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A

mbrose had started growling. Sometimes, he’d even bark. It was so unlike my faithful hound.

He knew something was wrong. So did I. It was around 2002. A couple of years before, I’d moved into a new house in Kew, west London, with my Old English Sheepdogs, Ambrose and Barney. We’d been happy at first. Only now, things had changed.

Loud banging

It didn’t seem to bother Barney, just Ambrose. The scratching at night, the tapping, the feeling someone else was there…it frustrated him. And me, too. ‘Could it be the pipes, love?’ my dad asked when I told him. ‘Old houses make noises sometimes.’ True. But this was different. The scratching had started a few nights before, almost as soon as it had got dark.

A night on, the banging kicked in.

Loud, intense. Like a thud, or something falling to the ground over and over.

The ghoulies

It woke me and Ambrose. He started snarling, and I found him barking up the stairs that led to the attic room.

‘There’s nothing up there, boy,’ I tried to reassure him.

As the banging continued

The scratching at night frustrated my dog