The fifth 'Real or surreal?' by Mike Kazybrid

Most of us have a story that we simply can't explain. Perhaps it was that strange noise in the dead of night, or the sudden movement at the foot of the stairs that appeared to be a person rushing by. No matter how hard we try to seek an answer, we can never completely find one.

Here’s another one of my stories. It's the summer of '76. I'm a student living in Edgbaston, Birmingham, and I, along with three other mature students, have been asked by the college if we will clean out a number of large houses that they’d recently purchased. Once cleaned and re-decorated, they were to become homes for the new students.

So there we were: three Yorkshiremen and a Scotsman. No, I'm not about to embark on a series of jokes! I can honestly say that they were three of the nicest guys you could ever wish to meet.

The spooky bit begins when Tom, the guy I was working with, had to go and obtain certain materials for the house (Mac and Alan were working on another property). So there I was in this beautiful three-storey Victorian house, feeling somewhat useful with every bit of dirt and plaster I was able to clean up.

I was content with the world, until I happened to hear the faint cry of a woman. As it continued, I remained both still and silent, unsure as to its origin. All I was sure of was that the cry came not from the neighbouring houses, but from the attic itself. I was frozen to the spot, unable to ignore the clear human cry that carried down the stairs and filled the hall where I stood.

Now, I'm uncertain if my actions came from a sense of deep-rooted bravery or perhaps, looking back, plain stupidity, but I decided to slowly walk up the old staircase towards the beckoning cry.

I tried to avoid each and every creak that the old wooden stairs offered but was totally unsuccessful. By now, standing before the attic door, I was mindful that the person on the other side would be aware of my presence, perhaps in the same way I was now aware of hers!

The cry, or sobbing, was clearly coming from a woman. One didn't have to be intelligent to realise that she was in a state of deep emotional pain. Something really bad had clearly happened to her to move her to this point. But what I couldn't understand was: if I was on one side of the door and she was on the other side, why was I informed that the house was empty?

But the house was empty. ‘It is empty,’ I kept on telling myself. Yet here we were, the frightened young man on the one side, and the sobbing woman on the other, only a large piece of Victorian wood standing between us.

I decided to announce myself to her. I told her not to be afraid, that I was only there to clean up the place (thought not in a Charles Bronson or Dirty Harry manner, of course). Still, the sobbing continued. I moved slowly towards the old door, ever mindful that by now there was no mistake that this was very real. Believe me, it was real enough for me not to want to open the door.

Finding myself rushing down the stairs faster than I'd climbed them, I contacted the local chaplain who was linked to the college. Explaining the situation, the chaplain, a serious but good-hearted man, shared with me a possible reason for what had taken place. As we walked back to the house, he shared a little of its recent history.

The property was last owned by an elderly lady who, in her latter days, had lived with a number of cats. These were her only real source of company. For reasons unknown, she lost her feline companions and turned to her belief in spiritualism as a means of comfort. Perhaps the realisation that she was finally to say farewell to her home was the factor that created the end. The old lady died of a broken heart ... in the attic!

Having now returned to the stairs leading up to the attic, we stopped for a moment. And another moment.

Okay, five minutes later, I finally asked the question: ‘Aren't we going to go inside the attic?’

Following a short period of silence between us, the chaplain advised me not to worry. If he stayed where he was, on this side of the door, she would be able to hear him pray.

I questioned that comment. I'd seen all the Hammer Horror movies, and according to them we were now meant to rush into the room, him holding a large cross and shouting something loud in Latin, whilst I splashed ten gallons of holy water everywhere! (Okay, I admit, it was a bad movie.)

Nope, he was sticking to his guns. He was going to yell out a prayer and that would do the trick!

Truth be told, I didn't hear the sobbing any more after the chaplain had gone. Perhaps the power of faith had sorted out the issue. Or maybe the old lady had been somewhat peed off, thinking that some idiots were about to rush into her little attic bedroom, carrying a large cross and yelling something loudly in Latin, whilst the other fool wanted to pour ten gallons of holy water on her head! (Yep, she'd seen that movie too!)

On a serious note, the sound of the crying woman seemed real enough and could be pinpointed to that very room. Could it have been the total sense of grief that had allowed the poor lady, beyond her death, to remain in the house?

I'd like to think that in some way she had moved on to a place of peace. I'll never know. However, I can truthfully confirm that there was one outcome from this experience: I never did finish doing the dusting!

In the true spirit of that which is real or surreal, this has been another tale from those you've come to know as Two Men and a Ghost.

Sleep well.