Chapter 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.