Back in the 60s, it was about midnight and I was riding my motorbike home down a winding, moonlit country road with a high hedge to one side and a forest to the other when it started to misfire. I knew what was wrong, so I stopped to fix it. I fiddled with the spark-plug lead and then stood up to try it. Standing next to me in silence was an old woman with a bent back and chalk-white face. I screamed and ran. After a moment, I stopped and looked back. She was still there and said, “Sorry to have made you jump. Is it broken?”
She turned out to live in a house about ¼ mile back and was returning from visiting a friend in the next village. The chalk-white face was just the over application of makeup.