I like a building with character. I like a house with old carpets and exposed walls and the odd speckled mirror or two. It’s a sort of antique. I’ve never believed in ghosts or anything along those lines, so the implied creepiness of such a place isn’t likely to put me off; throw a few flowers here and there, maybe a nice lamp, and then you’re upcycling. Saying that, if I was that way inclined, I’d definitely say my student accommodation is haunted.
A few stains here and there are obviously to be expected in a house that’s been the exclusive domain of students for God-only-knows how many years, and so that in itself isn’t indicative of hauntedness. All I’m saying, is that the red stains on the ceiling of the upstairs bathroom are suspicious. Of course, it could just be some kind of problem with the pipes. Maybe the plaster has rusted. I don’t know. All I’m presenting here are facts.
Then, there’s the cat. Oh, yes. There’s a cat. A witchy animal if ever there was one. Now, I’m not a cat-hater: in fact, I admire their confidence and intelligence (sometimes. I’ve also seen cats get stuck in bowls, which just goes to show that you really can’t generalise). That’s why I’m inclined to trust the one that seems to refuse to come anywhere near our house. It gets about halfway down the back garden, and then runs away. You could say that, since this is when one of the residents here goes out to try and make friends with the cat, we’re actually startling it, but y’know who’d like you to believe that? The ghost. The alleged ghost, I mean.
Let’s talk about the golf ball. A mysterious golf ball has materialised at the bottom of our stairs, just under the dials that control the heating. I mean, I’m not a melodramatic kind of gal, but could this be an insidious plot by some manner of golfing ghost to break my ankles if and when I get up in the dead of night to adjust the heating? It’s impossible to know for sure, but I’ll freeze to death before I give that ghost the satisfaction of seeing me slip on a golf ball- …supposed ghost.
Your immediate reaction may be to point out that I can turn on the light in the hallway, thereby making sure that I see the golf ball in this case. That’s the next thing: there is no lightbulb in the hall. Could that be the result of negligence on behalf of us and/or our landlord? Perhaps so. But I think a far more entertaining idea is that there is a golfing, murderous ghost haunting my accommodation who happens to dislike modern technology, which is why they’re sabotaging our lightbulbs and sometimes making the Wi-Fi cut out. At least, that’s what I’d say if I believed in this sort of thing.