Ghosts

Ghosts

My house occasionally gives me the impression it is haunted. A fleeting impression which I dispel with a wave of the hand. 

The man who sold me the house a decade ago, was (I understand) a bailiff. I do not know if that was a salaried civic appointment, an Enforcement Officer, like a policeman. Or something you can call yourself, if you have ever tracked down a malefactor and 'served him a writ'. Like a 'bounty hunter' in the wild-west films; perhaps a hard man who likes justice and fancies his chances against most comers, quick on the 'draw', and trained in judo. What I do know is that he made enemies. The house had several safety features which he showed me, as though I also might have enemies who would love to tip-toe round my house at night; sophisticated locks, motion-detectors, an alarm button (red), a black button that must be pressed if you want to exit by the front door (Imagine trapping an angry criminal inside your house! I suppose so that you could approach and put cuffs on him. I think I would rather explain to him from the top of the stairs about the black button, so he could let himself out.) 

My bailiff friend dismantled and removed his c.c.T.V system, but left several holes in the outer wall which moan, on windy nights, if the wind is from the right angle; like organ pipes.

Another feature of the house is the creaking noise made by the copper tubing of the micro-bore central heating as it contracts (or expands) lengthwise and squeezes through holes in the joists. Some minutes after  the central heating switches off (or on) there is  a quiet squeaking noise which moves gently down the corridor like a timid cat-burglar. And I know for a fact that there are mice in the party-wall where my house abuts on John's next door; I have heard them scratching and gnawing.

Last Tuesday I was woken by a different noise – two deliberate taps on the glass pane of the front door. "Must be Denys", I said to myself, "calling about that wiring problem on his way to work." I rolled out of bed, slipped my feet into slippers and fetched down my warmer dressing gown from the back of the bathroom door.  "Gosh", I said as I carefully descended the stairs, "but he starts work early!"  It was pitch dark outside, were it not for the distant street-light; it must be the middle of the night. I pressed the 'black' button (easier using two thumbs together) and opened the door. I just caught sight of a trousered leg as it disappeared round the corner of the house. Had I shoes on I would have gone out to look. I am braver with shoes on. I share the usual male-madness of thinking I could probably cope with a single assailant; but not when I am wearing slippers. I stood on the doormat a-while and listened. I could hear – nothing. Have they fled noiselessly, or are they waiting just round the corner, with a lead pipe? Neither alternative made much sense. It certainly was not Denys. I closed the door and went back upstairs. The clock by my bed said 3.30 a.m. I slipped easily back to sleep. 

Next morning I tried to think up some half-plausible explanations. A vengeful debtor just released after ten years in prison? Or a co-criminal calling for his share of the swag? Or a stalker? A ghost seems as likely as any other explanation.  Knowing that the brain contributes massively to the perceived image of  'optical sense data', can I claim this as a case of the brain similarly trying to make sense of a sound? Am I just waving my hands? I might as well call it a ghost. But is it my ghost or does it belong to the house?