Just to give Melissa and Jean something to ponder on here is an account of one night in 1992 (as it appeared in Fortean Times). Whether it was an actual ghost, the result of diet or a sleeping problem caused by a strange bed or change of environment I do not know. I will let you form your own theories.
The events related here took place at approximately 4:10 AM, on the 15th of June 1992. The cottage I was staying in had, at one time, been a jailer's cottage and prison. The room I was sleeping in had one been divided into two cells used to house smugglers, poachers and French prisoners of war. The whole prison was condemned by Queen Victoria's inspectors of prisons as being unfit to house any prisoners.
It was a warm night in the Kentish seaside town of Dymchurch and, despite the hour, I was not feeling at all tired. My parents having retired early I was content to sit up late enjoying the warmth of the evening and watching an old Beatles film on the television. Before they had made their way upstairs my mother and father had very kindly made up a bed for me in their dining room and I was, eventually, looking forward to a good nights sleep. After the film, I had cleaned my teeth and settled into my bed with a last cigarette and a chapter of a biography of Edgar Rice Burroughs, the creator of Tarzan.
For many years my parents had owned a collie cross mongrel, by the name of 'Buster', that seemed to suffer under the impression that I was actually meant to be his master. Whenever I spent a night there he liked to relax by spending the time at the foot of whatever bed I was sleeping in. That night was no exception and no sooner had I settled into a comfortable position than he could be heard scratching at the door to get in. I continued to read my book and enjoy my cigarette while he scrabbled away for attention and before too long he had managed to work the door open enough to let himself in.
Once inside the room Buster's normal behaviour would be to walk over to the bed, wagging his tail furiously, and then plonk himself firmly down on the end of it. This time as soon as he entered the room he stopped in his tracks and sniffed at the air. Having tasted of the atmosphere in the room he seemed to have second thoughts about the whole idea of sleeping there and turned around to make his way out of the room and up the stairs. I had no idea what could have changed his mind as I could smell nothing unusual about the room and, with my parents both being smokers, he was well used to the scent of tobacco. Not being at all offended by his actions, I am far from being the world's greatest dog lover, I finished my cigarette, put down my book, turned off the light and got my head down for sleep.
As clearly as if I were awake I dreamt that the room was suddenly filled with bright sunshine and yet had become very small and claustrophobic. I found myself thinking that the bed was too close to the wall and that if I wanted to get out of the room in a hurry there was nowhere to go but through the rooms only door. It was then that a tall, muscular man entered through that very door and stood blocking what was my only exit. His blonde hair was cut very short, looking as if it had been very roughly shaved off in the recent past. The only clothing he wore consisted of a pair of raged, dirty and rough-spun trousers. His flesh was so pale as to be almost white and clearly showed the ravages of sickness and violence. Icy cold crept into every sinew of my body as he moved steadily towards me. An evil grin spread across his face as he made obscene gestures to let me know exactly the sort of violence he intended to act out on my person. Unable to move from the bed I grabbed for a telephone, which, for some reason, I expected to be beside the bed even though I knew that there had never been one in that room. When I did not find one, which was a horrible surprise, I tried to yell out for help. In my much-panicked state all my dry throat could manage was a cracked and feeble whisper.
Waking up with a sudden start I felt the grip of cold leave my body and the room, once again, felt as warm as normal for the time of year. The horrific images were still very fresh in my mind and I sat up in the sanctuary of my bed to reach for a cigarette and take a look at the bedside clock. As my hand closed around the familiar shape of the cigarette packet I saw the shape of a man crouching down next to my bed. In the faint light of the early morning the figure was, at one and the same time, both clear and yet indistinct. Part of him appeared to merge in with the sideboard that stood against the wall. His tattered and worn out garb and shorn head were suggestive of a prison inmate from the late eighteenth century. I found myself watching in fascination as the figure gave concerned looks towards something, or someone, unseen on the floor. The object of his concern I could not see but there was compassion in his manner and a great air of sadness about him that made you feel for his sorrow. Despite his ghostly appearance there was no trace of anything in his presence that could be called menace.
As I watched, still clutching the cigarette packet, he seemed to turn towards me, as if noticing my presence for the first time. The more he turned the more the shadows of the early morning sun enveloped his features making him even more indistinct. At the same time he grew in stature. Rising to his feet he grew in size until his form filled the space from floor to ceiling and then fairly rapidly, he faded from sight.
While he had been visible the rooms furnishings had remained as clear and distinct as normal and his vanishing left no more trace than if a flesh and blood person had left the room. On my own once more I finally lit a cigarette and turned on the light, waiting to see if anything else would appear. The figures visitation had not filled me with nervousness, or even anything approximating worry, and his disappearance only left me feeling intensely curious. Once I had finished my cigarette, with no further apparitions having looked in to pay a visit, I turned off the light and went back to sleep. For what remained of the night I slept peacefully and undisturbed. The following night Buster slept quite happily in his usual spot at the foot of my makeshift bed, showing no inclination to be separated from me.
Politics, it seems to me, for years, or all too long, has been concerned with right or left instead of right or wrong.
Richard Armour
Enjoyed reading your ghost (true) story Chris, makes the hair on the back of one's neck stand on end. Melissa and Mark, I think you are both handling this well and Jeane is soooo good at this, I'm glad she is giving you advice. Coming from Ireland as I do, I've listened to many a tale and I am a believer albeit a bit of a wuss, its the Banshees that scared the living daylights out of me back in the auld country 
They like to see what's going on and it is not their intent to harm anyone. It may be a family member 'popping in' or a confused soul who is wondering who is living in their house or where that wall went?! They can become more active around times of change (both personal and building work.)