The Haunted Column, a ghost story - Yorkshire poet Ian McMillan

By Ian McMillan

Published 19th Feb 2022, 06:00 BST

I think that’s because I didn’t think I’d be very good at it, which is as good a reason as any, but also because the more ghost stories I read, the more it seemed to me that all the variations in the form had been done. There are, it seems, only so many ghosts and so many places to haunt.

There are scary ones and not very scary ones. There are stories set in obvious places like dark castles with cobwebs the size of bin lids and not so obvious places like well-lit offices in the middle of the day.

The ghosts can be lost lovers or lost children. They can be headless or eyeless or shiftless. They could be glimpsed in mirrors or they could sit down next to you on the bus and you never realised they were a ghost until you the final stunning paragraph of the story.

In other words, it’s all been done. Or has it? As I? contemplated the ghostly mystery an idea struck me like a hardback book chucked in a library riot. A book of ghost stories, naturally. What about if this column, the very piece of paper or lit screen that you’re holding in your hands is haunted. The Haunted Column, a ghost story by Ian McMillan.

Well, I’ve got the title but now comes the hard bit; I’ve got to get the tale written. And I’m coming up against some hard questions: how can a column be haunted? How will this haunting manifest itself? If the column is a ghost then was it once a living thing? Maybe it’s the words themselves in the column that are haunted; not that the words themselves are scary but that they seem to be speaking directly to the reader from beyond the grave.

Yes, you. You there staring at these words. There’s no point looking behind you. You. I’m talking to you. Come closer. Get your face right up to the words until your nose is almost touching them. Closer, if you can. BOOOO!

Ah, that surprised you, didn’t it? That got your attention. Yes, I am The Haunted Column. Remember that time all those years ago when you were unpacking all the crockery and the glasses when you moved into that new house? Remember how you’d packed it with old copies of The Yorkshire Post?

Remember how one of Ian McMillan’s old columns was folded and crumpled inside that old cup of your Grandma’s, that souvenir from Whitby? Remember how you dropped the cup and it shattered and you got Ian McMillan’s column and ripped it to shreds because somehow you thought it was vaguely the column’s fault? Well, I’m back. I’m back and I’m angry. Ah, I see you’re drinking a cup of tea from your favourite mug. Be a shame if you were to drop it, wouldn’t it?

BOO!