WELCOME to Haunted Wirral, a feature series written by world famous psychic researcher, Tom Slemen for the Globe.

In this latest tale, Tom explores the tale of Barnston's Christmas ghost...

IT was 10:55pm on Christmas Eve 2010 and snow was falling heavily as an old maroon Vauxhall Corsa – driven by 70-year-old Patrick Tarrow – snaked its way down Barnston Road.

Sat next to him was 17-year-old granddaughter Sophie, her thumbs stabbing at the screen of her iPhone.

The two of them had just dropped off Christmas presents at the house of a frosty relative in Heswall and were only too glad to be headed back to their home over in Prenton.

"This blasted heater," mumbled Patrick, "you warm enough Sophie?"

No answer came and granddad rolled his eyes and turned on the windscreen wipers, and then he turned on the car radio, which was still tuned to BBC Radio 4.

A programme called Great Lives had just started and the host was talking about the playwright Samuel Beckett.

As Patrick changed the channel to Radio 2, then swore at Mark Lamarr (because he couldn't stand his voice or sense of humour), Sophie put on her earphones and put her hood up.

"What you listening to?" Patrick asked – three times – until Sophie sighed and said "Snow Patrol" and her grandfather smiled at the irony, given the worsening wintry weather.

A mile and a half down the treacherous road, a man walked out from a house and Patrick swore and braked, but the car slid on the layers of snow and ice and the jaywalker fell onto the bonnet.

Sophie yelped and then she smiled and said: "Is he okay?"

"He won't be when I've dealt with him!" Patrick snarled and he put on the handbrake, undid his seatbelt and threw open the door, and Sophie got out the vehicle too and thinned her eyes at the stinging wind-driven snowflakes.

"Are you blind or just bloody stupid?"

Patrick roared, grappling with the man – who looked about thirty – and trying to get him off the bonnet.

"I – I'm sorry mate, but I've been drinking," he replied, his speech slurred.

He stood up straight, then fell back onto his bottom, then got up again. "They made me drink absinthe – me mates – and I'm a teetotal man."

"Where do you live?" Patrick asked, and he gestured for Sophie to get back in the car but she stayed put.

The man pointed to a large white-painted cottage.

"I've lost me keys and I tried to get up a ladder but I can’t get up it in this state," he said.

"Ask a neighbour," Patrick said, guiding the drunken man to his gate.

He thanked Patrick, said his name was Alan, and shook his hand.

He then showed Patrick the open second-floor window at the side of the cottage and the ladder.

"I'm seventy, I'm not climbing that," laughed Patrick.

"Ask a neighbour. I suffer from vertigo."

"I'll do it!" Sophie volunteered, and as Patrick shouted, "No you won't!" the girl rushed to the ladder and quickly climbed it as her grandfather held the bottom of the ladder firmly.

"Sophie! We don't even know whether he lives here!

"He could be trying to break in!"

Alan got out his wallet, took out his credit card, then a driving licence and shoved them at Patrick's face. "There! I live here! Proof!"

Sophie climbed through the window into a dark room – and saw the flickering flame of a candle coming towards her.

A round-faced man in a white wig stood there holding out a silver candlestick, and in the other hand of this weirdly-attired man there was a sword.

He wore a cravat, a black waistcoat, and the shirt beneath it had puffy arms with ruffs at the wrists – and his trousers went only to his knees, where he wore white stockings and black square-toed shoes with buckles.

Sophie had watched the Jane Austen dramas over the years and felt the man was in 18th Century clothes – but why?

Sophie's eyes became adjusted to the low light and she saw elaborately framed pictures on the walls and old-fashioned furniture.

"What in the name of God are you?" the man asked, raising his sword threateningly, "A witch are you?"

"That man down there said he lived here and he couldn't get in!" said Sophie, pointing towards the open window.

The blade came slowly towards her face and its tip flipped back her azure hood.

"What colour of hair is that?" the man asked, and he seemed fascinated but nervous.

Sophie's hair had recently been dyed magenta.

The man smiled and narrowed his eyes. He said: "You are indeed a witch, and I’ll bet Mother Cartwright sent you, didn't she?"

"What are you talking about?" Sophie asked, looking at the sword; its blade glinted in the candlelight.

"Turn around witch, I’m going to take your head off!" the unknown man said sternly, but Sophie stood rooted to the spot in fear.

The man then drew back the sword, and swung it, and if Sophie had not ducked in time she would have been decapitated.

She heard the blade whistle above her, and she screamed and picked up a chair and lunged at the would-be killer, knocking the candle out of its holder.

She then heard mad laughter as the blade hacked the chair to bits and the room lit up.

A light had been switched on, and there stood Patrick.

He had kicked down the door of the cottage and had run upstairs upon hearing Sophie's screams.

Patrick and the drunk could find no trace of the man in the powdered wig in the bare unfurnished room – or anywhere else in that house.

* Haunted Liverpool 32 is out now on Amazon