I don’t believe in ghosts. Most of my family believe in any number of weird stuff but I don’t. A number of years ago, I shared an old Victorian maisonette in Kings Cross with my older brother and sister.
One afternoon, I was home alone taking a nap. I’m a light sleeper and tend to wake up at the slightest noise. This is not a good state of affairs in a city like London which tends to be a noisy place to live. Fortunately my street was a cul-de-sac and didn’t suffer from much traffic. My room was on the first floor directly at the top of a set of wooden stairs.
I woke up in an instant when the front door slammed shut. I heard footsteps striding along the hallway. The footsteps ascended the staircase towards my room and I got up from my bed and stood behind my door ready to jump on my brother as he entered my room.
The footsteps paused right outside my room but he didn’t enter. I decided to open the door and frighten my brother by shouting at him. My fingers reached for the door knob and I opened the door suddenly, my mouth already open to shout.
I froze in place; no sound emerged as I saw…nothing. There was no one there.
I remained there, the hairs at the back of my neck standing on end and I heard the footsteps turn around and walk away from me and down the stairs. I followed the sound and stood at the top of the stairs as the footsteps descended the stairs. They paused midway and a slight scuffling noise came to me as if the person stood there and half turned and looked back. The footsteps carried on to the ground floor until it reached the front door at which point they ended.
I sat down on the stairs and remained there until my older brother came in through the front door about ten minutes later. I told him what happened and he then told me that he had woken up one night and saw a white face hovering over his bed, dressed in black clothes from Victorian times.
Even now as I write this, the hairs at the back of my neck and along my shoulders are standing up on end.