Terence took a deep drag from his cigarette and breathed deeply before he felt ready to tell me the next harrowing story. He eventually leaned forward in his chair, and his voice dropped to an emotional whisper. It was easy to understand why when he started his story.

Some 10 years ago, he had been studying in Amsterdam. He loved the city, it was full of life and the year passed all too quickly. But one night still haunts him.

He was staying in a guest house, in small but comfortable rooms. One night, at around five, he woke up, possessed by a strange sensation. The room was pitch-black but as soon as he sat up, he was aware of a person towering over him. The man was tall, black and scruffily dressed. But there was something more. An aura of evil emanated from him like tendrils trying to worm their way into Terence’s soul.

Terence found that the man’s thoughts were whispering in his mind.

“Do you want money? Do you want power?”

The whispers became more and more insistent, louder and louder.

Terence tried to close his mind off to the preying thoughts but the man was more powerful, more desperate.

“All could be yours if you just let me use your body.”

Terence could feel himself gagging, the panic rising. He suddenly remembered that he had a rosary bead somewhere, one his mother had surreptitiously packed when he left Malta.

But where was it? He jumped out of bed and crossed the room, not even aware that he was bumping into furniture.

“Imagine how famous you could become...You seem to be an ambitious man, wouldn’t you like to be the best?”

The cloying voice seemed to fight its way into his mind and he was less and less able to resist.

He frantically opened drawers and cupboards, pulling out clothes and underwear until his probing fingers found the cold, plastic beads. As soon as he recited the first Hail Mary, he felt an overwhelming release. He felt control over his mind, could close the mental doors one by one to keep the man’s threats and promises out.

The man faded away and soon Terence was left standing alone in the darkened room, covered in a cold sweat and shivering with fear.

He could not get back to sleep and after hours of pacing up and down, trying to shake off the palpable feeling of evil which lingered in the room, he decided to get out of the house.

Outside, he ran into a friend, a nurse who worked in the casualty department of a nearby hospital. She was just coming back from her night shift and was too tired to notice Terence’s ashen face.

“There was a terrible accident last night,” she prattled on.

“This man was already almost dead when they brought him in, it was too late. We couldn’t really do anything for him.”

Terence was suddenly overwhelmed by the memory of that echoing voice: “Just give me your body...”

To most other people, his powers are totally invisible but other psychics seem to be able to recognise each other

“Yes,” he said to the nurse. “I know. He was a tall black man, wasn’t he?”

She looked at him, taken aback. “How on earth did you know?”

Even if he could have found the courage to speak, Terence could never have explained.

When Terence’s paternal grandmother died, she left a huge, rambling house in Attard. At first many of her relatives thought of moving in there but it was eventually decided to sell the house. Terence and his dad, Edward, went there for one last look. Terence said nothing as they walked around but as soon as they got back into the car, Terence turned to his dad: “It’s a good thing that you have decided to sell the house because there is a ghost there.”

His dad looked at him, somewhat impatiently.

“Don’t be silly, I didn’t see anything.”

Terence decided to keep quiet. He was in no doubt whatsoever but realised it was useless trying to persuade his sceptical father. As they walked across the hall, he saw a man watching them from the top of the sweeping staircase. He was stickily built and was wearing only a flannel vest and a pair of grubby shorts. The man had just looked down and did not say anything and yet the vibes that Terence picked up were prickly and uncomfortable.

Eventually an Englishman decided to buy the property and Terence’s father warned him not to say anything about the ghost in case they lost the sale. When they eventually met to sign the konvenju, they were both surprised when the Englishman looked Edward squarely in the eye, and said: “Why didn’t you tell me that the house is haunted?”

Edward hesitated for a moment, not quite sure what to say.

Eventually he blurted out: “No, it isn’t. I don’t believe in that sort of thing.”

But the Englishman smiled slowly and turned to Terence.

“You may not have known but your son did... Don’t worry,” he continued. “I’m taking the house because I get on quite well with the ghost. But he didn’t like your son.”

It seems Terence had met a kindred spirit, someone else who could communicate with ghosts. The man bought the house although it has since been resold. It is still lived in.

These stories are just the tip of the iceberg. Terence’s life is a sequence of stories, starting from when he was a child. Some of the experiences were positive, others not.

When he was in his 20s, his maternal grandmother died and for a long time after, he would be aware of her coming into the room. She would cross to a chair at the far end of the room and watch the family. She always brought with her an aura of peace and tranquillity.

But Holland was a bad phase for him. His psychic powers seemed to be heightened and he once found himself talking in a different voice – and a different language which he thinks was Egyptian. He thinks that it may be evidence of a previous life but it is a subject he seemed to shy away from.

To most other people, his powers are totally invisible but other psychics seem to be able to recognise each other. Once when he was in his 20s, he was down at Exiles beach when a total stranger walked over to him and took him aside.

“We need a medium...” the man said.

Terence pulled back, asking: “Why me?”

The man only looked at him and said: “You know why.”

Terence is very aware of the power he possesses and it is truly tempting to use it sometimes. Many of his friends know about his experiences and he has been asked a number of times to go to their houses to check out possible ghosts. But he does not see himself as some romanticised ghostbuster. Far from it.

He is a quiet man, now in his mid-40s, who lives on his own, totally dedicated to his work. He has turned down all requests to “make contact” with ghosts. But in spite of his determination to lead as normal a life as possible in the circumstances, sometimes, against his will, contact is made.

Some time ago, he was woken up by someone brushing his foot and then his hand. He knows that it was the soul of someone dying, a spirit changing state from life to afterlife.

Terence had worked his way through three or four cigarettes by the time he had told me his stories. He got up to leave but I sat there glued to the chair, mesmerised. It cannot be easy bearing the burden of all those trapped souls, all those spirits trying to find someone to release them. He gave a tired shrug before he went out.

This is the 42nd in a series of short stories The Sunday Times of Malta is running every Sunday. It is taken from The Unexplained Plus (Allied Publications) by Vanessa Macdonald. The first edition was published in 2001 and reprinted twice. It was republished, with added stories, as The Unexplained Plus. The Maltese version of the book, Ta’ Barra Minn Hawn (Klabb Kotba Maltin), is available from all leading bookstores and stationers and from www.bdlbooks.com.