But a few weeks after our going to that place, she simply would not be left in bed alone. She and her sister slept together, and once, in the middle of the night, she awakened us by screaming loudly. I hastened to the room, but unable to pacify her, I brought her into my own bed. Of this occurrence I thought little, thinking that the child had just had a bad dream. A few nights afterwards, I took her upstairs to bed and gently chided her for being such a frightened girl, and asked her why she did not like to go to bed alone, as she had always been in the habit of doing. “Oh, dada,” she said, “I don’t like that naughty man!” “Which naughty man?” I asked. “Oh that bad man! That naughty man, all dirty here.” And she drew her hand across her little neck. I assured her that there was no bad man, but the fear never left her. A few days afterwards, one of my work-mates asked me how I liked my house, which I told him was all right and very handy for my work. But my liking was turned to antipathy when he related how the place had once been occupied by an old chemist who committed suicide by cutting his throat. He was found in the very room in which my little daughter slept. I can assure you that not one of my family knew of the tragedy which once occurred in that little house, but I soon found a reasonable excuse to leave it. THE ROW DOWNSTAIRS ABOUT twenty years ago I secured the tenancy of a large cottage, formerly an inn, in the suburbs of Bristol, not knowing at the time it had the reputation of being haunted, and caring nothing when I was informed. For some time nothing unusual happened, then my wife complained of hearing noises in the night, generally when I was away from home. But occasionally we both heard them. One night, about a year after we had taken the house, I was awakened and kept awake by what seemed to be the movement of all the articles of furniture downstairs—chairs, tables, etc., being, apparently, lifted off the ground and noisily replaced; after listening to this for some minutes, my wife, who I thought was asleep, said, “Now, hark at the row downstairs.” “Yes,” said I, “there's something going on down there to-night,” and I lighted a candle and went down, but, rather to my disappointment, the noises ceased as I was descending the stairs, and, though I examined each room carefully, nothing was out of place. There was no dog or cat in the house to put the blame on. My wife always fastened the door before retiring, but on several occasions we found the front door wide open in the morning, although it had been fastened by a spring lock—a big old-fashioned lock and a bolt. We lived in the house for over two years, and, towards the end of our tenancy, my wife would on no account stay in the house at night in my absence, without having an adult friend with her in addition to the children. A HEADLESS FORM MY parents rented a very large old-fashioned house in Norfolk, standing on its own grounds.