ABOUT twenty years ago I secured the tenancy of a large cottage,
formerly an inn, in the suburbs of Bristol, not knowing at the time
it had the reputation of being haunted, and caring nothing when I was
informed. For some time nothing unusual happened, then my wife
complained of hearing noises in the night, generally when I was away
from home. But occasionally we both heard them. One night, about a
year after we had taken the house, I was awakened and kept awake by
what seemed to be the movement of all the articles of furniture
downstairs—chairs, tables, etc., being, apparently, lifted off the
ground and noisily replaced; after listening to this for some
minutes, my wife, who I thought was asleep, said, “Now, hark at the
row downstairs.” “Yes,” said I, “there's something going on down
there to-night,” and I lighted a candle and went down, but, rather to
my disappointment, the noises ceased as I was descending the stairs,
and, though I examined each room carefully, nothing was out of place.
There was no dog or cat in the house to put the blame on. My wife
always fastened the door before retiring, but on several occasions we
found the front door wide open in the morning, although it had been
fastened by a spring lock—a big old-fashioned lock and a bolt. We
lived in the house for over two years, and, towards the end of our
tenancy, my wife would on no account stay in the house at night in my
absence, without having an adult friend with her in addition to the
children.