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.