It would have sounded like a tall tale if it hadnt unfolded right before our very eyes. It all kicked off about six months ago, when my dearly beloved grandad passed away, leaving behind his cosy flat right in the centre of London. After a month spent letting the dust settle, my family and I decided it was time to tidy up the place and get it ready to put on the market. Most of the day was spent stuffing all of Grandads bits and bobs into enormous bin liners.
By evening, everyone trooped back home, but my brothernever one to follow the crowdinsisted on spending the night in the flat. At around six in the morning, I got a phone call from him, his voice shaking like a leaf in the wind, begging me to rush over. Without a second thought, I dashed across town. The moment I stepped into the front hallway, I found my brother looking positively ghostly, his face whiter than a January morning. We both heard footsteps echoing through the lounge, but not a soul was in sight. The atmosphere was so eerie, you could have cut it with a butter knife. Goosebumps raced from my toes to my hairline, and the two of us legged it out of there quicker than you could say bad idea.
It took us a good thirty minutes of loitering on the pavement and debating our life choices before we mustered the nerve to go back inside. To our utter astonishment, all Grandads belongings were carefully arranged in their usual spots, as if hed popped in for a tidy up himself. The relief was huge, but the whole thing felt utterly bizarre. After that, we swore off the flat altogether and handed the whole business of selling it over to some estate agents, who managed it without breaking a sweat. Thankfully, the new tenants havent run into any mischief. Even so, the memory of that spooky night still gives me the shivers whenever I think about itproof that London isnt short of a good ghost story.
