“GHOSTS or no ghosts,” said my friend Terrington, “what I am going to
tell you is absolutely true. It is strange and inexplicable, and I
make no effort to explain the happening. Listen.”
Twenty-five years ago I obtained work at a factory in a northern town,
and, eventually, got a house near my work—a little old-fashioned
dwelling which had once been used as a shop. My little girl, Marion,
was then about four years old and had always been a good child to take
to bed.
But a few weeks after our going to that place, she simply would not be
left in bed alone. She and her sister slept together, and once, in the
middle of the night, she awakened us by screaming loudly. I hastened
to the room, but unable to pacify her, I brought her into my own bed.
Of this occurrence I thought little, thinking that the child had just
had a bad dream.
A few nights afterwards, I took her upstairs to bed and gently chided
her for being such a frightened girl, and asked her why she did not
like to go to bed alone, as she had always been in the habit of doing.
“Oh, dada,” she said, “I don’t like that naughty man!” “Which naughty
man?” I asked. “Oh that bad man! That naughty man, all dirty here.”
And she drew her hand across her little neck.