I think we have a ghost.

There has of late been a spate of weird instances. They started a while back when we came home to discover one of the hobs had been turned on, it couldn’t have been on long or the house wouldn’t have been there; the smell more pervasive if it had. I thought nothing of it and assumed we’d given it a knock.

Next I came home to discover the back door wide open – again we assumed we’d forgot to lock it (very unlike me) and the wind had blown it open. Nothing was taken.

Then this week I got home and the shed was open. Now I know I locked it – my extremely well looked after Trek 100 lives in the shed and I’m paranoid about my bike being nicked to the extent I carry a very heavy secondary lock around when I’m out.

The last and most recent event occurred tonight. We’ve been working on the house all weekend and tonight I finally got to put my books out – it’s been ten months I’m entitled to enjoy the moment, if a little sad. As I am busy, enjoying, G points out we are being observed.

Through the patio doors I can see a jet black cat, sitting on our garden wall, looking at me. Staring and unmoving, gazing not at me now I look closer but staring into the house.

I really wishing I hadn’t read “The Price” by Neil Gaiman this afternoon. I wish I wasn’t a partial insomniac with an overactive imagination.

I expect I’ll be writing a ghost story next.