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Title: Ghosts in the Great War, and true tales of haunted houses

Thrilling experience of "Daily News" readers

Editor: S. Louis Giraud

Release date: September 4, 2025 [eBook #76814]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Fleetgate Publications, 1927

Credits: William McGovern

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK GHOSTS IN THE GREAT WAR, AND TRUE TALES OF HAUNTED HOUSES ***

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.

INDEX

Introduction .. iii

GHOSTS IN THE GREAT WAR

A Pal in Life—and Death .. 11

The Morning of the Ypres Big Push .. 13

Is there an Explanation? .. 15

A Dream—or a Ghost? .. 17

Instinct or—What? .. 19

Saved by an Apparition .. 21

A Field of the Dead .. 22

A Mother’s Vision .. 23

Saved Husband’s Life .. 24

The Shell-wrecked Church .. 25

Vision of Brother .. 25

Vision of Wounded Son .. 26

“His Spirit took this Chance” .. 26

Walked with the Dead .. 27

The Phantom Soldier .. 28

An Unknown Visitor .. 28

A Lover and a Sister .. 29

A Brother’s Smile .. 30

Her Soldier Boy .. 30

A War Worker’s Experience .. 31

The Sinking of the “Aboukir” .. 32

“On Leave” .. 33

The Three Figures .. 34

“Good-Bye” .. 34

“Hello, Daddy!” .. 35

The Robin’s Warning .. 36

A Remarkable Story .. 36

OTHER STORIES IN BRIEF

“We do not comprehend” .. 37

A Lover’s Vision .. 38

“In the Lengthening of the Days” .. 39

A Passionate Longing .. 39

An Unbeliever’s Doubts .. 39

The Woman by the Grave .. 40

Mansfield .. 40

Portsmouth .. 41

Walsall .. 41

Port Erin .. 42

Norwich .. 42

Bolton .. 42

Oldham .. 43

Barnstaple, Devon .. 43

Kent .. 44

Surbiton .. 44

Warwick .. 45

Oxford .. 45

Yorkshire .. 45

Kent .. 46

Derby .. 46

TRUE TALES OF HAUNTED HOUSES

An Evil Presence .. 49

A Strange Story .. 51

Was it a Curse? .. 52

The Lady with the Thimble .. 54

A Reverend Gentleman’s Story .. 55

Whose Eyes? .. 57

A Ghostly Carpenter .. 59

Another Reverend’s Story .. 60

The Girl in White .. 61

“The Old Master” .. 62

The Little Grey Lady .. 63

A Convincing Experience .. 64

The Hooded Lady .. 66

Uncle’s Story .. 68

The Ghost Horse of the Derbyshire Moors .. 69

A Ghost Story from Wales .. 72

A Daylight Ghost Story .. 73

“The Very Same Ghost” .. 74

The Phantom Carriage .. 75

London .. 75

An Unwelcome Travelling Companion .. 76

The Black Dog of the Cotswolds .. 77

It Happened in Ireland .. 78

A School Teacher’s Story .. 80

OTHER STORIES OF HAUNTED HOUSES

A Magistrate’s Story .. 82

The Missing Papers .. 83

The Haunted Lane at Hendon .. 83

Cheshire .. 84

Kent .. 85

Seaford .. 86

Cambridge .. 87

Reading .. 88

Sutton Scotney .. 88

Coleford .. 89

Ipswich .. 89

Hull .. 90

Reading .. 90

Cowes .. 91

Markyate .. 91

Boscombe .. 91

Croydon .. 92

Levershulme .. 92

Widnes .. 93

Templecombe .. 94

South Wales .. 95

Clapham .. 96

Barrow-in-Furness .. 96

Barnes .. 97

Handsworth .. 97

Burton Latimer .. 98

A Military Man .. 98

“You are in My Bed” .. 99

The Woman in Brown .. 99

“Is that you, Tom?” .. 100

“Our Ghost” .. 101

A Man with an Axe .. 102

Seen in the Mirror .. 102

A Tragedy Re-enacted .. 102

A Harmless Apparition .. 103

Even the Landlord Left .. 103

Two Curious Incidents .. 105

An Awful Experience .. 106

On the Yorkshire Moors .. 107

Footsteps on the Stairs .. 107

In Doubt .. 108

A Midnight Interruption .. 109

A House “To Let” .. 110

Worried about the Deeds of the House .. 110

A Sinister Atmosphere .. 111

Was it a Monk? .. 112

A Shadowy Figure .. 112

What Was It? .. 113

Somebody was Biting Her Ears .. 113

Getting Used to It .. 114

An Unsolved Mystery .. 114

That Naughty Man .. 116

The Row Downstairs .. 117

A Headless Form .. 117

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Table of Contents

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.

Introduction

Book No. 1. TRUE GHOST STORIES.

Book No. 2. WARNINGS FROM BEYOND.

Tall Stories.

Strange Visions of Animals.

Book No. 3. UNCANNY STORIES.

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

LETTERS REFERRED TO IN INTRODUCTION.

Ghosts In The Great War

A Pal in Life—and Death

The Morning of the Ypres Big Push

Is There an Explanation?

A Dream—or a Ghost?

Instinct or—What?

Saved by an Apparition

A Field of the Dead

A Mother's Vision

Saved Husband’s Life

The Shell-wrecked Church

Vision of Brother

Vision of Wounded Son

“His Spirit Took This Chance”

Walked with the Dead

The Phantom Soldier

An Unknown Visitor

A Lover and a Sister

A Brother's Smile

Her Soldier Boy

A War Worker's Experience

The Sinking of the “Aboukir”

“On Leave”

The Three Figures

“Good-Bye”

“Hello, Daddy!”

The Robin's Warning

A Remarkable Story

Other Stories In Brief

“WE DO NOT COMPREHEND”

A LOVER'S VISION

“IN THE LENGTHENING OF THE DAYS”

A PASSIONATE LONGING

AN UNBELIEVER’S DOUBTS

THE WOMAN BY THE GRAVE

MANSFIELD

PORTSMOUTH

WALSALL

PORT ERIN

NORWICH

BOLTON

OLDHAM

BARNSTAPLE, DEVON

KENT

SURBITON

WARWICK

OXFORD

YORKSHIRE

KENT

DERBY

True Tales of Haunted Houses

An Evil Presence

A Strange Story

Was it a Curse?

The Lady with the Thimble

A Reverend Gentleman’s Story

Whose Eyes?

A Ghostly Carpenter

Another Reverend’s Story

The Girl in White

“The Old Master”

The Little Grey Lady

A Convincing Experience

The Hooded Lady

Uncle’s Story

The Ghost Horse of the Derbyshire Moors

A Ghost Story from Wales

A Daylight Ghost Story

“The Very Same Ghost”

The Phantom Carriage

London

An Unwelcome Travelling Companion

The Black Dog of the Cotswolds

It Happened in Ireland

A School Teacher's Story

Other Stories of Haunted Houses

A MAGISTRATE’S STORY

THE MISSING PAPERS

THE HAUNTED LANE AT HENDON

CHESHIRE

KENT

SEAFORD

CAMBRIDGE

READING

SUTTON SCOTNEY

COLEFORD

IPSWICH

HULL

READING

COWES

MARKYATE

BOSCOMBE

CROYDON

LEVERSHULME

WIDNES

TEMPLECOMBE

SOUTH WALES

CLAPHAM

BARROW-IN-FURNESS

BARNES

HANDSWORTH

BURTON LATIMER

A MILITARY MAN

“YOU ARE IN MY BED”

THE WOMAN IN BROWN

“IS THAT YOU, TOM?”

“OUR GHOST”

A MAN WITH AN AXE

SEEN IN THE MIRROR

A TRAGEDY RE-ENACTED

A HARMLESS APPARITION

EVEN THE LANDLORD LEFT

TWO CURIOUS INCIDENTS

AN AWFUL EXPERIENCE

ON THE YORKSHIRE MOORS

FOOTSTEPS ON THE STAIRS

IN DOUBT

A MIDNIGHT INTERRUPTION

A HOUSE “TO LET”

WORRIED ABOUT THE DEEDS OF THE HOUSE

A SINISTER ATMOSPHERE

WAS IT A MONK?

A SHADOWY FIGURE

WHAT WAS IT?

SOMEBODY WAS BITING HER EARS

GETTING USED TO IT

AN UNSOLVED MYSTERY

THAT NAUGHTY MAN

THE ROW DOWNSTAIRS

A HEADLESS FORM

INDEX

GHOSTS IN THE GREAT WAR

OTHER STORIES IN BRIEF

TRUE TALES OF HAUNTED HOUSES

OTHER STORIES OF HAUNTED HOUSES

THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE