MY late husband and I took a small semi-detached house in Hertfordshire in 1911. One night in early autumn, we retired about 10:15, as usual, and slept soundly until 1:30, when we were both awakened by the sound of footsteps coming upstairs. My husband immediately switched on the light and we both sat up in bed, breathlessly watching the bedroom door which was fastened. The footsteps came nearer, a loose board on the landing creaked, and the door slowly opened. To our great surprise, no one entered. The door remained open, and the footsteps slowly retreated. My husband got up and searched all over the house and garden, but could find no trace of our visitor. So certain were we of someone coming in, that, in a sense, we should have been more satisfied had someone appeared, preferring to deal with the real, rather than the unreal. Both of us had splendid nerves, but were obliged to confess the occurrence left us very shaky. Shortly after, we were obliged to give up the house—a move which led to a series of misfortunes which resulted in the death of my husband three years ago. IN DOUBT IF anyone had asked me seven years ago the question “Do you believe in ghosts and haunted houses?” my answer would have been a very decided “No.” But now I don't know. For several years I have been living in a very old-fashioned cottage in a country village. Soon after settling here, both I and my husband were awakened night after night by strange noises, bumps as of something falling, sounds as of water dripping, and, most strange of all, every night at about the same time the latch of our stair-door would drop with a loud click as if someone had opened it hurriedly. Although we used to come down and search, everything was as usual, and nothing we could think of accounted for the sounds. Each night, on retiring, I would firmly shut the stair-door, but still the latch would be heard to drop, and several nights, while having a light burning (through having to tend a small baby) I have seen a shadow pass through the room and down the stairs. Then would come the dropping of the latch, but, however quickly I turned, or however long I watched, nothing appeared again the same night. We would gladly have moved, but, owing to the shortage of houses, it was impossible, and, in time, the sounds no longer startled us; we had to get used to them. Now, if we are awakened suddenly, my husband says, “It's only the ghost,” and we go to sleep again. But twice just lately I have lain awake and heard the latch drop as before and at the same time. The other day my husband was talking to a very old inhabitant of our village—a man aged seventy-eight—who, upon hearing where we lived said, “Lor', my boy, that's the house my father used to live in, where the queer rows was, d'ye ever hear any now?”