MY late husband and I took a small semi-detached house in
Hertfordshire in 1911. One night in early autumn, we retired about
10:15, as usual, and slept soundly until 1:30, when we were both
awakened by the sound of footsteps coming upstairs. My husband
immediately switched on the light and we both sat up in bed,
breathlessly watching the bedroom door which was fastened. The
footsteps came nearer, a loose board on the landing creaked, and the
door slowly opened. To our great surprise, no one entered. The door
remained open, and the footsteps slowly retreated. My husband got up
and searched all over the house and garden, but could find no trace
of our visitor. So certain were we of someone coming in, that, in a
sense, we should have been more satisfied had someone appeared,
preferring to deal with the real, rather than the unreal. Both of us
had splendid nerves, but were obliged to confess the occurrence left
us very shaky. Shortly after, we were obliged to give up the house—a
move which led to a series of misfortunes which resulted in the death
of my husband three years ago.