As a little boy, growing up in a small, terraced house on the outskirts of Bolton, I'd be visited at night by a mystery lady who'd appear at the end of my bed, gazing inquisitively into my eyes until I hid under the blankets. When I peeped out, she'd be gone.I never told anyone about these spooky experiences, until one day my paternal grandfather, Bill, got the family photo albums out.
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