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In the end, we had to use duct tape to fight the supernatural. Sometimes it's the only thing that will work.

It began when we bought our first house. After 15 years of living in cramped apartments with an ever-expanding collection of cats and books, my wife Cheryl and I were ready to chain ourselves to a mortgage. And like many amateur landowners before us, we fell in love with one of the first houses we saw. Little did we know that our excitement would soon turn to regret, before screeching straight into wide-eyed freak-out.

Ah yes, the house. It brooded on the street like a thug past its prime, surrounded by newer, more elegant, more naive houses. The oldest structure on the avenue, it had shouldered its way through the Depression, the Second World War, and undoubtedly gritted its teeth through the hedonistic sixties. We fell in love with its history and battered woodwork, and quickly signed our lives away.

For a month, things went well. Later, we wondered if it took the house that long to notice us. It was 75, after all. Perhaps it was dozing.

One of the selling points was the fireplace. It's a simple affair of white brick with an oak mantle, with two 1940s-era pot lamps hanging on the wall above. With the lights on, it reminded us of a child's drawing of a surprised robot. We loved it - it was both a novelty and a reminder that we finally had a home of our own.

Then the pot lamps started turning on by themselves. One of us would wake up in the upstairs bedroom and notice a glow coming up the staircase. Coming downstairs, we would see the lamps - the eyes - all lit up.

"Maybe you're sleepwalking," Cheryl said, looking for an explanation.

"Maybe," I said. But I didn't think so. When I did sleepwalk, I usually woke up on the couch - not back in bed.

"Then I don't know."

This continued for a few weeks. Each of us wondered if I was the culprit, wandering through the dark like a zombie. Then I was cleared, even though my absolution almost gave Cheryl a heart attack.

We had gone to bed, the house plunged into darkness with the click of the bedroom lamp. I dropped off immediately. Cheryl lay beside me, wrestling with a tiny demon of insomnia. Suddenly, a familiar glow appeared up the stairwell.

Cheryl jumped out of bed, her heart hammering, and ran downstairs. The pot lamps were on, beaming innocently at her.

"I didn't wake you up," she said the next day. "There was no point both of us being terrified."

"Thanks," I said.

We began to investigate our spectral visitor. We asked our neighbours if the previous owners had experienced anything like this. Had they mentioned it? Had they run screaming from the house at 3 a.m.? You know, that sort of thing?

"It's probably the wiring," Karl said. Karl was an older gentleman, eager with a smile and a story. He arrived with his toolbox and took apart the living-room light switch, all Old World efficiency and Getting To The Bottom Of This.

"It's not the wiring," he announced.

"The light switch is actually turned up," we said.

Karl packed up his toolbox and left, shaking his head.

But the house wasn't content to leave it at that. It had done its light work - it was now ready for the ghostly heavy lifting.

If we were away for a day, the house would get an attitude. When we came in the side door, it felt as if someone was standing at the top of the stairs, arms folded, glaring. The cats began sitting up and staring intently at empty space, their eyes darting around. Around 11 each night, a smell of cigarette smoke would drift through the living room.

One night, as we were trying to sleep, the presence - for that is the best word to describe it - became so intense I felt that if I opened my eyes something would be leaning over me.

"Do you feel that?" I asked Cheryl.

"Oh yeah," she said with a shiver. "Oh yeah."

The lights, the smoke, the feeling something was wandering the faded-carpet hallways - the house's history no longer seemed so quaint. What had happened here?

We did more research, which told us nothing. A doctor used to live here; and in the 1950s, the house was rented out. We began looking through the basement, finding a possible clue in the coal cellar: a Suzanne Somers ThighMaster.

We put it back, thinking we didn't want to upset the house any further.

Finally, I contacted a Toronto-based ghost-hunting website. I e-mailed them all the particulars, half expecting the Ecto-1 to tear into the laneway, a team of exorcists to leap to our rescue.

Instead, they replied, "Sounds typical for poltergeist activity." And that was that. We were on our own.

Things began to settle down. The presence has faded (is it used to us now?) and the 11 o'clock cigarette haze (smelled, never seen) is like an old friend as we turn on The Daily Show each night. As for the lights, we duct-taped the switch to a permanent down position.

Haven't had a problem since.

Sean Twist lives in London, Ont.