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Don't Look Back you're not going that way

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Story 1 of 25


The Events Leading to Melanie’s discovery of our family ghost.

Are you prepared to confront the unknown? The famous escapologist, Harry Houdini, entertained and shocked audiences worldwide with his death-defying tricks. There was not a lock or chain that he couldn’t escape from. Bound tightly inside a trunk and the trunk itself chained up, Harry was thrown into a river and lo and behold, to the amazement of the watchers, he escaped! Harry’s other forte was his dedication to the debunking of clairvoyants and charlatans who preyed on the gullibility of others by purporting to pass on messages from their departed loved ones. Society was awash with false mediums holding seances which Harry would expose as confidence tricks. As far as life after death and the appearance of ghosts were concerned, Harry was not a believer.                                                             So, he offered a huge sum of money to anybody that could prove they’d had contact with him from beyond the grave. His reasoning in setting such a task was that if nothing on this earth could bind him, he would even free himself from the clutches of the afterlife. If nobody claimed the prize, then, according to Harry, life after death was a myth, and ghostly apparitions were the stuff of hoaxes. Houdini died on the night of Halloween, October 31st, 1926, and since he shuffled off this mortal coil every Halloween Eve, seances have been held to contact him. The prize was never claimed!

So, do you believe in ghosts? I do. Why do I believe in ghosts? Because I’ve seen them. Up close and personal!

I can feel your scepticism through the unseen pixels of this electronic page, but I urge you, dear reader, to accept the truth of what I am about to tell you. Maybe you’ll reach the end of my little tale and not believe a word, but I assure you, by all that’s unholy, the events described happened and were verified by impartial witnesses. Time to introduce you to my ghostly visitations …



Let me set the scene. A semi-detached large house in a Manchester suburb. The time … mid-seventies. The occasion … my then girlfriend, Melanie and I (she was a singer in a band, and her name has been changed to protect the innocent) had spent a night in the town visiting various clubs and bars. Manchester was lively in those far-off days. Then it was a taxi home (my parent’s house – I was cat-sitting while they were away on holiday), and then we did what most young folks did in those days and retired to bed (I’ll spare you the beautiful details on the grounds of confidentiality). My girl had a meeting in London the next day so we’d ordered a taxi for 4 am so she could get the early morning train. After a night of passion, my lady left me sleeping, got dressed, collected her overnight bag, and sat on the stairs to await her taxi.

     I travelled down to London a day later, and we met up again at the Chelsea Potter on the King's Road.

     In a cosy corner, my lady gave me a strange look, ‘That was one weird night at your place.’

‘I thought it was a wonderful night,’ was my reply.

Still, her puzzled gaze searched my face.

‘What’s the matter, was the taxi late? Why didn’t you wake me,’ I asked.

‘Is your place haunted? I was scared out of my wits by what went on.’

The look in my eyes showed my concern, and the raised eyebrow was her cue to continue.

‘You know something!’

‘Tell me what happened,’ I replied, pausing to roll a cigarette.

Her mouth opened and closed as she struggled to formulate the words. Perhaps to recall the event was too frightening, and subconsciously she wanted it to stay hidden.

Liberating the rollup from my mouth, she inhaled, let out a long shuddering breath, and told me what I hoped not to hear.




Allow me to set the scene. Melanie is sitting on the third step of our stairs. Illuminated by the dim security light in the hall, she could see a window in front of her and the door to the right. It’s still dark outside and ...

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