If my recent conversations are representative of the normal state of affairs, almost everywhere must be just teeming with outrageous paranormal activity. This includes, I am told, our own cellar.
Many of Youngest Child’s pals are convinced we have a lurker downstairs. I am taking the cellar with a pinch of salt. The testimony of people so drenched in hormones and intoxicants that they do not know where they have put their own feet is not a sound basis for research.
Oldest Child told a tale about her place of work. This building has changed identities over the years so the interior had been redesigned and adapted, giving it an unusual, awkward layout. OC is often busy in a room on the ground floor, towards the back of the building. She sometimes catches brief sight of a figure, out of the corner of her eye, hurrying down the passage. The working day regularly ends later than 9.00 pm. At this time, when locking up, she feels there is someone nearby who has been patiently waiting all day, who is now irritated with the workforce and wants them out of the way quickly. She feels as if someone is swearing and grumbling.
A neighbour tells me that, until recently, phantom cats would often jump on to her bed in the night to lean on her legs. She was in no way phased by these experiences, until the cats became too disruptive, and disturbed her sleep too much. When this happened, she sat up and asked them to leave. They never returned, she said. Chief Moral Support told a similar tale, of a ghost dog which regularly snuggled up on her bed when she lived in Pembrokeshire.
People who do not have even a slightly spooky story appear to be rare indeed, once you ask.
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