I could not cry out, I could not stir, I could not close my eyes: I could only sit there staring at the staircase in the most awful of dumb, apprehensive agonies. The THING drew nearer, nearer; up, up, UP it came until I could see it at last--see the shock-head of red hair, the white cheeks, the pale, staring eyes, all rendered hideously ghastly by the halo of luminous light that played around it. This was a ghost--an apparition--a _bonâ fide_ phantasm of the dead! And without any display of physical power--it overcame me. Happily for me, the duration of its passage was brief. It came within a yard of me, the water dripping from its clinging clothes, yet leaving no marks on the flooring. It thrust its face forward; I thought it was going to touch me, and tried to shrink away from it, but could not. Yet it did nothing but stare at me, and its eyes were all the more horrible because they were blank; not diabolical, as Miss Rudd had described them, but simply Blank!--Blank with the glassiness of the Dead. Gliding past with a slightly swaying motion, it climbed upstairs, the night air blowing through the bedraggled dress in a horribly natural manner; I watched it till it was out of sight with bated breath--for a second or so it stopped irresolutely beside an open window; there was a slight movement as of some one mounting the sill: a mad, hilarious chuckle, a loud splash--and then--silence, after which I went home. I subsequently discovered that early in the seventies a servant-girl, who was in service at that house, had committed suicide in the manner I have just described, but whether or not she had RED HAIR I have never been able to ascertain. P.S.--The Ghost I am informed on very reliable authority, is still (August 1908) to be seen. MULREADY VILLA, NEAR BASINGSTOKE THE BLACK CLOCK Technical form of apparition: Either a phantasm of the dead or sub-human elemental Source of authenticity: Eye-witness Cause of haunting: A matter of surmise When I was reading for the Royal Irish Constabulary at that excellent and ever-popular Queen’s Service Academy in Dublin, I made many friends among my fellow students, certain of whom it has been my good fortune to meet in after life. Quite recently, for example, whilst on a visit of enjoyment to London, I ran up against T. at Daly’s Theatre. T, one of the best-hearted fellows who ever trod in Ely Square, passed in second for the Royal Irish Constabulary, and is now a District Inspector in some outlandish village in Connemara. And again, a summer or two ago, when I was on the pier at Bournemouth, I “plumped” myself down on a seat near to “G,” who, although never a very great friend of mine, I was uncommonly glad to meet under the circumstances. But last year I was unusually lucky, chancing to find, a passenger on the same boat as myself, Harry O’Moore, one of my very best “chums,” from whom I learned the following story: