I glanced at the paper, all eagerness.  He smiled and pushed it toward me.  This is what I read: 

   First tenant, Mr. Hugh Dennison and family.

 Night 1:  Heard and saw nothing. 
 Night 2:  The entire household wakened by a scream seemingly
  coming from below.  This was twice repeated before Mr. Dennison
  could reach the hall; the last time in far distant and smothered
  tones.  Investigation revealed nothing.  No person and no trace
  of any persons, save themselves, could be found anywhere in the
  house.  Uncomfortable feelings, but no alarm as yet. 
 Night 3:  No screams, but a sound of groaning in the library. 
  The tall clock standing near the drawing-room door stopped at
  twelve, and a door was found open which Mr. Dennison is sure he
  shut tight on retiring.  A second unavailing search.  One servant
  left the next morning. 
 Night 4:  Footfalls on the stairs.  The library door, locked by Mr.
  Dennison’s own hand, is heard to unclose.  The timepiece on the
  library mantel-shelf strikes twelve; but it is slightly fast, and
  Mr. and Mrs. Dennison, who have crept from their room to the
  stair-head, listen breathlessly for the deep boom of the great
  hall clock—­the one which had stopped the night before.  No light
  is burning anywhere, and the hall below is a pit of darkness, when
  suddenly Mrs. Dennison seizes her husband’s arm and, gasping out,
  “The clock, the clock!” falls fainting to the floor.  He bends to
  look and faintly, in the heart of the shadows, he catches in dim
  outline the face of the clock, and reaching up to it a spectral
  hand.  Nothing else—­and in another moment that, too, disappears;
  but the silence is something awful—­the great clock has stopped. 
  With a shout he stumbles downward, lights up the hall, lights up
  the rooms, but finds nothing, and no one.  Next morning the second
  servant leaves, but her place is soon supplied by an applicant we
  will call Bess. 
 Night 5:  Mrs. Dennison sleeps at a hotel with the children.  Mr.
  Dennison, revolver in hand, keeps watch on the haunted stairway. 
  He has fastened up every door and shutter with his own hand, and
  with equal care extinguished all lights.  As the hour of twelve
  approaches, he listens breathlessly.  There is certainly a stir
  somewhere, but he can not locate it, not quite satisfy himself
  whether it is a footfall or a rustle that he hears.  The clock
  in the library strikes twelve, then the one in the hall gives one
  great boom, and stops.  Instantly he raises his revolver and
  shoots directly at its face.  No sound from human lips answers
  the discharge of the weapon.  In the flash which for a moment has
  lighted up the whole place, he catches one glimpse of the broken
  dial with its two hands pointing directly at twelve, but nothing
  more.  Then all is dark again, and he goes slowly back to his own
  room. 
  The next day he threw up his lease.