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This isn’t legitimately my ghost story.  But it is by blood.




It was in the late autumn, I think November.  A Thursday morning, about ten, the phone rang.  No one rings a rock star before noon, well, no one who knows one. 
I looked at the display and it was my mother.  This was an extraordinary circumstance, for one thing she was wise to the previous caution and for another she always rang on Saturday afternoon when it was quiet at the old folks home where she lived.
I picked up, obviously.

She was sounding really rattled.  Shaken.  With little preamble she was in.  She told me that she had always had a very close relationship with her sisters but had had a particular affection for her only brother,  my Uncle George.  She said that Uncle George died of TB in 1940. 
(she would’ve been a Mum in her 30’s then, with a young family {not me} and WWII going on over their heads.)
She said, after he died Uncle George turned up often in her dreams and they’d talk about things and talk things over.  Six months after he died, Uncle George turned up in a dream and told her he wouldn’t be coming again and she’d never dreamed of him since. 
Until last night.....


She was really rattled.  After 67 years, who wouldn’t be !!.   I tried to calm her and talked about dreams and how strange they are.  It’s another realm of consciousness we go to where the reason that we know in waking life doesn’t apply and I don’t know what does.  I let her talk.
I didn’t ask her what they talked about and she didn’t mention it.



She died the following February,  a fortnight after her century.

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