By Tim Porteus

MOST folk must have noticed the strange-coloured sky as Storm Ophelia brushed past us. Folk in East Lothian were thankfully spared the worst of the winds which ravaged the west. Yet you could feel the power of the storm, even though we were on its fringes and it was by then a dying and dwindling force.

The strange half light in the middle of the afternoon, the yellow tinge of the sky, the sense of a powerful presence: these were the things made an impression on me. Of course we had all seen the weather reports and so we knew what was causing all this. Yet even still, it made me stop and look up, and feel in awe. It was as if the gods were doing something up there.

I was glad that night I had a house to keep my family warm, cosy and dry. They slept as I lay awake and listened as the remnants of the storm’s wind banged on the windows and made the roof creak. I had an urge to go down to the sea and watch the waves crash on the shore; but it was past midnight so I had a word with myself.

I was beginning to slip into sleep when suddenly I heard what sounded like a knock at the door. No, I thought to myself, it must be the wind. But there it was again, that most definitely wasn’t the wind.

And so I pulled myself out of bed and went downstairs to the front door, slightly nervous of who this could be at such a late hour, on such a storm-laden night. I didn’t open the door immediately, but called out: “Yes, who is it?” There was not reply.

Then there was another knock on the door.

“Who is it?” I asked again; still no reply. The trees outside were waving frantically in the wind and we have an elderberry bush close to the door. I realised that it could be the elderberry banging against the door. So I went to the living room window, lifted the blinds and peered outside. I couldn’t see the front step from that position, but as I leant as far as I could I made out the silhouetted edge of someone standing on the doorstep.

But as I strained I couldn’t make out who it was.

And so, cautiously, I unlocked the door, kept my foot hard against it, and opened it ajar.

A large man with a beard was standing on the doorstep. He was soaking wet, as if he had literally been swimming in his clothes.

“Hello,” I said.

“I’m looking for my house,” said the man in a strange accent.

“Your house? Er, what street do you live in?” I asked, keeping my foot firmly wedged against the door, now nervous at the thought of my family sleeping upstairs.

But the man just shook his head and shrugged his shoulders. He didn’t know what street he lived in.

“Sorry then, I can’t help you,” I said to him.

“It’s by the sea,” he said as if suddenly remembering, “where we were shipwrecked.”

Immediately my instinct was telling me this man was potentially dangerous, but then I realised he seemed genuinely confused and lost.

But in that moment family came first. “Sorry I can’t help you, there’s a police station just down the road, they might be able to help out,” I said as I closed the door on him.

I locked it quickly but quietly, then snuck to the window and peered out. He stood on the doorstep for a few moments but then turned and began to walk away into the glare of the streetlights.

For the first time I could see him properly. It looked as if he was in fancy dress. I thought probably he’d been to a party; after all, Hallowe’en is approaching, perhaps it was an early fancy dress party.

I watched as he meandered across the road. He was going to knock on the neighbour’s door opposite. But then he stopped, turned quickly and stared right at me. A shock went through my body and I froze.

It was then I noticed it. At first I thought it was the way the street lights were casting shadows but as I stared at him I realised I could see my neighbour’s door, even though he was standing in front of it. I could see it through him!

He smiled when he saw my horror and nodded as if to confirm my realisation he was a ghost.

Then he jumped and in an instant he was standing next to the window inches from my face.

I woke up.

“You alright?” my wife asked.

It had been a dream of course, but a vivid one. As I had drifted into sleep listening to the storm outside, my mind had wandered to the story of Althamer, the legendary Viking pirate who was caught in a storm a thousand years ago and shipwrecked on the rocky shore of Prestonpans.

Except Prestonpans didn’t exist then. The pirate captain decided that fate had led him and his crew to the shore and so decided to settle and build a community where they were shipwrecked. The village initially had his name but was then renamed Prestonpans after the monks of Newbattle took over the salt making community (Preist town’s pans). The name Aldhammer House has survived to this day and, sure enough, it is close to the sea.

“I have just had a dream about the Althamer the pirate,” I said to my wife.

“Typical,” she said as she slipped back into sleep.

The wind was still making banging sounds on the windows. I was relieved that it had been a dream but for some reason I now wanted to go down and check the door was locked.

And of course it was.

Then I had an urge to peer out of the window. The street was quiet except the trees dancing in the wind. It was strange how in my dream the scene had been so vivid and real.

Then I thought to myself, Samhain (Hallowe’en) is approaching and in ancient tradition this is the time the spirits come to visit the living. Did Storm Ophelia conjure up the spirit of the shipwrecked pirate?

I stayed by the window a wee bit longer, just in case I saw the ghost wander by. But of course it didn’t. It was just a silly dream. Ghosts don’t exist... do they?