Ghost Story

In a recent issue of Fortean Times (recommended reading), I learnt that Mitch Winehouse claims Amy Winehouse’s ghost returns to him in the form of a bird. I was so touched and inspired by this frank admission that I decided to share my own deeply personal experience with the spirit realm…

One morning, I was awakened at 6 am by a call. My Aunt Doreen had passed away. In the fog of sorrow, I wasn’t given many details. We were never very close and I felt somewhat guilty. Hours later, I heard a commotion outside of my flat. I looked down from my window to see an unusually large and sinister lorry being fed rubbish by a spectral figure in florescent clothing. I immediately recognize this for what it was. It was my Aunt Doreen.

Flinging off my house coat and pyjamas, I snatched up some clothing and raced down the stairs, hastily dressing on the way.  Pulling on my trousers, I rocketed out the door, reaching the curb just as I pulled on my shirt. I caught up to her as she was about to snatch up the last of the rubbish. When she was alive, I did not recall her being quite so large, and if she ever had facial hair and tattoos those details were lost on me, but it did not matter. I embraced her. I told her how much I appreciated the visits to her farm, pony rides and the fancy hats. Surprisingly, she was clearly taken aback by my overtures and not very forthcoming. Death did not suit her. I thought she gruffly told me to step away, but I could have imagined it. I went on about the various parties, get-togethers and weddings we had been to. I reached in to hug her, raving about the musk scented soap-on-a-rope she bought me for Christmas back in 1977. When I regain consciousness, my Aunt Doreen was gone; I was surrounded by complete strangers, staring down at me – three police officers among them. It had all been a bit much for me – first the call, then the ghost. I was groggy; my head and jaw ached. They helped me up off the pavement. I thought I heard something about pressing charges, but I figured my Aunt Doreen had been through enough. I was helped back into my flat.

The following Wednesday, at exactly the same time, I heard the same commotion outside of my flat. I looked down to see a spectral figure dressed in florescent clothing, but smaller than the last one. For some reason, the other one vanished. I watched this sprit remove rubbish for a few minutes before tapping on the window, an act of friendship – an acknowledgement that I alone could see him. When he looked up and saw me, he dropped the rubbish and ran way. The hideous lorry sped from the curb, leaving rubbish nesting along the entire length of the street.

I retreated to my favourite chair to contemplate my experiences with the afterlife thus far. I felt let down, to say the least, but my fug soon cleared. The telephone rang out. The voice announced that my Uncle Charles had passed away. I was shocked to hear this. I wasn’t given many details but I do not think he was travelling with my Aunt Doreen at the time. Nor do I think he was in any way involved with my cousin Colin. Every family has its Colin, if you know what I mean. I returned to my favourite chair and tried to think of all the good times I had with my Aunt … I mean my Uncle Charles.  Just then, there was a strange noise at the door. I could hear the creaking of metal joints and something falling to the ground, one after the other. Carefully, I ventured forth and witnessed several objects, which appeared covered by paper, sliding through an unusual rectangular shaped slot in the door, piling up at my feet. Now, you may not believe in ghosts, and I am not a superstitious person myself, but believe me when I say I felt a presence on the other side of that door. I swallowed my fear, counted to five and yanked the door open. There before me was a startled woman dressed in a bright red top and dark blue trousers, carrying a large bag of papers, her outstretched hand holding a small package, as if uncertain what to do next. I immediately recognised this for what it was…