My Bedroom Window, Memoir House, Gwennap, 1.00am. 27th November 1979


A True Ghost Story for Halloween 13th November 1979

At the outset, I must state that this is a true happening which I personally experienced, and although I seriously do not believe in the ghosts of the dead, I am of the firm opinion that we share this and parallel worlds with unknown creatures both good and evil.

When I was an art student a long, long time ago now, I lived in an old place called Memoir House, a 16th century vicarage on the edge of an even older church and cemetery, right out in the wilds of Cornwall! My bedroom window looked out into an enclosed courtyard, which in turn opened out into a drive way that passed by the ancient Cornish cemetery and on down into the little village of Gwennap. The village boasted two dim street lights and a glimmer of light from the few cottage windows on the single road that passed through into the night.

On the evening in question, a not too cold November night, a heavy fog hung around in the air over Gwennap, making it difficult to see even to the other side of the courtyard from my open bedroom window. I was tired from a week of cycling to and fro between Falmouth, and Memoir House and now I just wanted to catch up on some much needed sleep. Usually at this time in the evening one of the yard cats, a wonderful female tortoiseshell, who went by the rather masculine name of 'Winston' used to climb up the side of the stone wall near the window and in through the opening I left for fresh air. I say 'wonderful' to describe this cat, as not being a cat lover, I have never before or since met as friendly or homely a feline as this! She had adopted us, and through persistence had squirmed and purred her way into our affections, to the point that, she would find any way possible to sleep in the house at night, even though our landlady didn't really approve.

So here I was, tucked up in a warm bed and drifting off to sleep, when the familiar and distinctive sound of scrabbling at the window top and dull thud of Winston hitting the bedroom carpet brought me back from the brink. I counted the few seconds it usually took for her to leap onto the foot of the bed and curl up on the covers and in the crook of my legs. There was something quite comforting about this companionable affection and I'm sure we both slept more soundly as a result. But not this night. This night there was none of the usual dance, while she curled up for sleep. Instead, I could feel a slow but distinctive pad, pad, of small footsteps over the covers, first up my legs and then pausing on the small of my back! For some reason, I began to hold my breath, as this did not seem like the normal behaviour of our affectionate little cat, and when the gently silent footsteps continued their slow pace up over the rise of my back, I could feel the hairs on the back of my neck begin to tingle. At this point I could safely say I was experiencing real fear, and it took an act of will power to quickly reach out and switch the bedside light on. In a sweeping move, my other arm flung the covers back enough for me to look down the length of the bed...to see... absolutely nothing!

Needless to say, tennis racket in hand, I quickly searched and examined the bedroom, which incidentally was locked from the inside with a Yale lock. Nothing was to be found under the bed, behind the curtains or in the wardrobe, or indeed any of the other nooks and crannies I could think of.

Perhaps even stranger is that the same thing occurred over the next two nights. Each time I was more awake and quicker with the bed side light, and each time there was absolutely no evidence of anything having been there, other than a slight wafting of the net curtains at the window! I do remember that the footsteps stopped, the instant I made a movement for the light switch. I also remember that I had no more visits from Winston in the night, whether because I had started to close the window more often, partly from fear and partly from the drop in temperature as the winter weather settled in, or perhaps it had been Winston and I'd just scared her away in the night by flinging off the covers and rattling around the room, bat in hand. I shall never know.

I have since come to realize that there are probably good scientific reasons for what I experienced, but it was none the less very 'real' to me at the time. I simply share this true account with you as something appropriate for this time of the year. Sleep tight, but not too tight, in case you too need to reach for that bedside light!!

Thricelight

ps. I'd love to hear about any of your 'real' ghost stories.

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