Some sort of ghost story

The rain lashed against the window and the trees bowed in the wind. The attic windows creaked, and there were strange knockings, coming from the central heating pipes. It was a gloomy March evening, and my friends and I were in an attic bedroom, high up in an Edwardian family house that came straight off the opening credits of the Addams Family. In reality it was a warm and friendly family home, five brothers and one sister, my friend Marianne. We had met on our first day at school. There were pictures on the walls, guitars in the living room and an Airedale dog in the hallway. Her Irish mother was the most welcoming of hostesses. On this March evening we were both aged eighteen, and our friend Debbie, who lived next door, was sixteen. For some reason we had decided to try a ouija board séance. I am not sure who had the idea, and looking back it was slightly out of character for any of us. Marianne and I had been brought up Catholic, and all three of us were down to earth. It didn’t take long to write out some cards, letters of the alphabet and Yes and No. Sitting round a small table we carefully placed our fingers lightly on the glass. ‘Start with some simple yes or no questions’, suggested Debbie. ‘OK’, said Marianne. ‘Am I a girl?’ The glass swerved to Yes and we all looked at one another. After that it was addictive. We must have asked the most banal of questions, but as our confidence grew, so did our curiousity. Who are you? Thomas Wilson. The glass flew round the table, spelling out the name. When were you born? 1774 Where were you born? Manchester What did you do? Draper Where? Market Stead I am certain we found out more about him and his family, but these were the facts I wrote in my little notebook. I worked at Salford Central Library at the time, and knew about local studies collections. On my next day off work I went to the archives at Central Reference Library in St Peter’s Square. We had no idea where Market Stead was, but it turned out to be the top end of market St, where Piccadilly Gardens are now. I discovered entries in the rolls for Thomas Wilson and his shop. At this point I questioned what we were doing. As friendly and helpful as Tom was, it didn’t seem right to be contacting him from beyond the grave to ask if someone fancied you! As I said to a friend recently, why didn’t we just ask the boy in question?! Why call back a spirit from the eighteenth century to sort out our love lives?I went off to university and gave up the ouija board, though I believe my friends continued to contact Tom occasionally. Debbie became a very successful television playwright. I once asked her if she had ever been tempted to use our ouija board experience in one of her plays. ‘Oh no – it was way too far fetched’, she said.