I'm a rationale man, grounded in science; yet I have this story about a house that still haunts me. Let me tell you of my old haunt. The house was my maternal grandmother's. I was eleven when we moved in. For the first time in my life I had my own bedroom. The bed was my Castle, the room my Kingdom. It was a place wherein I felt safe, secure.

At fourteen, the security of my Kingdom was breached. It was Sunday night; pre-school-anxiety meant I rarely slept on New-School-Week's-Eve. But this night it was something else that stole my sleep. I sensed something, a presence. It was all in my head I reasoned. Until I physically felt it – somebody sitting on the corner of my bed. A weight tightened the blankets around my feet. Then, the bulk lifted and I kicked my feet: nothing there – relief coursed through me.

'That was weird,' I thought. I turned over and waited for sleep. But no, I remained alert, my mind denying me rest.

Then: whoever, whatever, returned and sat by my knees. The weight and blanket tug trapped me. Fear does freeze you, I couldn't move: inert. When it sat at my shoulders I was soaked in sweat and silent prayer. These visits occurred once a month, always on a Sunday.

I never mentioned my nocturnal visitor to my parents. Speaking of it would validate it; I couldn't give it that credence. The visits stopped once I started college. I forgot about them – until years later. With Mam passed away, Dad decided to sell the house. Whilst I helped Dad pack-up, I told him of my nocturnal visits.

My skin prickled when Dad revealed he experienced the same when he slept in my room. He was sure in his appraisal: "I was never afraid, it was your mammy's brother, Patsy's spirit, he died in the house – he meant no harm."

Now I'm back in Ireland, I often walk by the house and I'm always hit with a pang of pathos. One day, pre-pandemic, I stopped to take pictures when the current resident came out. She looked angry; and rightly so, given my iPhone intrusion.

I explained: "I used to live here, I wanted a picture of my old home." To my surprise, her face softened and she invited me in. And so – after a lifetime, I found myself standing back in my boyhood bedroom. I was shocked by how much my former Kingdom had shrunk. When I ruled the room as a boy it was a sprawling Continent. Now I'm grown, it's a small County. I felt a tug. But it wasn't my old ghost; it was my heartstrings tugging me away. It was time to relinquish my old room.

Back downstairs, a cheerful child introduced himself to me. He shook my hand; whilst his mother announced: "This man lived here when he was your age." He looked up at me with a beaming smile, and asked: "Was the ghost here then?" His question literally shook me and I leant into the doorframe to steady myself. Taken aback by his candour, I said, "No," not wanting to talk of ghosts with a child.

Yet his mother did, "You know it's Kathleen's spirit, she's kind." The boy continued: "She turns the microwave on at night." He chuckled, unafraid and confident.

Back outside, I sighed and strengthened my resolve not to believe in ghosts. Kathleen's my mother, and like her brother Patsy before her, she died in that house. The thought of her somehow still lingering, standing there, makes me sad. And it's that thought that haunts me.

With hindsight, I can rationalise my ghostly visits as a psychosomatic symptom of teenage anxiety, perhaps? Dad remained resolute of the ghostly provenance; I remain doubtful. But I know for sure, ghosts are ingrained in the Irish-Psyche – our past and present is full of them.