Some years ago my mother and sister went to live in a large, old-fashioned farmhouse. All old houses seem to have an atmosphere of their own. Some speak of peace as one enters their doors; others of serenity. Then, again, in other houses one realises an atmosphere of depression. In this old house the atmosphere seemed almost sinister. There were such strange unaccountable noises, tappings, knocking and banging everywhere, that one could not sit in comfort in any of the rooms. One time, when I went over to help nurse my mother, who was ill, a friend and I who were sitting up at night heard distinct footsteps crossing a large, unoccupied, adjoining bedroom. The nurse who came later also heard these footsteps repeatedly and, strangely, each morning a framed photograph on the mantelpiece was lying on the floor. We also heard music, which sounded like the faint, sweet music of an old harpsichord. One of the most frequent noises sounded as though a chair was being dragged along the kitchen floor, and there seemed to pass a dim presence with a breath of cold air across the kitchen. These strange, unaccountable happenings were so disturbing that my sister became afraid to sleep alone in a room. My mother and sister have now left the house and neighbourhood, but recently I was interested to hear that the people who now live there hear the same uncanny noises. I think there must be an explanation of these strange sounds, and no doubt one will yet be found. WAS IT A MONK? WE live in a rambling, old-fashioned house which is supposed to connect by underground passage with the church and an old priory. In the older wing of the house are two bedrooms, the smaller one leading into the larger by a little passage. For a while I slept alone in this wing, and, night after night, I was roused in the early hours by the sound of slow, measured footsteps. They came from the smaller room, through the passage, and paused at the foot of the bed, then retreated with the same slow, measured strides. They sounded like the steps of a man wearing soft sandals. I lit the candle, but the room was empty and the connecting door was shut. Each time I struck a light the sound ceased and the room was empty, only the air seemed colder and there was a faint earthy smell. I said nothing about it, as I feared ridicule. Later my brother returned home from abroad, and those rooms were given to his use. One morning he asked if I had heard any strange sounds while sleeping there, and told me he had heard someone walking. We compared notes and found our experiences precisely the same. Is it the ghost of an old monk engaged in meditation? A SHADOWY FIGURE ONE warm afternoon in the summer of 1901 my grandmother asked me to come into her bedroom because, in the big bow window of the house overlooking our garden, there was, so she said, a ghost.