When I had finished my articles for “The Weekly Despatch,” which I was writing in alternation with “The Reminiscences of Mrs. E. M. Ward,” I took a brief holiday, visiting for the first time Matlock and Harrogate.
Learning that there was an alleged haunted house in the latter town, I sought, and managed to obtain, permission to spend a night in it. It was a modern edifice of a great height, situated about ten minutes walk from St. James’ Hall.
I went there alone, and, on entering the premises, encountered an almost death-like air of stillness, which contrasted oddly with the world outside, where all was life and gaiety. But a moment before I had mixed with the streams of ultra-fashionable people heading for the Spa Concert, the Theatre, and the Valley Park, and, so free had they seemed from all trouble and responsibility—so full of sparkling, spontaneous fun and flippancy—and above all, so full of the flamboyant spirit of sheer life, that one could not help feeling, as one looked at them, that after all there could be no such thing as death for them—that such pronounced vitality must go on for ever.
But this house—this forsaken house, void of furniture, of everything, save the soft summer evening sunlight, the shadows, and my presence—how different! Wandering from room to room, and floor to floor, I at length completed my preliminary search, and being somewhat tired, I sat down on the floor of the hall, and, taking a newspaper from my pocket, started reading. As the hours passed by and darkness came on, I began to be afraid. No amount of experience in ghost hunting will ever enable me to overcome that awful, hideous fear that seizes me when I see the last glimmer of daylight fade, and I realise I am about to be brought into contact with the superphysical, and that I must face it—alone.
Noises in empty houses I have noticed usually commence in the basement, and I was not at all surprised when presently I heard a faint tapping proceeding from one of the kitchens. This was followed by a long spell of silence, and then one of the stairs creaked. My heart gave a big thump, and I gazed expectantly into the darkness before me, but there was nothing to be seen. Silence again, and then more tapping, and more creaking. Something then tickled my hand, and a moment later my fingers touched a blackbeetle. In an instant I was on my feet, for I dread beetles more than I dread ghosts, and, on my striking a light, I found the whole floor swarming. I wondered very much at this, because beetles do not as a rule frequent houses that have been empty for any length of time, especially in a climate like that of Harrogate. I have since, however, arrived at the conclusion that where there are hauntings, there are, more often than not, plagues of beetles, but whether attracted by the ghost, or not, I cannot say.
As I could no longer tolerate the idea of remaining in the hall in the dark, I lighted four candles, and, placing them on the floor, sat in the midst of them.
It was only eleven o’clock by my watch, and the idea of keeping up my vigil till the morning did not strike me as particularly pleasant. I took up my paper and again began to read. Half an hour or so passed, and then I received a start. A door opened and shut downstairs, and bare footsteps pattered their way along the stone passage and up the wooden stairs.
The nearer they drew, the more intolerable became my suspense. What should I see? A white-faced, glassy-eyed phantasm of the dead, or some blood-curdling, semi-human, semi-animal neutrarian. Which would it be? I confess I would have given all I possessed to be out in the road, but, as is usually the case with me when in the presence of the superphysical, I was quite powerless to speak or move. Then, to my unfeigned astonishment, instead of anything grotesque and awful, there appeared before me a little fair-haired girl, clad in a much-soiled pinafore and without either shoes or stockings.
Though not actually crying, she appeared in great distress, and feeling around on all sides, as if anxiously searching for someone, she ran past me, and commenced to ascend the stairs. Picking up a candle, I followed her, and, as the patterings of her poor, chilled feet spread their echoes far and wide through the vast deserted house, I thought I had never experienced anything half so pathetic. On and on we went, the little thin legs leading the way, till we reached the top storey, when she ran into a room facing me, and slammed the door. I immediately followed, but the room was quite empty. There were no signs of the child; there was only a particularly vivid beam of moonlight, and a virile and overwhelming atmosphere of sadness.