Songs Of The Dead Dream

There was something about our new house....

Teenage fears or a more sinister presence? Make up your own mind as our writer reveals her haunting Halloween story:

This is a story I have never told in print for fear that I would sound mad. It is the version of events as I remember them, so that the tale told by another member of my family might differ slightly in order or timing. But it is a true story, none the less. It happened, despite our collective reluctance to admit it, and my reluctance now both to tell it and to own it as mine. And before you ask, no, I don't believe in ghosts. Only, as I say, this happened.

I was 16 when, one June, my family moved to a lofty Victorian villa in the Midlands: ivy-strewn, hidden behind trees, high-ceilinged and replete with corridors. This sudden gift of space was not before time. When people asked how many siblings I had, I tended to chirp "we are too menny" à la Jude the Obscure, or "we are legion" à la biblical possession. Ours, in fact, was the perfect situation for a horror story: three girls of 16, 15 and nine, a boy of 11 and one of barely four.

To be sure, our new house had a degree of notoriety. Local gossip held that it boasted three "presences": a woman who stalked the ground floor, an elderly doctor forever racing up its stairs searching for a dying grandson and, in its upper reaches, the victim of an argument that had spilled over into murder. There was even what appeared to be the requisite bloodstain that could not be removed, since covered with carpet.

The more credulous would not step inside it. We were not so naive. And yet, there was something unsettling about our new home, a personality, a sense that we were installing ourselves in a place already occupied. It never felt quite empty. Doors would shut of their own volition, footsteps would sound. It felt as if we were being watched, assessed.

Very soon, this phoney-war period became the subject of nostalgia. For, when the house kicked off, it kicked off in epic style. Every night at 4am, someone - something - would tear up its stairs, rattling, then forcing open, the doors in its wake (all of which required proper turning and thrusting), until it reached my mother's room, entering in a furious, door-slamming blast. Once - comically, but in ghastly, unequivocal fashion - it even seemed to relieve its excess energy with a few strokes on her rowing machine.

This may sound like nothing, but I cannot tell you the uncanny monotony of its nightly repetitions. We refused to recognise it, of course, being sane, a family of atheists and, above all, British. One night, my furious doctor father, up book-writing in the early hours, bellowed: "Whoever's charging up and down the stairs, will they stop?"

His wife and children rallied indignant: "Well, it's not bloody us."

One night, emboldened by drink, I roared: "Shut the -- up" and it did, briefly, before recommencing with still more emphatic zeal.