My name is Arthur Kipps.

When I was a young man, I worked in London. I was a solicitor.

I worked for the same company all my life.

Fourteen years ago, I bought this house called Monk's Piece.

I live here with my dear wife, Esme.

Esme's first husband had died.

She was a widow when I married her.

I became the father of her four young children.

Our years at Monk's Piece have been happy ones.

It was Christmas Eve.

All the family was at Monk's Piece for the holiday.

We were all sitting by the big fire at the end of the day.

I was in my armchair, listening to the laughter and the talking.

'Wake up, Father!' someone called.

'We're going to tell ghost stories!'

The lights were turned off.

Suddenly the room was dark and shadowy.

I smiled as I listened to the young people's stories.

The stories were full of horror, but they did not frighten me.

They were not true.

Then I remembered. I remembered terrible things.

These memories were terrible - because they were true!

'Tell us a ghost story, Father!' someone cried.

'You must know one story!'

I stood up, cold and shaking.

'No, no!' I shouted.

'I have no story to tell!'

I hurried from the room, away from them all.

I went out into the garden.

I stood there in the cold and in the darkness.

My heart was beating fast.

I was shaking with fear.

Will I never forger? Will I never find peace?

How can I find peace? There is only one way.

I must write clown my terrible story.

All the horror. Everything. Then I will find peace.

I turned and walked back into the house.

Chapter 2: London Fog

My story begins in November, many years ago.

I was a young man of twenty-three.

I worked for a solicitor called Mr Bentley.

Sometimes the work was uninteresting, but I worked hard.

I wanted to do welt.

That November morning, the weather was cold.

A thick, yellow fog covered London.

The fog filled people's ears and eyes.

It got into houses, shops and offices.

Mr Bentley called me into his office.

'Sit down, Arthur, sit down,' Mr Bentley said.

He pointed to a paper on his desk.

This is the will of Mrs Drablow.

Mrs Alice Drablow of Eel Marsh House in Yorkshire.

A strange old lady and a strange house.

Have you ever been to Yorkshire, Arthur?'

'No, sir.'

Well, my boy, go home and pack your bag.

Mrs Drablow is dead.

She has no relatives in England.

And we are her solicitors.

I want you to go to the funeral.'

Mr Bentley saw that I was surprised.

'I can't go myself,' Mr Bentley said quickly. I'm too busy.'

'After the funeral,' he went on, I want you to go to Eel Marsh House.

I want you to look at the old lady's papers.

Bring back anything important.' Mr Bentley stood up.

'The funeral's at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning,' he said.

'Take the afternoon train from King's Cross Station.

Here is the key to Eel Marsh House.

Mrs Drablow's will and other important papers are in this envelope.'

And he held out a large, brown envelope.

Written on the front of the envelope was:

Mrs Alice Drablow, Eel Marsh House, Nine Lives Causeway, Crythin Gifford, Yorkshire.

'What a strange address!' I said.

'Yes, it's a strange address and it's a strange place,' Mr Bentley said.

'Now off you go, my boy.'

There wasn't much time to get ready for the journey.

I quickly packed my bag.

Then I wrote a note to Stella, my fiancee.

Then I set off for King's Cross Station.

The fog was thicker now.

The smell of fog was everywhere.

At last I reached the big, noisy station.

I was beginning to feel excited.

I was going on a journey.

I had an important job to do.

I was soon sitting in the train.

And then it was moving.

Slowly at first and then faster.

The fog of London was left behind. Darkness fell.

I was on my way north - to Eel Marsh House.

I changed trains at Crewe.

Then I changed trains again at a small town called Homerby, in Yorkshire.

The air was cold.

The wind blew rain on my face.

The little train I got into at Homerby was old and dirty.

I put the brown envelope on the seat beside me.

I opened my newspaper and began to read.

A few minutes later, a big man with a red face got into the carriage.

He sat down as the train began to move out of Homerby.

'It's cold in here,' I said.

'But I've left the fog of London behind me.'

'We don't have fogs here. We have mists.

The mists come in from the sea,' the big man said.

We sat for a few moments in silence.

Then I saw the big man look at the envelope on the seat beside me.

'Drablow,' he said. 'Are you a relative?'

'No, I'm a solicitor,' I said.

'I'm going to the funeral.'

'You'll be the only one there, Mr...?'

'My name's Kipps, Arthur Kipps,' I told him.

I'm Samuel Daily,' the big man said.

Didn't Mrs Drablow have any friends?' I asked.

'No, she didn't have any friends,' Mr Daily said.

'People become strange when they live in strange places.'

I smiled. 'Are you trying to frighten me, Mr Daily?' I asked.

He stared at me.

'No, I'm not trying to frighten you,' he said.

But there are other people in Crythin Gifford who will try to frighten you.'

I suddenly felt very cold.

'Where are you staying tonight?' Mr Daily asked me.

'I'm going to stay at the Gifford Arms.'

'The Gifford Arms is a comfortable inn,' said Mr Daily.

'I go past it on my way home.

You can come with me in my car.'

Mr Daily's car was waiting at the station.

A few minutes later, it stopped outside the inn.

Mr Daily gave me his card with his address on it.

'That's where I live,' he said.

'If you need any help, come and see me.'

The Gifford Arms was warm and comfortable.

After a good supper, I went to bed.

I slept well. Thank God I did. I never slept so well again.

Chapter 3: The Funeral of Mrs Drablow

The next morning was bright and sunny.

I had a good breakfast.

Then I walked round the little town of Crythin Gifford.

It was market-day. The little town was busy.

Farmers were buying and selling animals in the market-square.

The streets of Crythin Gifford were completely flat.

The countryside all round the town was flat too.

There were no hills at all.

To the east of the town were the marshes - and on the marshes was Eel Marsh House.

I walked back to the inn and got ready for the funeral.

I put on a dark suit and went downstairs again.

Mr Jerome was waiting for me downstairs.

Mr Jerome was Mrs Drablow's agent - he looked after her house and land.

Mr Jerome was a small man dressed in black.

He smiled politely and we left the inn.

As we walked through the square, people stared at us.

They stopped talking. No one smiled.

The church stood in an old graveyard.

There were old gravestones on either side of a long path.

It was very cold inside the church.

Mr Jerome and I were the only people at the funeral.

Poor Mrs Drablow, I thought.

Didn't she have any friends at all? Then I heard a sound behind me.

I turned.

A Young woman was standing at the back of the church.

She was dressed in old-fashioned black clothes - clothes of sixty years ago.

A large, old-fashioned bonnet covered her face.

She raised her head and looked at me.

The young woman's face was white and very thin.

How ill she looked!

When we left the church I looked far the woman.

But I did not see her.

Then in the graveyard, I saw her again.

In the sunshine her face was whiter and thinner.

I closed my eyes to pray.

When I opened them, the woman had gone.

Beyond the graveyard I saw the estuary.

And beyond the estuary was the open sea.

The funeral was over.

I followed Mr Jerome from the churchyard.

Who was that young woman?' I asked him.

Mr Jerome stopped and looked at me.

'Young woman?' he said.

'Yes, a young woman.

She was dressed in black and she looked very ill.'

Mr Jerome's face went white.

'I did not see a young woman,' he said.

I looked behind me.

The young woman was standing beside Mrs Drablow's grave.

'Look, there she is!' I said.

Mr Jerome made a strange sound.

He did not turn round to look at the woman.

He held my arm tightly. He began to shake.

'Mr Jerome!' I cried.

'Are you ill? Let go of my arm and I'll bring a car for you.'

'No, no, he cried. 'No, sir. Stay with me!'

After a few moments, Mr Jerome spoke again.

'I'm very sorry, sir,' he said quietly.

'I felt ill for a moment.

I can go on now.' We walked slowly back to the Gifford Arms.

'Are you taking me to Eel Marsh House, Mr Jerome?' I said politely.

The little man shook his head.

'No, not me,' he said.

'Keckwick will take you.

You have to go across a causeway to get to Eel Marsh House.

When the tide is in, the sea covers the causeway.

You can't get across.

You can only cross the causeway when the tide is out.

That will be after one o'clock.'

'There may be a lot of papers to look at,' I said.

'I may stay in Eel Marsh House tonight.'

'You will find the inn more comfortable,' Mr Jerome said quietly.

'Perhaps you are right,' I said.

The lunch at the Gifford Arms was a good one and I ate well.

At half past one, I was waiting outside the inn.

The key to Eel Marsh House was in my pocket.

I listened for the sound of Keckwick's car.

Chapter 4: Eel Marsh House

After a few minutes, a pony and trap came into the square.

It stopped beside me.

'Mr Kipps?' the driver said.

'Are you Keckwick?' I asked.

I was surprised that Keckwick did not come in a car.

The man nodded his head.

I got into the trap.

The pony started off at once.

We drove quickly through the quiet little town.

We passed the churchyard and were soon in open country.

The country around the town was completely flat.

There was a beautiful, grey sky above us.

After a time, we reached the marshes.

The marshes were strange and beautiful.

No trees grew in the marshes.

There was water everywhere.

There were no people and no houses.

There was silence.

The only sound was the noise made by the hooves of the pony and the wheels of the trap.

We drove along the path until we came to the causeway.

The long causeway went across the estuary.

The sandy causeway was not much higher than the water on each side.

This is Nine Lives Causeway, I thought.

At high tide the water will completely cover it.

The bright winter sun shone in my eyes.

I shut them for a moment.

When I opened my eyes, we were near the end of the causeway.