Moston, Manchester, England, 2nd January, 1965. On the 1 January, 1965, I gave birth to my third child, a son. On the 2nd January I was wakened around 2:30 a.m. by my son for feeding. Suddenly the bedroom door handle began to rattle. I couldn't speak and was terrified that someone had got into my house. My husband, who was sleeping, suddenly jumped up and ran to the door, saying someone was in the house. He opened the bedroom door, but no one was there. He went downstairs, but there was no sign of a break-in.
The next day, I got up with the children and was in the kitchen preparing breakfast when I felt a tug on my skirt. I turned around thinking it was one of my little daughters. No, it was not. They were sitting where I had left them. I got them all dressed and went out for a walk. That night the same thing happened: a rattle on the door handle. We were terrified, and still no one there.
The next morning, when my husband had gone to work, I felt someone sit at the end of the bed. Thinking it was one of my girls, I sat up. It wasn't them; they were sleeping. I quickly got them out of bed and was going down the stairs with my new baby in my arms and holding the hand of my youngest daughter. My three-year-old daughter was walking behind.
The rocking horse at the bottom of the stairs was rocking. I knew that someone had been on it, otherwise it would not rock. Just then, a boy aged about six years old came walking up the stairs. He was blond and tall, wearing a t-shirt and blue shorts. He had white pumps and white ankle socks. I asked him how he had got into my house. He didn't answer. I stood to one side to let him pass me; so did my daughter whose hand I was holding. My other daughter walked through him!
I screamed and ran downstairs. I quickly dressed my children and got a cab to my mother's. Later that day, I picked up the newspaper and read that a thunderbolt had hit my house, smashing windows and causing damage. The windows that were smashed were above the sofa where my daughters would have been sitting. That little boy saved us that day by showing himself.
Incidently, we had not had a male born in the family for 45 years, and the little boy was the image of my son at that age.