 There was nothing uncommon about the ghost that the royal Irish constabulary barrack, and the only reason for singling him out is just because he was typical, because he was responsible for things which simply couldn't happen if there were no ghosts. The old house, which had been chosen as a police barrack, seemed particularly cozy and comfortable to Constable Kelly on that bitter winter night when he came off duty at 12 o'clock. The rest of the force had retired. The guard was nowhere in sight. And so the constable settled down in the kitchen, removed his shoes, and placed his frozen feet on the harbour for a blazing fire. He'd just lit his pipe and taken one or two deep, satisfying puffs when he heard... Now it was not an unfamiliar sound. The lock-up was a one-story lean-to, opening off the kitchen. Cinebriated gentlemen would frequently awaken in the middle of the night and express their righteous indignation by rattling the iron door of their cell. The sound was repeated with increasing vigor, and at length Constable Kelly's compassion outweighed his sense of propriety. He arose, and taking a candle from the table, approached the door to the lean-to. Selecting a key from his key ring, he opened it. There were two cells in the lock-up, one behind the other, and the iron door stood between them. Constable Kelly found the first one empty. Well, no. That's a queer thing indeed. And so it was. For the Constable's candle revealed that the second cell was empty also, and the iron door was locked and bolted. Carefully locking the door behind him, the Constable returned to his place by the fire. But barely had he really lit his pipe when... No. What in the world was that? He jumped to his feet again, picked up the candle, and once more strode drove the lean-to. But before he reached it, he stopped abruptly and staggered back with a gasp of amazement. Great jump into the house of it. Both doors are wide open. Yes, both doors. The iron one which he knew had been bolted, and the outer wooden one which he himself had locked with his own key, both were standing ajar. And there was no one but himself, either in the cells or in the kitchen. The following evening, Kelly was assigned to guard duty. He had brought his mattress downstairs and had laid it across two tables in the center of the room. Now he picked up a magazine and stretching himself out on the makeshift bed, began to thun through its pages. It was at that moment that the thing happened. Now who's doing that? Stop it, will you? Cut it out! Stop trying to shove me out of bed! The Constable leaped to his feet and threw back the covers. He looked under the table on which the mattress was resting. He glanced slowly and cautiously around the room. Well now, I must have been dreaming. And having thus reassured himself, T started to lie down, but hey! What's in the name of him? Hey! Well now, what do you know about that? Not until he had removed his bed to another part of the room was Constable Kelly able to remain in it for more than 30 seconds. This was not the last of the strange events which occurred at the Royal Irish Constabulary. And which were attested to by all of the officers who resided there. We may glibly say that there are no ghosts. But then how shall we account for the thousands of authenticated ghost stories? Stories. Incredible but true.