The Haunting of Port Logan

Once upon a time, in a kingdom far, far away…

Except this isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a true story about a haunting I experienced while in a small coastal village called Port Logan, in Kirkmaiden, Rhins of Galloway, Wigtownshire. I want to reiterate that this is a true story. This is not a piece of creative writing or a writing exercise. This is exactly how events unfolded.


View of Port Logan from the old lighthouse

But let’s begin at the beginning.

In 2011, my family decided to holiday in Scotland. Having heard of the Wigtown Book Festival, and knowing my deep adoration of books, my parents chose Wigtownshire. At the time, I was midway through writing The Old Ways, and hadn’t yet found a publisher willing to take on little old newcomer me. So, we drove the hundreds of miles (315 miles in fact, and approximately 4 hours of driving) to a small pier village called Port Logan, where we were renting a holiday cottage.

We arrived to find, not necessarily a village, but a street, consisting of about 10 houses and 1 pub, imaginatively named The Port Logan Inn. I jest, but this place was like something out of Middle-Earth and I loved it. I adored this village; it was bleak, windswept, cold, saltstung, dark, and utterly joyless. Being an aspiring writer with (at the time) aspirations of Poe and Byron, it was a dream come true.

port logan inn

Don’t let the sunshine fool you

I’ve also just learned the Port Logan Inn has been closed permanently. This is especially sad as this small establishment served wild boar sausages, boasted a coal-and-wood burning fire, and proudly displayed a mounted stag’s head on the wall.

But I digress.

We were given the keys and shown into our home for the week. It was a beautiful house, three levels of wood floors and cold air, and a view of the seafront barely 10 feet from our front door. The ground floor held the kitchen and small dining area. The first floor held the master bedroom, the living room (with a sofa which pulled out into a bed), and the bathroom. The top floor/attic had been converted into a second bedroom, consisting of two single beds. This is where I slept. Again, being a bleak and depressing (but not whiskey-soaked) aspiring author, I didn’t mind the fat, black spiders who dwelt in the windows. They were small enough and kept to themselves.

What I did mind was the presence who dwelt in the room. But I’ll get to that shortly.

Our holiday passed like normal, nothing out of the ordinary. We went into the towns, bought souvenirs and gifts, attended the Wigtown Book Festival, perused many bookshops, and ate and drank in the Port Logan Inn of an evening.

One night, I suffered a nightmare. I don’t remember the specifics of it, but I distinctly remember a man with bright blond hair, almost bleached, wearing a striped shirt, calling for a boy called Eddie. I remember hearing the sing-song way he called, almost like they were playing Hide-And-Seek, or shouting for him to come in from the cold. Eddddiiiiiieeeee! Edddddiiiiiieeeee! I woke up the next morning and shook off the nightmare. Just a dream, right? Didn’t say a word about it, wasn’t important enough, and the day carried on like normal. Remember this, I didn’t say a word about it.

The night after I’d experienced the nightmare, I was having trouble sleeping. I sat awake in my bed, listening to the rain outside. Seaside Scotland in September tends to have stormy weather, but I didn’t mind. It was what I wanted. It was starting to get late, and I remember checking the time and noticing it was around 11:40pm. I was working on The Old Ways, hoping I would nod off.

Until I heard someone whistle at the end of my bed.

Not just a whistle. A tune. Someone was standing at the foot of my bed, and whistled me a tune. This was not a noise that the wind through the rattling windows could have made. This was a song. Someone whistled me a song. And they were at the foot of my bed.

Afraid now, I put away my iPad, (stupidly) turned out the light, and lay down to sleep. I pulled the covers over my head and listened to the wind and rain pounding against the window for the next four and a half hours.

I knew, I knew, there was someone standing at my bedside.



I was too terrified to look. Too scared to shout for my mam. I tried to put my earphones in so I could nod off listening to calming music. It didn’t help. I put the light back on. It didn’t help. I didn’t want to admit I was afraid of the dark, but I was afraid of what was in the dark. There was a rattly old heater next to the bed, and I slid my arm out of the covers to switch it on, hoping the noise of the fan would drown out the noise of the rain against the window. It didn’t help.

I knew there was someone else in that room with me, and if I looked out from my bedcovers, then they would know that I was awake.

I eventually nodded off, somehow. The next morning, at about 8am, my stepdad came into my room and woke me up. The very first words that left my mouth that morning?

“I’m not sleeping in this room again. There is something in here.”

Of course, rational mind him, he didn’t believe me. My mother was a bit more believing. But, humouring me, my stepdad agreed to sleep in the attic room the next night, while I slept in my mam’s bed instead. He’d had a few, so was a little tipsy and therefore inclined to sleep deeper.

The next morning, the morning of our last night in Port Logan, he told me he hadn’t heard or seen anything. I decided to sleep in the room one more night. My mam agreed to sleep in the attic room with me, in the other single bed on the other side of the room. I was comforted by this. She snores a little, so I got some earplugs so I could sleep easier. I drifted off first, and she took my iPad to watch some videos or read for a while before going to sleep.

Around 45 minutes later, she gently shook me awake.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“I’m going back downstairs, do you want to come?” she said.

“No, no, I’ll be okay.”

“Are you sure? I can make up the sofa bed for you?”

“No, I’m alright.”

“Are you positive? Absolutely sure? You can sleep in the living room.”

“Yeah, I’ll be okay, I’m half asleep and I have my earplugs anyway.”

“Okay… If you’re sure.”

I fell back asleep and didn’t even hear her leave the room to go back to the master bedroom downstairs. The next morning, she admitted to me a little something.

She was trying to get me out of the room. She wanted me to go downstairs with her. She saw something in the attic room.

While reading on my iPad, she’d started to nod off. In that half-state of sleep and awake, she experienced sleep paralysis. This is a fairly common and easily explainable phenomenon. What is not fairly common or easily explainable, is how she saw a little boy with bleach-blond hair and a striped shirt standing at the foot of my bed looking at me.

What is also not easily explainable is how she knew, but didn’t know how, but she knew that this little boy was called Eddie.

Not only that, but a few months later, while out at a Chinese restaurant, and again while slightly tipsy, my stepdad did admit to feeling very uncomfortable in the room. He didn’t see or hear anything, but there was just an unpleasant atmosphere up there that he just couldn’t explain.

I still tease in mock outrage that they both let me sleep in the ghost room and didn’t say anything!!!

My mother says she didn’t want to frighten me. Little late for that, don’t you think, Mama?



This is Gary, he’s here to ease the tension

We’ve tried to look up any other hauntings of Port Logan, or anything about missing/dead men or boys called Eddie, but our searches have brought up nothing.

To this day, it has been the most sinister and terrifying encounter either of us have experienced. And my mother and I have both had ghostly experiences in the past. None of them have ever measured up to Eddie, and the Haunting of Port Logan.


Do you have a ghost story you want to share? Tell me all about it in the comments below!


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