Part 24

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.