The female reporter was tall and slim. The ginger hair contrasting sharply with her dark clothing. She had long been a thorn in the side of DI Nixon, and was determined to do the same to his successor.

Tonight, with Trafford the lucky cameraman in tow, she stood in a darkened flat speaking directly to camera.

“It is said by many that a demon appeared inside this spooky bedroom, and that the former owner was later involved with military intelligence. I don’t know about that, but rumours of a ghost persist.”

She paused for breath.

“Friends say that a rosary hung over the kitchen door to ward off evil spirits. Others that he was a harmless fool. As for Charly himself? Some say that he married a stripper and left town. Others talk among themselves about his brutal murder.”

The camera stopped whirring as she left the dark bedroom and walked into the sad and empty lounge.

“You don’t really believe these stories?” Trafford asked.

“After that wolf attack I’m a bit more open minded these days.”

“When we capture a ghost on camera, you can do the interview.”

He chuckled at the crazy thought as she just scowled.

“It is a spooky place though.”

“All dark and empty homes are love. This is no different you know.”

She was about to agree when the toilet door slammed suddenly.

“What the hell was that?”

Trafford looked into the short hall.

“Just a breeze. The door was probably a little open that’s all.”

The woman entered the hall once more and shook her head.

“No breeze here mate.”

“Why not open it then?”

She pulled the door open as the cam light shone inside.

“This would be a great time to do a piece,” he added.

She calmed herself and said quietly, “Only moments before, this door
slammed on its own. Is someone or perhaps something with us tonight?”
She had just finished when a breeze ruffled her short hair.

“Did you feel that? My hair was touched.”

“Get a grip honey. You are letting your imagination run away with you.”

She looked at the empty bath and heard a distinct tap.

“Imagination my arse Trafford.”

“Try the rear bedroom,” he suggested. “We may catch that ghostly music the neighbours complain about.”

She steadied herself and entered the second but smaller bedroom.
Charly had used this as a music room, as Christine had slept peacefully upon the headrest of a favourite chair.

“We are now in the so-called music room that has the reputation of keeping neighbours awake at three in the morning. Will the Beatles play for us I wonder?”

She held the mike as the camera whirred but nothing was picked up.

“I’ll try the kitchen eh? Supposed to be the most active place.”

Just as they entered it, soft music drifted from the vacated bedroom. The reporter yelped and activated the mike at once. As they remained silent, the music drifted into silence.

“Did we get that?” she asked.

He checked the cam and nodded.

“I would not have believed it, had I not heard it myself,” Trafford said.

“We got a real spook mate.”

She was smiling now, gazing at the gas heater bolted to the far wall.

“Ready?”

He nodded.

“We just caught ghost music and now wait inside the supposedly haunted kitchen. Loud taps and soft whispers have been reported here. Will we be lucky I wonder?”

She waited a few moments until a terrific crack from the wall sent her running and stumbling into the lounge.

“Don’t you dare play that!”

The cameraman smiled.

“That was really great. Real life you see. Live response. We could get a prize for this.”

“What do you think caused that then?”

Trafford shook his head.

“I really have no idea. Certainly not natural.”

She turned, looking into the empty air. With failing nerves she whispered, “Are you the ghost sir?”

There was no reply.

They positioned themselves just in front of the balcony door and prepared for another recording.

“There is a story of this door opening on its own, despite being locked. As you can see, it’s locked tonight.”

A sudden bang rocked the room and the door opened a crack.

“Oh crikey!” she screamed as she jumped aside.

“This is unbelievable,” Trafford said excitedly.

She closed it again and tried to compose herself. Then she stopped and shivered.

“It’s turned really cold in here. Can you feel that?”

The cameraman nodded.

“That door was open though. Probably skewed it a little.”

She thought this over as a cold breeze ruffled her dress.

“That wasn’t natural mate.”

“I agree. Why not try the kitchen again. Remember the story?”

“Okay.”

Feeling uneasy now, she trotted back and stood where the small box
freezer used to stand.

“Are you ready?”

“Three, two, one...One friend of Charly who wishes to remain nameless, claims that as Charly knelt by the freezer a knife shot from the rear cooker and landed blade down at his left hand knee.
Charly had put it upon that cooker only minutes before. Is it true I wonder?”

She stepped back and breathed heavily.

“Getting scared are we?”

She tried smiling but it died.

“Want to call it a night Trafford?”

“Yeah, why not.”

As she stepped away, a silver knife appeared from nowhere and landed near her left foot. The cameraman nearly fainted with shock.

“I caught that on film! I caught it!”

“I need to get out of here now!” the woman said.

They entered the hall as the lounge door knocked thrice. She whirled around in sheer terror as the sound of running water came from the water closet.

The cameraman kicked the door open, his camera whirring loudly.
Water was pouring into the bath from the taps. As steam rose and the gas boiler activated they stared in abject terror.

“Let’s run for it!” she screamed.

With all signs of professional decorum gone now, she raced to the front door and pulled at the latch.

“It ruddy well won’t budge!”

As Trafford tried to help, the old wardrobe door slammed loudly.
The woman screamed as the cameraman said, “I’m going to check that.”
He dashed into the main bedroom where the wall unit stood and saw it sliding back and forth.

“Karen! Get your ruddy *** in here right now!”

She entered reluctantly and saw the awful truth for herself.
As they gazed, something rose behind them and the temperature dropped markedly.

“Oh God no...” Karen whispered glancing behind.

Sunlight was streaming through the unprotected window as DI Holland, Sergeant Andrew, and Peters, stared at the blood-spattered walls, and the broken bodies from whom that blood had come.

“What do you think?” the DI asked.

“Murder and suicide,” Peters said calmly.

The DI was shocked.

“This is a supposedly haunted flat. There is a mystery here.”

“This is one mystery that we should leave well alone,” Peters said gruffly. “I’m off to bed, see you later.”

“What do we do sir?”

“You heard the man sergeant. Murder and suicide. Case closed."

Author: Everything that you have read has happened to me. In my flat..Though over many years..Not in one night as happens here...

The only fiction is the reporter and her demise...

you need to move, :)

Quite happy here ta...Spooks don't bother me..Can deal with odd knife or two...