......I was living on an island just outside a southly town south of London in Essex.
My partner and I were new to the area and it was winter on the coldest night of
the year when we huddled beside a small fire. We had little money I recall, little
of everything. We were renting a small bungalow down near the sea, literally
only a hundred yards away. At night, you could hear the slap and crash of the
tide and worse, the howling wind shaking the telegraph wires above a thin tiled
roof. How the wind howled. At first a few things outside would shake and the
washing lines would whip up and slap the damp walls of the house. The walls
were thin. These places were for summer visits but here we were, this was cheap,
it was all we could afford. The coalman had been earlier but we couldn't afford
any black stuff so we went out into the woods and brought back kindle. It did
not burn. Just smouldered in the grate. Our backs were icy as we crouched over
the smoking grate.
We lay huddled in the bed. A bed full of used old clothes and one blanket. My
head ontop of my overcoat. The wind now moaning and listless. Every creak and
whine seemed to exaggerate itself, even a garbage can lid was lifted up and tossed
around to land with a clatter on the concrete; it span around and then began to
shake loudly until it finally came still and quiet. The wind kicked at the window
panes. The house was so cold.
It was about 3am as the wind died down, when I heard some fidgeting in the small
scullery. At first I thought we had a cat in or worse, a rat. But it sounded like my
partner was unwrapping some crinkly package. But my partner was near me and
also listening. There was someone or something there.
We could see a small light under the door. Scratching, and getting louder, this had
to be a cat, but what about the light; this was no reflection and no-one was in the
bungalow next door. And then, the door creaked open.
We clung together. Our breath visible in the cold light, as we looked over towards
the fireplace. The old chair had a cushion which moved quickly to the chairs edge
and then onto the floor. Then the chair moved very slowly across the lino towards
the brass fender. There was no-one to see. But there was something there and
we could feel our own flesh tingle and sweat.
Suddenly, things around the room began to shift. Along the sideboard a figurine
moved towards the clock. Then the small drawer opened. We waited to see what
else would happen. You could hear the rain now tapping on the dark glass and
then falling heavily gushing down along the gutters to the drainpipes. The night
slipped slowly away as did the noises along with the activities we had witnessed
earlier. The light broke around 7am, forcing its way between threadbare curtains.
Then we heard the milk cart coming up the drive. The sound of clinking bottles
going down on the steps.
We did not at first tell anyone about this true experience but later, when we the
landlady called for her next rent she seemed not so surprised. Apparently, there
had been an elderly gentleman living there some years ago and had died in his
chair close to the fire. In fact, she had bought this bungalow with all its furniture
and had did little to it other than rent it out.
Of course, she understood when we quickly moved out, moving into another box
type building in the next avenue. However, we did get through the winter and
enjoyed a lovely summer by the sea before moving back to London.
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