By SIR EDWARD BULWER-LYTTON


A friend of mine, who is a man of letters and a philosopher, said to me
one day, as if between jest and earnest--"Fancy! since we last met, I
have discovered a haunted house in the midst of London."

"Really haunted?--and by what?--ghosts?"

"Well, I can't answer these questions--all I know is this--six weeks ago
I and my wife were in search of a furnished apartment. Passing a quiet
street, we saw on the window of one of the houses a bill, 'Apartments
Furnished.' The situation suited us: we entered the house--liked the
rooms--engaged them by the week--and left them the third day. No power
on earth could have reconciled my wife to stay longer, and I don't
wonder at it."

"What did you see?"

"Excuse me--I have no desire to be ridiculed as a superstitious
dreamer--nor, on the other hand, could I ask you to accept on my
affirmation what you would hold to be incredible without the evidence of
your own senses. Let me only say this, it was not so much what we saw or
heard (in which you might fairly suppose that we were the dupes of our
own excited fancy, or the victims of imposture in others) that drove us
away, as it was an undefinable terror which seized both of us whenever
we passed by the door of a certain unfurnished room, in which we
neither saw nor heard anything. And the strangest marvel of all was,
that for once in my life I agreed with my wife--silly woman though she