Ghost story

Say hello to the lead wolf again.

I'm feeling quite relaxed this weekend. Since the beginning of covid I really enjoy spending time at home and have all but given up going to the pub. This would have been unimaginable a couple of years ago. The last time I was there I could not wait to leave. The place has been taken over by the noisy bastards. Oh well, I had a good run, now it's their turn.

You may get the impression that I enjoy putting up depressing posts about current affairs here, but believe me I do not. I would very much like to write uplifting ones, but without a lobotomy I would find that difficult right now. I like to share my worries, so grab one handle of this shopping basket.

Not today, though. I am going to tell you a ghost story from my childhood.

My bedroom was in the centre of our large house, and a dark and gloomy corridor ran past it leading to my sister's bedroom. This corridor used to lead to the apartment of the original owner's estranged wife but has been blocked-off sometime in the early 20th century. The story was that he had shot the gardener because he was having an affair with with his wife (I have told you this story), and he said in court that he thought he had shot a rabbit. He literally got away with murder - allegedly.

The floorboards used to creak in a distinctive way when anyone walked past my room and late one night they did. I heard the footsteps pad down the corridor and the door to the room at the end of it softly open and close. Right, I thought, I will scare the hell out of her.

I crept down the unlit passage,  quietly put my hand on the doorknob, waited a little then burst into the room with a blood-curdling scream. The room was dark and empty.

At least I managed to scare someone that night.