It was May 1997, and I moved into my new house near Morley Station. Opposite the house were fields, trees, and horses. The road was a dead-end and there was hardly any traffic, so it was a very quiet area. There was little street lighting, so at night it was very, very dark. There was just me in the house. And the house wasn’t actually new. In fact it was quite old. And it was in a bit of a state. Officially, it had three bedrooms, but it didn’t, really. The smallest was not much more than a cupboard. The middle one, the back-bedroom, the important room in this story, was big enough for a single bed and not much more. It was north facing, gloomy, with wallpaper peeling off. It was an unhappy room in an unhappy house. I decided to dump everything in this unhappy back- bedroom until I got sorted out, got back on my feet. It became filled with suitcases full of clothes, boxes full of books, bags full of bric-abrac, and copious carrier bags full of files and folders. At that time, as well as trying to hold down a full-time job, I was also a part-time university student. And now, I had this house to start on. I was feeling the strain.

So, whenever I wanted anything, I had to go into the unhappy back-bedroom to get it, usually climbing over piles of boxes and suitcases. I had been in the house about a week when, probably needing a clean shirt or a toilet roll early one evening, I opened the door of the room. You know when you go round the corner of a street and there is someone coming the other way, and you end up ducking and diving to avoid colliding with them? That is exactly what happened. As I was about to step through the door, there was someone coming out of the room. It’s a cliché to say that my blood ran cold, but my blood ran cold. I was supposed to be the only person there. My first thought was that someone had somehow got into the house. And, to make matters worse, he, or she, had now suddenly disappeared. I didn’t want to go in the room, but I had to. Terrified, I looked behind suitcases, under boxes, inside carrier bags. Noone there. I searched the house. Under furniture, behind doors, inside cupboards. There was no-one else in the house. So what on earth had I seen? I was on good terms with the bloke who had sold me the house. I thought about asking him if he had ever seen anyone in it. Apart, of course, from his wife, three kids, and visitors. I’m glad I didn’t.

Over the next few days, my terror gradually subsided. Over time, I decorated and furnished the house and it became a nice place to live. I sorted myself out and got back on my feet. I have lived in the house now, more or less contentedly, for over twenty years. I cannot imagine living anywhere else. It is a happy house, and the back-bedroom is now a happy room, with bright curtains, colourful wallpaper and a plush carpet. The area has changed dramatically. The fields and horses have gone, replaced with a shiny brand-new red-brick housing estate. The road is still a dead- end, but has been properly surfaced and now resembles part of a grand-prix circuit. And sometimes sounds like one . There is state-of-the-art street lighting. Morley station is still wet and windswept, but has an electronic information system and CCTV. And, whereas twenty years ago I often had a carriage to myself during the ten minute journey into Leeds, now I can rarely find an empty seat. I retired in 2009, discovered the Playhouse, and have become a performer, of sorts. I have attended acting classes, singing classes, guitar classes, ballroom classes. But I have never forgotten my strange encounter. That’s why I am telling you this story. What on earth did I see that afternoon twenty years ago? I am the most logical person in the world. There has to be a rational explanation. But to this day, I have no idea what it is.