The friend of the narrator discovered a haunted house in London. Despite not seeing or hearing anything unusual, a sense of terror gripped them near an empty room. They decided to leave after the third day, and the landlady mentioned that previous lodgers rarely stayed more than one night."They--who?' I asked, affecting to smile." "'Why, they who haunt the house, whoever they are. I don't mind them; I remember them many years ago, when I lived in this house, not as a servant; but I know they will be the death of me some day. I don't care--I'm old, and must die soon anyhow; and then I shall be with them, and in this house still.' The woman spoke with so dreary a calmness that really it was a sort of awe that prevented my conversing with her further. I paid for my week, and too happy were my wife and I to get off so cheaply." "You excite my curiosity," said I; "nothing I should like better than to sleep in a haunted house. Pray give me the address of the one which you left so ignominiously." My friend gave me the address; and when we parted, I walked straight toward the house thus indicated. It is situated on the north side of Oxford Street, in a dull but respectable thoroughfare. I found the house shut up--no bill at the window, and no response to my knock. As I was turning away, a beer-boy, collecting pewter pots at the neighbouring areas, said to me, "Do you want any one at that house, sir?" "Yes, I heard it was to be let." "Let!--Mr. J. offered mother, who chars for him, a pound a week just to open and shut the windows, and she would not." "Would not!--and why?" "The house is haunted; and the old woman who kept it was found dead in her bed, with her eyes wide open. They say the devil strangled her." "Pooh!--you speak of Mr. J----. Is he the owner of the house?" "Yes." "Where does he live?" "In G---- Street, No. --." I gave the pot-boy the gratuity earned by his liberal information, and I was lucky enough to find Mr. J---- at home--an elderly man, with intelligent countenance and prepossessing manners.
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