SOME twenty years ago, my mother, sister, brother and self, went to stay with friends at an Essex manor house. In the afternoon our host took the horse and trap to stay the night at an outlying town in order to be ready for the horse fair next day. My brother and I were left in bed with a light. After a time the door opened and a big man stood there and nodded to us. In the dim light, we, thinking by his size he was our host, called out “Goodnight, Mr. B.” He then closed the door. My mother and sister went to bed, bolting their door. During the night my mother heard shuffling in the corridor, extra loud where a tall man would have to stoop. Then her door was tried and, whoever it was, continued into the next bedroom, which was our hostess’s. In the morning my mother's door was open. On recounting our experiences over breakfast, one of our host’s sons blurted out “Why, it's only old R.'s ghost walking again; they are doing his grave up.” Our host had not been home at all that night. My mother and sister returned home that day, but we stayed on. We were only about nine or ten years old. When we saw the grave it had a tarpaulin cover over it and was being done up. R. had committed suicide. Owing to the noises in the house and the stories told about it, our friends had been able to get the place at a reduced rent. All the above facts can be verified and vouched for. BURTON LATIMER AS a young married woman, I went from a large town to live in a small village in Buckinghamshire where my husband had got work. We thought we were very lucky to get a nice old-fashioned house that stood by itself in a lane. It seems that the house had been empty some time. I made many friends, but none ever told me the house had a bad name, or anything about it. Did I believe in ghosts? Certainly not! But, after six months in that uncanny house, I would believe anything. The first signs in this peculiar house began when we had been there about a month. Chairs were scraped across the floor in the small kitchen (always in the evening), sounds of crockery smashing, bumps overhead, and doors banging. My two small children were mysteriously moved from one bed to another nightly for about a fortnight. At first we were not alarmed and tried hard to find out who was playing a game with us. None of the villagers would come near the house because they said it was haunted. I never saw anything, but my husband did, and it so got on his nerves that he would not stay in the house by himself.