IT is pleasant to sit round the fire on a winter's evening and tell
ghost stories. A sort of thrill goes down one's spine which is not
altogether unpleasant.
It is not, however, by any means pleasant to be in a house where one
frequently gets such thrills.
Some years ago my mother and sister went to live in a large,
old-fashioned farmhouse. All old houses seem to have an atmosphere of
their own. Some speak of peace as one enters their doors; others of
serenity. Then, again, in other houses one realises an atmosphere of
depression. In this old house the atmosphere seemed almost sinister.
There were such strange unaccountable noises, tappings, knocking and
banging everywhere, that one could not sit in comfort in any of the
rooms.
One time, when I went over to help nurse my mother, who was ill, a
friend and I who were sitting up at night heard distinct footsteps
crossing a large, unoccupied, adjoining bedroom.
The nurse who came later also heard these footsteps repeatedly and,
strangely, each morning a framed photograph on the mantelpiece was
lying on the floor. We also heard music, which sounded like the faint,
sweet music of an old harpsichord.
One of the most frequent noises sounded as though a chair was being
dragged along the kitchen floor, and there seemed to pass a dim
presence with a breath of cold air across the kitchen.
These strange, unaccountable happenings were so disturbing that my
sister became afraid to sleep alone in a room.
My mother and sister have now left the house and neighbourhood, but
recently I was interested to hear that the people who now live there
hear the same uncanny noises.
I think there must be an explanation of these strange sounds, and no
doubt one will yet be found.