Ladies of Gothic Horror (A Collection of Classic Stories)

By Mitzi Szereto

Classic gothic horror stories from the literary mistresses of the past!

Many of gothic horror’s spookiest tales have come from the pens of women. Yet a substantial number of these women were overshadowed by their male contemporaries, especially with regard to the classics. "Ladies of Gothic Horror (A Collection of Classic Stories)" redresses this imbalance by bringing together a selection of gothic stories from the past written exclusively by women. Carefully edited and compiled by author and anthologist Mitzi Szereto, "Ladies of Gothic Horror" offers readers plenty of good old-fashioned chills and thrills. Whether you’re a devotee of the genre, a literature lover, an academic or a student, this volume of short fiction is sure to please. The biographies accompanying each story will show that these women were anything but typical for their time. Includes seventeen stories from authors Mary Shelley, Elizabeth Gaskell, Edith Wharton, Marjorie Bowen, Gertrude Atherton, Virginia Woolf, Charlotte Perkins Gilman, Elia W. Peattie and many more.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mitzi Szereto
• Release date: Feb 13, 2019
• ISBN: 9781370715305

Mitzi Szereto

Mitzi Szereto is an internationally acclaimed author and anthology editor of fiction and nonfiction books spanning multiple genres. She has written numerous novels within her The Best True Crime Stories series. She's also written crime fiction, gothic fiction, horror, cozy mystery, satire, sci-fi/fantasy, and general fiction and nonfiction. Her anthology, Erotic Travel Tales 2, is the first anthology of erotic fiction to feature a Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature. Mitzi's Web TV channel "Mitzi TV" has attracted an international audience. The Web series segments have ranged from chats with Tiff Needell, Jimmy Choo, and her ursine sidekick, Teddy Tedaloo. Other on-screen credits include Mitzi portraying herself in the pseudo-documentary British film, "Lint: The Movie." She maintains a blog of personal essays at "Errant Ramblings: Mitzi Szereto's Weblog." To learn more about Mitzi follow her on Twitter and Instagram @mitziszereto or visit her website at mitziszereto.com.

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Introduction

When it comes to gothic horror, we tend to think of Edgar Allan Poe, Bram Stoker and H. P. Lovecraft. For aficionados of the genre, especially the classics, these are household names. Add to the mix Henry James, Nathaniel Hawthorne, Wilkie Collins, Algernon Blackwood, Ambrose Bierce, Robert Lewis Stevenson, Oscar Wilde and Sheridan Le Fanu, and we have a first-class list of writers responsible for penning literature’s most chilling gothic tales. Although these authors precede the 20th century, their writing is still considered the gold standard. Indeed, many of their stories and novels are more appreciated now than during the time in which they were written.

But where are the ladies? Well, they’re there too, though you’ll usually find them overshadowed by their male contemporaries. Nevertheless, when we examine our literary past, we find that many of these works have come from the pens of women. Perhaps the very nature of gothic fiction made people (namely the male status quo) nervous. After all, women were too delicate to read such content. Yet just as disconcerting was the fact that women were writing this material, not to mention shining a spotlight on female characters oppressed by a male patriarchy.

These writers were our early feminists—and they were asking questions about the role of women in society, marriage and family. Not only were women reading what they wrote, but recognizing themselves in the stories. Having women both reading and writing such material didn’t square with the societal standards of the day. There were even some male authors using gothic fiction to highlight the powerlessness of women, such as Wilkie Collins in his sensationalist novel The Woman in White (1859)—and one can only wonder if his novel would’ve been as successful with a woman’s name on the cover.

The fact that our female predecessors even had an opportunity to write, let alone see their work published, is an achievement in itself. It’s difficult enough for today’s authors, regardless of gender, to sell their work for publication. Therefore it’s even more important to bear in mind the time in which these women were writing. The obstacles they faced were far more challenging than those female authors face today. Most of these women found it necessary to hide their identities behind gender-ambiguous or male-sounding nom de plumes. Although it wasn’t unusual back then for female writers to adopt pen names, dipping their writing quills into the gothic horror inkwell was still looked upon as unseemly. Even authors as well-known as Mary Shelley and the Brontë sisters couldn’t escape the fate of being a woman working in a genre that society believed they had no business being in. Although pseudonyms are still in use today, many writers now use them for branding purposes. Be that as it may, statistics show that writers stand a much better chance of being published if they’re male. Evidently not a lot has changed from years gone by.

As I researched the lives of these ladies of gothic horror, I noticed some interesting patterns emerging, particularly with regard to the fulfillment of the creative impulse. Many of these women could only realize their literary aspirations either before marriage or after a marriage had ended—and in some cases by not marrying at all. As for the women who managed to be prolific within the confines of marriage, many did so out of necessity in order to support their husbands and families, often to the point of turning themselves into one-woman literary sweatshops. Considering the time in which these women lived, this situation was not the norm. Men were expected to be the breadwinners, though clearly a number of them failed in that task. Some of these women, even the unmarried ones, had the added financial burden of supporting parents and siblings. With statistics placing the earnings of the majority of today’s authors at below poverty level—with female authors continuing to earn less than their male counterparts—this wouldn’t be a viable scenario now.

Another pattern I observed had to do with these writers’ personal lives. Several of the women in this collection were no strangers to scandal in the romance and sex department. Some entered into relationships outside of marriage or with men who were already married. Some had open marriages. Some even had lesbian relationships despite the fact homosexuality was illegal. Considering the eras in which they lived, it’s surprising these women had the courage to pursue their hearts and sexual desires. Some paid a high price for it while others managed to stay under the radar. Then there were the renegades who apparently didn’t give a damn what anyone thought. However, one thing is certain—these ladies of gothic horror were by no means typical for their time.

Ernest Hemingway once said it’s the writer’s job to tell the truth. Many of the authors in this collection did precisely that, taking up their pens to bring to the fore the inequality women faced on a daily basis, particularly in the domestic sphere. These women wrote what they knew and observed, for they were constantly having their talent crushed by the literary status quo, not to mention crushed by disapproving husbands and families. Despite the odds, they managed to get their words into the public arena, even making a name for themselves and earning respect in a man’s domain. These accomplished and creative women have left us with a literary legacy, not to mention a social legacy, made so much richer from their participation in it.

Ladies of Gothic Horror will give you the opportunity to enjoy some spooky tales from some of the women who have helped pave the way for today’s female writers. The stories in this anthology contain all those gothic motifs we’ve come to love. Ghosts, madness, curses, spooky houses—you’ll find it all here. Perhaps you’ll even be inspired to read other works by these authors as well as read what today’s ladies of gothic horror are writing.

So settle into your favorite chair for a few hours of pure reading pleasure. Just be sure to keep a flashlight handy in case the lights go off. After all, you never know what might be lurking in the dark!

Mitzi Szereto

Death and the Woman

Gertrude Atherton

Her husband was dying, and she was alone with him. Nothing could exceed the desolation of her surroundings. She and the man who was going from her were in the third-floor back of a New York boarding house. It was summer, and the other boarders were in the country; all the servants except the cook had been dismissed, and she, when not working, slept profoundly on the fifth floor. The landlady also was out of town on a brief holiday.

The window was open to admit the thick unstirring air; no sound rose from the row of long narrow yards, nor from the tall deep houses annexed. The latter deadened the rattle of the streets. At intervals the distant Elevated lumbered protestingly along, its grunts and screams muffled by the hot suspended ocean.

She sat there plunged in the profoundest grief that can come to the human soul, for in all other agony hope flickers, however forlornly. She gazed dully at the unconscious breathing form of the man who had been friend, and companion, and lover, during five years of youth too vigorous and hopeful to be warped by uneven fortune. It was wasted by disease; the face was shrunken; the night-garment hung loosely about a body which had never been disfigured by flesh, but had been muscular with exercise and full-blooded with health. She was glad that the body was changed; glad that its beauty, too, had gone some other-where than into the coffin. She had loved his hands as apart from himself; loved their strong warm magnetism. They lay limp and yellow on the quilt: she knew that they were already cold, and that moisture was gathering on them. For a moment something convulsed within her. They had gone too. She repeated the words twice, and, after them, "forever." And the while the sweetness of their pressure came back to her.

She leaned suddenly over him. HE was in there still, somewhere. Where? If he had not ceased to breathe, the Ego, the Soul, the Personality was still in the sodden clay which had shaped to give it speech. Why could it not manifest itself to her? Was it still conscious in there, unable to project itself through the disintegrating matter which was the only medium its Creator had vouchsafed it? Did it struggle there, seeing her agony, sharing it, longing for the complete disintegration which should put an end to its torment? She called his name, she even shook him slightly, mad to tear the body apart and find her mate, yet even in that tortured moment realizing that violence would hasten his going.

The dying man took no notice of her, and she opened his gown and put her cheek to his heart, calling him again. There had never been more perfect union; how could the bond still be so strong if he were not at the other end of it? He was there, her other part; until dead he must be living. There was no intermediate state. Why should he be as entombed and unresponding as if the screws were in the lid? But the faintly beating heart did not quicken beneath her lips. She extended her arms suddenly, describing eccentric lines, above, about him, rapidly opening and closing her hands as if to clutch some escaping object; then sprang to her feet, and went to the window. She feared insanity. She had asked to be left alone with her dying husband, and she did not wish to lose her reason and shriek a crowd of people about her.

The green plots in the yards were not apparent, she noticed. Something heavy, like a pall, rested upon them. Then she understood that the day was over and that night was coming.

She returned swiftly to the bedside, wondering if she had remained away hours or seconds, and if he were dead. His face was still discernible, and Death had not relaxed it. She laid her own against it, then withdrew it with shuddering flesh, her teeth smiting each other as if an icy wind had passed.

She let herself fall back in the chair, clasping her hands against her heart, watching with expanding eyes the white sculptured face which, in the glittering dark, was becoming less defined of outline. Did she light the gas it would draw mosquitoes, and she could not shut from him the little air he must be mechanically grateful for. And she did not want to see the opening eye—the falling jaw.

Her vision became so fixed that at length she saw nothing, and closed her eyes and waited for the moisture to rise and relieve the strain. When she opened them his face had disappeared; the humid waves above the housetops put out even the light of the stars, and night was come.

Fearfully, she approached her ear to his lips; he still breathed. She made a motion to kiss him, then threw herself back in a quiver of agony—they were not the lips she had known, and she would have nothing less.

His breathing was so faint that in her half-reclining position she could not hear it, could not be aware of the moment of his death. She extended her arm resolutely and laid her hand on his heart. Not only must she feel his going, but, so strong had been the comradeship between them, it was a matter of loving honor to stand by him to the last.

She sat there in the hot heavy night, pressing her hand hard against the ebbing heart of the unseen, and awaited Death. Suddenly an odd fancy possessed her. Where was Death? Why was he tarrying? Who was detaining him? From what quarter would he come? He was taking his leisure, drawing near with footsteps as measured as those of men keeping time to a funeral march. By a wayward deflection she thought of the slow music that was always turned on in the theater when the heroine was about to appear, or something eventful to happen. She had always thought that sort of thing ridiculous and inartistic. So had He.

She drew her brows together angrily, wondering at her levity, and pressed her relaxed palm against the heart it kept guard over. For a moment the sweat stood on her face; then the pent-up breath burst from her lungs. He still lived.

Once more the fancy wantoned above the stunned heart. Death—where was he? What a curious experience: to be sitting alone in a big house—she knew that the cook had stolen out—waiting for Death to come and snatch her husband from her. No; he would not snatch, he would steal upon his prey as noiselessly as the approach of Sin to Innocence—an invisible, unfair, sneaking enemy, with whom no man’s strength could grapple. If he would only come like a man, and take his chances like a man! Women had been known to reach the hearts of giants with the dagger’s point. But he would creep upon her.

She gave an exclamation of horror. Something was creeping over the windowsill. Her limbs palsied, but she struggled to her feet and looked back, her eyes dragged about against her own volition. Two small green stars glared menacingly at her just above the sill; then the cat possessing them leaped downward, and the stars disappeared.

She realized that she was horribly frightened. Is it possible? she thought. "Am I afraid of Death, and of Death that has not yet come? I have always been rather a brave woman; He used to call me heroic; but then with him it was impossible to fear anything. And I begged them to leave me alone with him as the last of earthly boons. Oh, shame!"

But she was still quaking as she resumed her seat, and laid her hand again on his heart. She wished that she had asked Mary to sit outside the door; there was no bell in the room. To call would be worse than desecrating the house of God, and she would not leave him for one moment. To return and find him dead—gone alone!

Her knees smote each other. It was idle to deny it; she was in a state of unreasoning terror. Her eyes rolled apprehensively about; she wondered if she should see It when It came; wondered how far off It was now. Not very far; the heart was barely pulsing. She had heard of the power of the corpse to drive brave men to frenzy, and had wondered, having no morbid horror of the dead. But this! To wait—and wait—and wait—perhaps for hours—past the midnight—on to the small hours—while that awful, determined, leisurely Something stole nearer and nearer.

She bent to him who had been her protector with a spasm of anger. Where was the indomitable spirit that had held her all these years with such strong and loving clasp? How could he leave her? How could he desert her? Her head fell back and moved restlessly against the cushion; moaning with the agony of loss, she recalled him as he had been. Then fear once more took possession of her, and she sat erect, rigid, breathless, awaiting the approach of Death.

Suddenly, far down in the house, on the first floor, her strained hearing took note of a sound—a wary, muffled sound, as if someone were creeping up the stair, fearful of being heard. Slowly! It seemed to count a hundred between the laying down of each foot. She gave a hysterical gasp. Where was the slow music?

Her face, her body, were wet—as if a wave of death-sweat had broken over them. There was a stiff feeling at the roots of her hair; she wondered if it were really standing erect. But she could not raise her hand to ascertain. Possibly it was only the coloring matter freezing and bleaching. Her muscles were flabby, her nerves twitched helplessly.

She knew that it was Death who was coming to her through the silent deserted house; knew that it was the sensitive ear of her intelligence that heard him, not the dull, coarse-grained ear of the body.

He toiled up the stair painfully, as if he were old and tired with much work. But how could he afford to loiter, with all the work he had to do? Every minute, every second, he must be in demand to hook his cold, hard finger about a soul struggling to escape from its putrefying tenement. But probably he had his emissaries, his minions: for only those worthy of the honor did he come in person.

He reached the first landing and crept like a cat down the hall to the next stair, then crawled slowly up as before. Light as the footfalls were, they were squarely planted, unfaltering; slow, they never halted.

Mechanically she pressed her jerking hand closer against the heart; its beats were almost done. They would finish, she calculated, just as those footfalls paused beside the bed.

She was no longer a human being; she was an Intelligence and an EAR. Not a sound came from without, even the Elevated appeared to be temporarily off duty; but inside the big quiet house that footfall was waxing louder, louder, until iron feet crashed on iron stairs and echo thundered.

She had counted the steps—one—two—three—irritated beyond endurance at the long deliberate pauses between. As they climbed and clanged with slow precision she continued to count, audibly and with equal precision, noting their hollow reverberation. How many steps had the stair? She wished she knew. No need! The colossal trampling announced the lessening distance in an increasing volume of sound not to be misunderstood. It turned the curve; it reached the landing; it advanced—slowly—down the hall; it paused before her door. Then knuckles of iron shook the frail panels. Her nerveless tongue gave no invitation. The knocking became more imperious; the very walls vibrated. The handle turned, swiftly and firmly. With a wild instinctive movement she flung herself into the arms of her husband.

When Mary opened the door and entered the room she found a dead woman lying across a dead man.

(Death and the Woman first appeared in Vanity Fair, London, in 1892.)

Gertrude Atherton, also Asmodeus and Frank Lin, née Gertrude Franklin Horn (October 30, 1857—June 14, 1948) was born in San Francisco, California. Best known for her California novels, Atherton published nearly sixty books during her lifetime, many about her home state. In addition, she wrote historical works, fictionalized biographies, short stories, non-fiction and screenplays.

Atherton was the only child born to an affluent Northern California family. Her father was a successful tobacco merchant from Connecticut. Her mother, a society belle, was related to Benjamin Franklin. Atherton’s maternal grandfather raised her from the age of 2 after her parents divorced. Though her literary education got its start in her grandfather’s library, Atherton lacked discipline when it came to her formal education.

At the age of 17, she married George H. Bowen Atherton, a wealthy albeit shiftless suitor of her mother’s. (The Bay Area town of Atherton was named for George’s father.) She lived with her husband at the Atherton family estate with her mother-in-law, a Chilean aristocrat. The couple had a daughter and a son, who died at aged 6.

The Randolphs of Redwood (later published as A Daughter of the Vine) was Atherton’s first published work. Written under the pseudonym Asmodeus, it was serialized in the San Francisco literary journal The Argonaut (1882). Its appearance was met with censure by Atherton’s husband and family, particularly owing to its scandalous portrayal of independent and sexual female characters. From that point on, she worked in secret, writing about women who not only defied convention, but desired a meaningful life beyond domesticity and marriage—something she struggled with in her own marriage. It wasn’t until her husband’s death in 1887 that Atherton was completely free to pursue her literary goals. She traveled extensively and lived for a time in New York and Europe, leaving her daughter with her mother-in-law.

Patience Sparhawk and Her Times, Atherton’s first novel of significance, was published in 1897 while she was living in England. She went on to receive worldwide acclaim for The Conqueror (1902), a fictionalized biography about Alexander Hamilton. Atherton’s controversial female Fountain of Youth novel Black Oxen (1923) became a bestseller and was made into a silent film. She also wrote the weekly newspaper column Letter From New York in the San Francisco Examiner. Atherton’s gothic horror stories, which appeared in various publications over the years, were eventually collected in The Bell and the Fog: And Other Stories (1905).

An unapologetic non-conformist, Atherton made the national news in 1912 when she lit up a cigarette at a New York country club. She worked in Hollywood as one of Goldwyn’s Eminent Authors as well as receiving honorary degrees from Mills College and the University of California, Berkeley. In 1940, she was the first to be named California’s Most Distinguished Women. In her final years, she presided over the San Francisco branch of PEN, an international organization for novelists, poets, essayists and playwrights.

Atherton died in San Francisco at aged 90 shortly after a stroke.

Postscript: The Atherton family mansion, now an official San Francisco landmark, is believed to be haunted by the ghosts of Gertrude Atherton, her husband and her mother-in-law.

The Lost Ghost

Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

Mrs. John Emerson, sitting with her needlework beside the window, looked out and saw Mrs. Rhoda Meserve coming down the street, and knew at once by the trend of her steps and the cant of her head that she meditated turning in at her gate. She also knew by a certain something about her general carriage—a thrusting forward of the neck, a bustling hitch of the shoulders—that she had important news. Rhoda Meserve always had the news as soon as the news was in being, and generally Mrs. John Emerson was the first to whom she imparted it. The two women had been friends ever since Mrs. Meserve had married Simon Meserve and come to the village to live.

Mrs. Meserve was a pretty woman, moving with graceful flirts of ruffling skirts; her clear-cut, nervous face, as delicately tinted as a shell, looked brightly from the plumy brim of a black hat at Mrs. Emerson in the window. Mrs. Emerson was glad to see her coming. She returned the greeting with enthusiasm, then rose hurriedly, ran into the cold parlor and brought out one of the best rocking chairs. She was just in time, after drawing it up beside the opposite window, to greet her friend at the door.

Good afternoon, said she. I declare, I’m real glad to see you. I’ve been alone all day. John went to the city this morning. I thought of coming over to your house this afternoon, but I couldn’t bring my sewing very well. I am putting the ruffles on my new black dress skirt.

Well, I didn’t have a thing on hand except my crochet work, responded Mrs. Meserve, and I thought I’d just run over a few minutes.

I’m real glad you did, repeated Mrs. Emerson. Take your things right off. Here, I’ll put them on my bed in the bedroom. Take the rocking chair.

Mrs. Meserve settled herself in the parlor rocking chair, while Mrs. Emerson carried her shawl and hat into the little adjoining bedroom. When she returned Mrs. Meserve was rocking peacefully and was already at work hooking blue wool in and out.

That’s real pretty, said Mrs. Emerson.

Yes, I think it’s pretty, replied Mrs. Meserve.

I suppose it’s for the church fair?

Yes. I don’t suppose it’ll bring enough to pay for the worsted, let alone the work, but I suppose I’ve got to make something.

How much did that one you made for the fair last year bring?

Twenty-five cents.

It’s wicked, ain’t it?

I rather guess it is. It takes me a week every minute I can get to make one. I wish those that bought such things for twenty-five cents had to make them. Guess they’d sing another song. Well, I suppose I oughtn’t to complain as long as it is for the Lord, but sometimes it does seem as if the Lord didn’t get much out of it.

Well, it’s pretty work, said Mrs. Emerson, sitting down at the opposite window and taking up her dress skirt.

Yes, it is real pretty work. I just LOVE to crochet.

The two women rocked and sewed and crocheted in silence for two or three minutes. They were both waiting. Mrs. Meserve waited for the other’s curiosity to develop in order that her news might have, as it were, a befitting stage entrance. Mrs. Emerson waited for the news. Finally she could wait no longer.

Well, what’s the news? said she.

Well, I don’t know as there’s anything very particular, hedged the other woman, prolonging the situation.

Yes, there is; you can’t cheat me, replied Mrs. Emerson.

Now, how do you know?

By the way you look.

Mrs. Meserve laughed consciously and rather vainly.

Well, Simon says my face is so expressive I can’t hide anything more than five minutes no matter how hard I try, said she. Well, there is some news. Simon came home with it this noon. He heard it in South Dayton. He had some business over there this morning. The old Sargent place is let.

Mrs. Emerson dropped her sewing and stared.

You don’t say so!

Yes, it is.

Who to?

Why, some folks from Boston that moved to South Dayton last year. They haven’t been satisfied with the house they had there—it wasn’t large enough. The man has got considerable property and can afford to live pretty well. He’s got a wife and his unmarried sister in the family. The sister’s got money, too. He does business in Boston and it’s just as easy to get to Boston from here as from South Dayton, and so they’re coming here. You know the old Sargent house is a splendid place.

Yes, it’s the handsomest house in town, but—

Oh, Simon said they told him about that and he just laughed. Said he wasn’t afraid and neither was his wife and sister. Said he’d risk ghosts rather than little tucked-up sleeping rooms without any sun, like they’ve had in the Dayton house. Said he’d rather risk SEEING ghosts, than risk being ghosts themselves. Simon said they said he was a great hand to joke.

Oh, well, said Mrs. Emerson, it is a beautiful house, and maybe there isn’t anything in those stories. It never seemed to me they came very straight anyway. I never took much stock in them. All I thought was—if his wife was nervous.

Nothing in creation would hire me to go into a house that I’d ever heard a word against of that kind, declared Mrs. Meserve with emphasis. I wouldn’t go into that house if they would give me the rent. I’ve seen enough of haunted houses to last me as long as I live.

Mrs. Emerson’s face acquired the expression of a hunting hound.

Have you? she asked in an intense whisper.

Yes, I have. I don’t want any more of it.

Before you came here?

Yes; before I was married—when I was quite a girl.

Mrs. Meserve had not married young. Mrs. Emerson had mental calculations when she heard that.

Did you really live in a house that was— she whispered fearfully.

Mrs. Meserve nodded solemnly.

Did you really ever—see—anything—

Mrs. Meserve nodded.

You didn’t see anything that did you any harm?

No, I didn’t see anything that did me harm looking at it in one way, but it don’t do anybody in this world any good to see things that haven’t any business to be seen in it. You never get over it.

There was a moment’s silence. Mrs. Emerson’s features seemed to sharpen.

Well, of course I don’t want to urge you, said she, if you don’t feel like talking about it; but maybe it might do you good to tell it out, if it’s on your mind, worrying you.

I try to put it out of my mind, said Mrs. Meserve.

Well, it’s just as you feel.

I never told anybody but Simon, said Mrs. Meserve. I never felt as if it was wise perhaps. I didn’t know what folks might think. So many don’t believe in anything they can’t understand, that they might think my mind wasn’t right. Simon advised me not to talk about it. He said he didn’t believe it was anything supernatural, but he had to own up that he couldn’t give any explanation for it to save his life. He had to own up that he didn’t believe anybody could. Then he said he wouldn’t talk about it. He said lots of folks would sooner tell folks my head wasn’t right than to own up they couldn’t see through it.

I’m sure I wouldn’t say so, returned Mrs. Emerson reproachfully. You know better than that, I hope.

Yes, I do, replied Mrs. Meserve. I know you wouldn’t say so.

And I wouldn’t tell it to a soul if you didn’t want me to.

Well, I’d rather you wouldn’t.

I won’t speak of it even to Mr. Emerson.

I’d rather you wouldn’t even to him.

I won’t.

Mrs. Emerson took up her dress skirt again; Mrs. Meserve hooked up another loop of blue wool. Then she began:

Of course, said she, I ain’t going to say positively that I believe or disbelieve in ghosts, but all I tell you is what I saw. I can’t explain it. I don’t pretend I can, for I can’t. If you can, well and good; I shall be glad, for it will stop tormenting me as it has done and always will otherwise. There hasn’t been a day nor a night since it happened that I haven’t thought of it, and always I have felt the shivers go down my back when I did.

That’s an awful feeling, Mrs. Emerson said.

Ain’t it? Well, it happened before I was married, when I was a girl and lived in East Wilmington. It was the first year I lived there. You know my family all died five years before that. I told you.

Mrs. Emerson nodded.

"Well, I went there to teach school, and I went to board with a Mrs. Amelia Dennison and her sister, Mrs. Bird. Abby, her name was—Abby Bird. She was a widow; she had never had any children. She had a little money—Mrs. Dennison didn’t have any—and she had come to East Wilmington and bought the house they lived in. It was a real pretty house, though it was very old and run down. It had cost Mrs. Bird a good deal to put it in order. I guess that was the reason they took me to board. I guess they thought it would help along a little. I guess what I paid for my board about kept us all in victuals. Mrs. Bird had enough to live on if they were careful, but she had spent so much fixing up the old house that they must have been a little pinched for a while.

"Anyhow, they took me to board, and I thought I was pretty lucky to get in there. I had a nice room, big and sunny and furnished pretty, the paper and paint all new, and everything as neat as wax. Mrs. Dennison was one of the best cooks I ever saw, and I had a little stove in my room, and there was always a nice fire there when I got home from school. I thought I hadn’t been in such a nice place since I lost my own home, until I had been there about three weeks.

"I had been there about three weeks before I found it out, though I guess it had been going on ever since they had been in the house, and that was most four months. They hadn’t said anything about it, and I didn’t wonder, for there they had just bought the house and been to so much expense and trouble fixing it up.

"Well, I went there in September. I begun my school the first Monday. I remember it was a real cold fall, there was a frost the middle of September, and I had to put on my winter coat. I remember when I came home that night (let me see, I began school on a Monday, and that was two weeks from the next Thursday), I took off my coat downstairs and laid it on the table in the front entry. It was a real nice coat—heavy black broadcloth trimmed with fur; I had had it the winter before. Mrs. Bird called after me as I went upstairs that I ought not to leave it in the front entry for fear somebody might come in and take it, but I only laughed and called back to her that I wasn’t afraid. I never was much afraid of burglars.

"Well, though it was hardly the middle of September, it was a real cold night. I remember my room faced west, and the sun was getting low, and the sky was a pale yellow and purple, just as you see it sometimes in the winter when there is going to be a cold snap. I rather think that was the night the frost came the first time. I know Mrs. Dennison covered up some flowers she had in the front yard, anyhow. I remember looking out and seeing an old green plaid shawl of hers over the verbena bed. There was a fire in my little wood-stove. Mrs. Bird made it, I know. She was a real motherly sort of woman; she always seemed to be the happiest when she was doing something to make other folks happy and comfortable. Mrs. Dennison told me she had always been so. She said she had coddled her husband within an inch of his life. ‘It’s lucky Abby never had any children,’ she said, ‘for she would have spoilt them.’

"Well, that night I sat down beside my nice little fire and ate an apple. There was a plate of nice apples on my table. Mrs. Bird put them there. I was always very fond of apples. Well, I sat down and ate an apple, and was having a beautiful time, and thinking how lucky I was to have got board in such a place with such nice folks, when I heard a queer little sound at my door. It was such a little hesitating sort of sound that it sounded more like a fumble than a knock, as if someone very timid, with very little hands, was feeling along the door, not quite daring to knock. For a minute I thought it was a mouse. But I waited and it came again, and then I made up my mind it was a knock, but a very little scared one, so I said, ‘Come in.’

"But nobody came in, and then presently I heard the knock again. Then I got up and opened the door, thinking it was very queer, and I had a frightened feeling without knowing why.

"Well, I opened the door, and the first thing I noticed was a draft of cold air, as if the front door downstairs was open, but there was a strange close smell about the cold draft. It smelled more like a cellar that had been shut up for years, than out-of-doors. Then I saw something. I saw my coat first. The thing that held it was so small that I couldn’t see much of anything else. Then I saw a little white face with eyes so scared and wishful that they seemed as if they might eat a hole in anybody’s heart. It was a dreadful little face, with something about it which made it different from any other face on earth, but it was so pitiful that somehow it did away a good deal with the dreadfulness. And there were two little hands spotted purple with the cold, holding up my winter coat, and a strange little faraway voice said: ‘I can’t find my mother.’

"‘For Heaven’s sake,’ I said, ‘who are you?’

"Then the little voice said again: ‘I can’t find my mother.’

"All the time I could smell the cold and I saw that it was about the child; that cold was clinging to her as if she had come out of some deadly cold place. Well, I took my coat, I did not know what else to do, and the cold was clinging to that. It was as cold as if it had come off ice. When I had the coat I could see the child more plainly. She was dressed in one little white garment made very simply. It was a nightgown, only very long, quite covering her feet, and I could see dimly through it her little thin body mottled purple with the cold. Her face did not look so cold; that was a clear waxen white. Her hair was dark, but it looked as if it might be dark only because it was so damp, almost wet, and might really be light hair. It clung very close to her forehead, which was round and white. She would have been very beautiful if she had not been so dreadful.

"‘Who are you?’ says I again, looking at her.

"She looked at me with her terrible pleading eyes and did not say anything.

"‘What are you?’ says I. Then she went away. She did not seem to run or walk like other children. She flitted, like one of those little filmy white butterflies, that don’t seem like real ones they are so light, and move as if they had no weight. But she looked back from the head of the stairs. ‘I can’t find my mother,’ said she, and I never heard such a voice.

"‘Who is your mother?’ says I, but she was gone.

"Well, I thought for a moment I should faint away. The room got dark and I heard a singing in my ears. Then I flung my coat onto the bed. My hands were as cold as ice from holding it, and I stood in my door, and called first Mrs. Bird and then Mrs. Dennison. I didn’t dare go down over the stairs where that had gone. It seemed to me I should go mad if I didn’t