My story isn't normal, then again nothing in my life ever seems that normal...
I grew up in a small village (Carcroft) on the outskirts of a small town (Doncaster) in South Yorkshire, England. The street I lived on was normal for the times, not much money and everyone doing what they could to survive.
Me and my mum and my sister lived in a three bedroomed brick built house, we were happy but we had a few problems.
The first one was the Sunday routine, every Sunday we would take down some ornaments from the wall and polish them, brass plates my mum loved but my dad hated them. We'd spend an hour polishing them to brightness again after a week in a room with an open coal fire (that should tell you how old I am). Anyway we'd finish and put them back up with the special rings on the back to a flat wall with proper holders. Within an hour they'd be on the floor again. Having rocked themselves off the wall, they'd do it just out of sight, so you could see them rocking back and forth, and then they'd flick themselves off entirely. Eventually my mum got the message and left them off the wall entirely. My dad died in the house you see, had a brain embolism and fell down the stairs head first.
Thing was he kept coming back up the stairs to see if we were all right, I remember seeing his feet under the door of my room (I shared with my mum), I thought it was her, heard the footsteps coming up the stairs and looked for her to open the door, she didn't. I saw two large feet under the door making shadow shapes and then they just faded away, I never felt afraid because I knew it was dad.
We had cold spots, strange smells, names called out, things moving, all sorts but it never frightened me and they still don't today. I moved out of the house when I was thirteen, my mother died and we got passed to relatives to look after. But I'll never forget the ghosts who helped bring me up, I think I'm a much happier and more balanced person because of them.