My Story:When I was about six or seven years old, we moved house due to the size and dangers of our old house. So anyway, we were looking at the house, it was nice, not too big, not too small, and the garden was very large which was good for my outdoorsy dad. The estate agent told us about some of the house’s history – it was built just after the Second World War when people fled from London to safer areas (the town being just outside of London). This also meaning that there were Anderson shelters situated around the area for safety precautions, although, this house was different because it was built on top of an Anderson shelter. We bought the house, moved in and settled down, realising that the town centre was only a five minute walk from the house. After a couple of months, we began walking into the town centre to go shopping and on one occasion, we came across quite an elderly lady, most probably in her nineties. She asked us if we were the ones who moved in recently and we said yes. She asked us what house it was at and we replied with number thirteen; she had a slightly unnerving look on her face. She said to us ‘I remember quite a few things about that house actually, I definitely remember the big black gates that used to scare the children away being there, and I remember the farm that used to be here’ she sighed but carried on ‘-there used to be a lovely woman living on the farm that was nice to the children, unlike the farmer – he wasn’t very friendly’. My mum and I stood there waited for something bad to be said, but that was it; she waved goodbye and we carried on walking into town. Over the years we would see her sometimes and she would remember us as the family who lived on number thirteen. I distinctively remember one night and I was about nine or ten years old, and I was lying on the bottom bunk of the bunk bed that I had to myself, wide awake. The windows in my bedroom were broken, and by that I meant that they wouldn’t shut properly so we had to duct tape them shut – making quite scary noises on windy nights. I felt as though someone was watching me. I had my head under the covers and decided to pop out to look around my room. I saw a dark – presumably male – figure by the door, next to my chest of drawers. I saw him start to turn around and I hid under the covers. I went back under my covers and somehow got to sleep, only to be partly woken up by a small, fragile, cold hand, gently grasping my hand in a perhaps caring manner. At this point my head is buried into my pillow. I held the mysterious hand back before letting go and pulling my hand under my covers. Could it have been that man? I asked myself, but of course not, this felt nothing like a hand belonging to a man. I let my arm drop out again and the hand holds mine once more, only this time I pull the hand under the covers to see if it was my mum – being the worried woman she is, or whether it was my younger brother playing a stupid joke on me; but to my shock, although I could still feel the hand, I could not see it. The next day I ask my mum, brother and dad if they could explain why this happened but my dad and brother laughed and thought I was joking and my mum had a worried expression as usual. Little did I know that in the near future, my mum was to become a psychic medium and develop the ability to talk to spirits. I never did experience many more paranormal encounters after that while living in that house – I have since moved house again. My mum just always says to me that there are kind spirits that don’t cause any harm, is that true because the other posts on here seem kinda different.