It’s about our bathroom, and some odd little things that are
hard to explain. It’s downstairs, next
to the kitchen. That’s odd, for a
start. But no, I mean the noises. A little while back I went in there to wash
before bed and heard funny sounds above me in the single-storey roof. Maybe it
was a cat or a rat or a bat - a fat bat - but whatever it was I was so unnerved
I nearly did something that rhymed with it.
At least I would’ve been in the right place. Still, I put the thoughts of a headless monk
knocking on the pantiles above me to one side and carried on brushing my teeth.
Nothing happened for a few weeks. And then the other evening there was another strange occurrence.
The toilet flushed on its own.
That’s weird, I thought - I hadn’t pressed the little button thing on
the cistern by accident, had I? No - but
it was definitely flushing. “I think we’ve
got a ghost in the bathroom,” I said to Mr SDS, “and they’ve just used the loo!”
It hasn’t happened since.
But, oh, something else has. Two
nights ago, shortly before midnight, I
was just trying to put some moisturiser on my face without my glasses on
(always a bit hit and miss) when, well, how can I put this politely? I heard a very long drawn-out, squeaky bottom
burp. A real ripping raspberry of rectal
turbulence. A proper classic
blow-off. Right beside me. I mean, so
close to me that I froze right there in the middle of its duration to check
that it wasn’t actually me. It definitely wasn’t. Perhaps it was the soles of my slippers on
the floor? I slid them about a bit and
tried really hard to make them mimic the anal acoustics I’d just heard but nothing,
my slippers were silent.
“Now it’s farting!” I said to Mr SDS when I went upstairs. He was already looking at me
strangely due to the blobs of white cream in my hairline and nostrils. Once I’d heard that spectral trouser
trumpet right next to me I'd decided not stay in the bathroom any longer than I had to, and I definitely
wasn’t going to look in the mirror for fear of what might look back at me. Sod the moisturiser. Even without glasses, a hazy headless monk was too much to apprehend.
It’s not exactly M R James but that’s my ghost story and it's true. Have you ever heard of such a thing? A farting phantom flusher?! Whatever next - will I find the end of the toilet paper folded into one of those pleats like they do in hotels? Who knows? I’ll keep you posted if it returns...
In the meantime, here's some stonking '60s garage from an appropriately named band to blow the ghostly cobwebs away:
In the meantime, here's some stonking '60s garage from an appropriately named band to blow the ghostly cobwebs away:
The Haunted: 1 2 5
