IN 1913 my husband and self and two children went to reside in North Devon, and took a house that had been empty some years. It was old and next to a churchyard. The landlord was anxious for us to take the house, and had it decorated. We took it on a weekly tenancy. Within the first week of our occupation my little daughter, aged two years, used to wake up at midnight screaming and say somebody was biting her ears. At the same time I used to break out into a cold sweat and tremble from head to feet. Then I saw a tall shadow go round the room with a lighted candle and disappear before it reached me. I was quite unable to get out of bed to take my baby into my bed. My husband saw none of this. My son, aged eight years, would ask us why we always rapped on his wall at night, and once he said he saw a hand over his bed. The last week of our occupation my husband heard padded feet come up the stairs and to the bedroom door, but no one entered. Curiously enough, fresh flowers put into a room at night would be quite dead the next morning. We stayed in that house only six weeks, and found no solution to the mystery. GETTING USED TO IT WE live in an old house with long passages, so when we intend to pass an afternoon or evening in a back room, somebody usually locks and bolts the front door against sneak-thieves. More times than we can count we have heard someone open and close the front door, rattle his stick into the hall-stand, and walk up the passage into the drawing-room. Yet, on going to see, we have found no one in the house and the door locked and bolted just as we had left it. This has occurred both in the afternoon and evening. Many times, also, anyone awake in the night has heard someone open the bathroom door, walk along the upstairs passage and go downstairs. Again, “no one.” Both these phenomena have been experienced by visitors, some of whom have proved decidedly nervous as a consequence; but, as nothing ever follows the sounds, we do not worry, and we have lived through them for ten years. AN UNSOLVED MYSTERY WITHIN half an hour's journey of the City of London, in one of its pleasant suburbs, stands a pretty little house in a quiet and pretty road. There is nothing in the least remarkable in its appearance; a one-storeyed, bay-windowed house, with a high thick-set hedge and a holly tree in the front garden. Yet some years ago we experienced some very unpleasant thrills within its prosaic looking doors. It looked then, as it does now, particularly bright and cheerful and even new—on the outside. We went there in 1912, and for many months nothing happened, though we experienced many minor “queernesses.” For instance, one winter evening, when there was a bright fire burning in the front room, the door closed, the table cloth blew right up as though a strong wind stirred it, and covered my brother's dinner which was then laid.