A ghost story for Christmas... When I was a kid, I made a list of things that scared me. I was honest, while at the same time restricting myself to the real night terrors, rather than the vaguely unsettling. Like a Desert Island Disks list I got it down to seven: Spiders (foreign and domestic,… Continue reading The Museum of Everything
I do not believe in anything. My dear wife was always more religious than I. That is to say she was more open-minded when it came to matters spiritual and incorporeal, tending towards a polite agnosticism over my own intractable atheism, and general scepticism towards the supernatural beyond the pages of my own fiction.
I first cultivated something like a friendship with Billy, the lonely old boy upstairs, because he reminded me of my dad. But the longer I lived in that little ground floor flat the more he reminded me of myself. The low-rise flats were red brick and post-war, and I had grown up in one just like it myself, with the same narrow hallway with bedrooms in an inverted ‘T’ shape at one end and a heavy door topped with a single panel of frosted glass at the other.