“Ghosts are all around us. Look for them, and you will find them.”

— Ruskin Bond

Getting used to living with a busy ghost was going to take a while. Especially when we began to wonder if there were others who weren’t quite as “user-friendly” as the one we had met so far.

We liked to tell ourselves that living in a haunted old cottage was more entertaining than unnerving.

In reality, as each event unfolded we were always unnerved first. The entertainment factor didn’t kick in until after it was over and we’d had a moment to pull ourselves together. We could breathe a sigh of relief and remember — or at least hope — it was just our harmless housemate, Lydia.

There were, however, some incidents that were a little more disturbing than others. They left us wondering if, perhaps, there was someone else inhabiting our home.

And whether or not we had reason to worry.

With my lifelong ability to communicate with spirits, I was definitely aware of other presences lurking in the background. You would expect that anyway; it was a 500-year-old stone cottage in rural England. Heaven only knew how many people had lived and died in that cottage over those five centuries. Gruesome deaths from plague, murders unsolved, who knew what torment had taken place within those walls?

And although I liked to think Lydia was behind all the ghostly goings-on, to be honest, I couldn’t always be certain it was she.

You see, Lydia’s activities were usually accompanied by a playful, kind, or nurturing quality, even if in the moment the event was frightening — or downright creepy.

But there were other events that — well, they didn’t exactly leave us feeling all warm and fuzzy.

Like one time when a friend came round for a visit. A highly skeptical friend, I might add. You could just about go so far as to call him cynical and he would not have objected.

At least, not on the subject of ghosts.

Nope, not a chance. A journalist who preferred facts, please, and only the facts, Tony had no interest in “woo-woo” nonsense.

Until that day.

We had met some months earlier after he had seen a newspaper article about me. I had won a couple of awards as an author. He contacted me and asked if he could interview me for his “personality profile” page and I agreed.

The poor man got more than he bargained for when he turned up at our old cottage. Where other people displayed Royal Doulton figurines, ceramic ornaments, or crafts made by their grandchildren, we had witchcraft paraphernalia, dragons, skulls, and pet snakes.

As a journalist, he’d struck gold. As a man…well, he must have wondered if he’d make it out alive.

Anyway, in spite of our vast differences, after that interview we became friends. Perhaps he thought he ought to stay on my good side; I’m not sure.

Fast forward to the Day in Question.

Tony had come for a visit. He and I were sitting opposite each other at a table in the parlour. Part of our discussion included the subject of ghosts and in particular, the fact that we had at least one busy one in our home.

You know already how he felt about that topic. That day, he made it abundantly clear once again.

Not long after those words fell out of his mouth, it happened. He was mid-sentence and suddenly, he jumped, his body shifting to the left as his head spun to the right.

“What was that?” he spat. Frowning, his eyes darted anxiously around the room.

“What was what?”

“Something just prodded me!”

“What do you mean? Do you have a cramp?”

“No! Something just poked me in the ribs! Like this!” He demonstrated, jabbing his finger in the air three times in quick succession.

The hair on the back of my neck stood on end. This was a little too disturbing, even for me. That all-too-familiar icy feeling crept across my skin like a million cold fingers of the dead.

But after living with ghosts for a while, I was getting good at collecting myself after these weirdnesses. A deep breath or two and I regained my composure. Mostly.

“Hmm! I guess someone was saying ‘Hello’ after your, uh, comments.” I couldn’t help but giggle, despite my quiet nervousness.

“You’re taking this rather calmly!”

I shrugged. I didn’t want him to panic; it was best to keep my own feelings under wraps. “It’s kind of entertaining, actually. You should see the look on your face.”

It was priceless; no question about that. Although he didn’t seem nearly as amused as I was. To be fair, I did understand; I was a little spooked, myself. No pun intended.

“Well, what would you expect? Something poked me! Hard! I mean, there was no mistaking it. I didn’t imagine it!”

As if he thought he had to convince me of what had just happened…

Although I was chuckling over the fact that a ghost had just blatantly made its presence known to a non-believer, the creepy factor was not lost on me.

Someone — or something — had actually, physically, literally jabbed him hard three times. It had been right there with us at the table.

That was a hell of a lot more disturbing than having gentle images of spirits showing up and quietly giving me messages to pass on to their loved ones. I was used to that; it had been happening to me since I was a kid.

But this? This was a whole new kind of creepy.

Then there was that other time…

It was late one night at Ravenswood. The old cottage was quiet except for the soft sounds of a conversation between my (now former) husband and me as we chatted in the parlour.

We had locked ourselves inside against the chilly winter weather and were enjoying the fireplace and some wine.

Suddenly, a perfect, broken chord sounded on the piano in the next room. My heart leapt to my throat. There was no one in the house but the two of us — well, the two of us and the snakes, but they were safely locked in their respective tanks.

Even if one had managed to escape and slither across the keyboard, the resulting sound would not have been a perfect, broken chord: three notes, first, third and fifth in a scale sounding one after the other in quick succession.

My husband and I froze in our wing back chairs.

Neither of us was too keen on opening the door to the sitting room and snapping on the light. Nor could we sit there paralysed by fear forever. We couldn’t shake the terrible feeling that something was in there.

And we didn’t particularly care to find out what it was.

Both doors to the cottage were near where we’d been sitting all evening; no one could have sneaked in. The windows had all been closed and locked for a few days due to the rain and cold.

“Maybe something fell and landed on the keys,” my husband suggested, doubt oozing from every word. He knew as well as I did that this was impossible.

“There was nothing that could have fallen on them. Just those big, framed photos on top of the piano, but they were set back far enough, that wouldn’t happen. Even if one had thrown itself off the edge, it wouldn’t have played a pretty chord. It would have hit a few keys all at once on the way down and landed on the floor with a great clatter.”

“Maybe an animal got in?” I could see he was grasping at straws.

“Sure. They can unlock windows now. And play pretty music.” I tried to joke but my mouth was parched with fear; my stomach was as knotted as an old pine. My hands felt cold and clammy and I was aware that I was beginning to tremble.

Whether by choice or compulsion, we found ourselves at the sitting room door. I reached up and lifted the latch, pulling the creaky old door toward me and peering into the dark room.

I snapped on the light and straight ahead saw that as predicted, the snakes were still safely locked up. I glanced to the right where the 1880s upright grand was standing at the opposite end of the room.

The framed photos were still on top of it, untouched.

There was nothing on the keys. Nothing on the floor.

Yet someone had played that perfect, broken chord.

Continue to Part 6 here.