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.”