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.