Now that the autumn leaves are falling fast, and at night a cold moon rises; when the cold of winter finally breathes its welcome icy breath over the land; my mind turns to the welcoming warmth of books. I have my favourites. Not the great classics of literature, not some scientific tome. I like ghost books- lots of them. I admit with a blush that for me one of the greatest pleasures in life is to turn the television off at night, settle in a chair, listen to the wind outside, and read a book of ghost stories as my dog Fergus sleeps in his bed – (and snores if the truth be told).

 Of course I am an old phoney. When people talk of ghosts, I raise a supercilious eyebrow, tut tut for a time, adopt a sceptical demeanour, and then launch forth with all the ghost stories I’ve been told over the years.

I can’t understand the fascination. Whether it’s because ghost stories often involve history, which I like, or whether I just admire the blind stubbornness of a ghost who refuses to leave the mortal coil –‘yes, my mortal remains are gone but I’m still not leaving’– I really have no idea.

The only ghost I have ever met – and that when the ghost was alive – was my great grandmother. She lived in a house built by her eldest son John, at Wangi, Lake Macquarie in NSW. She loved that house and its luxuriant garden. Great grandma was blessed with a healthy old age –robust and strong until she died at the age of 97. Well, at least that was her official age. My grandfather found out later that she was over 100 when she died. Great grandma always did lie about her age.

 When Great grandma died her beloved house was sold. The story my family tells is that her ghost stayed for a time after her death to make sure her house was looked after by the newcomers.

My cousin, Linda, was at some tupperware-type party and sat next to a young woman she had never seen before. After a few minutes conversation Linda, to her astonishment, found out that the young woman lived in Great grandma’s house. The young woman told Linda that when she first moved into the house, she felt a presence that was clearly unwelcoming. And she kept seeing the ghost of an old woman – great grandma was already old when the house was built. The young woman said it was only when she had a baby that things changed. The presence was now welcoming, and the ghost of the old woman – I believe she was sitting in a rocking chair – stopped appearing.

Linda, remembering great grandma’s strength of character was not surprised. ‘Great grandma was just making sure the house was looked after’ she said.

 The ghost stories I read about in books always seem to involve murder or tragic accidents. Great grandma’s ghost seemed to have had the sensible notion that a house built by her family and lived in and loved for over fifty years should be looked after. It’s a notion that I understand and sympathise with. Though I knew her little in life – she died when I was a child – that ghost story tells me a great deal about the woman she was.