Groaning Spinney

It was a moonless night, fine and rather cold. There was no path to follow, but, ahead of her, and looming against the sky, she could just make out the trees of Groaning Spinney. By crossing the field steeply uphill on a north-west slant, she knew that she would come to the ghostly gate. She took her time. That there was somebody ahead of her, she knew.

When she topped the rise she involuntarily stood still, for there, hanging over the gate, was an eerie, dead-white face most curiously lighted as though by phosphorescence.

Mrs. Bradley walked nearer.