The sound of a scream left me rooted to the ground – I quickly glanced around to see any signs of life, but there was nothing except the jackdaws bickering like teenagers in the trees. I was standing in a churchyard in Pluckley, allegedly the most haunted village in Britain (according to the Guinness World Records), and I was scared. And then I heard it again, this time, there were more. But it was the middle of the day... surely you don’t see ghosts on a slightly misty Sunday afternoon in October?
I know most people love Halloween, with its associated ghosts, ghouls and ghastly goings-on, but I can’t stand it. Even as a child, I refused to dress up and go trick-or-treating. The closest I got one year was reluctantly dressing up as Maud from The Worst Witch, horn-rimmed glasses and all, for a fancy dress party that I ended up leaving early. But I fear my days of avoiding that certain day at the end of October are numbered as my son is likely to be swept along with the fervour of this time of year, and I don’t want to seem like a pumpkin-party-pooper. So I did what any mother does: I pulled on my wellies and headed to the countryside in search of ghosts.
