The strangers clutched their cases and stumbled forward, the freezing raindrops running down their faces.

They lifted the latch and the door creaked open. Only the ticking of a grandfather clock broke the silence, and the shadows cast by the flames of a log fire danced grotesquely on the walls.

''Welcome to the Lord Crewe Arms,'' a voice said softly from the far corner. ''You must need a room for the night. We only have one vacant. I'm afraid it is haunted.'' This was no movie. This was for real. The Lord Crewe arms is in Blanchland, Northumberland, and we were indeed being directed to a haunted bedroom.

It is one of dozens of reputedly haunted inns in England, formerly part of an abbey dating back 600 years. The monks were slaughtered by raiders from the north. The Lord Crewe Arms, whose stone walls are a metre thick, used to be the Abbot's quarters.

Little has changed there since the early 18th century when Dorothy Forster, niece of the Bishop of Durham and Lady Crewe, hid her brother Tom, who had plotted the Jacobite rebellion, in a recess up the chimney. A spit still stands under the wide chimney where Tom hid, and they say Dorothy haunts her bedroom on the first floor.

On being told we would occupy the haunted room, my Chinese wife wanted me to beat a hasty retreat. Paying good money for bad Fung Shui. Ridiculous. But the nearest inn is a 45-minute drive.

So I swallowed hard and followed the maid up the narrow stairs leading to Dorothy Forster's private chambers.

Her portrait hung from the walls of the small lounge, and her eyes followed us across the room as we made to enter her bedroom.

My wife's fear count rose even higher when I opened the curtains. The room overlooked the village churchyard, and the old gravestones stood crookedly like rotting teeth in an old crone's mouth.

I couldn't change for dinner. I set the combination on my suitcase, but the lock refused to open. Then when I tried to take a photograph of the room, the flash would not work. Now it was my turn to feel edgy.

We made our way down to the bar, determined to shrug off thoughts of Dorothy Forster, but there was no escape. The Crypt Bar was aptly named. The stone walls were windowless. It could have been a dungeon.

But the barman looked friendly, and the beer pumps inviting. His name was Jeff, and he had lived in the village most of his life. He was just helping out that evening.

''I suppose all this talk about ghosts is a load of bull, really? A tourist attraction.'' I hoped for reassurance.

''Oh, I don't know about that,'' said Jeff. ''A chambermaid was terrified recently. She made the bed up in Dorothy's room, and seconds later the covers were all ruffled. There was no one else around.'' He looked at the ceiling thoughtfully. ''Then there was the visitor who woke up in that room to find a woman standing over her waving a chain back and forward.'' And just in case we weren't yet frightened enough: ''There is a fitted carpet, but guests hear beads rolling over the floor. It's weird.'' At last some reassurance. ''They had the ghostbusters in with all their microphones and stuff, but they couldn't find anything.'' Relief.

'' . . . but of course there's no reason why a ghost should appear if it doesn't want to.'' We slept fitfully, imaginations running wild. What was that shape watching the bed? On went the light-switch. Just a coat thrown over the chair. And those footsteps? Someone in the room above.

Strangely, in the morning, the combination lock worked, and once away from the Lord Crewe Arms, so did the flash on my camera.

If you want to visit a haunted inn, or indeed avoid one, the British Tourism Authority in Hongkong has a comprehensive list. Tel: 522-0044.