Chapter I: WELL remember when I was a schoolgirl, my father taking an old farm (1)

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