I don't believe in ghosts. I am not saying there is no such thing as a ghost as it would go against my motto of trying to keep an open mind on things. I have never seen a ghost is probably a better statement. My Granddad used to tell us a story of a Mill in Belfast before the first world war that was haunted by the spirit of a boy who was killed when he was putting fuel on to the boiler. My Granddad was night watchman for a time and he swore that every night you could hear coal being shovelled into a barrow and then hear the barrow creaking across the floor to the boiler. He never saw anything, just heard it, night after night. The owner of the mill wouldn't enter it in the early hours but he often called to my Granddad from the top of the street to make sure he was o.k.
At 4.50am today I was awoken by the sound of our bedroom door handle being pushed down. It makes a very distinctive creaking noise. The hair on the back of my neck stood up as I froze waiting for the door to open. It didn't but I then heard the handle creak back. I was wide awake by then. For the next 30 minutes I lay silent and still, ready to dive for the Samurai sword I keep next to the cricket bat, at the side of the bed. Mrs. Bats and I often play cricket in the early hours.
There was no further sound and I eventually relaxed and went back to sleep. This morning Mrs Bats was convinced I had dreamt it but I know I didn't. For anyone to have broken in they would have to have crept over two huge German Shepherd dogs and negotiated a creaking open staircase to get to us. That is impossible.
I will be alert tonight. If it is a ghost, I doubt the sword will be much use but I'll take a glass of water to bed with me and offer it a drink if it plucks up the courage to enter the room. If I do not tweet tomorrow, you know what happened.
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