The Coal Man’s Visit

When I was seven, my family moved to a small, terraced house in a northern mining town. The house was old, with a narrow staircase and a cellar door that was always slightly ajar, no matter how many times we pushed it shut. My bedroom was at the back, overlooking a yard where the remains of an old coal shed stood, its roof caved in and its walls blackened.

One night, not long after we moved in, my room was being repainted, so I had to sleep in my elder sister’s room while she was away at a friend’s. I was a light sleeper, and I remember waking to a faint, rhythmic scraping sound, like something being dragged across the floor. The door was open, as I always slept with it ajar, and in the dim light from the hallway, I saw a figure standing at the threshold. It was a man, or something shaped like a man, but his face was hidden under a flat cap and his body seemed too broad, too solid. He wore a dark jacket and trousers, and his hands hung at his sides, blackened as if with coal dust. My heart hammered, and I squeezed my eyes shut, praying that when I opened them he would be gone. But when I peeked again, he was still there, motionless, just watching. I pulled the covers over my head and hid until I heard the first morning birdsong. When I looked again, the doorway was empty, but I had a faint smell of soot in my nose for days.

Five years later, when I was twelve, I had a similar experience, but this time it wasn’t just a vision. I’d been at a friend’s house on the other side of town, and I walked home alone in the twilight. The streets were quiet, and our house stood at the end of a row, its windows dark. I let myself in with my key and found the place empty, as expected; my parents were at my aunt’s. I turned on the television in the front room to have some company, and I sat on the sofa, watching an old black-and-white film. The house creaked and settled, but then I heard it: a thump from upstairs, followed by the slow, heavy tread of footsteps on the landing. My first thought was of a burglar, and my legs turned to jelly. I scrambled to the front door, but my hand froze on the handle. The footsteps started down the stairs, and my dog, which had been sleeping in the hall, began to whimper and scratch at the front door.

I pressed my back against the door, as if that would stop anyone. The footsteps reached the hallway, and I heard them pause outside the room. I could see the shadow of a man under the door, a dark shape with a broad brim, like a miner’s hat. The door knob began to turn, slowly, as if he were testing it. I screamed, and then I heard my mother’s voice from outside, calling my name. The shadow vanished, and I yanked the door open, grabbing my mother in a hug. She asked what was wrong, but I could only point at the stairs. She looked at the empty hallway and the cellar door, which was now wide open, and she said, ‘It’s just the house, love. There’s no one here.’ But I knew what I had seen, and so did the dog, who wouldn’t go back inside for an hour.

Years later, I learned that the previous owner of our house had been a coal miner who died in a pit accident, trapped in a collapsed shaft. They said his spirit never left the house, still searching for the way out. And I believe it, because to this day, I still smell coal dust when I walk past that house, and sometimes, if I look at the cellar door, I see the blackened outline of a hand on the frame, as if someone was reaching for something they could never grasp.