WITHIN half an hour's journey of the City of London, in one of its
pleasant suburbs, stands a pretty little house in a quiet and pretty
road. There is nothing in the least remarkable in its appearance; a
one-storeyed, bay-windowed house, with a high thick-set hedge and a
holly tree in the front garden. Yet some years ago we experienced some
very unpleasant thrills within its prosaic looking doors. It looked
then, as it does now, particularly bright and cheerful and even new—on
the outside. We went there in 1912, and for many months nothing
happened, though we experienced many minor “queernesses.”
For instance, one winter evening, when there was a bright fire burning
in the front room, the door closed, the table cloth blew right up as
though a strong wind stirred it, and covered my brother's dinner which
was then laid.
One night, mother and I were sitting together playing cards, laughing
and chatting gaily, a bright fire burning, the room well lighted,
everything about us very matter of fact, and we ourselves feeling in
the highest spirits. Suddenly three sharp, clear shots rang out,
seeming to come from the back room which we called the garden room
because it gave straight on to the garden. We both jumped up,
scattering the cards on the floor, and mother ran to the door. As she
opened it, I saw her stand, rigid: the dark, heavy curtains in the
hall leading to the stairs were waving to and fro as though blown by
a strong breeze. She afterwards told me that she felt her scalp freeze
and her hair rise. I was trembling, but advanced boldly to the stairs
and commenced to ascend. When I reached the third from the top I
stood, rooted; my feet refused to carry me any further. I lifted them
to do so; but it was of no use, so I was obliged to come down again. All
the time I had that horrible and indefinable feeling that there was
another presence near me, all about the house, besides my mother's. My
sister came in and we told her.
On two more successive nights we were tormented with most weird and
hateful noises, which disturbed our peace and made us unable to do
anything while they continued.
My sister was with us the next night, and this time, not shots but
other noises, seeming to come from the cellar, occurred. Sometimes we
knocked at the walls and cellar door, but this only seemed to
aggravate the unknown disturbers; for the sounds were redoubled.
Knowing that rats sometimes make strange noises, my mother put some
pieces of fat meat in the cellar in likely places. But no trace of
mice or rats did we ever discover and the meat remained untouched.
On the last night of these visitations, my brother was with us, and I
think it was as well, for our nerves would not have borne much more
alone. Still the noises in the cellar continued, and this time like
loud, heavy footsteps walking up and down. We were kept up until the
small hours with these horrid sounds almost continuous until, at last,
they ceased altogether, and we were permitted to sleep.
Next day a complete search of the cellar was made, but no trace of
anything or anyone was found.
Soon after, we moved away, but from that day to this our strange
experience has been an unsolved mystery.