In Manchester around 1953, a few hours after giving birth to her son at home, a young mother lay in the dark with the fussing baby on her chest, unable to sleep. The only light came from the streetlamps through the net curtains. Slowly she got the prickling feeling of being watched.
Then she heard whistling beside the bed. On the floor to her right stood a tiny man in a suit and top hat, grinning up at her. He seemed full of mischief, almost mocking: he pointed at her and the baby and made a belly-laugh gesture, danced from foot to foot, tipped his hat, then jumped up onto the bed and came closer, still laughing and pointing.
She felt a deep sense of dread, as if he knew something she didn't and was gloating about it. She shut her eyes, telling herself it was exhaustion, and eventually fell asleep.
Her son died young, in 1980, and for the rest of her life she was convinced the little man had known what was coming and had been celebrating it, not warning her. She later compared him to the dancing man from Twin Peaks, only far smaller. Her grandchild, who shared the story, admits a hallucination is possible, but says the memory of her telling it still makes the hairs stand up.
