Never noted anything in the Tower, but when I visisted it was the height of the tourist season and all the living must have drowned out the dead (pardon the expression).

I did make the acquaintence of a ghost while living in a student dorm in a less fashionable area of Kensington. It was a three story house with a communal kitchen on the second floor a bath on each floor and three largish "bedsitter" rooms with old coal fireplaces converted to gas heaters on each level. I was on the third floor and when I walked down the stairs to the kitchen I would feel someone walk past me going up. The first time I was surprised but didn't say anything to my housemates. After a few meetings I just decided to ignore it. I got so used to it I just automatically stepped to the side to let it pass. Alway the same feeling of light pressure and a cool breeze.

The bathtub on the third level was under a sloping roof. I'm very tall so it bugged me, as well as the fact that most student housing in London didn't have anything resembling a shower and if they did it was never hot and the tubs were all built for pygmies. If I slid down to avoid hitting my head I had to bring my knees up halfway to my chest. Washing my long hair was such a pain I chopped it off halfway through my stay. Oh I suffered (heavy melodramatic sigh).

One late night trying to get clean I heard heavy footsteps on the stairs. I knew it wasn't one of my mates on the third floor; they were all female chinese students and had light steps. I was surprised that one of the boys from the first floor would be coming up and a little alarmed as I was having a bit of a conflict with one Iranian student (this was 1980 but I can't say he singled me out as the only American, everybody disliked him). The damned door had no lock and if anyone wanted to be nasty they could. Of course, I was homesick and one of my symptoms of homesickness was paranoia (the other was a craving for Mexican food, unheard of in London). I was hoping for a long warm bath, since no one else seemed to be in and I would have what little hot water there was all to myself.

Anyway, I was kneeling in the tub, rinsing the shampoo out of my hair under the spigot and turning off the water when it got cold (usually after running lukewarm for 30 seconds) when I heard these footsteps. I straightened up, whacked my head and turned to get my towel figuring I was about to be barged in on by a belligerent Iranian who also wanted hot water. The steps paused outside the bathroom door. I didn't think it was Elgar the ghost, (the house was across the street from the London residence of the composer Edward Elgar so I called it Elgar in honor of its former neighbor. Then, nothing.

So, I froze (figuratively as well as literally) water dripping in my eyes. I had goosebumps and the willys thinking some crazy British serial killer was outside my bathroom. Well, I figured he was hoping to nail one of my tiny chinese roomies and that he wouldn't be prepared to fight a big strong American girl who fenced and played field hockey (in the days before my knees went). I decided to get out of the tub as quietly as possible. The door was behind me to my left. I kept my eye on the mirror above the sink opposite the door for any signs someone would enter. The single bulb above the mirror started to fade out. I thought at first it was about to go out and of course was mentally cursing a blue streak when I noticed what appeared to be an ice halo around it--you know, like on a very cold clear night when you see rings around the moon? And the dark was closing in on the light. The bulb burned steadily, but it seemed to grow less and less bright.

"Elgar you creepy SOB!" I yelled. "This isn't funny you snotty English bastard and I'm not impressed so get the hell out of my bath and leave the f--ing the hot water behind!" (I curse like a hockey fan too and know some mean expressions in French Canadian I learned in the second balcony of the Chicago Stadium.) I was of course frightened half out of my mind but figured with the other half that if it was a serial killer he might think Elgar was a roommate and leave. Nothing. The room stayed dark as I struggled to pull jeans on over wet skin. I got a sweatshirt on and reached to open the bathroom door. The handle was so cold it hurt my hand.

I opened the door and--nothing. The hall was perfectly normal. Nothing there, no one there. I ran into my room and turned on the gas in the fireplace. I felt like ice. I couldn't stop shivering for what seemed like ages. I felt like January in Chicago.

I kept meeting the more benign presence I called Elgar on the stairs, but I never took a bath while alone in the building again--I went to the YMCA where they had something resembling hot water and lots of people around.

I met a couple others put will save those for another post.