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Ghost tales and ghouls and things quite eerie

YEARS ago, some friends in Melbourne developed a pilot television program on ghost hunting. They would stake out haunted houses around Victoria with video cameras and try for that elusive evidence of other-worldly activity. The highlight was a self-propelling guitar in some dusty basement. (They also reported that their activities were especially effective in impressing pretty girls at the pub). It is with this in mind that I arrive at the rendezvous point for Launceston City Ghost Tours. Preparation involves two pens and two cameras in case a poltergeist runs amok with my tools of trade. I also test-drive a recording device on a dining sub-editor, just to make sure it can pick up any non-Earthly mutterings. There's the precaution of two pints of beer at a pub, to loosen up the well-honed cynicism. It's Valentine's Day night and in fitting fashion many of the stories we are about to hear are about tragic separations. The start point is the Royal Oak Hotel and guide Paulene Hutton leads us into a basement. Take Cyril, whose mysterious finish leads to our first ghost story. As we enter, Ms Hutton tells the four Queenslanders taking the tour to say hello to Cyril ... "or we can't guarantee your safety''. Cyril was a lovelorn carpenter and tinker whose sad demise primes the pump for tales of staff members who have had an ethereal encounter in his former workshop. We move to another basement, once a funeral parlour and, in dim light beside a coffin, Ms Hutton speaks of the cemetery origins of terms such as "saved by the bell'', "dead ringer'' and "graveyard shift''. The tour has been going barely 15 minutes and is already rich in fascinating stories and occasional frights that would be unsporting to reveal in print. I'm running my own ghost hunt and reckon, with two cameras, I'm going to catch a ghoul or a Casper, or even a Cyril. Our road to apparition takes us past the Princess Theatre, where we pause for a tale of late-night haunting, and then to an alleyway where the ectoplasms are sometimes known to bloom. There's another story of murdered prostitutes and we take photos of the alley, hoping to catch some fleeting appearance. Camera digital display is a wonderful invention but, jeez, talk about a suspense killer. I'm getting nothing in the alley but the next day notice something quite unsubtle on the photo that I missed in the night _ road markings that read: "Keep area clear''. Perhaps, having broken with the fairly major natural law of sodding off to the afterlife, ghosts feel obliged to be a little law abiding. We move to George Street and stand across from the Aquarius Roman Baths, focusing on upstairs windows while hearing of a sinister murder, an attempted cover-up and the forlorn phantoms that might be spotted if you peer hard enough and long enough. Ms Hutton encourages a photo or two but the gremlins have been busy at my first camera. They've already forced me to change memory cards and now the battery dies. They are tricky characters, these spectres, but the second camera is ready to go. The stories have been beautifully told, the tour has been thoroughly entertaining, but as we move towards our next paranormal position, I want more. I want to bust a ghost.