I haven’t had one, and I’m too old to start now.
You do need some re…training on positive
never get what age has to do with anything
Increased stubbornness, in my case, Dianne, and I absolutely refuse to experience ghosts, so there. 
I just like to use my imagination…
I like to imagine something a bit more bedtime friendly at this time of night. 
thats ok Harbie I can do bedtime stories…
I am mature enough to know bedtime needs
Whatever can you mean? 
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night clothes…on
having cleaned teeth
last visit to the loo
tucked in
You had me worried for a moment.
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guessed that…zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz
Anyway, Dianne, are you any good at writing stories?
not really I am better at using my mind… 
You can still use your mind to write a ghost story; that’s what I always do when I write a story.
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Ha! That’s funny!
Here’s my Christmas ghost story, hot off the press. 
Many years ago, there used to be a small cottage where my house now stands. It was occupied by Widow Quirk; an eccentric old woman who made a meagre living from chickens and two or three pigs. By all accounts, she got on far better with animals than people, and kept herself to herself. There was one particular year when a mysterious sickness killed off half the livestock in the area; a pestilence, I daresay. Old Widow Quirk was the only one to have the bad fortune not to be affected by it. Back then, strange old women who seemed to escape the misfortunes that everyone else suffered were looked on with suspicion, and the suspicion with which Widow Quirk was looked on led to her being hanged as a witch by an angry mob looking for someone to blame. Even though it was Christmas Eve, Widow Quirk was granted not a scrap of the good will one would normally expect from one’s neighbours at that time of year.
They hanged Widow Quirk from the big oak tree that still stands at the edge of my garden, right behind the shed. It is said that with her last breath she cursed every last one in that jeering crowd by name, and there were more than twenty of them. Before that last breath completely expired, she also put a three-hundred-year curse on the land, which, incidentally, lapsed just before the property came into my possession. It is also said that not a man in that crowd was left unimpressed by the depth of that last breath.
Since the lynching of Widow Quirk, legend has it that a good many of the subsequent occupants of this plot of land have fallen foul of that curse, and the place has gained a reputation in local folk lore as being very unlucky. The last instance of “bad luck” that I know of was in the 1940s. A smallholder called Adam Wright was stooping to tie his boot lace when his ram ran at him, butting him squarely on the head, and sending him hurtling into his duck pond. He was dead when they pulled him out, and they couldn’t be sure whether he drowned or was killed by the blow to the head. Like Widow Quirk, Adam met his end on Christmas Eve, reinforcing the myth surrounding my garden.
…
Not again, I thought, when I opened the door to see Malcolm standing there. If he was here for the usual reason -which he was- this would be the third time. Malcolm is the founder of Splashworth Paranormal Investigation Team, or SPIT, as the prominent red lettering on their black T-shirts proudly proclaims. There are only four members in the group, and they look into supposed cases of paranormal activity in the local area. Both their previous visits had been disappointing, so I was surprised to be asked for permission to conduct yet another investigation on my land. This time would be different, Malcolm assured me, and went on to say why it would be different. His plan was to do the investigation on Christmas Eve, which was two weeks away, and he was sure that the historic significance of the date would be the key to success. I didn’t have the heart to refuse.
They arrived in the early evening; all four of them in a Ford van driven by Gavin, with Malcolm in the passenger seat, and Babs and Marge stowed away in the back. Malcolm walked across the yard towards the house, and I went out to meet him. “So, what’s your plan,” I asked, and Malcolm gave me a rundown of his agenda, after which I offered them tea, which they all accepted with enthusiasm.
On their previous visits I had just left them to it, without the slightest interest in what they were doing, but this time my curiosity was aroused for some reason. Perhaps by Malcolm’s certainty of success. I asked if they minded my observing, making it clear that they need have no concerns about my interfering. They were the experts, and the last thing I wanted was to get in their way.
After they had finished their tea, the team set about unloading their equipment. The folding table and chairs that Marge and Babs took from the van did not have the appearance of what one would normally think of as equipment, but, as they were essential to the operation, they were considered to be entitled to the designation. They put the table and chairs immediately next to the area that used to be the duck pond, but now hosts a large compost heap. It was a dry night, so they thought it unnecessary to unload the portable gazebo. The table had two functions, they explained. The main one was to serve as a platform for their Ouija board, which would be deployed later, after their other methods had established who or what could be expected to communicate through it. Its lesser purpose was to act as something for the spirits -should any turn up- to rock from side to side, as a sign of their presence. The flimsiness of the table was, no doubt, meant to make it less physically demanding for the spirits, as rocking it would require no more power than that contained in the gentlest of breezes.
Gavin was getting on with placing small gadgets around the garden. He called them EMF meters, as do I now. They detect changes in the ambient electromagnetic field, which may indicate the presence of an entity. Meanwhile, Malcolm was wandering around, “absorbing” the atmosphere, which he did by stopping every now and then, and slowly looking from side to side. When all the atmosphere had been absorbed, he walked over to the table where Babs was telling the others about her new diet while eating a sausage roll, as if to demonstrate it“, or perhaps undermine it.
Suddenly, everyone’s attention was captured by a loud beeping, and all heads turned towards one of the sensors, which was flashing its little red light. Malcolm and Gavin went over to the meter and scrutinised the immediate surroundings. At that point I was going to mention that the power cable to my greenhouse ran underneath the part of the path where the sensor was, thinking the information might be relevant, but I didn’t want to spoil things for them, so said nothing. Malcolm then started to interrogate the darkness.
“Are there any spirits present?” he asked, “please make yourself known, we mean you no harm.”
He carried on in this vein for a few minutes, occasionally offering suggestions as to how the spirits might want to make themselves known, but none was willing to give up its anonymity. When the EMF monitor eventually returned to its calm state, Malcolm took it as a sign that the spirits had left. I took it as a sign that the thermostat had switched off the greenhouse heater.
“There’s definitely something here,” Malcolm said to the others as he walked back to the table. “Shall we try some table tipping Babs? I think something might happen tonight.” Babs nodded and assumed the posture of someone in charge. Gavin took a seat at the table to join the two women, who had already placed their fingertips at the table’s edges.
“If there are any spirits present, will you let us know by moving the table, please?” said Babs in a flat voice. “Just move the table to show us you are here. Use our energy to rock the table.” Babs repeated this several times with minor variations, which only partially mitigated the monotonous quality of her voice. After about ten minutes I started to wonder if anyone would notice if I were to slip away and leave them to it, but then Babs said, “did anyone else feel that? I think I felt it move.”
“I’m not sure,” replied Marge, “it might have done.”
There were two or three more instances of suspected movement over the next fifteen minutes.
“Does anybody fancy another cuppa?” I asked when it seemed like they had finished, hoping that it wasn’t an inappropriate question, coming straight after something of spiritual significance had almost happened. Their enthusiastic nods quickly dispelled my fears and I went off to make the tea. When I returned with a tray full of cups and a plate of biscuits, I again experienced the same nervousness; this time wondering if it was okay to set the tray down on the table, and if it would compromise its integrity as a spiritual channel. Again, I need not have worried.
In due course, the tray was handed back to me, and its place on the table taken by the Ouija board. Malcolm then sat at the table, and Gavin and Babs drew their chairs closer to it.
“Are you ready?” said Malcolm, looking at Marge, who was sitting some way away from the table.
Marge reached into a bag at the side of her chair and took out a bundle of wool with two knitting needles pushed through it.
“It’s all to do with energy”, Malcolm said to me, noticing my puzzled expression. “The spirits need to draw on the energy in the environment to manifest themselves.”
“But what does that have to do with knitting,” I asked.
“Well,” he said, “creative energy seems to work the best, and knitting is creative.”
“How on Earth did anybody come to realise that?” I asked, trying not to sound sceptical.
“Oh, it’s not just knitting. Playing an instrument or sketching works as well. Anything that produces creative energy will do, but Marge can’t do anything else.”
The Ouija session started with the usual question being sent into the ether. Once everyone had placed a fingertip on the planchette, which is the mobile pointer that spells out spirit messages, Malcolm asked if any spirits were present. He had to repeat the question several times before he got a response, which came in the form of a barely perceptible twitching of the planchette. The twitching very soon progressed into hesitant little jerks, and then the planchette started to move towards the word YES at the top left corner of the board. Its movement was faltering and uneven, and put me in mind of a car in the very last stages of running out of petrol. When Malcolm asked for the spirit’s name, it came as no surprise that after what seemed like an age of stopping and starting, and going this way and that, the planchette eventually spelt out the word, ADAM. From then on, the spirit, Adam, was surprisingly cooperative, even though the laboriousness of its replies suggested it was very hard work.
Some of Malcolm’s questions were quite complicated, and most of Adam’s answers were either “yes” or “no”, so much interpretation was needed to piece together his story. Eventually it was established that Adam was trapped between two worlds, and something was preventing him from moving on. This was not the only interpretation that could have been arrived at, but it was the one that seemed to satisfy Malcolm the most.
I think the thing that rubbed Adam up the wrong way was Malcolm’s manner, which became a bit over bearing, and no one likes to feel bullied.
“Listen to me, Adam, you need to move on,” said Malcolm, a touch too assertively, “do you want to move on, Adam?”
“…YES”
“Okay, Adam, you need to go towards the light. Can you see the light, Adam?”
“…NO”
“It might just be a tiny pin prick of light, Adam. You need to look for it, Adam.” Malcolm paused while Adam looked for a pin prick of light. “Have you found it, Adam? Can you see the light?”
“…NO”
“Keep looking, Adam, keep looking. You need to find the light, Adam. Can you see it, Adam?”
“…NO …NO… A-R-S-E”
“Arse? What do you mean, Adam, arse?”
“Y-O-U”
“Me? I’m an arse? Are you saying I’m an arse, Adam?”
At this point the hesitant and disjointed nature of the planchette’s movement was abandoned and it shot across the board to the word, YES. So forceful was its travel that had Gavin not restrained it, his being the only finger still on it, it would have probably shot off the edge of the table. Then all fell silent, save for the faint clicking of knitting needles. After a few moments, Babs flipped the planchette onto its back, so that its three tiny castors pointed upwards, which the others seemed to acknowledge as a signal that the session was finished. Malcolm then cast a suspicious glance at Gavin, whose expressionless face gave nothing away.
Thinking all the drama was over, Babs pushed back her chair and started to stand, but then dropped back down when, without any warning, the planchette flew through the air and hit Gavin in the middle of the forehead. The suddenness of it froze him in shock for a moment, and then he slumped forward, cradling his head in his hands and muttering a long stream of muffled obscenities. As soon as he was able to speak, Malcolm terminated the investigation.
It didn’t take them long to gather their equipment and load it back into the van, and the back doors were no sooner closed than Gavin had started up the engine and was inspecting the red mark on his forehead, in the rear-view mirror, while waiting for the others to get on board so they could be off. When Malcolm came over to say goodbye, I asked how he thought the night had gone. He seemed satisfied with it overall, because all too often nothing at all happens when they investigate. I was just about to go back inside when I saw Marge coming towards me.
“These are for you, merry Christmas,” she said, handing me a small, brown, paper bag.
I can’t explain why I was so moved when I reached into the bag and took out a pair of woollen mittens. Marge smiled and walked away; no words were necessary. I knew I would never wear the mittens, but that did not seem to matter. Snow started to fall as I walked towards the house, and by the time I reached the door the air was filled with giant flakes gently drifting down to earth. As I stood at my kitchen window watching the van driving away, I sensed a presence in the room, and caught a glimpse of a dark shape behind me, reflected in the glass of the window. I turned to see a vague figure standing in the semi-darkness.
“That was an awfully good shot, Adam”, I said, as my otherworldly friend grinned back at me.
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I loved this story! Very well done 
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Very good story, Harbal.
Not quite M. R. James, but good nonetheless.
Talking of which, I must look out my M. R. James ghost stories on DVD ready for Christmas Day:
A View From a Hill
Lost Hearts
Number 13
The Stalls of Barchester Cathedral
The Treasure of Abbott Thomas
Whistle and I’ll Come to You
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Well we do come from slightly different backgrounds, so that might account for it.
And I love that you loved it. 
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Ghosts make good films & TV series. So they are of some use.
Ghosts, BBC1
