path: root/76814-0.txt

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76814 ***

                      Ghosts in the Great War
                               and
                           True Tales
                           of Haunted
                             Houses

           Thrilling Experiences of “Daily News” Readers

                    Edited by S. Louis Giraud


                             LONDON
             FLEETGATE PUBLICATIONS (“Daily News” Books Dept.),
               Lombard Lane, Bouverie Street, E.C.4.


   The full list of books in this series is as follows:

   No. 1. TRUE GHOST STORIES.
         Told by _Daily News_ Readers.

   No. 2. WARNINGS FROM BEYOND.
         Signs, Visions and Premonitions told
         by readers of the _Daily News_, con-
         taining:
            Strange Warnings and Premonitions.
            Inexplicable Experiences.
            Remarkable Stories of Ghosts of the
            Living.
            Visions of those who have Passed Over.
            Promised Signs from the Dead.
            Extraordinary Experiences related by
            Nurses.
            Strange Visions of Animals.
            “Tall” Stories.
            Some Stories with a Sequel.

   No. 3. UNCANNY STORIES.
         Weird happenings to _Daily News_
         readers.
         Some Ghostly things explained.

   No. 4. GHOSTS IN THE GREAT WAR
         AND
         TRUE TALES OF HAUNTED HOUSES.
         Thrilling Experiences of _Daily News_
         readers.
         ——————

   On sale everywhere, or can be procured direct
   from the publishers :——FLEETGATE PUBLICATIONS
   (_Daily News_ Books Dept.), Lombard Lane, Bouverie
   Street, London, E.C. 4.

***

INTRODUCTION

The subject of Ghosts and Ghostly happenings has always aroused a vast
amount of interest, much fear, some amusement and varying degrees of
ridicule, but in recent years the names of so many prominent and
influential people have been directly associated with it and used in
support of the existence of spiritual intercourse that it has become
worthy of a careful examination. This fact, and the reported
reappearance of the “brown lady” of Raynham Hall, the home of the
Marquis Townshend, in the latter part of last year, led the Editor
of the Home Magazine Page of the Daily News, in co-operation with
the Publishers of this book to invite readers to give their
experiences in this matter. In extending this invitation the Daily
News, in its issue of November 6th, 1926, stated:

“A vast number of people do believe in ghosts—many on the most
inadequate evidence. But up and down the country, in lonely farms,
in quiet suburban roads, in London flats—in fact, wherever the
living dwell and the dead have dwelt, there are people who fully
believe that they have seen mysterious apparitions, sometimes
uncanny, sometimes not even uncanny, strange noises unaccountable by
any human agency known to the witness. And these agencies they
believe to be ghosts.

"Let us find out what these occurrences amount to. We ask our
readers, in the interests of sober truth, to tell us of the stories
which are authentically within their own knowledge—not the feverish
traditional stories of the countryside, but the sights and sounds
which they themselves have seen and heard, or which their friends and
neighbours have seen and heard, and which have convinced them that
ghosts really exist.

“Many will hesitate because the story they have to tell, though
inexplicable, seems so futile; but futility is often characteristic
of the real living contemporary ghost story as distinguished from the
blood-curdling romance handed down from the past, with dripping hands
and clanking chains."

As a small recognition of the service rendered by the writers of
these experiences, a daily prize was given by the Daily News for the
first ghost story published each day during the appearance of the
correspondence. It was also announced that it was felt that this
important body of evidence on a subject of continual controversy
should not be lost, and, therefore, the Publishers of this book
undertook to gather into book form the best of the stories, and to
equally divide a further sum of £20 in prizes to the authors of the
ten best stories used in this way.

It was then thought that one book would be adequate for the
presentation of these selected stories, but the response to the Daily
News invitation was so enormous, that no less than four books of most
extraordinary stories are now completed and published, and the awards
have been increased to £40.

The Editor of these books has read through every story received—some
three thousand in all—and endeavoured to classify them and then group
the various phases of the subject under appropriate titles. It has
been a tremendous undertaking, and the work has occupied several
months. Every selected story has been reproduced without alteration
of fact, and in almost every case the actual wording of the stories
has been adhered to.

The task of scrutinising this vast amount of matter could be done by
only one person where the merits of each story were to be judged for
the purpose of awarding prizes. And that single-handed task had its
compensations as well as its trials, because it yielded a
comprehensive survey that could not have been accomplished by
collaboration.

The outstanding feature of this examination was the total absence of
the really horrible stories of Ghosts that have been served out to
the public from time to time. There was no lack of extraordinary
incidents, as the stories which we now reproduce will show; and
generally there was a wholesome respect for the nature of the great
subject under consideration. Most of the stories prove honesty of
purpose on the part of the narrators, and the fact that the writers
of some of the most striking occurrences represent every class, from
the poor and unlettered, to those well-placed in the world, is an
indication that the subject of Ghosts or Spirits has an amazing
interest for the public. Reverend Gentlemen, Magistrates,
Professional Men, Nurses, all figure in the list of those whose
stories we reproduce, and the nature of the great majority of the
letters received indicates a desire for serious inquiry rather than a
mere relation of something to excite or frighten.

All those stories which showed abnormal temperament—and there were
many of those—have been carefully excluded in the preparation of these
books, but full advantage has been taken of the stories which were
sent to explain away strange happenings and to relieve the ghostly
atmosphere with healthy humour.

We make no claim to attempt to answer the question “Do Ghosts
exist? ”; we simply present in the most careful manner the best
incidents out of the many sent to us in support of the Ayes and Nos,
and to the many who have experienced inexplicable manifestations and
await an explanation, we can only say that unless such can be gleaned
from the sequels to supposed Ghostly happenings with which this
collection of stories is interspersed, we are afraid this great
subject has not yet been sufficiently investigated to yield them
complete satisfaction.

One thing this vast amount of correspondence has proved is, that
while the least temperamental of us may scoff at the idea of Ghosts,
and the humorously inclined may find it a happy sporting ground for
the exercise of wit, there is something which surrounds the lives of
a large number of apparently sane and decent-living people, that
cannot be analysed as we are used to analysing things in this modern
age. And this something is sufficiently diversified to arouse in
those who are not immune from it feelings varying in degrees between
the two extremes of uncontrollable dread and deep reverence. To have
accomplished this alone would have been a complete justification for
the preparation and publication of these books, but we hope something
further will be accomplished, namely, to prove the futility, if not
the danger, of putting on the market literature on this subject of
such an extravagant nature that it not only injures in its undue
infliction of terror those who read it, but detrimentally affects the
merits of a subject which, to those who are interested in it, has as
many claims to investigation as Wireless or any other subject of
equally uncanny surprises and possibilities.

Having thus dealt with the main aspects of this correspondence, there
are two matters which must not be overlooked: one is a protest that
was included in the correspondence—a protest against the publication
of these Ghost stories, and the other the very emphatic “No” which is
given by several writers to the question “Do you believe in Ghosts?”

Below we give in full the protest referred to, and also the principal
“Nos.” The former, we believe, is sufficiently answered in the
foregoing remarks, and the latter constitute another interesting
phase of this very interesting subject.

For the information of those who may desire to secure the whole of
the four books in this series or any particular one dealing with a
special phase of the subject, a full description is given on the back
of the title page of this book.

The fact that the names and addresses of the writers of these stories
have been withheld, and also names of people and places mentioned in
the stories, must not be regarded as a reflection upon the truth of
the story or the honesty of the writer; it is essential in the best
interests of everybody.

It should also be mentioned that in the case of those stories which
are set out under headings of Counties or Towns it does not follow
that the incidents related always apply to the Town or County under
which they appear; they mostly indicate the place from which the
story was received.

THE EDITOR.

The stories for which prizes have been awarded are as follows:—

Book No. 1. TRUE GHOST STORIES.

• Old Mother Bishop.
• Out of the Everywhere.
• A Strange S.O.S.
• Jeanie Passes By.
• Saved by the Supernatural.
• A Child's Vision, and Experiences in Later Life.
• A Convincing Experience.
• A Horrible End.
• The Wail of a Snail.
• Late News.

Book No. 2. WARNINGS FROM BEYOND.

• Strange Warnings and Premonitions.
• Saved by His Child.
• A Persistent Warning.
• A Startling Vision.
• Why I Am Convinced.
• Inexplicable Experiences.
• An Unseen Menace.
• The Phantom Organist.
• Remarkable Stories of Ghosts of the Living.
• A Strange Vision.
• A Life-saving Vision.
• Grandmother's Call.
• Extraordinary Experiences Related by Nurses.
• The White Friar.
• A Wandering Spirit.

Tall Stories.

• The “Tallest” of the “Tall.”
• That Was a Good Race.
• The Musician's Ghost.

Strange Visions of Animals.

• The Dying Sealyham.

Book No. 3. UNCANNY STORIES.

• ‘One Tid 'E Get Out?
• In the Quiet of the Night.
• A Gruesome Treasurer.
• The Butterfly Ghost.
• Saved by His Own Ghost.
• A Photographic Mystery.
• The Flying Dutchman.
• A Strange Vision and Its Sequel.

Book No. 4. GHOSTS IN THE GREAT WAR AND HAUNTED HOUSES.

• A Pal in Life and Death.
• The Morning of the Ypres Big Push.
• Is there an Explanation?
• A Dream or a Ghost?
• An Evil Presence.
• A Strange Story.
• Was It a Curse!

LETTERS REFERRED TO IN INTRODUCTION.

Dear Sirs,—Noting that this correspondence is transferred to you, I
venture to think that I can subscribe interesting matter for the
subject.

Born seventy-three years ago and passing my early youth in the
country, it will be understood that story telling was a regular
feature of spending evenings, and the “ghostly” variety was very
prevalent, so much that my young mind was saturated with that
nonsense, and to such an extent that life for me after the passing of
daylight was a burden. In the dark I fancied seeing ghostly shapes
and hearing ghostly sounds everywhere. An elder sister who was
similarly affected and, to some extent, my mother, were the only
persons who knew of my sufferings, as I would have been subject to
ridicule from others, who, however, no doubt had a touch of the
disease themselves. I remember my mother hushing the “entertainer”
when children were present, and trying to divert the talk into other
channels.

Then happily came the cure. Somehow a book came into my hand
(probably borrowed by me or for me). I do not remember its title. It
may have been “Ghosts Laid Bare,” “The Inexplicable Explained,” or
“Common Sense Versus Superstition.” It was ghost stories again, just
as I had heard them (with variation) and quite in line with what the
otherwise generally intelligent Daily News has been serving us, but
with this difference, that after each tale a natural explanation of
it was given. It must have been done very well, fully intelligible
for my about thirteen years’ mind. The effect was remarkable. I saw
how I had been fooled, and to my intense relief was cured of all
fear.

You will therefore understand that unless your intended book of Ghost
Stories or Uncanny Incidents is to be on the same line, that is an
anti-dose after each dose of poison, I for one condemn it in advance.

I note that it is not all “real” ghost stories, “The Silken Ghost,”
for example, with its explanations on the line of what I have said of
the cure book. “The Picture in the Fire” also, but that is so
evidently “made up” that it has no place anywhere, least of all among
the prize winners.

As to footsteps on the stairs and “mysterious” slamming of doors, I
have heard that often as it happens in my own house, but prefer to
believe they come from the adjoining house and in a natural manner
rather than in the ghost inventor's ways. And why should ghosts
necessarily make noises—and ordinary, natural, commonplace noises to
boot?

So please stop frightening our children. Leave the ghost culture to
the savages, where they originate, and if occasions occur give them a
hand to get over that damned superstition. Yours truly, W. C.

This was not meant for publication, but why not? I am sure it is far
superior to anything else that will appear in your book and ought to
have first prize.

The following story is true, down to the minutest detail. One night I
had a dream and saw an angel bending over me and folding his wings in
a protective manner about my sleeping form. So vivid was the dream
that I awoke—not altogether in dread because the face and posture of
the angel held nothing but kindness, love and protection.

When I awoke, however, the vision did not fade just at once, and I
made a cry of awe and, probably, of fear. This awoke my husband and
he gently reassured me and soothed me, and, not to disturb him
further, I calmed myself to sleep, determined to say nothing of my
dream till next day.

After lunch on the following day, therefore, when we were having our
customary half-hour's rest and chat, I opened the subject of the
dream, and was about to relate it when he stopped me, saying he was
sure he had seen my dream, and begged me to let him relate the dream
first. I did so, and was much amazed that he had seen my dream
exactly as I had done, and could relate the appearance and attitude
of the angel in every particular. Did either of us think we had seen
a ghost or apparition? Neither of us thought so.

The truth of the matter was that my dream had been so vivid and real
that even after I awoke the impression of the vision was still on my
brain and took a little time to fade away, and my husband's sympathy
was so alive to my distress, and his mind as much in tune with mine,
that my mind, as it were, photographed to his mind the vision which I
saw.

Such happenings as these are merely scientific, not supernatural; but
in this case both my husband and myself would probably think we had
seen a ghost had it not been that our education had led us into
scientific studies in face of which we knew we had not seen a ghost.
The present day vogue in spiritualism and kindred subjects, which
shows the God of Love and the Creator of the Universe as a
small-minded creature who amuses Himself frightening us poor mortals,
is nothing but pure ignorance, and deserves to be put down as such.
To try to get into touch with the Almighty by such trickery, for
instance, as table-rapping, is simply blasphemy.

I do not believe in ghosts, except as the result of our own
imaginations. In “Hamlet” (Act III., Scene IV.), when the ghost
enters, only Hamlet sees it. His mother, the Queen, not seeing it,
thinks him mad. That ghost is merely one conjured up by Hamlet's
imagination. By continually thinking about, and brooding over, the
fact that he has not yet avenged his father's murder, the accusing
ghost appears to him. After he has explained matters to his mother,
she rightly says: “This is the very coinage of your brain, this
bodiless creation.” Similarly, Brutus alone is visited by the ghost
of Caesar. Only Macbeth sees the ghost of Banquo in his place at the
table, and says, “The table's full.” Lennox, with surprise, replies,
“Here's a place reserved, sir.”

During my lifetime I have seen only one of these ghosts of the
imagination. During the last year of the Great War (I was only eight
years old), there were many horrible stories in circulation among my
schoolfellows about the Kaiser. What an effect they had on my
imagination! I could go nowhere in the dark alone. Even when
accompanied, I saw awful phantoms: sometimes bold and prominent,
sometimes misty and indistinct, but always with spiked helmets—and
always Kaisers! As soon as it grew dark my life was a perfect misery.
I was thankful I did not sleep alone. When the war ended these ghosts
gradually faded and, again, I could venture in the dark alone!

I am sure that people imagine the ghosts they see in lonely woods and
on lonely heaths. The weird noises they hear are natural—perhaps
magnified by their imaginations. Even when not magnified, the sighing
and shrieking of the wind in the trees and the mournful hootings of
the owl are very eerie!

I am only a working woman, and not highly educated, but I feel I must
put a pen to your ghost problem. Well, I don't believe in them; there
are none. Would any sensible person, having lost their dearest and
best, like to feel their spirits were not at rest? Why, Flanders
field would be white with ghosts. I believe that nervous people often
fancy they see things, as I have proved, having lost a dear sister,
whose mind became unbalanced through a nervous breakdown. She used to
tell us all sorts of things she saw, but, thank God, we have never
seen her ghost. But I believe there are times when we are downcast and
warned by a kind of telepathy of impending illness or death among
dear ones, but only at times. I have proved this also. No, sir, no
Christian people believe in ghosts.

Many years ago I was helping my father to build a house, on the side
of a main road, near a large village in Lincolnshire. It was early
autumn, and the house was nearing completion. A workman was left in
charge during the night, but on one occasion, owing to the sudden
illness of his wife, he was unable to fulfil his duty, and I elected
to remain and take charge. It was a beautiful night, and the moon was
in full. I had made a fire in a middle room, and by the light from a
candle, I read through an interesting novel by Harrison Ainsworth. I
looked at the time: it was close on midnight. I blew out the light
and closed my eyes, the happenings which I had just read in the novel
rapidly passing through my mind. The silence was intense: the
loneliness complete. Suddenly I was startled by a crash and the sound
of falling glass on the front-room floor. Feeling sure that someone
passing had hurled a broken brick through one of the large bay-window
panes, I rushed upstairs, and from one of the windows which
overlooked the road, and from which a long distance could be seen
both ways, I looked to see in which direction the culprit had gone.
Not a soul was to be seen; not a sound was to be heard! Then I went
to inspect the damage. Every pane was intact, and there was not a
fragment of glass on the floor!

Later in life, I have found, on more than one occasion, what tricks
one’s imagination and thoughts can play; how they can conjure up
pictures, and faces and forms, not only of those we know, but of
those we have known, which the eyes, acting in unison, will, under
varying circumstances, place momentarily before you. The writer
“Norfolk,” in your issue of the 17th inst., had this experience when
he saw the face at the window.

No, I do not believe in ghosts!


Ghosts In The Great War

A Pal in Life—and Death

My pal and I joined the Army on the 21st day of September, 1914.
My mother’s last words to me were, “Be a man; do your duty. If God
spares you to come back to me I will be proud of you, my lad!” I was
the only son. My pal heard her words and said: “Cheer up; we will
come back. ‘England expects every man to do his duty.’”

My pal was a soldier from head to foot. When duty called he was
always ready; fear never entered his head. Night and day we were
never parted; side by side we fought for two long years, and I am
sure his thoughts always were that England did expect every man to do
his duty.

He was shot dead at my feet on the 5th of October, 1916. If he could
have spoken to me I am sure his last words would have been, “Thank
God, I have done my duty.”

Broken-hearted through the loss of my pal I did my best to carry on,
although my nerves were shattered, and fear was always in my heart. I
was a messenger and had to carry messages from the firing line to
headquarters. Three weeks after the death of my pal we were on the
Somme. Our division went over the top; we fought our way forward all
day until darkness stopped our advance. My captain handed me a
message and said: “Go back to headquarters with this as quick as
possible.”

It was a lovely moonlight night. As I ran forward bullets and shells
were flying everywhere. I don’t know whether it was the sight of dead
men that lay around or the noise of the battle, but fear got the
better of me. I dropped into a shell hole. The longer I sat the worse
I got. The message which meant so much to my comrades in the firing
line was now getting delayed. Shell after shell burst around me. I
made one more attempt to go on, and, as I crawled out of the shell
hole, the sight I saw I shall never forget. There was my pal standing
not two yards away, not in white as most ghosts are, but dressed in
his soldier's clothes. I stood there: the shock was too much for me;
I could not move. But the ghost (I am sure it was my pal) kept waving
me on and pointing in the direction of the headquarters, which were
about a mile away. I don't know how, but I moved on; the ghost moved
also. If I stopped it stopped and waved me on. This went on until I
was about ten yards off my destination. The ghost then waved its hand
as if to say “good-bye,” and disappeared into the air. Terrified, I
ran on. With the help of my pal, the message was delivered. He had
helped me do my duty in life and he had still aided me—though dead.

The Morning of the Ypres Big Push

THE following remarkable experience befell me in France. It is true
in every detail and, although ten years have elapsed since then,
still the memory of it remains. It was the morn of the Ypres big
push, August 16th, 1916. After a night of almost unendurable
suspense, fed with the knowledge of the coming storm, how unusually
quiet everything seemed. There had been nothing to disturb the serene
tranquillity of that summer’s night, save an occasional ping, ping, of
the hidden snipers’ bullets, and a stray enemy shell. It was an
ominous calm—the prelude to the approaching storm. In the small hour
of the morn, I left my dug out, as shortly I was due for duty on the
fire step. As I proceeded on my way along the trench I suddenly
became aware of the form of a woman barely a dozen yards in front of
me. Now I wasn’t half asleep, neither had I been having an extra rum
ration. I stood there astonished, all manner of thoughts coursing
through my mind. Could it by any chance be a kilted Highlander?
Impossible. They were miles away on our left. In my anxiety to
discover who it was I exclaimed, “Hello Jock,” and it vanished
immediately in front of my very eyes in a straight run of trench and
in very good light. I was bewildered, and proceeded on my way,
scarcely able to credit my senses.

Arriving at the post I joined my pals there, and we struck the usual
conversation. After a few minutes a strange feeling of uneasiness
crept over me—a sense of impending danger; a presentiment that
something was about to happen. I thought of the form I had seen, and
an irresistible desire to leave the post took complete possession of
me. In desperation I turned to my pal named Stewart, exclaiming:
“Come on, let us go to the latrine and have a smoke.” After much
persuasion he eventually came away, and, together, we made a bee-line
for the latrine. Arriving there we lit our “half-a-mo’s” cigarettes.
Scarcely had we done so when we heard a resounding crash and,
together, we rushed along the trench in the direction of the sound,
grave fears filling my mind. At last we reached the bend in the
trench leading to the machine gun post, and there a grisly sight met
our gaze—a head lying on the broken duck boards. A trench mortar had
made a direct hit on the very spot on which I had stood scarcely five
minutes previously. Three poor fellows were blown to atoms. A narrow
shave truly. “Luck,” some would say; others would say “Chance.” But,
in my honest opinion, it was direct spiritual intervention.

The following sequel convinced me of that. Some time afterwards, in
writing to a sister of mine, I related the remarkable vision I had
seen in the trench, and, in her reply, she informed me that it was in
the small hours of the morning of August 16th, nine years
previously, that my mother died, about the same time as I saw the
vision or form of a woman in the trench. She reminded me of a fact I
had quite overlooked. In summing up the whole thing, I am convinced
that the form I saw was no kilted Highlander, but the spirit of my
own dear mother come to warn me of impending danger. How else can I
account for that feeling of uneasiness, that sense of impending
disaster, that strong presentiment of something about to happen, and,
above all, that irresistible desire to leave the post? Thank God, I
did; for through the instrumentality of that spiritual warning, not
only was my own life spared but my friend Stewart's as well.

Is There an Explanation?

I don’t know if the thing I saw could be called a ghost. I’ve never
really made up my mind about it. It may, for all I know, have a
perfectly proper scientific explanation, but it struck me as
remarkably eerie at the time. It was a ghostly place anyway—the
Somme, in 1918, when for the last time “Jerry” was being followed
back across the old familiar ground. It was daylight—a day of
sunshine—and I was reporting to company headquarters from one reserve
line to another, across the open, when the shells began to fall. In
appropriate rabbit-fashion I dived for the nearest shell hole. There
was a dead man in that shell hole, lying on his back, staring up at
the unquiet sky. An unpleasant neighbour, no doubt; but when shells
were about one stayed where one was reasonably safe. Naturally enough
I stared at the dead man, and then I noticed a peculiar thing. I have
said that the man was lying on his back, but that was not exactly the
case. The shell hole was a very large one and very old. In the bottom
there was a coil of rusty wire. The face, and upper part of the
body—for that was all I noticed—was pillowed upon the wire and the
spear points of the grass that had grown under and about the coil.
The face struck me as the most ethereal and delicate I had ever seen.
I don't know exactly how to explain it; the dead man’s face appeared
as though woven of some ethereal flesh-coloured cob-web, spun on the
points of the grass and wire, and the light seemed to go right
through the delicate skin. I stared at it quite fascinated, and,
after a while, the fascination overcame me. I simply had to touch the
face to see if it was real. I plucked a piece of coarse grass that
was growing in the hole and, stretching across, stroked the face—and,
immediately, it vanished.

Now was that a ghost, or can science explain? For instance, can the
mere shell of a human face and body exist (below ground, it is true,
but open to the air) and yet be so easily dispersed. For myself, I
don't know. It is, in any case, the nearest approach to a ghost that
I, personally, have ever seen. I did not make a search, but, after
the body and face disappeared, I looked round but could see no trace
of any equipment, boots, entrenching tools, and such like things.

A Dream—or a Ghost?

I KNOW nothing of the occult, and claim no great belief in it, yet an
instance occurred in which I was undoubtedly assisted by what appears
to be the occult. It was just after the signing of the Armistice that
I was at Dobritch (in the Dobrudja) running a Y.M.C.A. centre there.
The goods for the boys used to come by ship to Varna. They were
placed on rail at Varna by another Y.M.C.A. officer stationed there.
They were locked, and sealed, and a guard placed over them by the
British R.T.O. at Varna, before being transported to Dobritch by the
Bulgar railway authorities. These stores always arrived locked, and,
yet, invariably, with quantities of goods missing. Both my colleague
at Varna and the R.T.O. thought I was mistaken, and the Bulgar
railway official said “Nothing could have been stolen.” I was puzzled.
Then, one night as I lay in bed, there passed before me—as in a
panorama or a moving picture, so vivid and real was it—a vision of a
train drawing up in the night, to a small station. I distinctly saw a
stout, middle-aged Bulgar station-master (as proved by his uniform)
go to a coach, unlock it, creep in, and roll out some crates marked
Y.M.C.A., lock it again, and then whistle for the train to proceed.
Vivid as the vision was, I paid little heed to it. As the next two or
three consignments all revealed goods missing again, I decided to act
Sherlock Holmes myself, next time. I went down to Varna. After the
goods were loaded, I allowed the R.T.O. to lock the doors with me
inside, and seal them. Only we two knew I was there. The train rumbled
along in the night, for some considerable distance, and then drew up
at a wayside station. It was midnight, and very dark, but I heard
heavy footsteps approach and stop at my coach. Then a heavy breathing
and a fumbling at the lock—and the door was gently slid back. A bull's
eye cast a gleam inside, and, by it, I saw the burly form of a Bulgar
station-master begin to creep in. His lantern shone right on his
face. It was the exact face I had seen in the vision—even to a scar on
the cheek. I waited no longer for the vision to be further fulfilled
but jumped down off my bed and planted a running kick, square on his
jaw. He fell back, outside, with a groan, mumbling “Anglaise dobra,
dobra” (English, it all right). I closed the door again, the train
proceeded. Goods were never missing again.

Instinct or—What?

WHAT is instinct? Is it some indefinable extra sense which now and
then comes into play, at much needed moments, and guides us into
correct lines of conduct, when otherwise rational thinking would only
leave us confused? Or is it the operation of some external force,
perhaps spiritual, which recognises our incapability, takes the helm,
guides us through rock strewn seas, with or without our approval,
and, finally, leaves us safely in the calm?

Listen!

During the War I was a stretcher-bearer and, on the occasion in mind,
I was one of a squad who were carrying from a certain aid-post.

When things were quiet it was our custom to make ourselves
comfortable in a deserted wayside cottage. The comforts we improvised
in that billet were wonderful to us, and it was, naturally, an object
of our “Tommy's” pride and affection. One evening, returning from
taking a casualty down to the advanced dressing station, I don’t know
why, but I became obsessed with an intense feeling of distrust for
our cottage. Call it what you like; I felt fear, funk, nervousness,
insecurity and an unmistakable impression that something was going to
happen. Strangest thing of all, all my distressing symptoms were
centred on that beloved billet—nothing else—not even on the shell
swept track along which we carried our wounded.

Sensible men never turn a deaf ear to such a pointed warning. I
persuaded my pals to leave the cottage and “dig in.” For a couple of
hours we worked hard forming a little trench to hold four, and we
completed our earthwork by covering the top with doors on which we
loaded earth to act as a protection against falling shrapnel.

This was our billet for that night.

And now for the sequel.

At midnight the enemy, instead of “searching” here and there with his
shells, as was usual, suddenly developed the dreaded creeping
barrage, and within five minutes of the commencement of that
bombardment our cottage sustained a clean hit and collapsed in
flames.

Furthermore, when we crept out of our trench at dawn we found the
surrounding fields ploughed up with shells, the nearest four hits
being within twenty yards of our little trench.

“Luck,” some say. “Instinct,” I argue.

But what is “Instinct?”

Saved by an Apparition

DURING the War I drove a Sunbeam Ambulance and at one time was
attached to the 92nd Field Ambulance. The division was in action at
Ypres and the first-aid post was in a dug-out on the canal bank. As
soon as darkness fell it was our duty to drive from Flaniatyage to
the first-aid post, pick up the wounded and convey back to Poperinghe
clearing station.

One very dark night I had just arrived at the first-aid post behind
Essex Farm, where I was told to return immediately with a very bad
abdominal case, and was given instructions to get to Poperinghe as
quickly as possible.

I had gone about 500 yards when the light of a star shell revealed
what seemed to be a lady standing in the middle of the road. I had to
pull up. Consider my surprise, as the next star shell went up, to
find no one there.

First, second, top gear, then another star shell and the lady was
just in front again. I pulled up to find no lady.

Just as I approached Salvation corner, I saw, by the light of a star
shell, a sentry standing at the challenge—his bayonet gleamed. I gave
the customary shout “92nd Field Ambulance.” He didn’t move again. I
pulled up and, to my astonishment, there was no sentry, but,
immediately in front, was a shell hole large enough to bury a London
bus. It took a long time to get past, but I got my patient to
Poperinghe alive. Should I have done so had those apparitions not
appeared?

A Field of the Dead

PERHAPS the most unique of many ghostly experiences—both personal and
those of friends—was one which took place on the fateful night
between August 3rd and 4th, 1914. My brother (who though strong and
unimaginative is somewhat psychic) and I had sat up till about
midnight, and I was amazed to hear him suddenly declare, as he shut
his book and rose, that “no one could sit and read with that noise
going on.” I asked what noise, and, on being bidden to listen (our
house is on a quiet hill off an old Roman road going to the coast)
noticed the sound of a great crowd, a confused, soft sound. “Why,” I
said, “I don’t understand you—it’s no worse than any Bank Holiday.
Quieter, indeed. You can well understand their being about to-night;
they want to know whether it will be war or not.” He maintained that
it was impossible to do anything but get quickly to bed. More and
more amazed—this was so unlike him—I went to the front door with him,
and there, clear and distinct, the sound of thousands of footsteps,
of people shuffling, treading, moving about, but without uttering one
single word, came from the road at the foot of our hill—about four
houses’ distance. Nothing whatever could be seen. My brother
declined absolutely to let me run down to look, or to come with me.
Next day we heard that war had been declared at midnight. We live
five miles out of London and it is not a place where people would
gather for news. Subsequent inquiries made of a friend who lived on
the road where the silent crowd had moved and passed about (remaining
in the one place so far as I could judge), revealed nothing in the
way of explanation. To his knowledge there had been no crowd. It was
as if the ghosts of those who were to fall during those coming four
years of blood had “projected” themselves, eerily, at the hour of the
declaration of the Great War, upon the ancient road where Roman
soldiers, long ago, must have marched. Or were they the spirits of
the long-dead soldiers of the centuries, welcoming the heroes of
1914—1918?

A Mother's Vision

DURING the War my two eldest sons were serving with the Forces in
Mesopotamia. One day, while occupied about my usual household duties,
there suddenly came to me the following mental vision (I can call it
nothing else): I saw my eldest boy in a half-reclining position,
quite alone, in a wild desert sort of a place with one hand stroking
his forehead in a dazed kind of a way. So vivid and clear was the
vision that I could not shake it off. Again and again it repeated
itself, always exactly the same.

At tea-time I spoke of it, and said I was afraid something had
happened to F., but they only laughed at me and said I was getting
fanciful in my old age, and so I tried to forget it.

About six weeks later (the usual time for news to get through then) I
received a letter from him and, to my great surprise, it contained
these words as near as I can remember them:

“I must tell you, mother, of a little incident that happened the
other day. I had a fancy to take my horse and go off alone for a
long-stretch gallop. When some distance from camp I suppose he must
have put his foot in a hole and stumbled; anyway he threw me. I don't
know how long I lay there but, on coming to, I discovered I had still
got the reins tight in my hand with bridle attached but, alas, there
was no horse; he had quickly made tracks for the camp, leaving me to
get there the best way I could.”

I shall always think that this accident happened just at the time my
vision appeared to me.

Then again, about three days or so before Christmas, 1918, I had
another presentiment that something was wrong. This time it was the
younger son. There suddenly came to me a vision of a hospital bed and
I found myself looking down on my boy, who appeared to be very ill. I
had not the remotest idea at the time that there was anything wrong
with either of them. But, as before, the vivid reality of it seemed
fixed on my mind. But, this time, I kept it to myself until the
arrival, in a few days, of the ominous official envelope with the
news that he was in hospital at Bagdad, seriously ill with dysentery.
He lived to return home. He then told me that, just at the time when
I had seen him in that remarkable vision, his life would not have
been worth much.

Saved Husband’s Life

ONE morning, during the War, I had a most vivid dream of being chased
by two Germans with fixed bayonets, and I'd almost reached safety
when one of them stabbed me in the right shoulder. The shock woke me,
and, on looking at the clock, I found it was about 6:45 a.m. When I
got downstairs I remarked that something had happened to my husband
and related my dream, only to be laughed at. I heard nothing at all
from, or of, my husband for fifteen days; then I had the usual
official notification, saying that he was in hospital with severe
gun-shot wounds to the head and left shoulder. Some few weeks later I
went to see him in hospital and found that it was his right shoulder
that was in bandages, and, of course, told him my dream. He looked at
me in such a queer way that I asked him what was the matter, and this
is what he told me: The morning he was wounded, they were ordered to
attack at 6:30, and they hadn't got very far from their trenches when
he was hit in the right shoulder with a piece of shell which sent him
spinning into a shell hole, where he lay unconscious for two or three
hours. When he recovered consciousness he saw me standing on the edge
of the shell hole, beckoning him, and, with great difficulty (for his
right arm was quite useless) managed to scramble out and follow me. He
was joined by two wounded Germans. When I'd gone some distance, I
stopped, so did he and one of the Germans; the other one went on and
was blown to bits by a shell which exploded just in front of us. Then
I went on and took him safely to the dressing-station, where he
collapsed. To this day he declares I saved his life.

The Shell-wrecked Church

THE experience I shall never forget happened to me while serving with
the Dublin Fusiliers in France. My battalion had just come out of the
trenches and we were billeted in different villages near at hand—my
company in the village of Courcelles. In this village was a
shell-wrecked church, and my billet was a broken-down cottage just
opposite. One evening I took a stroll through this church and, to my
amazement, I heard the sound of deep and heavy breathing. Thinking
someone was asleep, I had a good look round but found nothing.
Looking across the road I saw my chum talking to an officer and I
went over and asked them to come over and listen. When they heard the
noise my chum turned deathly white, and they asked me what it was or
who it was. I was just as wise as they were. We searched about the
church, even to moving about the stones and bricks, but found
nothing. The same night, when asleep in the ruined cottage opposite,
my chum woke me up with a startled cry, “Cyril, look quick, the
Virgin Mary!” Looking up, I was astonished to see a white figure
gliding through the room and out of the broken window across to the
church and into it. We went all about the church the next morning but
all was quiet. What could it have been?

Vision of Brother

DO I believe in ghosts? I did not until the War was on and my
favourite brother was in it. He was stationed at Salonica. One day I
was making cakes and had just stooped down to take a tin from the
oven when it seemed that my brother bent over me and snatched one. At
the same time there was a whisper “I am so hungry.” I dropped the
cakes and turned round with “Oh, Ron!” but my hands met the empty
space. A few days after we heard of my brother being killed in
action.

Vision of Wounded Son

ONE night during the year 1915, whilst waiting up for my son who
worked on the trams, and, in consequence, was often late, I thought I
would while away the time by reading. When he came in and had supper
and we were preparing for bed I suddenly became aware of a pair of
muddy boots on the hearth rug. I looked at them again and again. Then
I looked up and saw putties, then pants and belt; then there was a
space where the body should have been. Still looking higher, I
distinctly saw the head and face of my son George, who was then
serving somewhere in France. All about his head were white bandages,
and just by his ear was a large spot of blood. I believe I fainted,
or something like it. My young son was frightened and called his
father who had gone to bed. I told them, “If George gets hurt it will
be in the head.” Five weeks later, on the 1st of June, word came that
he was in hospital with a bullet wound in the head. The wound was
exactly in the same place as I had seen the blood. My son George is
still living and most happily married.

“His Spirit Took This Chance”

THE following incident happened one afternoon during the War, when I
went to visit my husband’s mother. We were sitting in a room talking
to some other members of the family when, suddenly, my husband's
favourite sister came running downstairs calling out, “Mother, Dick
has come home!” We rushed into the hall, expecting to see my husband,
and were naturally very surprised, as we had had no intimation of an
intended leave. However, the hall was empty except for my
sister-in-law, who had just reached the foot of the stairs. She
seemed quite convinced that she had seen him standing there, in full
field equipment, and we searched the house to satisfy her that he had
not come home.

We did not hear from my husband for many weeks after this and were
very distressed, as we felt, after this strange event, that something
very serious must have happened to him.

At last, we had news that he was a prisoner of war.

When he returned after the War we told him of this strange incident
and gave him the exact time and day on which it happened.

Just at this time, it appears, he was captured by the Germans, one of
whom struck him with a rifle, rendering him unconscious.

I sometimes think that his spirit took this chance of leaving the
sickening horror, and, if only for so short a time, being near those
he loved.

Walked with the Dead

DURING the Great War my sister was employed as nursery governess with
a family living in M———. One of her duties was to meet the oldest
child returning from school—and she was very frequently joined by her
fiancé, whose regiment was stationed quite near. Eventually “Dick”
was called to the front.

Six months passed, and, one day, my sister came to see me, looking
terribly distressed. She informed me that she knew “Dick” had been
killed. I advised her to get a good nerve tonic, thinking she was
overwrought through not having heard from him for two weeks. She
proceeded to tell me that during her usual walk to the school “Dick”
had walked with her all the way.

However, little over a fortnight after this, my sister again came to
see me. This time she handed me a letter she had just received from
one of “Dick's” brother officers, stating that he had been killed.
The date and hour given of “Dick's” death corresponded exactly with
the day and hour that my sister declared he had walked with her.

The Phantom Soldier

WHILE my husband was serving in France during the Great War, I
carried on our business as job master, and it often used to fall to
my lot to drive the brave lads to and from the station. One lovely
summer night I was driving a young lad to catch the midnight train
which used to arrive at Waterloo about 4 a.m. He had come over from
New Zealand when the call came (he emigrated a few years before the
war) and he had just been home on leave to see his parents. I was
driving an extremely quiet little pony in a governess car, and the
young soldier and I were sitting opposite one another talking. I had
just asked him if he intended settling down with his parents when the
war was over or go back to New Zealand, and he replied he thought he
would stay at home until his parents died. No sooner had he said this
than the pony gave a most violent swerve, and, there, by the side of
the soldier, outside the trap, was another soldier in the New Zealand
uniform. The one I was driving shouted out: “That's a dirty trick to
play, mate, the pony might have had us out. Do you want a lift to the
station?” But the figure had vanished. A week later, the young fellow
had paid the Great Sacrifice. Now, all three of us saw the figure,
and I think the pony saw it first. When I got the pony to the
station, he was trembling and sweating, yet I had not driven him
hard. I often wondered if he saw more than the soldier and I saw.

An Unknown Visitor

I WISH to record an experience that befell me while I was on active
service in France. It was during the Battles of the Somme in 1916. I
was attached to a Lewis gun team in my regiment during the attacks on
Ginchy and Guillemont. One night I was on my post, between the hours
of ten and twelve, when I was relieved by the next sentry. I retired
to an unoccupied dugout fifteen yards away to grasp a few hours
sleep. I had just crawled in and dropped down to sleep when I was
awakened by a voice calling me by my christian name. I sat up to
ponder over it and, when I convinced myself that I was alone in the
dugout, and no one within fifteen to twenty yards, I considered it
was only imagination, so I dropped down again and, after a space of
two minutes, I was called again by my name. Once more I took it to be
sheer imagination, and again I lowered my head to sleep when, to my
amazement, I was called the third time in a more distinct voice. This
time I sat up and plainly saw a dim blue light going out of the
dugout door.

I immediately arose and followed it outside, but no one could I
see—only the occasional burst of the German shells. I shrugged my
shoulders and went up to my sentry post to ease my mind of the
matter. I had just walked about fifteen yards away when a German 5.9
shell landed in the dugout and blew it to pieces—a grand escape, and I
attribute it to the warning of a friendly ghost. On another occasion
when my life was in danger the same voice called again three times.

A Lover and a Sister

ONE day during the War, I was sitting reading, when suddenly I heard
my fiancé (then in France) calling my name. I looked up and beheld
him walking towards me, in a white shroud. I was horrified and called
to him to go away, but his ice-cold hands touched my face and I
fainted. He was killed that day, and his comrades said he was calling
my name as he died. Again, in a vision, I saw my beloved sister (a
nurse) lying dead in a ward. A few days later we met at our home.
During tea I related my vision to her, describing the ward and even
the flowers and ivy they had put on her. Everyone but mother laughed.
My sister laughed till tears rolled down her cheeks and said “Oh! my
dear, I’m too healthy to die; look at me.” And, indeed, she was a
picture of health and happiness, and she was beloved by everyone.
But, six weeks later, she lay dead exactly as I had seen her. Why I
should see the two people I loved best like that I cannot say, but I
cannot but believe in the supernatural.

A Brother's Smile

IN August of 1917 my brother was fighting in France for his King and
country. One Sunday night I had gone to bed and just turned out the
light and made a prayer for the safe-keeping of my brother who was
fighting for us. When he appeared before me, bent over me and gave a
lovely smile, and disappeared again.

Two days afterwards I received a letter to say he was killed in
action at the hour he appeared to me.

Her Soldier Boy

ONE night during the War, I had seen all the family into bed and
returned downstairs to put things right for the morning, and to pack
the food for the workers. It was well on into the night as I sat at
the table cutting the food. The lobby door seemed to open and my
soldier boy stood there and said “Mother” in such a sad voice, then
vanished. I could see him so plainly and he looked so sad that I felt
upset and went to bed, but not to sleep. I felt he was in trouble. I
came to know in a short time that he was that night lying out on the
battle-field at Passchendaele seriously wounded. He received a M.M.
We have the Testament that saved his life; it is shot through, but
there happened to be a steel looking glass at the back, and this
stopped the bullet.

A War Worker's Experience

Your ghost stories have prompted me to write and tell you of an
experience which I had some years back and which Armistice Day has
brought back to me very vividly.

In 1916, I, like many more young women, felt the call of my country,
and I gave up a position I held in an office in Leicester and offered
my services at the Glen Parva Barracks, Wigston. I was accepted as a
clerk, but, when it was found that I was a typist too, I was sent into
an office to release a young soldier for foreign service. He took it
very well and showed me my new work very willingly. There were also
two soldier clerks and two civilians, but I was the only female in
the block of buildings. He was very friendly with all the clerks and
often came into the depot to see us whilst he was training. He
eventually went to France, and I thought no more about him, until one
night I was awakened out of my sleep by hearing someone move in my
bedroom. In the dim light I could see this soldier standing by the
chest of drawers and feverishly turning over the contents of the top
left hand drawer. My mother used to call it my “chaos” drawer,
because it was always in such a chaotic state—filled with all my odds
and ends. My blood ran cold and I could not speak. I sat and watched
him raking about in that drawer until, after what seemed an eternity
to me, I managed to gasp “Tyers, what do you want?” Never shall I
forget his face as he turned from the drawer and looked at me. It was
truly poor old Tyers, but his face was all drawn with pain, and
ghastly. In a moment, he vanished, and it was a long time before I
dared look at my watch to see what time it was. It was ten minutes
past two, and I did not fall asleep again until it was almost time to
get up. I missed my train next morning and was very late. In the
usual rush I did not get a chance to tell the other clerks until
quite late in the morning. They all listened anxiously and hardly had
the words left my lips when we heard footsteps coming quickly up the
wooden staircase outside. The next minute, the Lance-Cpl. who was on
duty in the guard room rushed in and said: “Have you heard about poor
old Tyers? He’s dead. His father has just telephoned to tell me that
he died in the early hours of this morning at a hospital in England.”

Why he appeared to me as he did I do not know, nor do I know what he
was looking for in the drawer, but I have always chided myself that I
took his place, for I feel somehow that I was partly responsible for
his untimely end.

The Sinking of the “Aboukir”

ON the night of September 22nd, 1914, I was sleeping with my
daughter, whose husband was serving on H.M.S. “Aboukir.”

During the night we heard a noise such as would be caused by the
dragging of heavy chains. I sat up with a start and my daughter
gasped. “Oh, mother! what is it?” I got out of bed and called the
only man in the house. He searched all over the house and the yard
outside, from whence the sound appeared to come. But all was silent.
We all went back to bed and, within a few minutes of our return, we
heard again the dreadful clanking—weird and unmistakable. Again a
vain search was made.

The following morning the papers announced the sinking of the
“Aboukir” and my son-in-law went down with it.

“On Leave”

I was engaged to a soldier, during the War, and received notice that
he was coming home “on leave.” The day before he was expected I was
“spring-cleaning” a bedroom, with a friend, when she suddenly
exclaimed: “Look, there is ——— on his bicycle,” and pointed out of the
window. As I was busy at work (and not too clean) knowing that I
should see him within an hour, I drew back, that I might not draw his
attention to me, and told her to do the same, until I had dressed
properly. I was not surprised he was a day early. We watched him from
the window, and saw him speak to the gardener, who was sweeping, and
then we hurried up. Having dressed, I went to the gate, but saw no
sign of him, so I asked the gardener which direction he took. The man
said he enquired if I still worked at this house, but he did not
notice which way he went. Thinking he had probably gone to my home
(ten minutes distant), but wondering he had not called for me, I went
home. No one, excepting my friend, myself and the gardener had seen
him.

Next day I learnt that on the day, at the actual time I saw him, and
the gardener spoke to him, he was killed in France.

The Three Figures

IT was during the Great War, March, 1918, my only brother was in
France; he had just returned after fourteen days’ leave.

I was awakened one night by three figures entering the bedroom—one in
white between two soldiers in khaki. I drew my husband’s attention to
it, but he could not see anything, and said: “Now, it’s just fancy;
try to get off to sleep.” I was going over when they entered a second
time. I shall never forget it, for I knew there must be something
coming concerning my much-loved brother. Three weeks later, I had a
letter from his officer saying my brother had been killed in action
on the night of my vision.

To-day (Armistice Day) recalls sad memories.

“Good-Bye”

A FEW years ago I was spending a holiday with a friend who lives in a
quiet village in the Lake District. We were returning home one
evening from a neighbouring village, and our path led us across an
old stone bridge spanning a swiftly-flowing stream. Here I could not
hear the voice of my friend because of the deafening roar of the
waterfall which was only a short distance from the bridge. By the
side of the waterfall was a powder mill, where most of the
inhabitants of the village earned their livelihood.

After we had passed through the avenue leading from the bridge, my
friend related to me a very strange experience she had whilst passing
over the same bridge one evening during the Great War.

Looking towards the waterfall, she saw, to her amazement and fear,
the figure of her husband, dressed in white, and waving his hand to
her as if in farewell. Almost at the same time her husband's father,
who was then at work in the powder mill, saw the same figure of his
son at his old place, but waving his hand to him in a similar manner.

The following week my friend received the sad news that her husband
had fallen in action, and, on making inquiries, discovered that he
had been killed on the same day and at the same hour that she had
seen him standing on the waterfall bidding her “Good-bye.”

“Hello, Daddy!”

THIS is a most curious incident I now relate, unexplained, and I
think that nobody will ever be able to explain it. I can vouch for
the truth of every word of it.

During the morning of a day in the early part of July, 1915, I was
busily engaged hanging out the clothes to dry in my back garden,
when, suddenly, I heard footsteps coming up the passage. I thought
that they sounded familiar, so I turned round and watched the gate.
You can realise my astonishment when I saw the gate open, my late
husband walk in, shut the gate after him, open the kitchen door and
enter the house. I immediately set down my washing basket and ran
down the back garden to the house, being so excited at seeing him
back, as I thought, from Egypt, where he was serving in the Great
War. I entered the house and, seeing nobody about in the kitchen, I
looked behind the kitchen door, expecting that I should find him
there, as he often used to hide there when he came home, and then
jump out so as to give me a surprise. Seeing that he was not there, I
thought that he must be in the living-room, so I went in there,
exclaiming as I entered, “Hello, Daddy.” Imagine my surprise when I
found the room empty, and also that no one had entered the room at all.

What did I see and hear? I can swear that I heard my late husband's
footsteps, and that I saw him in his khaki uniform, complete with
everything that a soldier has when he comes home on leave. I also saw
and heard the gate open and close, as also I did the kitchen door.

A few days later, I received from my husband a letter stating that he
had just arrived at Netley Hospital, Southampton, having been wounded
and, therefore, drafted home. Therefore, at the time of my experience
he must have been on his way to England from Egypt.

The Robin's Warning

WHEN each of my four brothers was killed in the War a robin came and
hopped through the house. The last time this happened mother went to
bed in a worried state as, having three previous visits from the
robin, she knew what to expect and dreaded the morning post.

Waking up at midnight she saw Will leaning over the bed-rail in his
uniform, with his head in bandages. She called him by name and he
came towards her but, when she put her hand out to touch him, he
vanished. News soon came that Will died on that same midnight from
head wounds. Mother has never really recovered from this vision and
the visits of the innocent robin.

A Remarkable Story

IT was at a base hospital in France, January, 1916. My brother, who
had previously been partly buried by a shell bursting near him, was
now dying from pneumonia.

I sat by his side through the night, having travelled across the
Channel to see him, as the authorities had arranged for the same in
serious cases.

He was a bootmaker by trade, as was his father; both working the
business. In his delirium he was back home in the shop. His bed was
close to the boards of the Army hut. He would fix his gaze on these
boards and then swing his fist with three distinct knocks, after
which he would push the palm of his flat hand up the boards, thus
producing a peculiar squeaking noise. My father, home in England, was
working late in the shop; there came three distinct knocks on the
window, followed by the peculiar sound of someone pushing their flat
hand up the window. Thinking it was somebody playing a joke he
shouted, but got no answer. After a little while, it was repeated; he
went outside to see who it might be, but there was no one visible,
and, although by no means a nervous man, or superstitious, he felt a
something, and could not proceed with his work. On my arrival home,
after ten days' absence, he related his experience to me. Then
everything seemed linked up. No wireless could have been more direct.
My brother’s hand on the board in France had produced its effect on
the shop window in North Bucks.


Other Stories In Brief

“WE DO NOT COMPREHEND”

I am not superstitious nor a believer in spiritualism, and yet I
believe there is something connected with the after life which we do
not comprehend.

In far-away Co. Roscommon, is the town of Frenchpark and, close to
the town, a very ancient residence—the family seat of the famous
Frenches—occupied by Lord De Freyne. One night, accompanied by my
brother, I walked along by the demesne wall, and came face to face
with old Lord De Freyne (who had died long years previous)—a tall
thin figure, as we knew him in life. He appeared to pass through
the closed gates and walk up the drive towards the house. The
following morning brought the sad news that young Lord De Freyne and
his brother, the Hon. George French, had both been killed in action
out in France.

THE following experience occurred towards the end of 1918.

During the Armistice I was released from internment at Ruhleben and
went to stay for a few weeks with my sister at Evesham. At that time,
my fiancée (since become my wife), whom I had not seen for the whole
course of the war, was still in Italy with the American Red Cross. On
getting up one morning, I happened to look out of the window and, to
my astonishment, saw my fiancée walking along the pavement towards
the house where I was. The figure was so real that, although to my
certain knowledge she was still in Italy, I imagined that, by some
means or other, she had come on a flying visit to see me, even
though, as far as I was aware, she did not know my present address. I
watched her coming along, and saw her open the gate and walk up the
path, and then I distinctly heard a rap with the knocker on the
front-door. I hurried up with my toilet and rushed downstairs,
thinking to find her in the breakfast-room. However, there was no one
there, but, thinking that she might have been shown into the
drawing-room, I looked in there too, only to find it empty also.
Perplexed as to what had become of her, I made inquiries, but was
informed that no knock had been heard, and no one had been admitted.
As it afterwards turned out, my fiancée was still in Italy.

A LOVER'S VISION

I HAD a lover, whose love had a quality that seemed to disregard
entirely the ordinary separation imposed by distance or stone walls.
During the years that we were lovers, I often felt his invisible
presence, although we were miles apart.

During the war, we were both in France. One morning early, I was
preparing in my room to go on a train journey to meet him. He was a
hundred miles away. I was hurrying, thinking of nothing but the
necessity of catching the train, and answering the girls who were
calling to me from other rooms to make haste, when I suddenly turned
to the door as though impelled to do so. My lover entered with the
quick eager impulsiveness which was his outstanding characteristic;
straight up to me he came, put his hand on mine with a close, warm
clasp, and was gone again—vanished in the same moment. I learned
later that he had been taken prisoner that morning. His appearance
had been absolutely natural, and had caused me not the slightest
sensation of fear; my heart leapt to meet him, only I felt him to be
disturbed and unhappy and that troubled me. He had not been injured
and still lives.

“IN THE LENGTHENING OF THE DAYS”

My youngest brother joined up in 1914, and was sent to Salisbury
Plain. Not long after his leaving home, very early one morning,
somewhere between half-past one and two o'clock, I lay wide awake,
and, to my astonishment, I saw him walk into our bedroom and go to
the side of my invalid sister's bed, face her, turn, give a step
towards the foot, turn again and salute her, and then lay down by her
side. I screamed with fright, a most horrible scream, and as I did
so, the vision vanished. I also awoke all the household to whom I had
to tell what had frightened me so terribly. My people would have it
that it was only a dream, although I knew it was not.

Shortly after that, my mother received a telegram saying that he was
ill and coming home. I am glad to say that to-day, he is alive and
well.

At the time I spoke to my mother again about the vision and she told
me that I had seen my brother in the lengthening of the days, which
meant he would live to a very old age.

A PASSIONATE LONGING

DURING the Egyptian Campaign, my mother had an experience which I
have never been able to explain with satisfaction to myself. One
night she was lying awake when she saw the bedroom door open and my
brother, who was serving with the forces in Egypt, walk up to the
bedside and gaze at her with an intense wistfulness in his
expression. After both had remained motionless for some moments, my
brother retraced his footsteps, and vanished through the doorway.

My mother was so impressed with the apparition, that she took note of
the date and the time, feeling sure that some fatality had occurred
to my brother.

When the war was over, and my brother returned home again, he dressed
up in his uniform with sand-goggles, etc., and my mother at once
recognised the dress as that worn by the apparition. On comparing
notes, it was found that my brother was seriously ill of dysentery at
that particular time and, fearing a fatal termination, was controlled
by a passionate longing for the presence of his mother.

AN UNBELIEVER’S DOUBTS

GHOSTS, I personally do not believe in, but this is perfectly true.
During the war, I was stationed for a short period at an empty
convalescent camp, bordering the sea on the French coast. Our duty
was to guard this, and, at night, we were a double guard—one held the
main entrance, the other paraded the whole camp—a most desolate and
wild affair amongst sand dunes and fir trees. My duty fell for this
roving commission, and, wandering around, I felt compelled to enter
the wood, and gaze at the camp from outside. The night was fair, with
a moon casting long shadows, and, imagine my astonishment to behold
a most weird apparition gliding effortless before me. I was struck
dumb with surprise mingled with fear, but, remembering my loaded
rifle and bayonet, I pulled myself together and investigated. It
appeared to vanish, and, to my great surprise, straight through one
of the hospitals. I searched, but in vain, and saw nothing more.
Whether I was wrong, whether I saw something, I know not to this day.

THE WOMAN BY THE GRAVE

THIS is an account of my experience whilst in Germany as a prisoner
of war in 1914, at Sennelager, near Paderborn. I was captured at Mons,
on Sunday, August 23rd, 1914. I belonged to the 2nd Battalion, Royal
Irish Regiment, and one of my comrades died from exposure early in
October of that year. Volunteers were asked to attend his funeral,
and of these I was one. The place where he was buried was a wild,
desolate moor. The morning of the funeral was very cold and sleet was
falling. We were a very miserable crowd as we stood by the graveside
whilst the English chaplain read the Burial Service over our dead
comrade. Suddenly, there stood with us a woman who remained until the
service was over. There is nothing strange in that you will think,
but the point is that none of us saw her until she stood with us and
none saw her go. Our comrade was a married man, and what we all want
to know is have we ever seen a ghost?

P.S.—We received a letter from his widow some months after, dated
before his death, imploring him for God's sake to write to her. She
had a child very ill in St. Thomas's Hospital.

MANSFIELD

In November, 1916, my son, eighteen and a half years old, went to the
war, being sent out to France. The scene I wish to relate happened a
week before the Easter of 1917. It was a Friday. I spent a most
miserable, uneasy day. When dad came home at tea-time I was nearly
frantic. However, he assured me all was well, and, retiring about
eleven o'clock, I put the bedclothes over my shoulders expecting to
sleep, when three sharp jerks pulled the clothes right off my
shoulder. This was repeated twice. The third time, I tucked them
under my arm and held them tight and waited to find out the cause.
Then my son walked into the bedroom and came up to me. He was in
uniform, excepting cap. His left hand was in his pocket. With the
other he snatched my hand, gripped it twice and shouted, “Mother,
Mother!”

The following week I heard from him. He went into battle about the
time of my vision and was wounded. The same thing happened each time
he was wounded—four times. It has always been a mystery to me. Each
time the vision was so realistic and he always had the wounded part
bandaged.

PORTSMOUTH

WHEN war broke out my brother was amongst those who answered the
call. One night I saw my mother (who died just before the war)
standing at the foot of my bed holding out her arms and looking
straight past me. I turned my head and saw my brother come through
the closed door and walk into my mother’s arms, and they both
disappeared. At the time I thought, “How could a living being walk
through a closed door.” The next morning I got the news that my
brother had been killed in action.

WALSALL

A CLOSE friend of mine fought throughout the greater part of the late
war without receiving a scratch. Some few months previous to the end
of hostilities, he was selected for a commission, and was
subsequently transferred to England to undergo the necessary training
for a second-lieutenant. He was granted the position and, very
shortly after, was drafted over to France. One night, when going into
action, he was suddenly taken seriously ill and was carried back to
hospital. During one evening, I, for some reason had to go to my
bedroom, and, when about half-way on the stair-case, I distinctly
saw, on the landing, a military officer standing to attention. I
thought at first it was mere fancy, but, on going a few steps
farther, I was thoroughly convinced that at no time had I seen a
soldier so real. Then the vision vanished, as quick as thought, into
the bedroom. I followed, but, after switching on the light, I failed
to find anyone in the room save myself.

Next day we received the sad news that this young officer had died
from sickness, three days after Armistice was signed.

PORT ERIN

IN October, 1916, I returned from Liverpool (where I had been
working), for a few weeks holiday at my own home. Early one morning
(between two and three o'clock), I was awakened by hearing singing in
my bedroom. I knew the voice quite well—it was that of a young man
who had been brought up in the same street as I, and had been
educated at the same school. He was singing a verse of a hymn, quite
loud and heartily. I got no more sleep that night and was very upset,
as I knew this boy was fighting in France. A few days after, I met
his sister and she told me they had had word to say that her brother
was missing. A couple of weeks went by and word came to say that he
had been killed.

NORWICH

IN October, 1917, I was staying with my four little children in a
village near Lowestoft. My husband, a skipper of a steam drifter, was
at sea. On the night of October 7th, I was awakened by a loud bang.
At the same time the bed seemed floating on water. I looked up to see
my husband bending over me, and he seemed to put cold, wet hands on
each side of my face, then disappeared. Two days afterwards, I was
informed that his vessel had struck a mine and was lost with all
hands, about the time he appeared to me. Three or four months after,
I again saw my husband, this time looking through the window. He had
with him another man who was a great chum of his. He also was a
skipper. A few days later, I was told that at the same time as I saw
them this man went down with his ship in the channel raid.

BOLTON

AT 6:30 on the evening of the 15th April, 1917, during a German raid
on our trenches on the Ploegsteert Front, my chum was killed at my
side. As mutually arranged in case of such an event, I wrote his
people. Ten days afterwards I received a letter from my chum’s
sister, in which was stated that her mother died the same evening
that he was killed. She died at 10 p.m.

At 8 p.m. the mother had called the family to her room. She then told
them that Billy (the son) had appeared to her and told her that he
had been “knocked out,” but would meet her very shortly.

OLDHAM

ONE evening during the late war I sat reading when I felt someone
blow in my neck. I was just about to turn round when I heard a scream
coming from upstairs. I went to see the reason, and, to my surprise,
I saw my little girl sitting up in bed terrified. I took her in my
arms and asked her what was the matter. She still looked afraid of a
something, and said, “Look, mama,” and, pointing to a corner of the
room, added, “There's daddy; a man up that tree has shot him; I saw
him do it, and now my daddy is dead.” She fainted in my arms as she
repeated “dead.” I ran to give her a drink to revive her, thinking it
was just a nightmare she had had. Eventually, she fell asleep. The
following week, I had news that my husband had been killed in action.
On making inquiries, I found he had been shot by a sniper who was
posted in a tree, and at the same hour as he had appeared to my
little girl.

BARNSTAPLE, DEVON

IN August, 1916, my husband was sent to France. The following year I
received a letter from him saying he would be home on leave, and I
was to expect him any day. This was August 10th, 1917. I started to
get in extra things and to prepare for his home-coming. I heard
nothing more, but three nights after receiving his letter, I went to
bed as usual, and about midnight, I heard my husband call my name. I
sat up in bed, and there he was standing at the foot of the bed in
his uniform with his arms outstretched in welcome. I couldn't sleep
afterwards. In the morning I went home and told my parents what I had
seen. I saw them look at each other. Then my mother said he had come
to her the same night and asked her to look after us (I had one
little girl). Four days later, I had a letter from the War Office
saying my husband had been missing since midnight on the 22nd of
August (later, presumed killed on that date). I can't understand it,
but the vision is as clear to me now as it was nine years ago. You
see, he came home to see us before going to a better home, and I’ve
kept the memory of it to this day.

KENT

I ALWAYS doubted if people really saw ghosts or apparitions till my
experience during the war in 1916.

My son was in France and I was awakened one morning between one and
two by a terrific noise like an explosion. I thought it was an
air-raid, and, as I glanced towards the foot of the bed, I saw the
image of my son looking very ill and begrimed with mud. He quickly
vanished, and the next moment I heard his footsteps coming towards
the house, and his voice distinctly calling me. I hurried down to let
him in, but no one was there. I heard, a few days later, that my son
was
missing after an engagement when the wood was blown up and only a few
survived; and it happened on the same date and about the same time as
I had my awful experience.

SURBITON

IN December, 1917, my aunt, who lives in the country, stood looking
out of her window, when she saw, walking up the path leading to her
house, the figure of a man in khaki, with his kit on his back. She
instantly decided that it must be the husband of her next-door
neighbour, home on leave, and wondered why the lady had not mentioned
the matter. However, as the man approached, it was with a feeling of
great shock that she recognised her own young brother, who was an
ambulance bearer at the front. His face was drawn and ghastly, as
though he were suffering agonies. On seeing my aunt, he stretched out
his arms, and she saw, as he got nearer, that he was a shadowy
figure, and not flesh and blood. Thoroughly unnerved, she backed into
her sitting-room, followed by the form of her brother. Right around
her table she walked—still followed; then, gradually, he disappeared
from sight.

Shortly afterwards, a telegram arrived, announcing the death of this
brother, which occurred on the battlefield just before he appeared to
my aunt—his favourite sister.

WARWICK

ONE night during the Great War, my mother saw her son, who was at
that time out in France, standing some distance away from her. He
seemed to be in some terrible trouble. My father, who is rather
superstitious, said bad news would follow. A few days later, we
received a letter from the chaplain, to say my brother had died from
severe wounds a few days before, and we feel sure it happened the
night he appeared to mother.

OXFORD

DURING the war, my husband was serving in France with the Tank Corps,
and it was during this time that I had my one and only experience of
the “uncanny,” although I actually saw nothing. I awoke one morning,
just at dawn (three o'clock) with the feeling that someone had
entered my room, and said to me “Will is in danger.” I thought I must
have been dreaming. I tried to go to sleep again, but found it
impossible. Each time I shut my eyes, I seemed to feel a presence in
the room, and to be conscious of the certain deadly peril of my
husband. I got up, after a time, and made myself a cup of tea, and, by
the aid of a book tried to get some more sleep. Things were no
better, however; my mind refused to dwell on what I was trying to
read, so I gave it up and lay just thinking until five o'clock. At
that time, quite suddenly, the weight seemed to be lifted from my
mind, and I was quite convinced that all was well. I just turned over
and went to sleep quite happily.

A few days afterwards, in my hubby's next letter, I read that on that
particular morning, he had been “over the top” for just those two
hours (in a "before breakfast stunt," he called it), and they were
the worst two hours he had experienced since he had been out there.

YORKSHIRE

DURING the war, in the year 1916, I was in the fighting line round
Armentiers in France, and on the 13th February in the same year three
of our gunners were killed, including my devoted pal whom it was my
painful duty to bury. Time passed on and one night, after I had been
relieved from sentry duty, I went into the dugout, lit the candle,
and prepared for a sleep. I was getting into my bed, which I had made
of sandbags, and was going to light a cigarette, when the vision of
my pal came and sat beside me and said, "I am not dead yet, Jack.” The
candle was still burning and he was life itself. I could see his
lighted cigarette as the vision faded away in the corner of the
dugout. I called out to my sleeping pals and told them all about it
and they said I looked like somebody scared. I should not like to
have such an experience again. I was wide awake, and the light was
lit all through the experience.

KENT

IN the late war I was working with a married friend who had a small
son, three years of age. Her husband was in the Navy. We were working
in a T.N.T. shell factory in Kent. Her husband had been on leave and
had returned to his duty. She was very depressed because she had a
feeling that something was going to happen. I cheered her as best I
could. One night (we were working nights), I was put to work in a
large shell store by myself. I heard the door open, as I thought to
admit the night foreman, but as no one came in, I looked round, and,
to my horror, I saw my friend's husband in full naval clothes, with
no hat on, and his little son in front of him with arms held out. I
rushed to the door, thinking something had happened, but I found no
one there. Sixteen hours later my friend had news to say her husband
had been drowned off the Irish Coast, and, two days later her little
son caught his night clothes alight in front of the fire and died in
hospital from the shock of the burns.

DERBY

ONE night in April, 1917, I was in bed asleep when I woke with a
start and distinctly heard my fiancé call in a distressed voice:
“Frank! oh, Frank!” (my nickname). It was so real, I jumped out of
bed and, going to the window, I saw him, sun helmet, kit, and all
equipment in the garden beneath my window, as clear as ever I had
seen him in reality. I turned to go back to bed and have a good cry,
feeling sure something tragic had happened. My sister came from
another room and said, “I felt certain I heard Charlie call you. What
can it mean?” There was not much sleep for either of us that night,
and, not hearing from him for several days, I feared the worst.
However, one day at the office, I received a wire asking me to meet
him on the London train due in that evening. When I had an
opportunity I asked, "What were you doing on the —rd April?” He took
out his diary and gave it to me to read, and this was written at the
date of my experience:—

"Submarine sighted, lifebelts—what luck if we go under without a
fight after two and a half years away from home. Frank! oh, Frank,
God bless you!”

And he admitted what a narrow squeak they had that night in the
Mediterranean.


TRUE TALES OF HAUNTED HOUSES

An Evil Presence

DURING the recent September my husband and I went for a motoring tour
in Scotland. The weather was wonderful, and I had never felt better
in my life. Towards the end of our week we made for a certain hotel
in the Highlands, where my husband hoped to have some dancing.

At the close of a perfect day—from every point of view—we neared our
destination. On entering the hotel I became conscious at once of an
extraordinary sensation which I can only describe as a soul chill!
This remained with me as we went to our room to dress for dinner.
After that meal my husband went to the ballroom and I, who do not
dance, cowered over the fire in the lounge and tried to get warm.
Telling myself that I had caught a chill, I sought out my husband and
told him I was retiring. He decided to remain until the dancing was
over.

The instant I got into my bedroom I was seized by a sensation of
appalling panic. I saw nothing, but I was perfectly aware that the
small room was filled with uncanny and evil beings!

I undressed and got into bed, but the obsession became too terrible
to be endured. I endeavoured to make the Sign of the Cross, but found
that I could not raise my hands. I then fell on my knees and tried to
pray, but I could not; even to utter the Divine name was an
impossibility.

This seems cold written down as it is, but words fail to describe the
awful atmosphere. I can only say that the room was crowded to
overflowing with some evil presence.

I could stand no more; I put on a dressing-gown and went in search of
my husband. I found that he had foregathered with some men he had
known during the War. He was angry at the interruption, but, as soon
as he saw my distress, he at once came to my room.

His presence seemed to help me somewhat, but all that night I tossed
about, sleeping only to dream the most awful dreams. In the morning
my husband, believing that I had caught a chill, wished to get a
doctor, but I knew that my ailment was not physical.

We went out for a long day trip, and no sooner was I out of the house
than I became perfectly normal.

Some of my fears returned as I came back that evening, but as we were
going south in the morning, I made up my mind to brave it out. The
second night was not quite so bad, probably because my husband, who
was now rather infected by the condition, remained with me. I did not
sleep at all; the whole night through I was aware that the evil thing
was crouching and waiting to spring upon me.

We left the place immediately after an early breakfast next day.

My only sensation when about half a mile from the place was as if I
had had a serious illness—intense weakness both of mind and body.

I have never seen a ghost, but I have felt things more than once. I
am very psychic. I have told this story to several people, and the
only explanation offered has been that something must have happened
in the hotel or in that particular room. This explanation does not
satisfy me. I want to know why it is that when we drove up to that
beautiful place in the majestic scenery of the Highlands my soul
seemed to shiver and to shudder within me.

In a covering letter, the writer of this story says:—

“I do not know whether this is, strictly speaking, a ghost story, but
it was a recent and very terrifying experience, and I feel that I
cannot do justice to it in the telling. For obvious reasons I do not
give the name of the place in the article, but it was the ———, a
lovely spot and an excellent house. Perhaps some of your readers may
be able to help me to a solution of the mystery.

“I may add that I am a perfectly sane and normal woman; a journalist
by profession. My husband is a Highlander, so if the experience had
been his there might have been less to wonder at. I am English and
Irish and more remotely Scottish by descent, but I have no connection
ancestral or otherwise with Perthshire. “Hoping that perhaps some
light may be thrown on this.”

A Strange Story

WHEN I was a child of twelve my parents moved to a new neighbourhood.
We had lived in our fresh house about a month when I was awakened one
night by very heavy footfalls. I sat up in bed and was amazed to see
a bent and dirty nun stumping beside my bed. She wore a nun’s habit,
very roughly made of coarse material. She was wringing her hands,
which were tied at the wrists, and on her feet were heavy wooden
shoes. As I gazed at her she turned her face to me, and her look of
anguish was terrible. Over her face hung wisps of hair, and on her
face were blood marks. I looked at her quietly for a second or two
before I realised that the whole room was changed; it was much
smaller, the walls were rough enough for barn walls almost, and there
was no wainscotting. To my horror I saw that a door was open by the
side of my bed where there was no door. This really frightened me and
I screamed loudly, but, after my first screams, the room became
ordinary, and when my father entered I told him what I had seen. He
got very angry with me, banged down the candle, and left me much
comforted by its tiny glow. In the morning I told my parents what I
had seen, but they both told me I was a foolish child, and forbade me
to mention my “nun,” as I called her, but they allowed me to have a
candle for a few nights until I forgot my visitor. Soon after this I
went to school and quite forgot my experience, as a healthy child
would do.

About three years later, I was again sleeping in the same room, when
I was awakened by heavy footsteps. I felt too frightened to cry out,
and all the same scene was enacted. I dared not tell my parents this
time, but confided in a dear old farmer who lived at “The Priory”
next door. He listened to me with respect, and told me that our house
was some hundreds of years old and had been a monastery in earlier
days. He knew that my bedroom had been altered from two small ones to
one large one. He also advised me to tell my parents of my fright, as
he was sorry for me. After this I slept in the attic for some time
but, later, I was taken ill and, to save steps, I was put into my
“nun room” again. My fright had worn off by then. However one night,
as I lay tossing on my bed, I again heard the heavy footfalls. I
screamed loudly, and when my mother came in she found I had fainted
from sheer fright.

I have had many experiences of ghosts, though I am far from
hysterical, and have been laughed at when I have spoken of them, so I
usually keep silent about them. But my “nun” was so real that, on
cycling by the house recently I felt shivery at looking up at the old
bedroom window. And why a nun should appear in a monastery is a thing
unexplained.

Was it a Curse?

I WELL remember when I was a schoolgirl, my father taking an old farm
which had been uninhabited for years. It was a quaint old house with
three stairways, and the best bedroom had queer little knobs and
ornamentations all over the ceiling, and the date 1643 or 83 let into
the wall—I forget exactly, it was so long ago.

It was pleasantly situated, but bore a bad reputation, for it was
said that the old lady who owned it in bygone days had come by it
through fraudulently altering a will; then, towards the end of her
days, it was unlawfully wrested from her for some paltry debt. This
preyed on her mind and she died soon after, vowing that she would
haunt the spot, so it was said, and anyone who took it would rue it.
My mother was very averse to taking it and so was my grandmother,
who, indeed, begged and prayed father to have nothing to do with it,
saying there was a curse on the place, and no good would come of it.
However, father, not being at all superstitious, but an honest,
God-fearing man, laughed at such predictions. He had the farm put in
repair, and we went there to live.

From that day our modest prosperity vanished; we lost money steadily.
In a few months my father was brought home seriously ill. He got up at
last from his bed a wreck of his former self, only to linger for two
years a semi-invalid, then a recurrence of his illness took him from
us within a few days.

My mother’s mind broke down under the shock and worry, and she had to
be taken away, and we girls were left fatherless, as bad as
motherless, and penniless into the bargain. Our home was sold up, we
paid our debts and got out of that disastrous house as soon as we
could. As for our uncanny experiences there—we were awakened more than
once by sounds as if all the heavy furniture we possessed downstairs
was being dragged about, also by footsteps coming up the flagged path
that led to the front door, and by raps at the window.

Also, one evening, I remember distinctly we four girls were all
sitting quietly sewing, when, all at once, we jumped nearly out of
our skins at a loud rat-tat-tat at the front door. “Whoever can that
be at this time of night?” we said. My eldest sister snatched up a
light and ran to answer, and came back saying: “There's no one
there.” At this moment, our dog, chained in the back yard, snapped
his chain and ran round the house howling piteously.

Who it was, or what it was, I know not; we saw nothing, but I don’t
think anyone would have played a trick on us at such a time when we
were in deep trouble. Then, too, it was a lonely place, and the house
stood back from the road enclosed with high garden hedges, and in
those days country folk were not wont to travel the dark lanes at
nine or ten at night to frighten their neighbours or, indeed, for any
purpose unless necessity compelled them.

Only once during our stay there did we see anything. One night my
second sister was awakened by the feeling that someone or something
was in the room, and was horrified to see the figure of an old woman,
with thin grey wisps of hair, bending over the bed. As she lay, too
frightened to call to the rest of us, the figure gradually retreated
in the direction of the door, which led into the best bedroom.

I don’t care to recall these things, for even after the lapse of many
years their remembrance both saddens and terrifies. Was there some
sinister influence surrounding this spot? Or were our misfortunes
just the chances and changes of this mortal life which might have
occurred anywhere? Who can rightly say? What happened to the next
tenant (if there was one) I do not know. We removed to a distant
county, and I have long lost touch with any I used to know who might
give me news of it.

The Lady with the Thimble

MY aunt has often told me that, when she was staying with her mother
at a friend's house in the city, at night time a curious tapping, as
if with a thimble, on the door of her room used to awaken her, and
then something seemed to appear at the bottom of the bed which was
one of the old-fashioned four-post type. Then she would feel the bed
shake beneath her, the shaking increasing in volume. The tapping was
heard about a quarter to twelve, and everything ceased on the stroke
of midnight.

Her mother used to think she was dreaming, but, as she was so emphatic
in her story, they agreed to change rooms, my grandmother sleeping in
her daughter’s room. Soon after twelve o'clock my grandmother entered
my aunt’s bedroom, looking very frightened. “You are quite right,” she
said, “I can’t sleep there another night; I don't know how you managed
to sleep there so long.”

The next day my aunt inquired as to the occupants of the room who had
preceded her. The host looked rather anxious. “Why,” he said, “my
mother used to sleep there; she died rather suddenly a year or two
ago, and I don’t think anybody has ever occupied it since.” My aunt
told him of what had happened, and he said that his mother was always
accustomed to wearing a thimble, and, on entering a room, used to
knock on the door with it. He was unable to give an explanation of the
shaking of the bed, so that must be put down as an unfathomable
mystery.

A Reverend Gentleman’s Story

MY grandparents, with their two sons, lived at a lone farm about a
mile from the village. In my early days I spent much of my time with
them, and often heard them speak about the visitations of “the
ghost.” They quite believed the place was haunted, and, taking into
account my own experiences, I was led to believe the same.

It was no uncommon thing, as we were sitting round the fire in the
evening, to hear three distinct knocks at the top of the chimney,
which would gradually descend to the back of the fireplace. So used
were they to these rappings that they would be dismissed with just a
passing reference.

On moonlight nights my uncles would often go out to shoot rabbits. On
one occasion, when they came back, they said they had seen a man
sitting on the branch of a tree. They challenged him to come down,
thinking he was a poacher in hiding, but, as they were looking at
him, he suddenly disappeared.

On another occasion, one night, when the snow was on the ground, one
of my uncles came in from the village, and said there was a man
sitting astride the wheat stack at the back of the house. My
grandfather took his gun and went up to the back bedroom window, and,
looking out, sure enough there sat the human form. My grandfather
shouted: “If you don’t come down, I'll shoot you.” But before he had
time to raise his gun, the figure vanished. Next morning they got a
ladder and examined the roof of the rick to see if they could find
any footprints, or if the snow had been disturbed, but not a trace
could be found!

Sometimes the ghost would appear in different shapes and forms. In
the winter the cattle were kept up in the yard and cow-sheds. My
grandfather’s brother, who lived in the village, used to come up
early to feed them. One morning, when he had finished his work, he
came in and said: “The thing was in the manger again.” The “thing”
referred to was a white calf, which he had seen more than once in the
same position, but it always disappeared when he went up to it.

My mother often referred to her experiences with the ghost when a
girl at home. It would come when she and her sisters were playing
around the ricks. It took the shape of a round log, covered with long
black hair, full of bright spots. After rolling about for some time,
it always finished up by going into the pond at the end of the barn.
On one occasion a girl with long black hair joined them at play. At
first they thought it was a girl from the village, but when they
gathered round her, she vanished.

It was in this rick yard that my cousin and I had a hair-raising
experience. One evening as it was getting dusk, we were romping in a
heap of straw; then we sat down and covered ourselves up to the neck.
Sitting there, we heard a panting noise, like a horse trying to get
its breath after a race. Looking up we were horror-struck to see a
huge animal like a lion, with long, shaggy hair, coming towards us.
We sat breathless. It then passed over our legs and disappeared
through the bushes into the pond. Terrified, we ran into the house and
told what had happened.

I had another experience later on, early one morning on the road
leading up to the farm. Just before me I saw a white calf’s head
projecting from the corner of a heap of stones. It was motionless, so
I went to see what was the matter with it, but as I came up to it, it
vanished and appeared at another corner! I then thought of the white
calf in the manger, and started to run. On another occasion my
brother and I were driving along this same road one dark night. As we
got to a very narrow part of the road we saw before us two large
lights. Thinking it was a carriage with lamps we wondered how we
should pass. I pulled in to the left and waited. We could hear
nothing. As the lights drew nearer they seemed to grow larger. At
last we saw the outline of some monster beast, and these lights were
its eyes. I could have touched it as it passed. Neither of us spoke a
word till we got to the village. The horse did not seem to have seen
it.

In the course of time my grandfather gave up the farm and came to
live in the village, but, strange to say, the family ghost followed
him! Many weird and uncanny things happened about the house, some of
which I could speak of from personal experience.

My grandparents have long since passed away, since when nothing more
has been heard of the family ghost.

Whose Eyes?

“I SHAN'T be a minute; I’m going to fetch a book from my bedroom.”

So saying, I got up and smiled across the table at Mr. P., the
gentleman boarder. “Let me go,” he said. “Certainly not,” I answered,
and lightly ran out of the room and up the inky black stairs. There
was the awful soundlessness and stillness of impenetrable darkness,
and I had to slacken my steps to feel for each stair. When I was
about half way up someone pushed against me from behind and tried to
tread on the same stair as myself. I gasped and instantly thought it
was a practical joke that Mr. P. was playing on me, and I said
fiercely: “Go away, Mr. P.! You ought to be ashamed of yourself,
frightening me like that.” As he didn’t answer me, I turned round to
push him away, and found Emptiness. The horror of this was so great
that, regardless of the danger of missing the stairs, I literally
flew up the remainder and opened my door and rushed inside.

As I was in the act of banging the door a pair of eyes gazed at me
out of the darkness. Oh! it was awful!—Eyes without a body, gazing at
me. I flung myself against the door to shut them out, at the same
time covering my eyes with my hands.

My bedroom was pitch dark. Outside, I knew I had to face unknown
terror—what was I to do? Not a sound to be heard, and the only living
people in that house were at the bottom of all those stairs.

If I moved from the door those eyes might come in; if I remained
where I was, what unseen thing might touch me? At last I remembered a
bit of candle and matches that were in a certain drawer. Could I find
the chest of drawers? At least it was worth trying.

How I got across that room I don’t know, but I did, and I found that
bit of candle and matches and lit up, and I gazed all round that room.

I saw my face in the glass—it appalled me, for my eyes were fairly
bulging out of my white face.

With the comfort of the lighted candle I got downstairs. The
landlady, Mr. P., and my sister all remarked upon my appearance and
asked why I had been so long. When I told them they were very
excited, and all went with lamps to hunt for the ghost. To them it
was a most exciting event; to me it was a nightmare.

Of course, they found nothing.

Some weeks later, when the ghost was forgotten, my sister and I were
sitting in a room on the first floor, the door of which opened
straight off a tiny landing of the staircase. My sister was playing
the piano, and I was sitting by the fire sewing.

Looking towards her, I noticed the door opening ever so slowly and
silently until it was wide open—and no one was there. Thinking,
sensibly, it must be the draught, I got up to close the door and,
there, in the doorway, on a level with my own, were the pair of eyes,
luminous.

I stood stock still and said to my sister: “Look at the door!” To do
so, she had to look up and over the piano, and by so doing she looked
straight at those eyes. She rushed to my side shrieking. Up the
stairs pelted Mr. P., with the landlady following, shouting up,
“What's the matter?”

He walked right under those eyes, and, brushing back his hair with
his hand, he said: “Great Scott! Aren't you cold up here? Did one of
you shriek or call out?”

I was standing petrified with fright, with my sister clinging to me.

It was a moment or two before I could tell him, and then he was off in
hot chase—he was going to catch the ghost with his gun. He went and
fetched a chum, and, together, they made enough noise to frighten an
army of ghosts; but they did not catch one.

We all felt a bit eerie, and Mr. P. persuaded his chum to sleep with
him a few nights.

It was just as well that he did, for one night, about two a.m., we
were all awakened by the most blood-curdling screams it is possible
to imagine. My sister and I sat up at once and clung tight to each
other. Mr. P. and his chum were soon hammering on our door asking
were we all right. The landlady was wandering about her landing in a
voluminous dressing gown and night cap, with a candle: a little girl
was sobbing in bed, and a boy slept through the lot. The men were
determined to put an end to the matter, so down the cellar they went
with lamps and pistols, and all over the house, and right up into the
unused attic, but nothing could be discovered.

Should any reader want to think of a reasonable clue, I can only tell
them that the house was built in such a way that no sun could get
into it; it was very old and appeared to have been wedged in to block
up a passage way between the backyard of a grocer’s shop and the
road. The front and back of the house were built away back from the
level of the other houses: the houses on both sides of it seemed to
squeeze the very air out of the house—it was a deadly house.

As soon as I walked into the front door I used to shiver and stare
straight ahead of me, as if expecting things to happen. Even in the
daytime it was always dark as compared to other houses.

A Ghostly Carpenter

ABOUT twenty years ago my brother D went to live in a fairly large
house in North London—wife and two little children with him. There was
no basement; dining and drawing rooms faced each other from the hall,
and, farther along, was a large, square room entirely panelled, with
oak ceiling, also, save for one corner not quite finished. Upstairs a
back room had evidently been used as a carpenter's workshop; so my
brother, a keen carpenter, decided to use it himself, similarly. They
were only just settled in when every evening a noise of wood sawing
began about seven o’clock—loud and distinct, with every now and then
the “whop” as the sawn piece dropped. Many friends and relatives
heard it. Then, in the room overhead, began sounds of carpentering;
loud noises as if wooden boxes were dropped and pushed along; and,
every night, tools, which had been carefully put back in the racks,
were found in the morning scattered about the room.

In the oak room a swing was hung from a beam, and my brother had this
room as a nursery. In broad daylight, on a summer afternoon, would
come the sound of the swing, then a sound as if someone jumped from
it, and the swing would go to and fro violently. Many times there
have been sounds of someone running quickly downstairs.

A previous owner of the house was an old man who did the oak
panelling himself, but died ere it was finished.

My brother and family still occupy the house, and have grown so
accustomed to “Bill, the carpenter,” as they call him, that the
noises do not trouble them at all. Sometimes these noises stop for a
while, and then go on again louder than ever.

There is absolutely no earthly explanation, but I do know it is
perfectly true, and many have heard the noises.

Another Reverend’s Story

A REVEREND gentleman tells the following story:—

In an old house in a cathedral town the ghost of a tall, elderly
woman dressed in black recently gave much trouble to the inmates. The
ladies living in the house saw the apparition constantly, and got
quite accustomed to it, but very few servants would stay in the
house.

The climax came when the cook was found in a fainting condition and
said that the ghost had tried to strangle her, and showed the marks
of fingers on her throat.

Something had to be done. A clergyman from the cathedral was called
in and exorcised the ghost, whereupon the trouble instantly ceased.

Investigation showed that a woman, answering to the apparition, had
committed suicide in the house about fifty years previously. An
interesting point is that the ghost was seen in every part of the
house except the room in which the tragedy had taken place.

The Girl in White

SOME three or four years ago I was present at a Christmas party, when
the talk turned on ghosts. A gentleman present remarked that ghost
stories were almost always second-hand. He had never, he declared,
met anyone who could say that he or she had actually seen a ghost.

A lady—a great friend of my own—at once replied, and, as nearly as I
can remember it, I will give the story in her own words:—

“Well, then,” she said, “you have now met one who has really seen a
ghost. My husband here, and others, are well acquainted with the
story. I was, at the time, staying with my aunt in an old house,
three flats up, in ——— Edinburgh. The beautifully carved mantelpiece,
and peculiar markings on the walls, supposed to have been caused by
cannon ball, showed that the house had once been occupied by some of
the old Scottish nobility.

“It was in the gathering dusk of a summer evening that I tripped
merrily down the stairs to meet George. We were not married then, but
courting. Near the foot of the first stair I was surprised to see a
girlish figure, clad in white, come gliding up the stairs. Her face
was in shadow, but her dark hair floated over her shoulders. As she
came nearer, something impelled me to lay my hand on the railing and
go backwards step by step. She came on slowly, and, retreating so, I
had time to see her figure quite distinctly though her face and feet
remained in shadow. Her white dress was filled with tiny frills right
up to the waist. She wore a girdle of narrow black velvet that fell
in loops on the left side. There was black velvet at her wrists, and,
I think, at her throat. Also I distinctly saw red strands of hair
amongst the brown.

“I felt no sensation of fear—only a sort of fascination—till I reached
the top of the stair. I turned my head to see if my aunt's door was
open, and found it was. Then, somehow, such terror seized me I could
not look round again, but, screaming loudly, I ran inside and shut
the door.

“My aunt, who had been chatting to a neighbour, came rushing in, and
she and others were enraged to think that someone had so frightened
me. The stairs, back court, and everywhere about was searched, but I
knew they might have saved their pains. The girl I saw was no
ordinary being of flesh and blood. Nothing happened afterwards; no
warning had been conveyed, nor could anyone identify my girlish ghost
with any known celebrity who had lived there. I do not know why she
came, nor why she appeared to me, but she was there and, for the
moment, was as real as myself.”

This lady knows nothing about clairvoyance, had never attended a
Spiritualists’ meeting in her life, and her simple narrative impressed
all present as an absolutely true statement. She died last summer, but
her husband could, I am sure, testify to the truth of what is here
related.

“The Old Master”

IN the eventide of a busy life I find a pleasant relaxation from my
little daily duties in reading different items in the Daily News, and
have been especially interested in those letters on “Visitants.” These
have brought to my mind incidents which have taken place during my
lifetime.

In my young days ghosts were much believed in, and some were seen
which afterwards were proved to be the work of foolish young fellows.

But a short distance from my father’s house was a nice old farm where
a well-known family had lived for several generations. The
grandfather of the then resident family had been quite a unique
character in the district, and had been known as “the old master.” A
grandson, who had been abroad for a considerable time, returned to
the old home, bringing a manservant with him. A spare room not being
available for the man, a comfortable bed was made for him in the big
farm-kitchen.

The house had for some time had the reputation of being haunted, but
of this the man knew nothing. However, in the early morning he
suddenly woke up to see a stout old gentleman walking down a long
passage which was opposite the bed. He came noiselessly into the
kitchen, and the old sheep dog that lay on the mat by the fireplace
at once jumped up, wagging its tail, and ran to him, when he vanished
from sight.

In the morning the man related his experience to the family, and, on
being questioned, gave an exact description of “the old master.”

The Little Grey Lady

WITHIN three miles of my native city, on the outskirts of a little
village, rather isolated by its grounds and its position on a slight
eminence, stands a picturesque verandahed dwelling, which at one time
was inhabited by elderly cousins of mine. Their father lived with
them, and when very occasionally they left him in the house alone for
a time, he invariably remarked that they need not mind, for he always
had someone near him. This was his only reference to the spirit which
haunted the place. Later, the house passed into the possession of
townsfolk, who removed to it on account of the failing health of
their only child. They had been there only a few days when a
frightened scream from the child’s room made them both rush to it, to
find her sitting up in bed, with eyes protruding and cheeks blanched.
On seeing them, she wildly shrieked: “The little grey lady, the
little grey lady! She has gone through the wall.” They soothed her,
but could not persuade her that it was merely a nightmare.

Within a week of this, the father chanced to be absent from home for
a few days, and the mother shared the child’s room. Again the wild
cry arose, suddenly wakening her, and she, with the child, beheld the
figure of a little old woman, garbed in a grey shawl and apron, who
moved with the aid of a stick, making a strange little stumping
noise. She paused by a dressing chest, and appeared to search
anxiously for something, then just faded out.

For some little time these folk stayed in the house and frequently
heard the tap of her stick, but did not see her again. The strain of
the possibility of doing so, however, so told upon them that they
moved. Before doing so the lady approached another relative of mine
who had lived many years in the neighbourhood, and asked her if she
could in any way account for the apparition. She was able to tell her
the story which she had heard from an old nurse, who had attended the
“little grey lady” in her last illness. It appears that she had
sorely wronged her children, misjudging them and leaving her worldly
goods to others. At the last she was quite unable to speak, but made
pathetic efforts to communicate something which was evidently very
much on her mind, at the same time pointing in the direction in which
the lady and her child had seen her searching. Nothing was ever
found, but one cannot help thinking that the little grey lady had
made an effort to right the wrong by trying to tell where some
document was hidden.

This story has been known to me for many years, and I always look
curiously at the old place as I pass, and wonder if the restless
spirit has at last found peace.

A Convincing Experience

AS children we were taught that only ignorant people believed in
ghosts, and at twenty-one years of age I would have slept, without a
tremor, in any room reported to be haunted. At that age I went to
stay with a recently-married brother in a modern and comfortable
house near Manchester.

On the first night, at about twelve o’clock, I was still awake. A dim
light came from the street gas, and the fire that was nearly out; but
it was too dark to see anything distinctly. Suddenly something leant
over me, and fear that no words can describe possessed me. My hair
seemed to prick me, and intense cold seemed to penetrate to my heart.
I thought if it went on I should die. No thought of burglar or any
physical danger entered my mind. From the first instant I knew that
this was something from outside normal human life—something “ghostly.”

“Who are you? What do you want?” I gasped to the vague form leaning
over me. There was no answer. Suddenly it was gone. I jumped out of
bed, lit the gas, and left it full on. In the daylight I dared not
tell my tale and ask to change my room; I knew how I should have
regarded such a tale the day before. When I went to bed the second
night I left the gas dimly alight. Towards midnight I felt suddenly
cold, and my hair began to prick. I jumped up and turned the gas on
full. The fear and cold passed away.

The next night I left the gas full on. Towards midnight I was aware
of a little sudden cold, a little sense of panic, but both passed
quickly. After that third night nothing happened.

Some weeks later, when I was no longer afraid, I told my brother that
something had leant over me in bed. He looked amazed; and, with a sort
of horror, I saw that something he knew would give reason for the
terror I had felt.

He said the house had been untenanted for some years because the room
I slept in was reported to be haunted. A woman had either fallen or
thrown herself from the window and had been killed, and she was said
to lean over the bed. My brother utterly disbelieved the tale, and
forgot it. Had he mentioned it to me I should have laughed at it and
gone to bed in that room without a tremor.

Those are the facts. I cannot explain them, but in Hudson's Psychic
Phenomena” there is a very possible explanation of such apparitions.

The Hooded Lady

MY father was a Nonconformist minister. In the autumn of 18— he went
to reside in the country town of W——, which has the distinction of
possessing a large county gaol.

Going down, as a schoolgirl, to spend my first Christmas holidays
there, I was astonished to find such a palatial “manse.” It was
situated a mile out of the town, had a square turreted tower, an old
moat (then the channel for a running stream), an encircling
verandah, stabling for four horses, and a long carriage drive, at the
gates of which was an old, ivy-covered, uninhabited lodge—an
altogether unusual dwelling for its modest tenant!

The only room in the turreted tower was occupied by my father as his
“study,” but he rarely made his sermons in it, we children observed,
and when asked why, he would reply evasively that he always felt
chilly and uncomfortable there.

On the night of Christmas Eve, I was restless and fidgety. A younger
sister occupied another bed in the same room, but she soon dropped
off to sleep. It was a moonlight night, so I drew up my blind and lay
watching the fitful shadows of a tree outside as they played over my
walls.

At last I had an uncanny feeling that another presence was added to
the occupants of the large old bedroom. I looked towards the door and
saw a dark figure gliding through it, apparently in a cloak, the hood
of which encircled the small white face of a woman.

I sprang up frightened. The dark figure walked slowly towards me,
then deviated to the window, and, without opening it, went through to
the verandah. I ran across to my sister's bed, thinking she was
playing a trick on me, but, no, she lay there fast asleep.

I had no sleep that night, you may be sure. On telling my story at
the breakfast-table next morning, I was merely told that I had been
reading too many Christmas ghost stories and had doubtless had a bad
nightmare. Though hardly convinced, I dropped the subject.

A few weeks later my father sent me with a note to the office of a
solicitor in the town, an elderly man who was deeply versed in all
the topographical, historical and social knowledge of the place. He
was a Celt, and the custodian of half the human secrets of the
district, which may or may not bear on the rest of my story. As I was
leaving, he asked in a friendly fashion: “How do you like the manse?”

Taken aback somewhat, I replied: “Oh, very much, but—er—” His
spectacled, curious eyes seemed seeking some private confidence.

“‘But' what? You haven’t seen the manse ghost, I suppose? You have! I
can see it in your face. Well, did it frighten you?”

Seeing that evasion was impossible, I replied: “Yes, it did—but
father—”

“Oh, never mind your father. He pooh-poohed it, no doubt. Not psychic
enough to see it himself, of course. Tell me about it.”

Half ashamed, I told my little story. When I had finished, he pulled
up his office chair confidentially and said in a low voice: “The
stewards of my church bought the manse some ten years ago very
cheaply on account of its reputation for being haunted. Most of its
tenants since, being religious men, like your father, have never been
troubled by the story and never see anything spectral; being
temperamentally unable to, probably. But you, young lady, are
doubtless psychic and therefore have been privileged. I'll now tell
you the story its reputation is founded on.

“Fifteen Christmases ago a young lady visitor came to stay at what
you now know as the manse. A wealthy, rather profligate young
bachelor in the town fell in love with her and persecuted her with
his attentions. She rejected his suit. On Christmas Eve he
accompanied her home from a local party. As she did not return, her
friends set out in the early morning to look for her and found her
lying dead in her evening cloak and hood just outside the little
lodge at the gates.

“Suspicion fell on her rejected suitor. He was tried for murder and
hanged in the local gaol here, the last execution, by the way, that
has taken place. It is said that every Christmas Eve this poor girl's
spirit comes back and haunts the place of the tragedy.”

“So you think the hooded lady I saw was the spirit of that poor young
girl?” I questioned, horrified.

“Undoubtedly, and it interests me exceedingly that you have had this
experience before either hearing the story or the traditional
reputation of the house. Probably I ought not to have told you, but,
as every Christmas comes round, I, as a believer in psychic
phenomena, look expectantly for someone to corroborate this
tradition. Do not be troubled; the ghost will not appear again this
year. Good morning!”

I spent several more Christmases at the manse, but never again saw
the ghost.

I leave it to my readers to decide how much my youth and temperament
and my old friend the solicitor’s Celtic bias towards the romantic
and the occult had to do with my sincere belief in the objective
reality of that hooded lady whom I saw twenty years ago.

Uncle’s Story

On special occasions, a great-uncle of mine regales the family with
the story of the ghost he saw.

How he awoke, one night, with the uneasy feeling that someone or
something was near, and how he saw a little lady clad in brown at his
bedside; how he thought it was his wife because she, too, was small,
but, on second thoughts, knew her to be asleep at his side; how he
saw the “little brown lady” walk—not glide—into a large cupboard at
the end of the room; how he roused his wife, and how she, not he, went
to the cupboard, only to find no trace of the “little lady.”

All this he recounts, and, on his word as a Christian, swears it to
be true. He appeals to his wife, who nods, and tells us of the colour
of his face, of the beads of perspiration on his brow, and emphasises
how terrified he was, and that it was she who investigated.

If a member of the circle ventures to suggest that it was the
after-effects of a good supper, my uncle has his answer ready, and
recommences: How a special organist, playing in the village, stayed
at his house for the night; how, next day at breakfast, on being
asked how he slept, he replied, ‘Very fair, but I have had a
disagreeable nightmare,’ how the organist had seen a “little lady”
enter his room, walk to his bedside, and then disappear into a
cupboard.

This is the final point in the narrative, and my uncle sits up
straight in his chair and exclaims, “Here's his address, go to him
and ask him; he is still alive!” And the doubting one does not move—my
uncle’s ghost story has another believer. We of the family know that
our uncle would never have told of the incident if he had not
actually experienced it, and are, thus, bound to believe in ghosts.
Yet this ghost signified nothing—no one died, neither misfortune nor
pleasant surprise occurred, and we have no family tradition.

The Ghost Horse of the Derbyshire Moors

SOME years ago a friend of ours bought a house which was spoken of
for miles around as “haunted”; one family after another had at
various times lived at the place, but each of them, in turn, abruptly
gave up the tenancy, declaring the house was indeed haunted. All
round the house was a wide drive, and the story ran that every
midnight at certain periods of the year a horse was heard to gallop
round the drive, and, at times, reared itself so high as to touch the
bedroom windows.

Though the horse itself was not visible, it was known to be a white
one, and sometimes sent out flashing lights.

As soon as our friend was settled in the place, he invited my husband
and I to go and stay with him. We readily accepted, just laughing at
the ghost story, and, up to the moment of going to bed, we joked
about the whole thing. We had been in bed only a short time when we
heard the regular gallop, gallop, of a horse going round the drive.
It was too real to make any mistake, and we both seemed to freeze
with fear and, for a few minutes, were unable to speak. When my
husband had gained a little self-control, he struck a light, and we
saw the fingers of his watch pointed to a few minutes after midnight.
The galloping had now ceased, but there was no sleep for us. As we
lay awake, each resolving inwardly that, so soon as morning came, we
would with all speed make for our own home, another terrifying thing
happened. It was as though someone had given the shutter of our
bedroom window a heavy blow. Being, by this time, quite unnerved, I
gave a low moan of despair, but my husband made one big leap for the
window, and through the light that was just breaking, he saw the
outline of a huge bat, just flying away from the shutter. Evidently
it had hit the shutter in its flight, and had caused the rattle which
had so upset us. So that was one ghost accounted for! But that did not
explain away the gallop of the horse, as by this time we neither of
us had any doubts regarding its presence in the grounds.

As the house was walled in on all sides it was obvious no stray
animal could have entered, and we felt, as morning drew near, we
should have no option but to join in the general belief that there
really was something uncanny about the place.

As we sat down to breakfast the following morning our host greeted us
with—“Well, did you see or hear the ghost?” He laughed merrily as we
replied, “We did, and have had no sleep, and there are two people
here who are clearing out as soon as possible—without breakfast for
preference.”

He then said, “Well it may interest you to know I have laid the ghost
horse, but thought I’d let you have one night before I explained.” He
said, “The first night my wife and I slept here we heard the gallop,
gallop, quite clearly, just at the time we had been told we should
hear it. My wife became angry as well as frightened and laid the
blame on me, saying, ‘Why did you buy such a place—you might have
known all the people who have tried to live here could not have been
mistaken. I shall not stay in the house another day, and if your
money is lost, it's lost.’

“She left the house the next morning. I determined I would fathom the
matter, for, truth to tell, my own confidence had been somewhat
shaken. So, the next night, instead of going to bed, I decided I
would walk out into the country, returning at the time the phantom
horse was supposed to appear. I walked about half a mile and came to
the turnpike road where I saw and spoke to a policeman. Whilst I was
talking to him a high dog cart passed us, carrying two brightly
burning lamps. I made some remark to the policeman about the driver’s
lonely drive, when he said, ‘Yes, Lord ——— is in residence at ———
Hall, and he sends his groom to town every night with his letters, in
time to catch the midnight mail; he always returns about this time. I
know exactly when he is returning, even if I am by that house on the
hill there (my house), nearly a mile away.’ ‘Why, how is that?’ I
queried. ‘Well,’ he replied, ‘the echo of his horse galloping is so
clear in the still of the night, and, as he passes certain gaps in
the hedges, his lights shine more clearly than any other lights that
pass this way.’ I then told him why I was out at that time of night
and asked him if ever he had heard the story connected with my house,
to which he answered, ‘No; I have been in this part of the country
only a few months, and it is only within the past month that I have
noticed the echo.’

Well, the next night we tested his explanation together, and that was
how we laid the ‘ghost horse of the Derbyshire Moors.’”

A Ghost Story from Wales

THE following is an authentic story which I obtained first hand from
a fellow traveller whilst waiting for a train on the small station of
Ferryside, Carmarthenshire (Wales).

He had, it appears, unfortunately missed the earlier train of the day
and, to pass away an idle hour or two, had visited the old castle in
the district. He had some difficulty in obtaining the key, and, so, on
reaching the castle, was not surprised to find that the door was not
to be opened easily, as it was obvious that the castle is seldom
visited these days. At length, when the door did open, imagine his
surprise at finding an apparently well set up woman staring at him.
Thinking it must be some sort of caretaker, he essayed to speak to
her, but, to his great consternation, she disappeared. This so
startled my companion that he returned at once to the station, where
I met him very much shaken by his experience.

We, later, got into conversation with a resident, who informed us
that the castle had the reputation for being haunted, and this was
the generally accepted story:—

Many years ago, when knights, maids and dragons ruled the romantic
world, there lived a maid within the castle who was betrothed to a
young knight of a neighbouring domain. The day of the wedding was
fixed and all would have ended happily were it not for a great
tragedy which overcame the proceedings. One day, just after paying
his court to the young lady, the knight was set upon by robbers,
killed, and his body flung into the moat. His fiancée could see all
this, but was unable to help, but she was so overcome that she threw
herself over the parapet into the moat after him. The body of the
knight was found some time later washed up on the sea-shore, but that
of the maid was never discovered, and the belief is that she still
haunts the castle awaiting the arrival of her beloved.

A Daylight Ghost Story

SOME years ago, some friends took a house for three months at the
seaside. In August, I went to stay with them arriving about three on
a sunny afternoon. Coming downstairs from the bedroom, I had to pass
the open door of a room immediately at the foot of the stairs.
Standing just inside, with her back towards me, was a woman dressed
in drab, and with her hair arranged in an old-fashioned way; she was
looking out of a window, and I paused a moment wondering who it was.
I continued my way down and, when within three yards of her, the
figure vanished. I went into the room, looked all round—no one there.
Then I realised it was a ghost.

Next day I saw a coloured photo of a woman with dress and hair just
like the apparition’s. It was not until some weeks later that we were
told the portrait was of the owner's first wife. The house had been
left her by a relative, and she had planned to have the window, at
which I had seen her standing, changed into a bow. Sudden illness
seized her and she died, trying to say something about the window.

Some other friends who had the house lent them before this time, saw
the figure of a woman going before them up the stairs, but there was
no one. Another friend was sitting on the lawn facing that window
when the house was empty, and saw the figure of a woman pass across
it. She went into the house—no one there—all doors locked.

It was not until months later that we told each other what we had seen.

Are not these apparitions what Mrs. Besant calls “thought-forms?”
This woman knew nothing of me; her thoughts came back to the familiar
spot and the familiar dress. When I came too near this “form”
apparently so solid, but as evanescent as a soap bubble, it broke and
vanished.

“The Very Same Ghost”

AS a young medical student on holiday I used often to stay with a
doctor uncle, and even now, looking back after all these years, I
feel grateful for all I learnt while accompanying him on his rounds.

Uncle Will was a bachelor, too matter-of-fact and prosaic ever to
fall in love, I thought. The more surprised, therefore, was I one day
to hear him recount his treatment of a patient, a young lady
suffering only from what to me seemed an acute attack of hysteria,
nothing more. This patient was one of those highly-strung young
ladies who easily develop hysteria, and the story she narrated to
Uncle Will of what had brought her to the pitiful state she was in
seemed to me a tissue of rubbish. She vividly described her meeting
with a real ghost on her way home late from a party, alone, through
some accidental misunderstanding. Her way lay past a lonely mansion
infrequently occupied, rich in historical associations, but so far
unclaimed by any ghost. Miss S———, however, succeeded in describing
the one she saw in great detail, from his cavalier hat to his buckled
shoes. He was leaning against a gate through which she had to pass,
and he moved aside courteously to make way for her. She thanked him,
and to her horror, he vanished into thin air. The clear moonlight and
the snow combined to make any rational explanation impossible.

That was her tale. “A silly fanciful girl, over-excited by the
evening's pleasure,” was my comment.

“Yet this girl came a distance of three miles through the worst
thunderstorm we've had for years, in the dead of night, to fetch me
to her sick mother a short while ago,” answered Uncle Will, and then
added: “Good thing I’m her medical man and not a raw fellow like you,
laddie; I can understand her, because (I have told no one else) I
myself have seen at the very same place the very same ghost.”

The Phantom Carriage

SOME years ago, whilst staying at a little town in Somerset, I became
acquainted with the chauffeur of a family who resided in a stately
old mansion, standing in a large and well-kept park.

One evening, as the family were away, I was invited to pay my friend
a visit. The walk of two miles brought me to the drive gates, and
from there to the house was about three-quarters of a mile across the
park, which was divided in several places by iron railings, having
white gates across the drive. These were always kept closed when the
family were away.

After a chat and smoke with my friend, I started my homeward journey
about 9:30, it being a beautiful moonlight night. I had got about
one-third of the way down the drive when a pair of carriage lamps
loomed out ahead, and knowing the people were away, I was surprised
to meet a conveyance coming to the house so late at night. The lights
came nearer and I could distinctly hear the horses’ hoofs on the
drive. I had just reached one of the gates and decided to stay and
hold it open for the vehicle to pass. On came the two-horse carriage
which was now quite visible, and I shouted to the driver that I would
hold the gate open for him, but I got no reply. The carriage was now
within about ten yards, when, suddenly, the whole lot disappeared.

One can quite imagine my feelings as I clung to the gate, not knowing
whether to go forward or back to the house. I learned afterwards that
this conveyance had been seen several years before by some of the old
servants.

London

CRYPTS have always held a strange fascination for me. Although a
staunch sceptic, I am deeply interested in psychical research, and I
have systematically sought out crypts on the supposition that if
there are such things as ghosts they would surely prefer to manifest
themselves in those creepy vaults. But only once has a ghost appeared
to me, and that was in the crypt of a hoary old church in
Lincolnshire. I was quite alone; the verger was away from home, and I
had to borrow the keys from the rector. It was late on a September
afternoon and the light, even with the aid of my bicycle lamp, was
very dim. I wandered around, examining dates on tombs until, passing
behind a pillar, I was scared to see a man dressed in black leaning
against the recumbent effigy of some medieval worthy. “That must be
the verger, after all,” I thought; “but how strange! He must have
duplicate keys.” So I approached him—cautiously, I admit—and, as I
did so, he rose slowly, raised a deprecating hand, as though to stop
my advance, and then gradually vanished into space! The dark eeriness
of the place rather got on my nerves, and I slipped out quickly to
tell the rector of my experience. “Ah!” said he, “you've evidently
seen Black Robert the Monk. There's a legend here that in the
fifteenth century the poor fellow was locked in the crypt for some
offence; but they forgot all about him for a time and when they went
to release him, he was stark dead. His ghost appears occasionally,
and the visitation, strange to say, is said to bring the church good
luck. One would have expected him to cherish a grudge. Anyhow, last
time, a wealthy patron gave £100 to our fund. This time—er—” “It will
be only half a crown,” I responded.

An Unwelcome Travelling Companion

A MOST weird experience I once had made me less cynical about
ghosts. I travelled regularly by the 8:30 a.m. train to the town
where I worked, and the train was usually crowded with business
people. I soon began to notice that one compartment was always empty,
but for no apparent reason. One morning, arriving at the last minute,
I climbed into the deserted carriage as the whistle sounded. I
settled down to a book and gave no thought to my solitude. The train
had been travelling some minutes when I was disturbed by a slight
noise which sounded like subdued sobbing. It was not a corridor
train, so I could only explore beneath the seats, but found nothing
there. I eventually put it down to the noise of the engine, but, as
the train gathered speed, the noise became distinct from any other
sound and seemed to get louder and more plaintive. The thought of the
coming tunnel made my heart beat quickly. The sobbing stopped before
we reached the tunnel, however, but, as the overpowering darkness
engulfed the carriage, I had a ghastly sensation of being choked.
This lasted for at least two minutes. I tried to cry out, but,
perhaps from sheer fright, no sound came from my throat. As we
steamed out of the tunnel, the sobbing re-started, but, after a
while, panted itself into silence, which seemed to my now hysterical
nerves more terrible than the wailing noise itself. I practically
tottered out of that train on reaching my destination, and was not
surprised to learn afterwards that there had been a suicide in that
compartment which accounted for the passengers avoiding it.

The Black Dog of the Cotswolds

WEST-COUNTRYMEN are very sensitive to ridicule. That is why a
stranger might inquire from Bath to Bredon without obtaining a single
admission concerning the Black Dog of the Cotswolds. But let him live
amongst us; let him gain our confidence, and he may interview
witnesses by the dozen. Few, indeed, have met the creature face to
face, though many claim a distant glimpse, and it would be hard to
find a shepherd past middle-age who had not come upon the foot-prints
of the phantom, starting from nowhere and leading nowhere, in the
early morning snow. Always in the snow he comes and always by
moonlight. It is now some three years since old Dick Slingbraces
passed to rest, leaving the following story to perpetuate his memory.

“Dogs or foxes had been making havoc with the early lambs,” said he;
“and one February night I took my gun to watch for the varmints in
the lee of the sheeppens, there being mebbe an inch of snow on the
land. The east wind was like a knife from the grindstone, with clouds
racing past the moon well on in her second quarter. I might have
closed my eyes for a second or two with the cold, and when I opened
them, sir, there he stood not thirty yards away—a coal-black hound
bigger than a prize ram, and of no breed on earth. I knew him in an
instant—the Black Dog of the Wolds. Now you don’t shoot a dog until
he takes a lamb if you want the law on your side, but, fearing for my
life, I pointed my gun at him—and he vanished to nowhere. I dropped
the muzzle and, all of a shake, I peeped over my shoulder, only to
see him behind me, the moonlight striking into his eyes like blue
flames. With a choking, dizzy feeling I screwed my old gums together
and up with my gun again—and again he vanished. Ay, and again he was
behind me. How long he played with me in this fashion I don’t
recollect, but, in the end, the gun went off of itself, and the next
thing my grandson George, was helping me up and asking me if I felt
better. And being three-score and ten, the following week I put by my
crook and took to my old age pension. They say,” added the old
shepherd, “he mostly comes as a warning that ‘tis time to retire; but
I will mention that morning showed the snow trampled like a
fold-yard, but never a print beyond the boundary wall.”

It Happened in Ireland

MANY years ago, I used to visit a brother and sister-in-law living in
a rambling old house in Ireland. Nightly, the household would gather
in the dining-room for prayers, after which we retired to our
rooms—the maids to their quarters at the far end of the house—my
brother and sister-in-law would leave me at my door and then pass
down the corridor to their own room.

I am usually a sound sleeper. Nevertheless, midnight would find me
awake listening to the ructions in the dining-room below—the click,
click of glasses and decanters, excited voices, doors opening,
banging—after a little while, silence. On the first occasion I asked
my brother why he made so much unnecessary noise at midnight. He
looked troubled and simply remarked that he had not gone downstairs
again. I tackled my sister-in-law, but all to no purpose. Deciding
that they were indulging in drinking bouts on the sly, I said no more.

One night, however, feeling very tired and unable to sleep because of
the noise, I was furious and decided to see for myself what my
relations were up to. I slipped on my dressing-gown and slippers and
made for my door; but not before the handle was turned violently and,
although in total darkness, I could feel a current of air from the
open door (I always locked it before retiring). Then a tremendous
“Force” seemed to be pushing me backwards towards the bed, where,
conscious of another “presence” in the room, I fell back exhausted.

My brother and sister-in-law listened attentively to the recital of
the previous night’s happenings, expressed their regret for so
disturbed a night, and advised me to forget all about it.

Not a little chagrined at their reticence, I resolved to return home
at once.

On the way to the station, I met the clergyman—a very intellectual
man—who happened to be a frequent visitor at the house. I related the
midnight happenings, my surmise, and, lastly, the unaccountable
experience of the previous night. I quite expected him to pooh-pooh
the whole thing. Instead, he looked very grave, said that in olden
times the surrounding hills were infested by a band of particularly
murderous brigands who made that house their occasional headquarters.
Men were decoyed, robbed and disposed of within its gates. “And,” he
ended, “we can but pray and hope that the poor, unquiet spirits may
be granted a final resting-place. Do not, my child, make it a subject
of idle gossip.”

A School Teacher's Story

SOME years ago, I, along with a sister ten years older than myself,
was teaching in a Midland town. We had the greatest difficulty in
obtaining rooms, no one seemed to want lady teachers. At last we
succeeded, but not to our liking, as the house was old and gloomy and
the landlady of a very saturnine countenance. We found she and her
daughter were the only other occupants of the house.

As it was winter time, we asked if she had an attic where we could
store our bikes. We were told that there was no attic.

We were nightly disturbed by strange sounds as of someone going up
and down stairs and raking the fire—this, after the landlady and her
daughter had retired hours before. When questioned, the landlady only
replied that the house was old and creaky.

I was eighteen and full of ghosts, but my sister was of the cool
unimaginative kind and not in the least nervy. She was constantly
reassuring me that everything was all right, but I knew she thought
different, as she never left me alone, and we always went up stairs
together, even in the day time.

Our bedroom looked out on to the river, and the Midland railway ran
between.

A chest of drawers stood in one corner, and one of the drawers was
full of papers, which the landlady informed us were left by a
previous boarder who had occupied our rooms, and promised to return
for them. Several were legal-looking documents, and the rest a mass
of old correspondence.

One day, as I was leaving the bath-room, a gleam of winter sunshine
revealed an opening in the panelling opposite. On looking I saw a
stair and a tray at the bottom with the remains of a meal. I
immediately brought my sister. To say we were amazed is putting it
mildly, after our landlady’s denial of an attic. We felt this had
been the repast of our nightly disturber, but did not mention it to
the landlady.

A few nights after, there was a singular happening. I awoke in the
early hours to find my sister sitting up in bed. I drowsily asked her
if she was ill, but she answered rather abruptly and told me to go to
sleep. I was roused by her manner and sat up trying to peer into her
face. After much questioning, she said: “There has been a man in this
room.” Although I was terrified, I tried to laugh and say “That is
impossible as our door is locked and bolted.”

My thoughts had gone to the occupant of the attic. She said: “This
was no human visitor; he went over to the chest and examined the
papers, and then came and leaned over the bed in a grief-stricken
attitude.” She was so calm whilst telling it and described the man as
very tall and slightly bent, with a sad face and iron-grey hair.

Needless to add, we prayed for daylight and got to school as early as
possible, where our ghost caused great excitement, the other teachers
giving credence to the story, coming from my sister and not my
imaginative self.

On returning to our rooms for lunch, the landlady came in with a
newspaper and pointed out a paragraph giving an account of a man
being cut to pieces on the railway just at the back of the house. She
said, “He had your rooms Miss, and those were his papers.” My sister
said he was a tall man and went on to give the landlady a description
of our midnight visitor. She said: “Why, Miss, did you know him,” and
then my sister told her the story. She said it was an exact likeness
of the man who had always promised to return for the papers. That
explains our ghostly visitor. We made a hasty exit that same day.

Weeks after, we heard of the police raiding the house and capturing
an escaped prisoner. It was the landlady’s husband, and she had had
him in hiding all those weeks. That explained the tread on the stairs
and the raking of the fire when the prisoner escaped from his attic
hiding.


OTHER STORIES OF HAUNTED HOUSES

A MAGISTRATE’S STORY

THIS comes from a Justice of the Peace in the Western Counties:

Retiring to bed one Sunday night to my room situate off a rather long
landing in an old farmhouse near here, I slept from about 10:30 p.m.
to about 1:30 a.m. I was then awakened by hissing noises—very similar
to those made by a flock of geese—coming from the landing. This was
followed by footsteps proceeding to a spare room at the end of the
landing. The footsteps died away, and immediately there commenced a
violent rattling of empty milk pans and other odd things stored in
that room. The footsteps would again be heard, and this was followed
by severe shaking of my own and other bedroom doors in the house. I
sat up in bed and tried to call to the person in the next room, but
found I was unable to do so, apparently from shock. These noises
continued without a break until 4 a.m. Then the footsteps seemed to
go along the landing, down the stairs, across the hall, and through
the front door, which seemed to close with a huge bang. When all
seemed quiet again I gained courage enough to go downstairs, and
found the house in order as at the time of retiring to bed, and,
stranger still, the front door was still bolted and barred as usual
on the inside. The rest of the household had heard exactly the same
sounds as myself. Some who had come to stay in the house for a
holiday hurriedly returned to their homes in Birmingham the same
morning, thus losing their proposed fortnight's stay. I also changed
my residence, and did not sleep in the house again.

Moreover, I knew personally a tenant of the same house who heard
strange noises there; he actually sat up at nights with a friend to
try and find out the cause and went so far as to take up the
flooring. The mysterious noises both in my own case and on three
other occasions within twelve months could never be explained, and
to-day I am unable to offer any solution.

THE MISSING PAPERS

I can vouch (writes a clergyman from Yorkshire) for the truth of the
following story:—

A clergyman of the Church of England was asked to preach at some
special services in the Midlands. He spent the weekend with the local
squire, and when he came to take his departure he said to his host,
“Would you mind letting one of your servants take me round the
house?” “Certainly, I'll show you round myself.” The clergyman was
shown all over the mansion, but was still unsatisfied. “There's still
a room in the house that I have not seen, and I want to see it.” The
squire protested that he had been all over the house, but the
clergyman was obdurate. At length the squire remembered an old disused
attic. “But,” said he, “no one has been there for years.” “I want to
see that attic.” Accordingly the door of this attic was forced open,
and the party made their way in. “Ah, this is the room,” said the
vicar, “and somewhere in this room there is a cupboard—there it is. I
want it opened.”

The cupboard was forced open and a bundle of papers fell at the feet
of the vicar, who picked them up and handed them to the squire. The
squire opened them and uttered a gasp of astonishment. “Why, these
are the deeds of my estate. I have been searching for them for
months. Had I not found them very soon the chances are that I should
have been involved in serious financial loss. But how did you know
they were here?”

“I didn’t know they were here,” said the vicar slowly, “but last
night I was conscious of the presence of someone in my room, and I
became aware that somewhere in this house was a room I wanted to see,
in which was a cupboard I wanted to open.”

THE HAUNTED LANE AT HENDON

THE district between Hendon and Kingsbury is believed to be haunted.

Thirty-five years ago, Welsh Harp Fair was bigger than to-day. On
Bank Holidays I used to visit friends at Neasden, near Wembley, and
we boys used to walk across the fields to Hendon.

The homeward road (Cool Oak-lane), after crossing the Welsh Harp,
wound up a hill between tall dark trees and silent ponds, and past
the blank wall of the grounds surrounding a large house.

Although only five miles from the Marble Arch, it was very lonely:
being cut off from London by the Harp, a sheet of water a mile long.

The people of Neasden believed that the road was haunted. I remember
the boys speaking of actually seeing a tall white ghost. This story
may have been originated in the contrast between the brilliantly
illuminated fair and the dark country road. Of course, the fair was
not always on, so there was some other reason for the superstition.
Anyhow, the neighbourhood is unchanged, and the children of to-day
keep away from the place at nights.

CHESHIRE

SOME years ago, I, with my wife and family, lived in a house which
was undoubtedly haunted. One day, my wife was in the hall with the
baby in her arms when, suddenly, a figure in white appeared, and she
had to draw to one side to allow it to pass her. She saw the same
apparition on several occasions and, later, a nurse, who we had in
the house during my wife's illness, also saw it at different times.
One day she was in the bathroom when the figure appeared, walked
through the room, opened the door, and passed out. On another
occasion she was having breakfast in the nursery adjoining the
bedroom when she saw a figure in white standing in the doorway. She
thought it was my wife who had got out of bed against instructions,
and she immediately went into the room next door to “blow up” the
patient, and found she had never left her bed. Ultimately, I myself
saw it one evening when in the bedroom (the door of which was open)
brushing my hair before the mirror, I suddenly became conscious of
something unusual and saw a figure mount the stairs, pause at the top
and then proceed on its way upwards.

Subsequently, we were very much disturbed by loud hammerings which
always commenced immediately we went to bed at night, continued the
whole night through, but finished always immediately the servant got
up in the morning. These noises became so violent that we finally had
to give up the house. On making inquiries, I found that in the
vicinity of the spot where the house was situated, a young woman,
whose husband was a captain and had lost his life at sea, had lived
and had drowned herself in a pit not very far away, some years
previously.

KENT

SOME years ago, I went home to stay with my parents for holiday. They
had recently moved into an old mansion which had been converted into
a double dwelling-house, both parties using the same staircase and
hall. During my stay, my mother and father took the opportunity to go
away for a week end, leaving me to get meals for a friend who lived
with them, and whose duties as a postal servant often brought him
home in the early hours of the morning. My mother feared, as I was
young, I might not rise in time to get his breakfast. I gave my
promise I would do it, but did not mention how. Accordingly, I sat up
all night busy with fancy work until it was time for me to get ready
a nice hot breakfast. I felt sure if I went to bed at my usual hour I
should not waken. When all was ready—about 2 a.m.— I went into the
hall to listen for any sound of the friend coming. The door of the
room I was in faced the staircase which was very wide, and, right in
front of me, about half way down the staircase, stood a tall
gentleman clad in brown velvet jacket, cord breeches, leggings and
huntsman's cap. Thinking it might be a friend of the people in the
other half of the house, I went in and closed the door, wondering why
he was roaming about the house at that hour. When the friend arrived
for breakfast, I told him what I had seen. He laughed heartily and
then said: “So you have seen him?” I asked where the joke came in, and
he calmly told me he saw the same gentleman repeatedly—he haunted the
house. Needless to say, I did not spend another night in sitting up.

When mother returned and I told her my experience, she was ever so
sorry she had left me; she did not dream I would stay up. She then
told me that night after night she and father were kept awake with
music and dancing somewhere close to their bedroom, and they could
find out nothing to account for it. Some time after, the place was
pulled down and a large jar of golden coins was found embedded in one
of the walls of the bedroom in which my parents slept. This may sound
to some people like a fairy tale, but it is perfectly true, and,
whenever I think of the place, I can see that gentleman who, they
told me, always vanished as soon as you had seen him.

SEAFORD

WE were living, in 1912, in a quiet Midland town, and the household
comprised my husband, small son, maid and myself. The son was
recovering from an attack of croup, and my husband and I took it in
turns to sleep with him in the large bedroom. As the doctor gave a
good report of the invalid, I was looking forward to a good night's
rest in the smaller room. When bedtime came, I opened the window and
door, and, after a short time, was fast asleep. I do not know how
long it was before I became wide awake, feeling that something evil
was hovering around me. There was nothing to be seen, but a bad
influence or presence made itself felt, and I was simply terrified. I
was in a cold sweat of fear, afraid to move lest something should
happen to me. What that something was, I did not know then, neither
do I know now.

My husband slept in the room on the next night, and he said he was
troubled by bad nightmare dreams—but would say nothing more.

When the doctor called, he advised that our son should go into the
smaller room in the daytime for a change, so we soon had him
comfortably settled there in bed. But he wanted amusement, like most
boys do when they are well enough, so we fetched the kitten upstairs
and placed it on the bed, for they were very fond of each other.

Alas! before we could ask ourselves what was the matter, the kitten
seemed to turn pale, and, tucking his tail between his legs, he
absolutely bolted off the bed and rushed headlong downstairs. Of
course, we joked about it to our son, and called to the maid to carry
the kitten and a saucer of milk upstairs again. Again we tried to
tempt the kitten to remain on the bed, but it was impossible. Again
it rushed downstairs as if terrified.

What was to be done? I determined to sleep there at night, as we
arranged and, again, I was awakened by the knowledge that some evil
was present in the room around me. I was still terrified and unable
to move, but was able to pray to God to save me, body, soul and
spirit, and, after about ten minutes’ silent prayer, the influence
or presence, or whatever it was, went, and the air in the room became
light and fresh and buoyant as it used to be. The next day the kitten
remained upstairs and was a joy to the invalid.

Can these experiences be accounted for? I wonder! I was afterwards
told that a crime of continual cruelty had occurred in that room a
few years before. If so, why did the evil influence revisit the room,
and not the perpetrators of the cruelty?

This is a true account of what actually happened in a pretty little
house near ———, in Warwickshire.

CAMBRIDGE

A FEW years ago, when I was studying for my degree in a university
college, my friends and I had a strange experience. The women's
hostel in which we lived, had formerly been a gentleman's house, and
it was rumoured that at times this country squire, who was now dead,
used to revisit his old home. Most of us laughed at this as a “ghost
tale,” but the following incident made even the most sceptical wonder.

One night, my friend and I, who shared a room, went to bed as usual.
After putting out the light, we pulled up the blind. This was a
regular habit of ours, so that we should wake up easily in the
morning. About 2 a.m. I awoke, and found, to my astonishment, the
electric light switched on, and the blind down. I awakened my friend,
and asked her if she was responsible, but she had been asleep the
whole time. Neither of us had ever walked in our sleep, so, feeling
that something uncanny had happened, we got up to investigate.
Listening intently, we heard weird noises on the floor below, a sort
of rattling and scraping. This continued for some time, and then
gradually grew fainter and died away. Feeling very nervous, we sat
waiting for the sounds to return, but nothing more happened, and we
were glad when morning came.

At breakfast, we reported the night’s happenings. When we had
finished, a “fresher” spoke up—one who knew nothing of the hostel
legend. She said that during the night, a gentleman had stood by her
bed and smiled kindly at her. We eagerly questioned her, and she was
able to tell us exactly what he was wearing. When she had finished,
our Warden exclaimed: “Why, that was old Mr. C., the late owner of
this house; the last time I saw him he was dressed like that!”

Was the same old gentleman responsible for turning on our light, and
for the other strange happenings of that night?

READING

WHILST living at a “school house” in a lonely country district, where
my father was a schoolmaster, I was startled one day, when sitting in
my bedroom reading, by someone walking upstairs as though with a
stick. I rushed out and, on finding no one, I ran downstairs to
ascertain whether the rest of the family had heard the same noise.
Everyone paid “No!”

A few months afterwards, my mother happened to be ill, and a maid,
who had lived in the same house when it was occupied by a former
schoolmaster, came to live with us. One afternoon, while the rest of
us were out, mother asked this maid to sit upstairs with her, and,
strange though it may seem, they were both startled by the same noise
as I had heard months before—someone walking upstairs with a stick.
“Oh, it’s quite all right,” said the maid, “that's only Miss S., who
died here a few years ago; she was troubled with fits and always
walked with a stick.”

Funnily enough, this girl said that Miss S. used to place the stick
on the landing on top of the stairs before walking to her bedroom,
which she did (if it really was her “ghost”) on those two occasions.

SUTTON SCOTNEY

MY father made the acquaintance of a retired colonel, who lived six
miles from our home. Sometimes father went over to tea with him. On
one occasion father saw a short thick man pass through the
drawing-room without opening the door. He felt so uncomfortable, that
the colonel asked him what was the matter. Father explained. “Oh,”
said the colonel, “that was only our little pedlar. The legend is
that a pedlar was seen to come to this house, but he never left it.
His pedlary is said to be put behind that fireplace.”

“Why don't you have it opened?” asked my father. “No fear, I don't
want to, the pedlar doesn't worry me.”

COLEFORD

SOME years ago, I was sitting alone in the sitting-room one Sunday
night, after the rest of the family had retired, and I was reading
the case of little “Teddy Slingsby.” The banging of a door which
opened out of the kitchen to the scullery aroused me to investigate,
and to secure it for the night, as always was done, with a bolt. When
I reached the centre of the kitchen I could see that the door was
wide open and, it being a nice moonlight night, I could see the trees
in the garden and the ivy hanging on the old wall. I stepped up to
the door, putting out my hand to close it and, to my horror, I found
that the door was then closed and bolted securely, and my view of the
moonlit garden was at once cut out.

I turned for the staircase and, upon arriving at the top, I entered
my mother's room, too scared and speechless to tell her what I had
seen. I placed my back against the wall for support, and slid down,
sitting on the floor. When I had recovered, I explained to mother
what I had seen. She advised me to get to bed at once, which I did. I
had not buried myself in bed very long before I heard a rustling, as
that of paper, and, looking up, I saw a figure all in white standing
with hand to its head, and elbow against my bedroom door. I could not
utter a word, and I watched the figure completely disappear.

This I told the remainder of the family next morning, and my mother
could then say that she had seen the same thing herself. Also I heard
from the people who had lived in the house previously, that members
of that family had seen the same apparition.

IPSWICH

EIGHT years ago my friend, a dark-haired girl, and I took a job as
servants, at a large mansion near here. To my surprise, I was given a
most beautiful and luxuriantly-appointed bedroom in the front of the
house, my friend sleeping in the servants quarters.

About a week later, I was wakened at two o'clock in the morning by my
bedroom door opening, and a dark-haired woman approached the bed.
Thinking it was my friend, who wanted something, I sat up and asked:
“What do you want, Olive?” The figure turned towards the
dressing-table and disappeared. I ran along to my friend's room. She
was sleeping, and I spent the night with her. The next morning, the
housekeeper informed me that there had been similar complaints from
guests and the room had been closed for years, but they had wondered
if it would be all right after the lapse. Needless to add, I refused
to sleep in the room again.

HULL

SOME years ago, I worked in a drug warehouse with a labourer, Mr. T.
(since dead), who had a supernatural experience. He and his wife and
family moved into a house which had been empty a long time. The
removal took place after he left his day's work, and the beds were
hastily improvised for the night. He and his wife were awakened by a
crash, which sounded just over the bed head. Both simultaneously
asked: “Did you hear that noise?” Mr. T. arose next morning to go
downstairs to make the fire, and, from the top of the stairs, saw the
figure of a woman sitting on the bottom step nursing a child. The
apparition faded away as he reached the bottom. He dared not mention
it to his wife, but he found another residence, and left the house
the same week. Subsequent inquiries revealed the fact that there had
been a murder committed in the house.

READING

DURING the war I went to live for a time with some relatives in the
suburbs of a large city in the Midlands. One Sunday night, as I lay
awake longing for sleep which would not come, I was startled by a
strange noise close beside my bed, like the deep, heavy breathing of
a very large dog, but much louder than anything of the kind I had
ever heard before. Then I felt the weight of a very heavy hand or paw
across my right foot. The moments seemed like hours and I became
paralysed with terror and unable to move or make a sound. I think,
eventually, I became unconscious. In the morning I told a member of
the family of my horrible experience and asked her not to mention it,
as I did not wish to frighten the young people in the house.

After I had been away some months, I received a letter from the
relative to whom I had told this, saying that her sister had been
frightened by the same noise in this bedroom, and her husband had
declared there was someone in the room. They got up and searched the
room but found nothing.

Can anyone give a solution of these strange noises? I should be glad
to have it explained. Do I believe in ghosts? No! Not until I see
one, which I have no desire to do.

COWES

SOME years ago, some cousins of mine, who lived in an old house at
Reading, frequently saw a little old lady who used to come and sit in
one of the bedrooms at night. They were so used to seeing her that
they lost their fear. Later, the house was pulled down, and a box
containing a skeleton was discovered. They made inquiries and found
that, years before they lived there, a murder had been committed. An
old uncle of mine, who was a missionary, and who sometimes paid my
cousins a visit, always saw the old lady when he slept there.

MARKYATE

MY husband was a man who would laugh if you talked of ghosts, saying
he didn't believe there were such things. However, he had to go away
to work five years ago, and he and a mate got lodgings with an old
lady whose mother, at the age of ninety, died not long before. The
first night his mate had plenty to drink so slept soundly. My
husband, however, being in a strange place, couldn't sleep. During
the night the clothes were lifted off his feet and strange knockings
went around the bed. He lit the candle, but found nothing. In the
morning he told his mate, and the next night his mate woke him and
said: “Hill, light the candle; this place is haunted!” They couldn't
sleep for the tugging at the clothes and the knocking around the bed.
They told their experience to a man from the village who was working
with them, and he said the old lady was supposed to have left money
in the bed. They stayed on for the week, and each night the same
thing occurred. On the Saturday morning they stripped the bed and made
a thorough search, but found nothing. When my husband returned home he
looked like a man who had had a severe illness. He told us the story;
now he believes in ghosts.

BOSCOMBE

IN the wartime I spent a holiday in a Dorset village, and the first
night, whilst sleeping in a bedroom in a lonely cottage, I was
awakened by the door noiselessly opening, and the figure of a man
dressed in white garments passing through the room and talking softly
to himself. There was only a woman in the cottage and she was fast
asleep.

A year after, I read in some old memoirs of two of Nelson's
lieutenants who, whilst ashore at Weymouth, met two women and
accompanied them home. During supper they quarrelled, and one woman
threw a flat-iron at Lieutenant ——— and killed him. His companion was
horrified and, urging the women to be silent, he took the body on his
horse to a lonely spot in Dorset, and buried it and rejoined his ship.

The spot where the lieutenant was buried was the spot on which stands
the cottage in which I had this strange experience.

CROYDON

SOME years ago, whilst spending a night in an old inn, I was awakened
by the disagreeable impression that I was not alone. To my amazement,
at the foot of my bed (an old-fashioned four-poster), stood a girl,
with a baby in her outstretched arms. Her eyes were fixed imploringly
on mine, as though begging for help or protection. I noticed that she
had a mob cap on her head, and a quaint wrapper of some fashion
unknown to me.

I begged her to tell me what I could do for her, but she made no
reply, and, a moment later, she had disappeared.

I rose at once and searched the room. Door and windows were securely
fastened, and I could find no trace of my mysterious visitor.
Convinced at last that I had been dreaming, I returned to bed.
Presently, the woman with her baby reappeared, this time at the side
of the bed! She spoke no word, but, with the same expression of
anguish, gazed imploringly at me. Then she vanished. When for the
third time, I became aware of her presence beside my pillow, I was
seized with terror and called loudly for help. Then I must have
fainted for, when I came to myself, it was broad daylight. When
questioned, my hostess could give me no explanation. She admitted,
however, that she had heard my cries, but that neither she nor her
servants dared enter the chamber after nightfall. The room was
supposed to be haunted, and other visitors had seen the woman and her
baby as described by me. The inn has since been pulled down and a
hostel erected in its place.

LEVERSHULME

MY father became tenant of the Manor House in a village in the
Midlands and moved in with mother and six children, five girls
(including me) and one boy. I was then twelve years old. Many were the
warnings kindly given to us by the villagers that the house was
haunted, but, being a merry family, and father and brother keen on
shooting, they laughingly warned off any intruders from outside. We
younger were not so dubious. The rooms were large and opened off long
passages and had an eerie effect, especially at night.

The first I remember of anything disturbing was when my brother
injured his foot and was laid up for a time. My eldest sister used to
attend to him, and was surprised one morning, when she took his
breakfast, by him asking why she came into his room during the night
without speaking. She questioned him, and he told her someone came
into his room and leaned over him as if to see if he was asleep, and,
when he spoke, and got no answer, he felt to see if his watch was
there, thinking it was someone after valuables. As he raised himself,
the visitor disappeared. This happened several nights in succession.
On another occasion, my mother was ill and, during the night, called
to my sisters to take down the dog, which she said had jumped on her
bed. They, too, could not explain what had happened, as the dog was
peacefully sleeping downstairs and never was allowed upstairs. Father
also had his share, for, while sitting reading one night, after
everyone else had retired, and all doors locked and bolted, he was
suddenly aroused from his book by hearing footsteps. Then the door at
the end of a long passage was unlocked, and there came a gust of wind
as if it was opened. The door closed, and was bolted again, and
footsteps came towards the room. He asked who was there and,
receiving no reply, went to investigate, but nothing was to be seen,
and the door was still locked and bolted.

Father told the landlord of the experience and the latter stated he
had the same thing happen when living there and could offer no
explanation. I can well remember my feelings of relief when we
removed to another house in a neighbouring village. That, too, had
the reputation of being haunted, but, although we lived there some
years, nothing happened to verify the statement.

WIDNES

JUST before the war I thought I would remove to a house I noticed had
been vacant for a long period. On interviewing the landlord of the
house, I was informed I could have the tenancy of the house two
shillings per week cheaper than other tenants paid for houses in the
same row. He would offer no explanation for this generous act. I,
accordingly, moved into the house the same day. Retiring to bed the
first night, I awoke about 12:30 a.m. to find standing in the
moonlight that was streaming through the window, a man who I knew,
but had not heard of for years. He was bleeding from a deep wound in
the neck that had obviously been inflicted by a blood-stained carving
knife he held in his right hand. Too horrified to utter a sound, I
watched him draw the knife slowly across his throat, inflicting
another wound, while he stared me straight in the eyes. After a low
moan, he disappeared.

The next night, about the same time, I was awakened by hearing
someone moaning in the room. This moaning was heard by the remainder
of my family.

Determined to find out the cause of these happenings, I asked the
next-door neighbour if he could explain them. “Don't you know?” he
asked. “Jack” (mentioning the man I had seen) “committed suicide in
your house. The landlord lets it cheaper than the others, but nobody
will stay in it!”

Needless to say, I did not stay. I moved back to my old home, the
same day. At the present time, although there is a shortage of
houses, you can often see in the window of this house, the sign “To
Let.”

TEMPLECOMBE

WHILST engaged in domestic service at a large county house on the
Dorset border, a young scullery-maid, who was ill, told us the lady
had been to see her, but she was, somehow, afraid of her, and she did
not speak. We other three who were there thought this odd, and I
asked what was she dressed in. The girl replied black, and she had
shiny things in her hair and round her neck. I had happened to meet
the lady in the corridor and she was wearing a blue tea gown, so we
persuaded her she had been dreaming. In course of time, I met an old
lady of eighty-five, who had lived in the house in the days of her
youth. She asked me had I seen the ghost. I said no, and asked what
it was like. She replied: “A lady in black with lots of diamonds on;
she used to walk right the length of the first floor. The butler used
to try to catch her, but never could.”

It was part of my duty every evening during the two years I lived
there to shut shutters and fix bells on all the windows on this
particular floor, yet I never saw anything, whereas the poor girl I
have mentioned was in the house only three weeks and was so
frightened.

SOUTH WALES

SOME years ago I was living in a small mining village in South Wales.
Being a widow with a family, I was glad to let a married daughter and
her husband rent part of the house. When I first went to live in that
particular house the neighbours told me that a previous tenant, an
old man who lived alone, was one morning found dead, sitting in a
chair. I was, however, not at all superstitious, so thought no more
about it.

We had got quite settled in our house, when, one night, on retiring
to bed, we heard footsteps coming upstairs and stop at my bedroom
door.

My daughter, aged thirteen years, was sleeping with me at the time,
and, although we had been in bed some time, we were neither of us
asleep, and lay waiting to see our door open, thinking it was either
my married daughter or her husband, who were sleeping in the room
below us. After several minutes had passed, we heard the same
footsteps going downstairs, and, when they reached the bottom, we
heard the catch of the bedroom door below, as if someone had passed
in and closed the door. Judge of my surprise to find next morning
that no one had been upstairs. But my daughter told me that, twice
her bedroom door opened and her husband got out of bed and latched it
again. Then they heard footsteps coming downstairs and, for the third
time the door opened. This time my son-in-law got a light and went on
a voyage of discovery, but could see no one. We agreed not to say
anything about this in front of the younger children for fear of
frightening them.

A day or so after, I was talking to a neighbour about some needlework
she wished me to do for her. My little girl, aged eight years, was
sitting in the kitchen with me, when, all at once, she gave one
scream and rushed over to me, looking simply awful. When I could get
the child calm enough to question her, she said a great white thing
had sprung over the stairs banisters, and had nearly touched her. We
hunted all over the house, but could not find anything to account for
the apparition, which, she said, went into the coal place under the
stairs. I tried to console her by saying it was a white cat that had
got in, but she would not have this, as she said it was “heaps too big
for a cat.”

The strange part about it was neither my neighbour nor myself had
seen anything. We did not stay long in that house.

The two girls are women now, but they often talk about this, and
wonder what it meant.

CLAPHAM

THERE is a certain house in ——— which is really haunted, although few
people know it. This house belonged to a lady I used to know. I was
very young then, and was able to run about in the pitch darkness with
no childish fears whatever; yet, every time I entered this house, I
always grew afraid. Of what I do not know; my mother also experienced
this awful fear.

This lady had a brother who used to sleep in the attic. One night he
awoke, and, to his horror, he beheld an old and ugly woman standing
by his bed. I say “standing,” but he could see her only from the waist
upwards. She was staring at him with an evil expression on her face.
As he looked at her she gradually faded away. He said that the room
was dark, but a light seemed to come from her. Her eyes were black
and glittering; these were the last to fade. This man confessed that
he was terrified and he spent the rest of the night under the bed
clothes. He said that noises were heard in the unoccupied rooms, like
people fighting.

This house, to the best of my knowledge is unoccupied now.

BARROW-IN-FURNESS

IN the village where I was born, at a point where four crossroads
met, stood a house where lived an aged couple. One night the old man
was found lying dead on the ground, having fallen from the bedroom
window; a short time after, the old lady died.

The house was then rented by an elderly man with his family. These
people could not sleep at night because of strange noises which
resembled furniture being pushed about. The father declared a ghost
entered his bedroom, took money from his pockets, counted it, and
laid it on the dressing-table. The family became so frightened they
quitted the house, and it was then let to a maiden lady.

One night the friends of this lady, who lived at a farm a mile away,
were awakened by her knocking at their door. She was barefooted and
in her nightdress. She was in an exhausted condition, and said
somebody was in her house moving the furniture about.

She never returned to the house and died shortly after from shock, it
was said.

No one could ever account for the ghostly visitor or the noises, and,
as long as I remained in the village, the house stood empty and was
always said to be “haunted.”

BARNES

ABOUT twenty years ago, I was living with my husband and children in
Barnes. My daughter was studying for an examination and frequently
sat up till one or two o'clock working. Sometimes we heard her
calling out, and she complained of being visited by a middle-aged
lady dressed in grey.

One night we had all gone to bed, when I heard her calling in great
distress. I made up my mind to go and sleep with her, thinking she was
over-wrought by her studies. I had hardly laid down beside her when
the door opened and a lady in grey came slowly in. I felt myself
shaking, and my daughter called out: “What is the matter, mother? You
are trembling.” I was anxious to hide the fact that I saw anything,
and remained silent. “Mother, there she goes,” she called out, and I
saw the apparition disappear through the wall.

Afterwards, I heard from a woman who had been servant in the house
before we bought it, that a lady answering to my description of our
visitor had died in that room.

HANDSWORTH

SOME twenty years ago, my mother, sister, brother and self, went to
stay with friends at an Essex manor house. In the afternoon our host
took the horse and trap to stay the night at an outlying town in
order to be ready for the horse fair next day. My brother and I were
left in bed with a light. After a time the door opened and a big man
stood there and nodded to us. In the dim light, we, thinking by his
size he was our host, called out “Goodnight, Mr. B.” He then closed
the door. My mother and sister went to bed, bolting their door.
During the night my mother heard shuffling in the corridor, extra
loud where a tall man would have to stoop. Then her door was tried
and, whoever it was, continued into the next bedroom, which was our
hostess’s. In the morning my mother's door was open. On recounting
our experiences over breakfast, one of our host’s sons blurted out
“Why, it's only old R.'s ghost walking again; they are doing his grave
up.” Our host had not been home at all that night.

My mother and sister returned home that day, but we stayed on. We
were only about nine or ten years old. When we saw the grave it had a
tarpaulin cover over it and was being done up. R. had committed
suicide. Owing to the noises in the house and the stories told about
it, our friends had been able to get the place at a reduced rent. All
the above facts can be verified and vouched for.

BURTON LATIMER

AS a young married woman, I went from a large town to live in a small
village in Buckinghamshire where my husband had got work. We thought
we were very lucky to get a nice old-fashioned house that stood by
itself in a lane. It seems that the house had been empty some time. I
made many friends, but none ever told me the house had a bad name, or
anything about it. Did I believe in ghosts? Certainly not! But, after
six months in that uncanny house, I would believe anything. The first
signs in this peculiar house began when we had been there about a
month. Chairs were scraped across the floor in the small kitchen
(always in the evening), sounds of crockery smashing, bumps overhead,
and doors banging. My two small children were mysteriously moved from
one bed to another nightly for about a fortnight. At first we were not
alarmed and tried hard to find out who was playing a game with us.
None of the villagers would come near the house because they said it
was haunted. I never saw anything, but my husband did, and it so got
on his nerves that he would not stay in the house by himself.

The house was supposed to be haunted by a tall lady in rustling silk.
I certainly heard the rustle and the moaning, but I never saw the
lady. Anyhow, she certainly made us as restless as she was herself.
Later on, my husband got work away, only coming home for week-ends,
for we were very anxious to get away from the house and to be
peaceful again. I understand that no one would take the old house
after we left it, and it was pulled down and rebuilt. I wonder if
that laid the ghost? I could never understand what caused the trouble
there, but after that experience, do I believe in ghosts? Yes, I
think so!

A MILITARY MAN

SOME years ago I was nursing an old lady and went with her to stay at
her brother's—an old country manor house. One night the maids forgot
to bring the milk my patient always had, so, about 2:00 a.m., I set
out for the larder to fetch it. Our room opened into a long corridor
which had several large windows. It was a moonlight night. I knew
everyone had long since gone to bed so was very surprised to see
someone coming to meet me. But my surprise turned to horror when I
saw that it was no member of the household, but the figure of a very
tall dark man in the military uniform of over a century ago. He seemed
to glide, not walk. I waited until the figure was within a few feet of
me and then I fled back to my patient. She begged me to say nothing of
what I had seen, as the family already found it difficult to keep
maids, owing to the frequent occurrence of strange noises as if the
house was being ransacked and all the china smashed. A few years
after my experience the property was sold as the owners could stand no
more of the ghostly racket, and it has constantly changed tenants
since.

“YOU ARE IN MY BED”

THIS may interest your readers. It happened to me in London in the
year 1887. On going to live in London, not far from Kilburn, with
people who were quite strangers to me, I had the following strange
experience during my first night. I retired just after ten and was
soon sound asleep, when a voice beside the bed said, "You are in my
bed," and repeated it several times. I looked both sides of the bed,
but could see nothing, but, over by the dressing table, I saw a young
man of about twenty-six. He was wearing a white shirt, braces and grey
striped trousers and his black hair showed plainly against a very
white face.

Next morning I told of what I had seen and was informed that a young
man such as I described was the previous occupier of the room and had
died there only a few weeks earlier.

THE WOMAN IN BROWN

ABOUT twenty-five years ago Mr. and Mrs. D. took up their residence
in a house in a small Oxfordshire village. Previous to their arrival
Mrs. D. had not seen the house nor had she heard anything to suggest
that the house was haunted.

On the evening of their arrival Mr. D. went to the village whilst
Mrs. D. arranged small articles of furniture. It was twilight but she
could see distinctly and, entering the house by the back door, was
astonished to notice a woman standing in the kitchen. She, naturally,
uttered an exclamation of surprise, and the figure faded away. An
examination of all rooms, which she immediately undertook, showed
that no person was concealed in them. Mrs. D. had no feelings of
fear, but the personal appearance and costume of the figure impressed
her vividly and became fixed in her memory. The figure was that of a
tall woman, dressed entirely in brown. She had grey hair and a rather
thin face on which melancholy was expressed.

Later, the D's learned it was rumoured that their new residence was
haunted, one villager assuring them he would not care to live there.
Mrs. D. gained some significant information regarding a married
couple who had occupied the house previous to the tenants whom the
D's succeeded. The wife had died there, having been badly treated,
according to all accounts, by the husband. Mrs. D. asked for a
description of the dead woman. This tallied with the apparition which
she had seen! The apparition did not appear again, but Mrs. D. said
she often felt the presence of another woman in the house when alone.

One day, years later, liking such exercise, Mrs. D. sawed up an elm
bough, lopped from an overhanging tree. Succeeding sections showed a
pattern; in the annular rings there was discernible the figure of the
woman in brown. This was corroborated by others.

The question arises, ‘Did the thoughts of the woman in brown
continue, after bodily death, to inhabit the spot where she had been
so unhappy, impressing themselves, not only on another's mind but on
the internal structure of the tree near by?’

“IS THAT YOU, TOM?”

Many years ago, I, accompanied by my infant son, went to spend a few
days at my brother's home—a lonely farm on the Derbyshire moors.

My brother was away when I arrived, and was not expected back until
next day. During the night, I was awakened by the feeling that someone
was leaning over me as I lay in bed. Looking up, I saw a dark shadowy
form and, thinking that my brother had returned sooner than expected,
and had come in to see me, I put out my hand saying, “Is that you,
Tom?” There was no answer, and the shadow faded. I sat up in bed,
wondering if it was my imagination, then, taking a look at my
sleeping son, I composed myself for sleep again.

Next morning, I asked my sister-in-law if my brother had returned.
Receiving a negative reply, I related the incident of the night. My
sister-in-law said, “Oh, Anne! have you seen it also?” Then she told
me that whenever my brother was away for the night she always prayed
that she might sleep soundly and not be disturbed by the shadow that
she had so often seen leaning over her bed—sometimes at the foot and
sometimes at the side of the bed. Shortly after my visit, my brother
was visited by relatives of his wife from Southport—people whom I did
not know—and, one morning, they burst into the kitchen asking if the
house was haunted and declaring that a big dark shadow had been in
their room during the night. They made quite a joke of it.

Now, as I am a very sceptical person, in spite of my own experience,
I asked my cousin, from whom my brother rented the house, and who had
lived there, if he had seen anything. He did not want to say he had,
but, when pressed, admitted that both he and his mother and father
knew about the manifestations. He told me that one night, sitting up
to attend to a sick cow, he had locked the kitchen door and was
sitting by the fire, when, suddenly, the door was flung open and a
tall man walked into the kitchen, passed through the sitting-room,
and clanked upstairs. (The farmhouse has only one doorway which opens
directly into the kitchen.) My uncle, who was in bed, called out, “Is
that you, Walter?” But it wasn't Walter; he was still sitting by the
fire spellbound and gazing at the still locked door. There was no one
upstairs but the family in bed. I afterwards asked my aunt what she
made of it. She was a deeply religious woman, and, without
hesitation, she simply said, “Aye, Anne, I’ve seen it many a time, but
I don't mind, it's harmless enough.”

I often wonder, can we all have imagined it? I knew nothing about it
till I went there—nor did the Southport visitors; and my relatives
were very averse to talking about the visitations.

“OUR GHOST”

GHOSTS! Of course there are ghosts, and we should feel lost if our
ghost did not walk about at times. We have lived in this house for
eighteen years and it was a bit uncanny at first to hear footsteps
come down the stairs, then see the handle of the door turn. We would
look up expecting to see someone, and so we christened the occurrence
as “Our Ghost.” Still, I must say there is something in the house. Our
dog will be asleep on the rug, and, all at once, will get up and stare
at the door for some time and then whine. There are times when the cat
fights shy of the passage. It is only a few months ago that we heard
someone (or something) at midnight move about downstairs and then we
heard the front door bang. We went down to investigate and then
remembered “Our Ghost.” This is after a life of eighteen years in the
same house. Of course, there are ghosts.

A MAN WITH AN AXE

I LIVE in an ordinary little suburban house—one of a row of “boxes
with lids on”—the approach to the upper storey being by a flight of
twelve stairs and another flight of four stairs set at right angles
to the first, a small bedroom being in the angle formed by the
junction of the two. One night some six months ago, when passing this
bedroom in the dark, I caught a momentary glimpse of the form of a
man holding an axe in his right hand, his face bearing a highly
malevolent expression. Not being at that time of a nervous
disposition I dismissed the whole thing as imagination, but, on three
separate occasions since, I have seen the same form, and always when
passing that door in the dark I have the impression of having
received a glancing blow on head and shoulder. Now the sequel to this
is strange. I have ascertained that some years ago the then tenant of
the house attacked his wife with an axe as she was descending the
stairs, and she died from her injuries; he was confined in an asylum,
where he died six months ago. The name of the road was then ——— Road;
in consequence of the tragedy it was changed (as was then the common
practice) to the more pretentious ——— Avenue, and only the older
residents of the district recollect anything of the case. Can any of
your readers tell me how to exorcise this “ghost,” for if it troubles
me much more I shall be a fitting candidate for the institution where
my ghostly friend ended his days.

SEEN IN THE MIRROR

A FEW years ago, I was sitting waiting for my husband to come home. It
was nearly midnight and everything was quiet. I looked up to the
mirror and saw an old grey-headed lady walking slowly across the room,
from the middle door to the back door. When I turned to look at her
she had gone. I sat a few minutes, dumbfounded, looking at the
mirror, and she came again. This she repeated three times and then
went for good. We could never keep a door locked at night. The doors
have been locked and bolted and, then, in the morning have been found
undone. People declared the house was haunted. After we left it no one
would live in it, so it was pulled down.

A TRAGEDY RE-ENACTED

I AM not superstitious neither do I believe in ghosts, but the
following tale may interest some of your readers.

Some time ago I used to stay at an old rectory in a Kentish village.
The rectory stood in a beautiful garden joining the churchyard, and
was approached by a carriage drive bordered by thick hedges and
trees. The house was low, gloomy-looking and rambling, containing many
rooms and winding passages and had three staircases, but it had been
somewhat modernised. One room was supposed to be haunted.

I once slept in this room, but the ghost did not visit me; neither did
I see or hear anything unusual. The room was a large one with two
windows overlooking the carriage drive. A niece of the rector came on
a visit and was given as a bedroom the haunted chamber. It was early
autumn, a warm, beautiful moonlight night, not a leaf moving. The
rector's niece had gone to her room, but wishing to finish a book, sat
reading between the two open windows. Just as the church clock struck
twelve, the door (which was fastened) opened. There was a sound of a
scuffle, a rush past, a swish of skirts, a loud groan which seemed to
end at the window, and a deep thud as if a heavy body had fallen. The
window curtains, which were thick and heavy, blew straight out into
the room.

At breakfast next day, the lady related her experience and was told
she had seen, or rather heard the ghost. Other members of the family
had had a similar experience. The story goes:

Many years ago a certain rector murdered his wife at midnight in this
room, and threw the body out of the window.

At certain periods the lady's ghost is supposed to visit the scene of
the murder.

A HARMLESS APPARITION

MANY years ago one of my workmates went to live in a house not more
than five minutes walk from my address. One night, whilst he and his
wife were sitting in the house, they noticed a hand draw aside the
curtain, which hung at the middle door—the door near the pantry—and
then there stood revealed to them an old lady who looked at them for a
minute or so and vanished. One day they invited some of their
relations to tea. After they had had the meal, a young man of the
party got up from his chair and stood with his back to the fire-place,
while the other members of the party were still sitting around the
table talking. All at once, they noticed the hair on the young man’s
head stand straight up, and there was a horror-stricken look on his
face. He couldn't speak. He was looking past the table to the kitchen
door. Every member of the party turned to look in that direction, and
there stood the old lady revealed to all. My friend inquired of the
neighbours as to who had lived in the house previous to him taking
possession. They told him a young woman who was living in the next
street. He went to see her and told her about the old lady whom he
described. The young woman told him that it was her mother who had
died in that house. He told the landlord about it, saying that the old
lady seemed to come out of the pantry.

The landlord sent workmen who took up the flags in the pantry, and
then replaced them. Since that was done the old lady has never
reappeared. I asked my friends if they were not afraid of living in
the house, but they both answered, “No, the old lady seemed harmless
enough.” They are still living in the same house.

EVEN THE LANDLORD LEFT

I AM not interested in ghosts as a rule, but I was rather struck by
the story of the brown lady of Raynham Hall. While reading of it, this
incident came to my mind and it is just as true as uncanny.

When I was eleven years old we lived in Yorkshire and I was one of a
large family. We had occasion to remove to a more convenient house.
And as houses were very bad to get at that time, we thought we were
very fortunate in securing a nice convenient place, without much
trouble.

Strange to say, we had not lived in the house many weeks when, on
returning home from school one day, I was amazed to find my mother
quite prostrate on the couch. After I had attended to mother, she
requested me to go upstairs and have a look round the rooms as she
thought something had fallen out of place. Thinking nothing of it, I
immediately went and examined all the rooms, but everything was in
order. I was at a loss to understand mother's nervous breakdown.

When father and the rest of the family came in from business, mother
told us that, after dinner, she had just got on the couch for a rest
when she heard a terrific crash just as though the roof had fallen
in. When she had recovered from the shock, she went out into the
garden to look and make sure the roof had not collapsed. All was in
order. A neighbour, seeing mother was ill, came to her assistance. We
came to the conclusion that mother's nerves were weak and we tried to
soothe her. But, strange to say, we were all sitting round the fire
after supper, before going to bed, when we were all startled by an
awful crashing noise. We were all speechless for a few minutes, the
shock was so great. Then my father and brothers went and searched the
place. After that the knockings and noises were so frequent that
mother’s health broke down and we had to move.

Some weeks after, my father came in touch with the lady who had
previously lived in the house, and this is the story she told:

The lady's husband worked night duty. One night her little girl,
two-and-a-half years old, woke her up and said: “Look, mum! there is
a man coming in our bedroom.” There, on the landing, the mother saw an
old man coming towards the bedroom door. She was unable to move for
some time, but, after a while, got up and lit the gas. Then, there was
nothing to be seen. But the apparition appeared again later, and the
noises were so unnerving that they had to leave the house. The story
of the haunting was noised about so much that the house was rebuilt,
and the landlord went to live there. Strange to say, he soon left the
place. After all, one is bound to admit there must be something
behind all this. Even to this day I shudder when I think of this
incident.

TWO CURIOUS INCIDENTS

IT has always seemed to me that authentic psychic happenings are
singularly inconsequent and bear no relation to their witnesses—except
in the case of appearances of dead relatives. Two such irrelevant
occurrences stand out in my memory.

Many years ago, when I was a young girl, I stayed in a large country
house. This house was rented by my friends, and they knew no legends
connected with it. It was symmetrical in design, but one of the
windows on one side was blocked up, nor could any door be found by
which one could enter the room corresponding to the blocked window.

My bedroom was underneath this mysterious chamber. For some nights
nothing happened, but one evening just after the clock had struck
twelve, a most extraordinary noise took place above my head. I can
only compare it to the noise of sacks of coals being emptied. I sat
up in bed terrified, too frightened to roam the large house by myself
so late, and too terrified even to scream. The noise continued. Every
minute I expected the ceiling to open and some spectre to alight on
me. After what appeared to me an interminable time, the noise ceased
and the clock struck one, so it had really lasted only an hour. Though
I stayed on for some time longer, I never heard the sound again.

My other experience has a tinge of romance.

In the village where I lived there was a picturesque old farmhouse
that legend said was a gift to Nell Gwynne by her royal lover. Whether
there was any truth in this I cannot say, but it was said that on wet
nights Nell haunted the lane passing her old dwelling place, and one
could hear her high heels tapping behind one as one passed that way.

One evening I was dining with friends, and the son of the house walked
home with me. He was a prosaic youth and believed in nothing he could
not see. The night was wet and foggy. As we passed the haunted spot we
both plainly heard the tap tap of the high heels belonging to the fair
and frail lady.

He stopped and lit matches but nothing was to be seen and the
footsteps stopped. As we went on the pursuing steps began again and
continued till the road turned into another lane.

AN AWFUL EXPERIENCE

SOME years ago some new houses were being built near Durham, and, on
completion, one of them was taken by a bachelor gentleman, who, apart
from his sister going in daily to do his cooking, etc., lived quite
alone. The night in question, I was sleeping in the next house when
suddenly I was aroused by a loud hammering as though a bedstead was
being taken down. It continued for some minutes, alternately stopping
a second, and then going on again. I strained my ears to listen, until
it ceased, then I heard the gentleman go downstairs and out into the
street, closing the door behind him.

Next morning, I was surprised to see him removing his goods presumably
to his sister's house. Seeing me standing at the door, he said, “Did
you hear any noise from my bedroom last night?” I said, “Yes. Whatever
were you doing?” He replied, “It was the most awful experience I've
ever had, and I wouldn't stay there another night, so I’m moving out
to-day.” “Whatever was the hammering?” I asked, and he told me that he
had fallen asleep when he suddenly became conscious of some apparition
in the room, although it was dark. Then blow after blow was made upon
the bottom of the iron bed rail (just as I had heard it) and the bed
shook each time it was battered. Thoroughly scared, he lay speechless,
unable to move until the spectre vanished; then he got a light,
slipped into his things and ran downstairs and out of the house to his
sister's. On examination, no marks were found on the bedstead, and his
story was confirmed, because I had heard the sounds next door, but no
discovery was ever made regarding this unwelcome visitor.

ON THE YORKSHIRE MOORS

THE following is an accurate account of what occurred in a lonely
house at a place called ... in Yorkshire on the moors and it goes to
prove that ghosts do exist. My husband, when a boy, lived with his
parents in this house which was on a hill surrounded by woods. They
were warned before going there that the house was haunted, but being
Christian people, laughed at the idea. However, they had not long to
wait before strange things began to happen. Often when lying in bed
they were awakened by hearing fearful noises downstairs, just as if
someone was smashing all the china and furniture. On investigation,
everything was found all right, but, while they were downstairs, the
same noises took place upstairs. One evening when they were all
sitting round the fire there came such a bang at the stair door as if
someone was beating it down. They quite expected to see the door
splintered, but it burst open intact and some vision flitted through
the room. The dogs, usually afraid of nothing, crouched down in fear,
and the girls fainted with fright. There were other similar instances
which I could quote. Things got so bad the family were compelled to
leave the house and I understand no one has lived there since.

FOOTSTEPS ON THE STAIRS

MY late husband and I took a small semi-detached house in
Hertfordshire in 1911. One night in early autumn, we retired about
10:15, as usual, and slept soundly until 1:30, when we were both
awakened by the sound of footsteps coming upstairs. My husband
immediately switched on the light and we both sat up in bed,
breathlessly watching the bedroom door which was fastened. The
footsteps came nearer, a loose board on the landing creaked, and the
door slowly opened. To our great surprise, no one entered. The door
remained open, and the footsteps slowly retreated. My husband got up
and searched all over the house and garden, but could find no trace
of our visitor. So certain were we of someone coming in, that, in a
sense, we should have been more satisfied had someone appeared,
preferring to deal with the real, rather than the unreal. Both of us
had splendid nerves, but were obliged to confess the occurrence left
us very shaky. Shortly after, we were obliged to give up the house—a
move which led to a series of misfortunes which resulted in the death
of my husband three years ago.

IN DOUBT

IF anyone had asked me seven years ago the question “Do you believe in
ghosts and haunted houses?” my answer would have been a very decided
“No.” But now I don't know. For several years I have been living in a
very old-fashioned cottage in a country village. Soon after settling
here, both I and my husband were awakened night after night by strange
noises, bumps as of something falling, sounds as of water dripping,
and, most strange of all, every night at about the same time the latch
of our stair-door would drop with a loud click as if someone had
opened it hurriedly. Although we used to come down and search,
everything was as usual, and nothing we could think of accounted for
the sounds. Each night, on retiring, I would firmly shut the
stair-door, but still the latch would be heard to drop, and several
nights, while having a light burning (through having to tend a small
baby) I have seen a shadow pass through the room and down the stairs.
Then would come the dropping of the latch, but, however quickly I
turned, or however long I watched, nothing appeared again the same
night. We would gladly have moved, but, owing to the shortage of
houses, it was impossible, and, in time, the sounds no longer
startled us; we had to get used to them. Now, if we are awakened
suddenly, my husband says, “It's only the ghost,” and we go to sleep
again. But twice just lately I have lain awake and heard the latch
drop as before and at the same time.

The other day my husband was talking to a very old inhabitant of our
village—a man aged seventy-eight—who, upon hearing where we lived
said, “Lor', my boy, that's the house my father used to live in, where
the queer rows was, d'ye ever hear any now?”

What is the answer to the riddle of this old cottage, I wonder, ghosts
or some other explanation? Anyhow I do know that during the next few
months we shall gladly say “good-bye” to it and take possession of a
new home, where I hope there will be nothing uncanny.

A MIDNIGHT INTERRUPTION

WHEN my aunt and I first came to reside in this town we rented for a
short time a self-contained, furnished flat in one of the old houses
here—one that had no doubt seen better days.

Our flat was the top one, having only unfurnished, and dilapidated
attics above it, and was completely cut off from the lower tenants.

We used the attics as lumber rooms and, strangely enough, both of us
felt an inexplicable feeling of horror when in them even in broad
daylight.

My aunt and I occupied separate bedrooms, but always slept with our
doors slightly ajar.

One night (it was somewhere about midnight) I was awakened by my aunt
calling me. I ran into her room, which was next to mine, and found her
sitting up in bed in terror, declaring that she had seen a dark figure
standing by the bedside looking down at her. She had spoken, thinking
that I had come to her for some reason, and had been horrified to find
the figure fade away, and that she had to call me several times to
awaken me from sleep in the other room. We could find no way to
account for this, and next day were inclined to laugh at ourselves for
our nervous terror. But, a few weeks after, I had a similar
experience.

I was doing a piece of embroidery work as a gift for my aunt and, not
wishing her to see it, and being rather pushed for time, after
retiring to bed one night I re-lit my candle and sat up to continue my
sewing. It was just about midnight and, after stitching away for a few
minutes, I heard as I thought, my aunt moving in her room, come out
of the door and along the passage. My bed was facing away from the
door, but I turned my head and saw the door being pushed open. I then
blew out the candle, not wishing her to see what I was doing. I heard
her come in and stand behind me, and I said: “What's the matter? Is
anything wrong?” On getting no reply, I again lit my candle and found
no one in the room and everything silent. I went into my aunt’s room
to find her fast asleep in bed.

Not being easily frightened, I started to work again the following
night, but exactly the same thing occurred, and when, on the third
night, this was again repeated, I made no further attempts at midnight
sewing.

We could find no explanation whatever, and as it was during very calm
weather, we could not attribute anything to the wind.

The tenants of the lower flats had no such experiences, but I feel
sure that there was some strange and uncanny influence that proceeded
from those attics and on occasion found their way into our flat.
Fortunately we had taken the rooms for only a short time, and were
glad to move to a different part of the town. We have never since
experienced such a thing.

A HOUSE “TO LET”

WHEN I was a small child, my mother took a house near ———. As she
could never sleep in a strange house for some days, she sat up in bed
reading a novel. Suddenly she looked up from the book and saw, coming
from the direction of the door, a female figure clad in a blue
dressing gown, with loosened golden hair about her shoulders. The
figure walked to the mantelpiece, took up a comb that was lying there,
drew it through her hair, turned from the mantelpiece, walked towards
the door and vanished. A few months after this my father died. Now,
this house had been taken on a three years’ agreement, and my mother,
after her bereavement, wished to leave, but the owner was not inclined
to release her. Mother spoke to her about the apparition, and told her
she could not stay. After breaking down, the unhappy woman said she
knew this did occur at different times in the room mentioned, and she
explained that the figure was that of her niece who was murdered by
her own sister through jealousy, as she was combing her hair. The
spirit had been “read down,” but did not rest. The murderess died in
an asylum. My mother was released from her agreement on a promise not
to tell a possible tenant.

Since then I have passed the house many times, and at intervals have
seen the “To Let” board in the garden.

WORRIED ABOUT THE DEEDS OF THE HOUSE

A FEW years ago my friend had to remove to another town owing to her
husband's work.

She was fortunate enough to get a very pretty, compact house just
outside, and felt very proud of the fact, as houses just then were
very scarce.

This friend, by the way, was very strong minded, and did not know the
meaning of nerves.

After she had been in the house a couple of weeks she was sleepless,
after having teeth extracted, and hadn't even dozed when she saw what
she described as a venerable old gentleman, with long, white beard
and bent shoulders, standing close by the side of the bed with a
document of some kind in his hand.

She awoke her husband and described what had taken place, but he only
laughed and said it was nightmare after too heavy a supper.

So on the second occasion that the same thing happened she refrained
from telling him, as she didn't like being ridiculed.

But the strain of doing so must have told on her, as, after the third
time she saw the vision, her husband found her in a state of collapse.

He called in the doctor and explained what had caused the trouble. The
doctor at once said: “Oh, it was old So-and-so; he died in this room
and had been rather worried about the deeds of this house.”

Needless to say, her husband didn't ridicule her any more, but set
about looking for another house.

A SINISTER ATMOSPHERE

IT is pleasant to sit round the fire on a winter's evening and tell
ghost stories. A sort of thrill goes down one's spine which is not
altogether unpleasant.

It is not, however, by any means pleasant to be in a house where one
frequently gets such thrills.

Some years ago my mother and sister went to live in a large,
old-fashioned farmhouse. All old houses seem to have an atmosphere of
their own. Some speak of peace as one enters their doors; others of
serenity. Then, again, in other houses one realises an atmosphere of
depression. In this old house the atmosphere seemed almost sinister.
There were such strange unaccountable noises, tappings, knocking and
banging everywhere, that one could not sit in comfort in any of the
rooms.

One time, when I went over to help nurse my mother, who was ill, a
friend and I who were sitting up at night heard distinct footsteps
crossing a large, unoccupied, adjoining bedroom.

The nurse who came later also heard these footsteps repeatedly and,
strangely, each morning a framed photograph on the mantelpiece was
lying on the floor. We also heard music, which sounded like the faint,
sweet music of an old harpsichord.

One of the most frequent noises sounded as though a chair was being
dragged along the kitchen floor, and there seemed to pass a dim
presence with a breath of cold air across the kitchen.

These strange, unaccountable happenings were so disturbing that my
sister became afraid to sleep alone in a room.

My mother and sister have now left the house and neighbourhood, but
recently I was interested to hear that the people who now live there
hear the same uncanny noises.

I think there must be an explanation of these strange sounds, and no
doubt one will yet be found.

WAS IT A MONK?

WE live in a rambling, old-fashioned house which is supposed to
connect by underground passage with the church and an old priory. In
the older wing of the house are two bedrooms, the smaller one leading
into the larger by a little passage. For a while I slept alone in this
wing, and, night after night, I was roused in the early hours by the
sound of slow, measured footsteps. They came from the smaller room,
through the passage, and paused at the foot of the bed, then retreated
with the same slow, measured strides. They sounded like the steps of a
man wearing soft sandals. I lit the candle, but the room was empty and
the connecting door was shut. Each time I struck a light the sound
ceased and the room was empty, only the air seemed colder and there
was a faint earthy smell. I said nothing about it, as I feared
ridicule.

Later my brother returned home from abroad, and those rooms were given
to his use. One morning he asked if I had heard any strange sounds
while sleeping there, and told me he had heard someone walking. We
compared notes and found our experiences precisely the same.

Is it the ghost of an old monk engaged in meditation?

A SHADOWY FIGURE

ONE warm afternoon in the summer of 1901 my grandmother asked me to
come into her bedroom because, in the big bow window of the house
overlooking our garden, there was, so she said, a ghost.

She pointed to the window. “Don't you see it, my dear? It's like the
figure of a woman. The people have left the house because it is
haunted.”

“Rubbish!” I answered. “I can’t see anyone.”

“Well,” she repeated, “it looks to me like a woman.”

I saw nothing, and said so. The next afternoon I was sitting by myself
in the garden, looking up at the bow window, when to my amazement a
shadowy figure as of a woman appeared on the pane. I was terrified and
went indoors, but I would not say a word to anyone for fear of being
laughed at.

For the next six weeks I saw that figure constantly and always in the
broad daylight, at 8:30 a.m., when I started for college, at one or
four, or any time in the full light of day. The house was empty; I
found that out.

I hated the shadowy thing, but there it was.

After about six weeks had passed it disappeared, and I have not seen
it from that day to this. So far as I know, there is no mystery
connected with the house, which is quite a modern one in a very
unromantic situation.

I can only say that to the best of my knowledge this is the truth, and
I should be only too glad to understand what the apparition was.

WHAT WAS IT?

MY house is in a quiet corner of a quiet square. We are sheltered
from wind and noise, even when it is stormy. About three years ago I
was living here quite alone and, while undressing, about eleven
o'clock one night, when there was not a breath of wind or a sound to
be heard, I suddenly heard a noise in the hall below, like air moving
swiftly round and round with a swishing noise, as when something is
swung from the end of a string. Then it began to move and come up the
stairs. I was very frightened and said to myself—although I knew it
wasn't—“This is wind; it will pass out at the landing window.” But it
didn’t; it turned the corners—two corners, in fact—and came straight
along the corridor and shook the handle of my bedroom door strongly.
Then all was quiet as before. I should very much like to know just
what it was.

SOMEBODY WAS BITING HER EARS

IN 1913 my husband and self and two children went to reside in North
Devon, and took a house that had been empty some years. It was old and
next to a churchyard. The landlord was anxious for us to take the
house, and had it decorated. We took it on a weekly tenancy. Within
the first week of our occupation my little daughter, aged two years,
used to wake up at midnight screaming and say somebody was biting her
ears. At the same time I used to break out into a cold sweat and
tremble from head to feet. Then I saw a tall shadow go round the room
with a lighted candle and disappear before it reached me. I was quite
unable to get out of bed to take my baby into my bed. My husband saw
none of this. My son, aged eight years, would ask us why we always
rapped on his wall at night, and once he said he saw a hand over his
bed. The last week of our occupation my husband heard padded feet come
up the stairs and to the bedroom door, but no one entered. Curiously
enough, fresh flowers put into a room at night would be quite dead the
next morning. We stayed in that house only six weeks, and found no
solution to the mystery.

GETTING USED TO IT

WE live in an old house with long passages, so when we intend to pass
an afternoon or evening in a back room, somebody usually locks and
bolts the front door against sneak-thieves.

More times than we can count we have heard someone open and close the
front door, rattle his stick into the hall-stand, and walk up the
passage into the drawing-room.

Yet, on going to see, we have found no one in the house and the door
locked and bolted just as we had left it. This has occurred both in
the afternoon and evening.

Many times, also, anyone awake in the night has heard someone open the
bathroom door, walk along the upstairs passage and go downstairs.
Again, “no one.”

Both these phenomena have been experienced by visitors, some of whom
have proved decidedly nervous as a consequence; but, as nothing ever
follows the sounds, we do not worry, and we have lived through them
for ten years.

AN UNSOLVED MYSTERY

WITHIN half an hour's journey of the City of London, in one of its
pleasant suburbs, stands a pretty little house in a quiet and pretty
road. There is nothing in the least remarkable in its appearance; a
one-storeyed, bay-windowed house, with a high thick-set hedge and a
holly tree in the front garden. Yet some years ago we experienced some
very unpleasant thrills within its prosaic looking doors. It looked
then, as it does now, particularly bright and cheerful and even new—on
the outside. We went there in 1912, and for many months nothing
happened, though we experienced many minor “queernesses.”

For instance, one winter evening, when there was a bright fire burning
in the front room, the door closed, the table cloth blew right up as
though a strong wind stirred it, and covered my brother's dinner which
was then laid.

One night, mother and I were sitting together playing cards, laughing
and chatting gaily, a bright fire burning, the room well lighted,
everything about us very matter of fact, and we ourselves feeling in
the highest spirits. Suddenly three sharp, clear shots rang out,
seeming to come from the back room which we called the garden room
because it gave straight on to the garden. We both jumped up,
scattering the cards on the floor, and mother ran to the door. As she
opened it, I saw her stand, rigid: the dark, heavy curtains in the
hall leading to the stairs were waving to and fro as though blown by
a strong breeze. She afterwards told me that she felt her scalp freeze
and her hair rise. I was trembling, but advanced boldly to the stairs
and commenced to ascend. When I reached the third from the top I
stood, rooted; my feet refused to carry me any further. I lifted them
to do so; but it was of no use, so I was obliged to come down again. All
the time I had that horrible and indefinable feeling that there was
another presence near me, all about the house, besides my mother's. My
sister came in and we told her.

On two more successive nights we were tormented with most weird and
hateful noises, which disturbed our peace and made us unable to do
anything while they continued.

My sister was with us the next night, and this time, not shots but
other noises, seeming to come from the cellar, occurred. Sometimes we
knocked at the walls and cellar door, but this only seemed to
aggravate the unknown disturbers; for the sounds were redoubled.

Knowing that rats sometimes make strange noises, my mother put some
pieces of fat meat in the cellar in likely places. But no trace of
mice or rats did we ever discover and the meat remained untouched.

On the last night of these visitations, my brother was with us, and I
think it was as well, for our nerves would not have borne much more
alone. Still the noises in the cellar continued, and this time like
loud, heavy footsteps walking up and down. We were kept up until the
small hours with these horrid sounds almost continuous until, at last,
they ceased altogether, and we were permitted to sleep.

Next day a complete search of the cellar was made, but no trace of
anything or anyone was found.

Soon after, we moved away, but from that day to this our strange
experience has been an unsolved mystery.

THAT NAUGHTY MAN

“GHOSTS or no ghosts,” said my friend Terrington, “what I am going to
tell you is absolutely true. It is strange and inexplicable, and I
make no effort to explain the happening. Listen.”

Twenty-five years ago I obtained work at a factory in a northern town,
and, eventually, got a house near my work—a little old-fashioned
dwelling which had once been used as a shop. My little girl, Marion,
was then about four years old and had always been a good child to take
to bed.

But a few weeks after our going to that place, she simply would not be
left in bed alone. She and her sister slept together, and once, in the
middle of the night, she awakened us by screaming loudly. I hastened
to the room, but unable to pacify her, I brought her into my own bed.
Of this occurrence I thought little, thinking that the child had just
had a bad dream.

A few nights afterwards, I took her upstairs to bed and gently chided
her for being such a frightened girl, and asked her why she did not
like to go to bed alone, as she had always been in the habit of doing.
“Oh, dada,” she said, “I don’t like that naughty man!” “Which naughty
man?” I asked. “Oh that bad man! That naughty man, all dirty here.”
And she drew her hand across her little neck.

I assured her that there was no bad man, but the fear never left her.

A few days afterwards, one of my work-mates asked me how I liked my
house, which I told him was all right and very handy for my work. But
my liking was turned to antipathy when he related how the place had
once been occupied by an old chemist who committed suicide by cutting
his throat. He was found in the very room in which my little daughter
slept.

I can assure you that not one of my family knew of the tragedy which
once occurred in that little house, but I soon found a reasonable
excuse to leave it.

THE ROW DOWNSTAIRS

ABOUT twenty years ago I secured the tenancy of a large cottage,
formerly an inn, in the suburbs of Bristol, not knowing at the time
it had the reputation of being haunted, and caring nothing when I was
informed. For some time nothing unusual happened, then my wife
complained of hearing noises in the night, generally when I was away
from home. But occasionally we both heard them. One night, about a
year after we had taken the house, I was awakened and kept awake by
what seemed to be the movement of all the articles of furniture
downstairs—chairs, tables, etc., being, apparently, lifted off the
ground and noisily replaced; after listening to this for some
minutes, my wife, who I thought was asleep, said, “Now, hark at the
row downstairs.” “Yes,” said I, “there's something going on down
there to-night,” and I lighted a candle and went down, but, rather to
my disappointment, the noises ceased as I was descending the stairs,
and, though I examined each room carefully, nothing was out of place.
There was no dog or cat in the house to put the blame on. My wife
always fastened the door before retiring, but on several occasions we
found the front door wide open in the morning, although it had been
fastened by a spring lock—a big old-fashioned lock and a bolt. We
lived in the house for over two years, and, towards the end of our
tenancy, my wife would on no account stay in the house at night in my
absence, without having an adult friend with her in addition to the
children.

A HEADLESS FORM

MY parents rented a very large old-fashioned house in Norfolk,
standing on its own grounds.

Living with them was a very pious old lady, also an uncle of mine. One
dark, still night, my mother was sitting alone sewing when, suddenly,
the room seemed to be filled with a rushing wind, and she experienced
the feeling of a cold hand pressed upon her cheek, followed by a low
wail and moan. She said nothing to the other inmates of the occurrence
at the time.

Two nights later, my father went to the pantry which was approached
by a short passage. There by the door he saw standing the headless
form of a man wearing a brown coat with large pearl buttons attached.
After a few days had passed, the old lady asked my mother whether she
thought there was in the house anyone who walked in his sleep as for
several nights past, she had had her bedroom door opened and closed,
and she distinctly heard footsteps along the landing and staircase.

For two nights in succession my uncle got out of bed and closed his
bedroom door three times each night. He examined the door and found
it impossible to open without some aid. Each one of these inmates
related to one another their experiences. They decided to keep watch
for a few nights, but nothing happened. Needless to say, they soon
quitted the house. Rumour followed that the place was once known as a
house of ill-fame.


*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76814 ***