was an amateur drinker in those days and after a couple of pints of Tartan I was feeling decidedly green, so I came home early.
My sister was already out for the count in her bed when I tiptoe’d in through the door. I got changed and climbed into my single bed face down, the usual position. An hour or so later my cousin stumbled in and flopped on to his bunk. The man who would be ‘Best’ the following day was still fully clothed and within two minutes was snoring like a hog.
I lay awake, wondering whether to give him a shake in the full knowledge I’d be told to do one the minute he woke up. Soon, though, the tremors eased and he drifted into a deep sleep.
Lucky him. It was 1am, I was wide awake and we had a long, boozy day ahead. I turned this way and that, trying to nod off. Somewhere down the corridor, a latched door rattled in response to the wind whispering through a half-open window. Outside, a flock of geese flitted in a low murmur across the loch. In response my cousin farted noisily and my sister ground her teeth.
Then I felt someone place their hand gently on the back of my head. There was no grip of any sort, just a light touch. But it was a touch that remained, even as I turned my head quickly up from the pillow, expecting to see my sister or cousin standing there.
“John?” I said. “Marie? Is that you? What’re you doing?”
There was no answer. The two sleeping forms across the room didn’t stir for a second. I lay back down, a bit spooked but otherwise unconcerned. Maybe I was dreaming – though I knew I wasn’t.
I still couldn’t sleep. I stared into the darkness. My A Levels were in two months and I’d done no preparatory work. But I had written a couple of riffs on my guitar for our band, which was going to be massive, cancelling the need for qualifications of any sort. I’d never have to have a proper job and I’d buy my disgruntled parents a farmhouse like this one, and I’d have my own fishing lake, and…..
And then I became aware of a shape standing in front of the bedroom door. A form, recognisably human in that it had a head, shoulders and a body, but one without features or limbs. Like a chalk drawing on the air. I stared at it for what seemed minutes. The form remained stock still – staring but not staring.
“Hello,” I said. No reply.
My parents were sleeping in a room down the corridor. Maybe the figure was my dad getting up for a pee and losing his way?
“Dad? Is that you?”
Dad never lost his way anywhere, because my mum always supervised the map. So it couldn’t be him.
“Who is it?”
I could feel a weird electricity in the air. Almost smell it. The figure moved across the room, slowly, silently, and stopped at the end of my sister’s bed.
That was it. I scrabbled for the bedside lamp, reaching for the elusive switch just below the bulb and knocking over a glass of water in the process. On it went, waking up my cousin.
“Tom! What’re you doing, you pillock!? Put that f… light off!”
“Sorry,” I said, “I thought you were moving about…..”
“Well I wasn’t. So turn that bloody light off and go back to f…. sleep.”
I did both. And surprisingly calmly too, all things considered. In the morning I asked my dad if he’d wandered into the room. Of course he hadn’t. He’s a short, bald, cricket-loving, deep-sleeping Lancastrian, not a tall, ephemeral, milky-white wandering spirit. My mum caught the conversation and related it to the B&B landlady.
“Ach,” she said, “don’t be worrying about that. It’s nothing.” Then she smiled knowingly.
She was right. It was nothing. Nothing that I, in 30-plus years of wondering, could ever make sense of, anyway….