A few years ago I was in Waulk Mill, all alone, on a cold wintery Saturday afternoon beavering away on something or other. Now deepest Ancoats is rarely a place for the feint hearted, but on this particularly dark and deserted solitary mission, doors were firmly closed and most definitely locked. Better safe than sorry.
As the darkness descended all across the bleak East Central Manchester landscape hometime was not far away as the wind howled all around the four walls of Unit 4.1, each gust more powerful than the last. Then, all of a sudden, literally a dozen or so yards away from me, the staff door started to shake and then the handle moved up, then down, then up again before violently shaking every which way. This went on for some 30 seconds as somebody was seemingly trying to force the door open. It hadn’t yet occurred to me, but I had heard no footsteps on the creaky floorboards outside the office. Then the noise and movement stopped. Again no footsteps. I was frozen with fear, initially with the threatening thought of robbers ransacking the building attempting to force their way into the office. What would I do? Hide, fight, run? The other more peculiar thought had not yet occurred to me.


