Peter Brumby

The old cottage was haunted, everybody knew it. There had been a murder there, you said, an old woman strangled in her bed for her pension. She'd been seen, long after her death, pale white figure floating round the house looking for her missing money.

"We should investigate," I'd said, "See if it's true. You can't believe every story you hear." This was pure bravado, of course, but you took up the dare, doubled it.

"We'll go there tomorrow night. Bring torches. We'll prove once and for all whether ghosts exist."

It was dark already when we met up in the lane outside the cottage. My belly lurched with nerves, at the thought of what might happen inside. I thought I was going to throw up.

We walked around the outside of the cottage once, to check there was no-one about, but also to put off the inevitable. You opened the front door, easily. You said that you'd learnt to pick locks, though I suspect the lock was simply broken with rust and age.

We switched on our torches and stepped inside. We could hear each other's hearts beating it was so quiet, each step we took echoed like a clap of thunder in a cavern.

We could have turned and left there and then. We'd done what we'd said, gone to the cottage at night. We were, technically at least, both inside the house and had certainly both searched frantically around us for ghosts.

But you doubled the dare again. "Let's split up," you said, "I'll go upstairs."

I couldn't say no. You'd taken the scariest option, the woman had died upstairs in her bed, her ghost was more likely to be in the bedroom.

I was alone. Alone in the dark, in a haunted house.

I moved slowly into the lounge, frightened every few seconds by your footsteps on the stairs, then the landing, followed by the squeak of the bedroom door and the creaking of the floorboards above my head. I slowly swivelled the torch: the room was decorated in cobwebs and general decay. All the furniture was covered in dustsheets, which added to the eerie atmosphere. It certainly looked haunted.

I searched for about ten minutes. When I say searched, I mean walked nervously around. By torchlight I could make out very little, especially as I was forever using it to chase strange noises. I was too afraid to lift the dustsheets, that seemed to be asking for trouble, and there was little else to see. What was I supposed to be looking for exactly?

After ten minutes I'd proved I wasn't chicken. It was time to go. "Pete," I called up from the bottom of there stairs. "There's no ghost here Pete."

No answer.

"We should go, it's late."

Still hearing silence I began to climb the stair, frightened by my own creaks and noises this time. But I wasn't going to turn and run now, not after all I'd been through.

"Peter," I called again, from the landing, but still no reply. The first door was the toilet, strangely illuminated by the moon it looked like a sculpture rather than a working feature; ancient privy by moonlight.

You were in the main bedroom, though it was pitch black, no moonlight and your torch must have gone out. You were rolling and rocking on the floor like the woman we'd seen in that horror film when your parents were away, the flickering of my torchlight serving only to enhance the effect. You were possessed by the ghost, it had taken over your body.

I turned and fled. I ran all the way to my house, without turning to look behind me, tears streaming down my face the whole time.

Of course, I realise now, it was just a fit. I didn't realise you were epileptic, I don't think you did either.

Your mum came round about two in the morning, worried sick. I pretended I hadn't seen you, didn't know where you were, didn't want to get into trouble.

The next morning I skipped school and walked to the cottage instead.

It looked less haunted in the light of day, just an empty house. But my stomach lurched again as I walked down the path and this time I threw up all over the doormat. I had to go inside, I knew, but I was scared I'd find something much worse than ghosts.