Hear No Ghost, See No Ghost, Speak No Ghost

Hear No Ghost, See No Ghost, Speak No Ghost 

I don’t believe in ghosts. Nope. Not at all. Not me.

However, considering the evidence, or at least thinking about the times I’ve experienced something I cannot fully explain, it is certainly possible that I have seen one, heard one and apparently been in the presence of several possibly paranormal entities.

The one I saw was at my parents’ old house in North Yorkshire. I’d moved out of my childhood home a couple of years prior. My mum and dad also moved in a similar time frame to an old stone brick cottage. I’d never lived with them there and their spare room was never slept in. One weekend, and I totally forget why, I’d ended up staying over and sleeping in the spare bed. 

It was cold, and the blankets were a bit thin. Also, the room was too dark for me to sleep, which might sound strange, but I’d moved to an urban terrace in Teesside and my parents were still out in the sticks. I’d got used to the light pollution streaming into my bedroom at night. 

I’d tossed and turned for a while, trying to get warm. I stuck my head under the covers, huffing warm breath into my duvet cave. It seemed to me with every minute the damn room just got colder. I was shivering and utterly fed up. Plus, I really needed to wee. 

I untangled myself from the covers and went to get out of the bed. It took me a second to realise there was a light in the room, as if someone had lit a candle at the bottom of the bed. I flung the covers back quickly, worried that maybe my phone charger had caught fire. It was so cold in the bedroom my breath looked just like dragon smoke and I exhaled great plumes into the air. 

Then I saw her. 

An older woman in a full skirt, a white pinafore and a neat, black blouse standing near the bedroom door. She had her back to me, but she spun around quickly and moved towards the side of the bed. She merely stood there looking down at me, saying absolutely nothing, with a mixture of curiosity and confusion on her face. She didn’t look scary or strange in any way, in fact for a possible ghost she seemed quite solid, although her clothing was completely out of place. 

I’d like to say I was brave, but in fact I was terrified. I yelped, fell back onto the bed, and hauled the covers over my head. 

I don’t know how long I stayed like that, but when I finally gained the nerve to take a peek, unable to ignore my bladder any longer, she had gone. 

I convinced myself it was a dream. Of course it was. I don’t believe in ghosts. 

It wasn’t until a few months later when I was at my parents’ house again and saw a black and white photo my mum had propped up on the mantelpiece. It was of the house, probably taken around the early 1900s. A woman stood in the garden by the front door. I picked it up and looked a little closer. A name and date were scribbled on the back — Holmes Cottage, 1910. 

“Who’s this?” I asked my mother.

“Oh, that’s Agnes,” she replied, sipping her coffee. “She lived here.”

There was no mistaking it. The woman was exactly like the one I’d seen that night. I thought about it for a moment.

“So, you’re going to think I’m crazy but-”

My mother interrupted me. “You’ve seen her, right? Oh, I know. I see her all the time.” And with that my mother got up and took her empty coffee cup into the kitchen, leaving me to process whether she, I or both of us were possibly, just slightly, a little bit mad. 

Of course, that wasn’t the only chilling encounter I’ve had. When my first-born son was 18 months old, he had a long, babbling conversation in a Leicestershire graveyard in the middle of the day with someone who wasn’t there. When I asked him who he was talking to, he said it was Henry and his friends. 

We’d been for a walk in the summer heat—he in his pushchair, me doing all the work. We were only in the graveyard so I could take advantage of the benches there and rest for a while in the shade. I’m sure it was just confidence that as we left my eyes fell on a gravestone and I read the name carved into it: Henry Boswell, died 1943. 

The last one—the one I heard—was while I was out walking with my two kids around Whetstone and Narborough in Leicester where we lived at the time. We’d strayed a little too far off the beaten track, following the old railway lines where the Great Central Way had once run. I’d got a little disorientated and I wasn’t fully sure where we were, but I didn’t want to panic and worry the boys. 

It was just starting to ease into late afternoon, and I didn’t want to still be out when it got dark. I saw a path and went to follow it when I heard an adult male voice say very clearly; “Not that way. Turn around.” I looked all over for the speaker, but saw no one, and the boys claimed they hadn’t heard a thing. I did as I was told, and we retraced our steps. We’d been walking blindly in a wide circle. Just around the corner we found the path which led us home. 

So no, I don't believe in ghosts. Not me. Nuh-uh. But I have to wonder if they believe in me. 

By Tabatha Wood

Tabatha Wood is an Australian Shadows award-winning author of dark, speculative fiction and emotional poetry living in Aotearoa, New Zealand. She likes strong coffee, cats and spending time by the sea. 
You can find more of her writing and creative projects at: https://tabathawood.com