I LIVE in an ordinary little suburban house—one of a row of “boxes with lids on”—the approach to the upper storey being by a flight of twelve stairs and another flight of four stairs set at right angles to the first, a small bedroom being in the angle formed by the junction of the two. One night some six months ago, when passing this bedroom in the dark, I caught a momentary glimpse of the form of a man holding an axe in his right hand, his face bearing a highly malevolent expression. Not being at that time of a nervous disposition I dismissed the whole thing as imagination, but, on three separate occasions since, I have seen the same form, and always when passing that door in the dark I have the impression of having received a glancing blow on head and shoulder. Now the sequel to this is strange. I have ascertained that some years ago the then tenant of the house attacked his wife with an axe as she was descending the stairs, and she died from her injuries; he was confined in an asylum, where he died six months ago. The name of the road was then ——— Road; in consequence of the tragedy it was changed (as was then the common practice) to the more pretentious ——— Avenue, and only the older residents of the district recollect anything of the case. Can any of your readers tell me how to exorcise this “ghost,” for if it troubles me much more I shall be a fitting candidate for the institution where my ghostly friend ended his days. SEEN IN THE MIRROR A FEW years ago, I was sitting waiting for my husband to come home. It was nearly midnight and everything was quiet. I looked up to the mirror and saw an old grey-headed lady walking slowly across the room, from the middle door to the back door. When I turned to look at her she had gone. I sat a few minutes, dumbfounded, looking at the mirror, and she came again. This she repeated three times and then went for good. We could never keep a door locked at night. The doors have been locked and bolted and, then, in the morning have been found undone. People declared the house was haunted. After we left it no one would live in it, so it was pulled down. A TRAGEDY RE-ENACTED I AM not superstitious neither do I believe in ghosts, but the following tale may interest some of your readers. Some time ago I used to stay at an old rectory in a Kentish village. The rectory stood in a beautiful garden joining the churchyard, and was approached by a carriage drive bordered by thick hedges and trees. The house was low, gloomy-looking and rambling, containing many rooms and winding passages and had three staircases, but it had been somewhat modernised. One room was supposed to be haunted.