When Last I Died

had one day whilst I was absent. The staff do not have the same food as the boys, and this is a bitter grievance which is always aired when the boys complain (as they do about once every five or six weeks) about the diet.

William, most unwisely in my opinion, has addressed the Institution publicly, to request that any foreign bodies discovered in the food shall be preserved and handed to the instructor in charge. After tea, therefore, Denny, who was on duty, received five buttons, a decayed tooth, half a dozen teeth from a comb, a small piece of lead pencil, a chip of glass, a fragment of bone, some matted hairs, a couple of match-sticks, some wood splinters and a score of other, more or less horrid, objects. Every boy had made it a point of honour to 'find' something.

February 11

William has called another assembly and has announced that the next boy who finds a foreign body in the food will be flogged.

February 12

I have received an unpleasant letter which I have sent on to Tom, requesting his advice. It has a London postmark, but must have been sent by someone who lives near poor Aunt's house.

February 13

My letter has crossed with one from Tom enclosing a communication very similar to the one I have just sent to him. He wants to know what I want done about it, and suggests putting the letter into the hands of the police. I don't quite care for the idea, but probably it is the only way to stop the writer from becoming a serious nuisance. Another plan, he says, is to burn the next one unread—if there is a next one— and so let the writer work off her ill-nature and spite.

February 14

There is some news of Piggy and Alec. Two boys answering the description have been found by the Yorkshire police. William is to go to York to identify them. From the evidence, there is little doubt that these are the right boys. They have remained at large for three weeks. Much seems to have happened since they went. It seems a year to me, because it all happened before Aunt's death.

February 15

My legacy is to be paid quarterly. I had hoped to have it every month, and shall write off straight away to find out whether this cannot be arranged. I do wish I did not feel obliged to work out my month here. I should like to get away at once. For one thing, I have to find somewhere to live, as I do not think I should care for hotel life.

February 16

The boys are not Piggy and Alec.

February 17

I shall go sick for the rest of my month. Why not? It is an easy and pleasant way out, and as William cannot return until this afternoon at the earliest, I shall simply go to Tom and Muriel as soon as I have sent in a doctor's certificate, and write to William from there.

February 18

The doctor was very nice about the certificate and said that a rest would do me good. The certificate will last a fortnight, and that will do beautifully. It is wonderful to think that I shall never darken these doors again, and to work out my notice in sick leave is perfectly permissible. I have told Vera that I am going to be away for a few days, and that she will have to manage. If William has any sense, he will arrange for one or two of the instructors' wives to come in and give a hand with the dining arrangements. The menu is settled. They have or ly to prepare the food and cook it. Anyway, I cannot help their troubles. Oh, to be free! To be away from it all for ever! I can hardly believe my good luck. I wish I did not keep thinking about those anonymous letters.

February 19

I wish I had never read about Borley Rectory^* because I am sure that this house in which Tom and Muriel are living is exactly like it. I believe I am psychic. I have often thought so. At any rate, the house affects me most unpleasantly, and the atmosphere is not helped by the attitude of Tom and Muriel, who do not appear in the least pleased to see me, and are treating me so much like an intruder that I think I shall move to the village inn to-morrow, and not trouble them any further with my company.

^* 'The Most Haunted House in England. Ten Tears' Investigation of Borley Rectory.' By Harry Price. Longmans, Green and Co., 1940.

February 20

I have had a long conversation with Muriel. She is a nice woman, and I made the opportunity to ask her—as tactfully as I could, but, of course, these things have to be expressed in words, and it is not always that the best phrases come exactly when they are wanted most—whether my presence in the house was an inconvenience. To my distress, but not altogether to my astonishment, she burst into tears, and, with both hands clasping my arm, implored me to stay, saying that she knew they had been 'horrid' but that the atmosphere of this weird house had quite daunted them and was getting on their nerves to such an extent that they had already begun quarrelling with one another—a thing, she added, with a fresh outbreak of crying, that had never happened before in their married life.

This I can believe. They have always been a devoted couple.

Reassured by her outburst, I reiterated my willingness to leave the house if my presence was the slightest embarrassment to either of them, but she again begged me to stay, and then asked, almost in a whisper, whether I had 'seen' or 'heard' anything since my arrival. I said that I had been aware of 'presences' but had not seen or heard anything which could not be explained away. What did I mean by that, she wanted to know. Bats, rats or mice, I replied, and, of course, Tom coming past my door in his slippers. She looked at me oddly when I said that, and advised me to say nothing about that to Tom, as she had already accused him of walking in his sleep, and he had so vigorously denied it that the argument had been the prelude to their first quarrel.

'And I don't believe now that it was Tom,' she concluded, 'but I daren't say so, because if it wasn't Tom, who was it?'

February 21

A bitter letter from William affecting to sympathize with my illness but written to point out how extremely inconvenient it is of me to have to take sick leave at such a time. I shall not reply to it. A letter from Aunt's lawyer to say that the income can be paid monthly by arrangement with my bank. This is splendid. I have told Muriel privately that as long as I live with them I am going to make Tom an allowance of two hundred and fifty a year. This brought more tears, as she tried to thank me. They must be very badly off for the offer to have affected her as it did. I feel quite a philanthropist.

February 22

The manifestations have begun in earnest. Last night, as I was going upstairs, I heard a slight sound behind me. The house has electric lighting, and so everything was perfectly visible, and I could see that some small object had fallen on to the floor in the middle of the hall. I went down again and picked it up. Tom and Muriel keep no servants, so there was no one but our three selves in the house, and I had just left the other two in the dining-room which we use as a living-room. The object was a small perpetual calendar which I had seen on my dressing-table before I went downstairs that evening. I picked it up and took it upstairs with me.

Scarcely had I replaced it in its usual position when I heard the most appalling crash downstairs. I ran out of the bedroom and Tom and Muriel ran out from the dining-room, all of us anxiously calling out, 'Are you all right?'

Then we saw that the entire contents of the kitchen shelves had been precipitated into the hall—several saucepans, a couple of enamel jugs, kettle-holders, three or four odd cups, a bottle-opener, two frying pans, an earthenware casserole, a fish slice and a porridge strainer were scattered all over the place. Nothing was broken, not even the handles off the cups, but two of the saucepans were dented.

When we had picked them up and put them back on the kitchen shelves—a hateful task, since none of us in the least wanted to enter the kitchen—all the bells in the house began to ring.

February 23

Tom has cut all the bell-wires, but the bells continue to ring. I do not like it at all.

February 24

The slippered footsteps are worse. They follow Muriel everywhere. She is a nervous wreck. Tom is having four people down for a seance. He is like a man with a pet snake—fascinated but frightened. We have now heard ghostly music.

February 25

I have moved to the village inn, and Muriel has come with me. She says she cannot stand the house any longer. The seance has completed her breakdown. The four people, three men and an elderly woman, arrived at four o'clock yesterday, and, after tea, Tom showed them his journal and notebook. He has kept an exact record of all the phenomena of the house. They seemed interested, and discussed everything in a detached, scientific way which was very comforting. Even Muriel cheered up, and was ready to agree that nothing harmful had happened. But the effect of all this was suddenly spoilt when, in the middle of the seance, there was a crash and a series of bumps overhead, and when we—or, rather, they—investigated (for Muriel and I remained downstairs holding on to one another for fright), it turned out that all the furniture in the spare bedroom had been overturned, and the electric- light flex had parted, depositing the lamp and shade on top of the dressing-chest which was on its side in the middle of the room. The bedhead fittings were undisturbed except that, as Tom switched on a torch, the bedhead flex began to swing like the pendulum of a clock. As soon as one of the gentlemen put out his hand to switch on the light, however, the swinging stopped, but the music broke out again.

They put the room to