The Best Ghost Stories Ever Told

By Stephen Brennan

When gut feelings” have been replaced by a thirst for proof and hard evidence, it’s good to know that you can still be spooked by a collection like this one. Best Ghost Stories is a creepy group of over forty tales by some of the most impressive names in the writing world. Terrifying, bone-chillingly eerie, and good fun, these haunting narratives give vivid descriptions of creepy characters and happenings that will make you hesitate before turning out the light!

More than just a niche product, ghost stories hold a bewitching appeal for all kinds of writers and readerssome of the truly great authors of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries have lent their horror stories to this collection, including Arthur Conan Doyle, Louisa May Alcott, Joseph Conrad, Robert Louis Stevenson, H. G. Wells, and many more. Count on our Best Stories series for entertaining tales that you won’t soon forget.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Skyhorse
• Release date: Sep 7, 2011
• ISBN: 9781628731057

Book preview

THE BEST

GHOST

STORIES

EVER TOLD

THE BEST

GHOST

STORIES

EVER TOLD

EDITED AND INTRODUCED BY

STEPHEN BRENNAN

Skyhorse Publishing

Copyright © 2011 by Stephen Vincent Brennan

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [e-mail].

Skyhorse® and Skyhorse Publishing® are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

www.skyhorsepublishing.com

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

The best ghost stories ever told / edited and introduced by Stephen Brennan.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-61608-364-9 (alk. paper)

1. Ghost stories. I. Brennan, Stephen Vincent.

PN6071.G45B47 2011

808.83’8733--dc23

2011016980

Printed in the United States of America

CONTENTS

Introduction Stephen Brennan

The Monkey ’s Paw W. W. Jacobs

Green Tea Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu

The Strange Ride of Morrowbie Jukes Rudyard Kipling

The Mystery of Barney O’Rourke John Kendrick Bangs

The Red-Haired Girl Sabine Baring-Gould

The Man and The Snake Ambrose Bierce

The Open Window Saki (H. H. Munro)

The Story of Salome Amelia B. Edwards

The Black cat Edgar Allan Poe

John Charrington’s Wedding E. Nesbit

The Old Nurse’s Story Elizabeth Gaskell

The Business of Madame Jahn Vincent O’Sullivan

The Canterville Ghost Oscar Wilde

A Haunted Island Algernon Blackwood

The Secret of Macarger’s Gulch Ambrose Bierce

The Romance of Certain Old Clothes Henry James

The Lost Ghost Mary E. Wilkins Freeman

Man-Size in Marble E. Nesbit

The Queen of Spades Alexander Sergeyevich Pushkin

The Story of the Spaniards, Hammersmith E. and H. Heron

Number 13 M. R. James

The Apparition of Mrs. Veal Daniel Defoe

Round the Fire Catherine Crowe

The Isle of Voices R. L. Stevenson

The Plattner Story H. G. Wells

On the Brighton Road Richard Middleton

The Last House in C— Street Dinah M. Mulock

The Furnished Room O. Henry

Hamlet ’s Ghost William Shakespeare

Caterpillars E. F. Benson

The Black Mate Joseph Conrad

A Tough Tussle Ambrose Bierce

Napoleon and the Spectre Charlotte Brontë

John Jago’s Ghost Wilkie Collins

The Terror Guy de Maupassant

Not to be Taken at Bed-Time Rosa Mulholland

The Haunted House Charles Dickens

The Bold Dragoon; or, The Adventure of My Grandfather Washington Irving

A Ghost Story Mark Twain

Afterward Edith Wharton

The Brown Hand Arthur Conan Doyle

The Affair at Grover Station Willa Cather

INTRODUCTION

And so, it is said, you are haunted!

My friend, we are haunted all;

—Isabella banks

Boo! Did i scare you? Did you jump? Well, surprise is only part of it. There is also memory, regret, fear, romance, humor—yes, humor too, else how would you deal with the horror—and a dozen other elemental human constructs and emotions.

Do you believe in ghosts? I’m sure I do. Samuel Johnson said somewhere or other that while reason is against it, everyone believes in ghosts. That is, when asked, you deny your belief in any such thing, and yet deep in your secret heart, you do believe. And so, I think, it is with most of us. Nevertheless, the very fact that this question continues to be among the most asked, by all peoples, in all places, of all time (do you know of any person who has not asked it, either of themselves or of another?) attests to the fearsome grip this idea of an encounter with the spirit world has now—has darn near always had—upon us. It would seem that spooks have always been with us. They come—some bidden, some unbidden. Frequently they are the ghosts of our past, prompted by anything from guilty memory to dyspeptic digestion. Remember too, it is not required that a ghost be seen to be believed. a specter may just as well be heard, or smelled, or otherwise sensed. And though it is true that the extent of our sensitivity has much to do with our vulnerability and attraction to this same spirit world, even the most levelheaded rationalist cannot deny the sudden start that makes the heart go thump, the tingle of fear down the spine, the hair on end at the nape of the neck, the barest scent on a breath of air that instantly transports you to another place and time, or the lost lover’s name you’re sure you can hear in the center of a howling wind.

I best like to hear a ghost story told by camp or bonfire light. There’s something about an outdoor blaze, late at night, with the darkness all around, that suits a tale of visitation from beyond. I like the incense of wood-smoke, the pop and crack of burning log, the thousand sparks riding skyward on the rising heat— sacerdotal token of a million propitiations to fearful gods, the blaze in Plato’s cave, the burning bush that is not consumed—all the long history of man’s (or woman’s) grappling with her mysterious present, his half-remembered past, their unknown future. (Scrooge was visited by these very three ghosts.) and I like the huddled camaraderie of the auditors of the story, snuggled together against, and in appreciation of, the terror out there.

Because within the fire-lit circle there is safety, whereas in the darkness beyond … ? This is primal stuff. The teller, standing in for all of us, conjures an impossible, fearful story, and by his very uttering or outing of the tale makes us all safe from it, by rendering the spooky story into something, if not common- place, then at least manageable, and perhaps laughed at as well. and if the teller is any good at all, we are entertained, beguiled, and chilled, when at last we go from the fire, without fear, to our beds.

The ghost story has a long and honorable provenance in the lore and literature of our tribe. aboriginal and First Peoples regarded it much as I’ve described above. The holy men and women mediated between the living and their dead ancestors, and then worked it all out around the flicker and glow of the communal campfire. This is the ghost story as sacred rite also, and some of this mingling persists in the writings that were to become the Bible.

It may be heresy, but it can be no sacrilege to merely note that Jesus’ several appearances after dying on the cross are in effect ghost stories—to say nothing of the raising of Lazarus, or of the living christ’s confabs in the desert with the devil. The ancient Greek and Romans organized their understanding of visitations from the spirit world by giving the shades an actual place to dwell— Hades, and if you would visit with them, you must go to hell to do it. (The exceptions of course were the unburied dead who roamed the earth frightening the dogs and making a general nuisance of themselves.) With the renaissance and Enlightenment we see a definite split between the telling of ghost stories and the literatures and practices of faith. Much as when the actors are kicked out of the churches, the ghost stories are no longer regarded as sacred, but now secular. Shakespeare’s ghosts: old King Hamlet, Banquo and Caesar’s ghost, are cultural figures rather than religious. With the nineteenth century, the ghost story comes into its own as a discrete and separate genre of short story. With the advent of mechanized printing, there was a great demand for ghostly tales, and all the best writers turned their hands to writing them. It is of some interest to note the comparatively large number of women writers who succeeded in getting their ghost stories into print. One can almost imagine their publishers and their editors, as they bought into the stereotypical cant about the female author with words something like: Ah yes, we need an author who is good with character and with romance, with fear and with hysteria. Let’s have a woman write it. Hmmm . . .

Be pleased to find here, between these covers, forty-odd examples of the very best ghost stories ever written. Just take a peek at the table of contents— Impressive, what? Even the briefest glimpse at this dream team of authors leaves no doubt as to the significance and popularity of ghost stories in our literature and in our lives. Personally, I’m with Bertie Wooster in holding that there are few pleasures equal to curling up with a good goose-flesher.

Now, you may regard yourself as a wholly rational being, or in twentieth century parlance, a clear-eyed realist. or materialism may be your thing, nineteenth century or otherwise. or you may reckon you have boxed the psycho-metaphysical compass with your understanding of the social and anthropomorphic origins of spooky tales. You may even figure that with your learning, your sophistication, and your sangfroid you are proof against the pleasurable terror of the best ghost stories. If that be the case, then I adjure you, attend this book.

As the man said—Boo!

Stephen Brennan

West Cornwall, Connecticut, 2011

THE MONKEY’S PAW

W. W. JACOBS

Without, the night was cold and wet, but in the small parlour of Laburnam Villa the blinds were drawn and the fire burned brightly. Father and son were at chess, the former, who possessed ideas about the game involving radical changes, putting his kings into such sharp and unnecessary perils that it even provoked comment from the white-haired old lady knitting placidly by the fire.

Hark at the wind, said Mr. White, who, having seen a fatal mistake after it was too late, was amiably desirous of preventing his son from seeing it.

I’m listening, said the latter, grimly surveying the board as he stretched out his hand. Check.

I should hardly think that he’d come tonight, said his father, with his hand poised over the board.

Mate, replied the son.

That’s the worst of living so far out, bawled Mr. White, with sudden and unlooked-for violence; of all the beastly, slushy, out-of-the-way places to live in, this is the worst. Pathway’s a bog, and the road’s a torrent. I don’t know what people are thinking about. I suppose because only two houses in the road are let, they think it doesn’t matter.

Never mind, dear, said his wife, soothingly; perhaps you’ll win the next one.

Mr. White looked up sharply, just in time to intercept a knowing glance between mother and son. The words died away on his lips, and he hid a guilty grin in his thin grey beard.

There he is, said Herbert White, as the gate banged to loudly and heavy footsteps came towards the door.

The old man rose with hospitable haste, and opening the door, was heard condoling with the new arrival. The new arrival also condoled with himself, so that Mrs. White said, Tut, tut! and coughed gently as her husband entered the room, followed by a tall, burly man, beady of eye and rubicund of visage.

Sergeant-Major Morris, he said, introducing him.

The sergeant-major shook hands, and taking the proffered seat by the fire, watched contentedly while his host got out whisky and tumblers and stood a small copper kettle on the fire.

At the third glass his eyes got brighter, and he began to talk, the little family circle regarding with eager interest this visitor from distant parts, as he squared his broad shoulders in the chair and spoke of wild scenes and doughty deeds; of wars and plagues and strange peoples.

Twenty-one years of it, said Mr. White, nodding at his wife and son. When he went away he was a slip of a youth in the warehouse. Now look at him.

He don’t look to have taken much harm, said Mrs. White, politely.

I’d like to go to India myself, said the old man, just to look round a bit, you know.

Better where you are, said the sergeant-major, shaking his head. He put down the empty glass, and sighing softly, shook it again.

I should like to see those old temples and fakirs and jugglers, said the old man. What was that you started telling me the other day about a monkey’s paw or something, Morris?

Nothing, said the soldier hastily. Leastways nothing worth hearing.

Monkey’s paw? said Mrs. White, curiously.

Well, it’s just a bit of what you might call magic, perhaps, said the sergeant-major off-handedly.

His three listeners leaned forward eagerly. The visitor absent-mindedly put his empty glass to his lips and then set it down again. His host filled it for him.

To look at, said the sergeant-major, fumbling in his pocket, it’s just an ordinary little paw, dried to a mummy.

He took something out of his pocket and proffered it. Mrs. White drew back with a grimace, but her son, taking it, examined it curiously.

And what is there special about it? inquired Mr. White as he took it from his son, and having examined it, placed it upon the table.

It had a spell put on it by an old fakir, said the sergeant-major, a very holy man. He wanted to show that fate ruled people’s lives, and that those who interfered with it did so to their sorrow. He put a spell on it so that three separate men could each have three wishes from it.

His manner was so impressive that his hearers were conscious that their light laughter jarred somewhat.

Well, why don’t you have three, sir? said Herbert White cleverly.

The soldier regarded him in the way that middle age is wont to regard presumptuous youth. I have, he said quietly, and his blotchy face whitened.

And did you really have the three wishes granted? asked Mrs. White.

I did, said the sergeant-major, and his glass tapped against his strong teeth.

And has anybody else wished? persisted the old lady.

The first man had his three wishes. Yes, was the reply; I don’t know what the first two were, but the third was for death. That’s how I got the paw.

His tones were so grave that a hush fell upon the group.

If you’ve had your three wishes, it’s no good to you now, then, Morris, said the old man at last. What do you keep it for?

The soldier shook his head. Fancy, I suppose, he said slowly. I did have some idea of selling it, but I don’t think I will. It has caused enough mischief already. Besides, people won’t buy. They think it’s a fairy tale; some of them, and those who do think anything of it want to try it first and pay me afterwards.

If you could have another three wishes, said the old man, eyeing him keenly, would you have them?

I don’t know, said the other. I don’t know.

He took the paw, and dangling it between his forefinger and thumb, suddenly threw it upon the fire. White, with a slight cry, stooped down and snatched it off.

Better let it burn, said the soldier solemnly.

If you don’t want it, Morris, said the other, give it to me.

I won’t, said his friend doggedly. I threw it on the fire. If you keep it, don’t blame me for what happens. Pitch it on the fire again like a sensible man.

The other shook his head and examined his new possession closely. How do you do it? he inquired.

Hold it up in your right hand and wish aloud, said the sergeant-major, but I warn you of the consequences.

"Sounds like the Arabian Nights, said Mrs. White as she rose and began to set the supper. Don’t you think you might wish for four pairs of hands for me?"

Her husband drew the talisman from his pocket, and then all three burst into laughter as the sergeant-major, with a look of alarm on his face, caught him by the arm.

If you must wish, he said gruffly, wish for something sensible.

Mr. White dropped it back in his pocket, and placing chairs, motioned his friend to the table. In the business of supper the talisman was partly forgotten, and afterwards the three sat listening in an enthralled fashion to a second instalment of the soldier’s adventures in India.

If the tale about the monkey’s paw is not more truthful than those he has been telling us, said Herbert, as the door closed behind their guest, just in time for him to catch the last train, we shan’t make much out of it.

Did you give him anything for it, father? inquired Mrs. White, regarding her husband closely.

A trifle, said he, colouring slightly. He didn’t want it, but I made him take it. And he pressed me again to throw it away.

Likely, said Herbert, with pretended horror. Why, we’re going to be rich, and famous and happy. Wish to be an emperor, father, to begin with; then you can’t be henpecked.

He darted round the table, pursued by the maligned Mrs. White armed with an antimacassar.

Mr. White took the paw from his pocket and eyed it dubiously. I don’t know what to wish for, and that’s a fact, he said slowly. It seems to me I’ve got all I want.

If you only cleared the house, you’d be quite happy wouldn’t you? said Herbert, with his hand on his shoulder. Well, wish for two hundred pounds, then; that’ll just do it.

His father, smiling shamefacedly at his own credulity, held up the talisman, as his son, with a solemn face, somewhat marred by a wink at his mother, sat down at the piano and struck a few impressive chords.

I wish for two hundred pounds, said the old man distinctly.

A fine crash from the piano greeted the words, interrupted by a shuddering cry from the old man. His wife and son ran towards him.

It moved, he cried, with a glance of disgust at the object as it lay on the floor. As I wished, it twisted in my hand like a snake.

Well, I don’t see the money, said his son as he picked it up and placed it on the table, and I bet I never shall.

It must have been your fancy, father, said his wife, regarding him anxiously.

He shook his head. Never mind, though; there’s no harm done, but it gave me a shock all the same.

They sat down by the fire again while the two men finished their pipes. Outside, the wind was higher than ever, and the old man started nervously at the sound of a door banging upstairs. A silence unusual and depressing settled upon all three, which lasted until the old couple rose to retire for the night.

I expect you’ll find the cash tied up in a big bag in the middle of your bed, said Herbert, as he bade them good night, and something horrible squatting up on top of the wardrobe watching you as you pocket your ill-gotten gains.

He sat alone in the darkness, gazing at the dying fire, and seeing faces in it. The last face was so horrible and so simian that he gazed at it in amazement. It got so vivid that, with a little uneasy laugh, he felt on the table for a glass containing a little water to throw over it. His hand grasped the monkey’s paw, and with a little shiver he wiped his hand on his coat and went up to bed.

* * * * *

In the brightness of the wintry sun next morning as it streamed over the breakfast table he laughed at his fears. There was an air of prosaic wholesomeness about the room which it had lacked on the previous night, and the dirty, shrivelled little paw was pitched on the sideboard with a carelessness which betokened no great belief in its virtues.

I suppose all old soldiers are the same, said Mrs. White. The idea of our listening to such nonsense! How could wishes be granted in these days? And if they could, how could two hundred pounds hurt you, father?

Might drop on his head from the sky, said the frivolous Herbert.

Morris said the things happened so naturally, said his father, that you might if you so wished attribute it to coincidence.

Well, don’t break into the money before I come back, said Herbert as he rose from the table. I’m afraid it’ll turn you into a mean, avaricious man, and we shall have to disown you.

His mother laughed, and following him to the door, watched him down the road; and returning to the breakfast table, was very happy at the expense of her husband’s credulity. All of which did not prevent her from scurrying to the door at the postman’s knock, nor prevent her from referring somewhat shortly to retired sergeant-majors of bibulous habits when she found that the post brought a tailor’s bill.

Herbert will have some more of his funny remarks, I expect, when he comes home, she said, as they sat at dinner.

I dare say, said Mr. White, pouring himself out some beer; but for all that, the thing moved in my hand; that I’ll swear to.

You thought it did, said the old lady soothingly.

I say it did, replied the other. There was no thought about it; I had just— What’s the matter?

His wife made no reply. She was watching the mysterious movements of a man outside, who, peering in an undecided fashion at the house, appeared to be trying to make up his mind to enter. In mental connection with the two hundred pounds, she noticed that the stranger was well dressed, and wore a silk hat of glossy newness. Three times he paused at the gate, and then walked on again. The fourth time he stood with his hand upon it, and then with sudden resolution flung it open and walked up the path. Mrs. White at the same moment placed her hands behind her, and hurriedly unfastening the strings of her apron, put that useful article of apparel beneath the cushion of her chair.

She brought the stranger, who seemed ill at ease, into the room. He gazed at her furtively, and listened in a preoccupied fashion as the old lady apologised for the appearance of the room, and her husband’s coat, a garment which he usually reserved for the garden. She then waited as patiently as her sex would permit, for him to broach his business, but he was at first strangely silent.

I—was asked to call, he said at last, and stooped and picked a piece of cotton from his trousers. I come from ‘Maw and Meggins’.

The old lady started. Is anything the matter? she asked breathlessly. Has anything happened to Herbert? What is it? What is it?

Her husband interposed. There, there, mother, he said hastily. Sit down, and don’t jump to conclusions. You’ve not brought bad news, I’m sure, sir; and he eyed the other wistfully.

I’m sorry— began the visitor.

Is he hurt? demanded the mother wildly.

The visitor bowed in assent. Badly hurt, he said quietly, but he is not in any pain.

Oh, thank God! said the old woman, clasping her hands. Thank God for that! Thank—

She broke off suddenly as the sinister meaning of the assurance dawned upon her and she saw the awful confirmation of her fears in the other’s averted face. She caught her breath, and turning to her slower-witted husband, laid her trembling old hand upon his. There was a long silence.

He was caught in the machinery, said the visitor at length in a low voice.

Caught in the machinery, repeated Mr. White, in a dazed fashion, yes.

He sat staring blankly out at the window, and taking his wife’s hand between his own, pressed it as he had been wont to do in their old courtingdays nearly forty years before.

He was the only one left to us, he said, turning gently to the visitor. It is hard.

The other coughed, and rising, walked slowly to the window. The firm wished me to convey their sincere sympathy with you in your great loss, he said, without looking round. I beg that you will understand I am only their servant and merely obeying orders.

There was no reply; the old woman’s face was white, her eyes staring, and her breath inaudible; on the husband’s face was a look such as his friend the sergeant-major might have carried into his first action.

I was to say that Maw and Meggins disclaim all responsibility, continued the other. They admit no liability at all, but in consideration of your son’s services, they wish to present you with a certain sum as compensation.

Mr. White dropped his wife’s hand, and rising to his feet, gazed with a look of horror at his visitor. His dry lips shaped the words, How much?

Two hundred pounds, was the answer.

Unconscious of his wife’s shriek, the old man smiled faintly, put out his hands like a sightless man, and dropped, a senseless heap, to the floor.

* * * * *

In the huge new cemetery, some two miles distant, the old people buried their dead, and came back to a house steeped in shadow and silence. It was all over so quickly that at first they could hardly realise it, and remained in a state of expectation as though of something else to happen —something else which was to lighten this load, too heavy for old hearts to bear.

But the days passed, and expectation gave place to resignation—the hopeless resignation of the old, sometimes miscalled, apathy. Sometimes they hardly exchanged a word, for now they had nothing to talk about, and their days were long to weariness.

It was about a week after that the old man, waking suddenly in the night, stretched out his hand and found himself alone. The room was in darkness, and the sound of subdued weeping came from the window. He raised himself in bed and listened.

Come back, he said tenderly. You will be cold.

It is colder for my son, said the old woman, and wept afresh.

The sound of her sobs died away on his ears. The bed was warm, and his eyes heavy with sleep. He dozed fitfully, and then slept until a sudden wild cry from his wife awoke him with a start.

The paw! she cried wildly. The monkey’s paw!

He started up in alarm. Where? Where is it? What’s the matter?

She came stumbling across the room towards him. I want it, she said quietly. You’ve not destroyed it?

It’s in the parlour, on the bracket, he replied, marvelling. Why?

She cried and laughed together, and bending over, kissed his cheek.

I only just thought of it, she said hysterically. "Why didn’t I think of it before? Why didn’t you think of it? Think of what?" he questioned.

The other two wishes, she replied rapidly. We’ve only had one.

Was not that enough? he demanded fiercely.

No, she cried triumphantly; we’ll have one more. Go down and get it quickly, and wish our boy alive again.

The man sat up in bed and flung the bedclothes from his quaking limbs. Good God, you are mad! he cried, aghast.

Get it, she panted; get it quickly, and wish— Oh, my boy, my boy!

Her husband struck a match and lit the candle. Get back to bed, he said unsteadily. You don’t know what you are saying.

We had the first wish granted, said the old woman feverishly; why not the second?

A coincidence, stammered the old man.

Go and get it and wish, cried his wife, quivering with excitement.

The old man turned and regarded her, and his voice shook. He has been dead ten days, and besides he—I would not tell you else, but—I could only recognise him by his clothing. If he was too terrible for you to see then, how now?

Bring him back, cried the old woman, and dragged him towards the door. Do you think I fear the child I have nursed?

He went down in the darkness, and felt his way to the parlour, and then to the mantelpiece. The talisman was in its place, and a horrible fear that the unspoken wish might bring his mutilated son before him ere he could escape from the room seized upon him, and he caught his breath as he found that he had lost the direction of the door. His brow cold with sweat, he felt his way round the table, and groped along the wall until he found himself in the small passage with the unwholesome thing in his hand.

Even, his wife’s face seemed changed as he entered the room. It was white and expectant, and to his fears seemed to have an unnatural look upon it. He was afraid of her.

Wish! she cried, in a strong voice.

It is foolish and wicked, he faltered.

Wish! repeated his wife.

He raised his hand. I wish my son alive again.

The talisman fell to the floor, and he regarded it fearfully. Then he sank trembling into a chair as the old woman, with burning eyes, walked to the window and raised the blind.

He sat until he was chilled with the cold, glancing occasionally at the figure of the old woman peering through the window. The candle-end, which had burned below the rim of the china candlestick, was throwing pulsating shadows on the ceiling and walls, until, with a flicker larger than the rest, it expired. The old man, with an unspeakable sense of relief at the failure of the talisman, crept back to his bed, and a minute or two afterwards the old woman came silently and apathetically beside him.

Neither spoke, but lay silently listening to the ticking of the clock. A stair creaked, and a squeaky mouse scurried noisily through the wall. The darkness was oppressive, and after lying for some time screwing up his courage, he took the box of matches, and striking one, went downstairs for a candle.

At the foot of the stairs the match went out, and he paused to strike another; and at the same moment a knock, so quiet and stealthy as to be scarcely audible, sounded on the front door.

The matches fell from his hand and spilled in the passage. He stood motionless, his breath suspended until the knock was repeated. Then he turned and fled swiftly back to his room, and closed the door behind him. A third knock sounded through the house.

What’s that? cried the old woman, starting up.

A rat, said the old man in shaking tones—a rat. It passed me on the stairs.

His wife sat up in bed listening. A loud knock resounded through the house.

It’s Herbert! she screamed. It’s Herbert!

She ran to the door, but her husband was before her, and catching her by the arm, held her tightly.

What are you going to do? he whispered hoarsely.

It’s my boy; it’s Herbert! she cried, struggling mechanically. I forgot it was two miles away. What are you holding me for? Let go. I must open the door.

For God’s sake don’t let it in, cried the old man, trembling.

You’re afraid of your own son, she cried, struggling. Let me go. I’m coming, Herbert; I’m coming.

There was another knock, and another. The old woman with a sudden wrench broke free and ran from the room. Her husband followed to the landing, and called after her appealingly as she hurried downstairs. He heard the chain rattle back and the bottom bolt drawn slowly and stiffly from the socket. Then the old woman’s voice, strained and panting.

The bolt, she cried loudly. Come down. I can’t reach it.

But her husband was on his hands and knees groping wildly on the floor in search of the paw. If he could only find it before the thing outside got in. A perfect fusillade of knocks reverberated through the house, and he heard the scraping of a chair as his wife put it down in the passage against the door. He heard the creaking of the bolt as it came slowly back, and at the same moment he found the monkey’s paw, and frantically breathed his third and last wish.

The knocking ceased suddenly, although the echoes of it were still in the house. He heard the chair drawn back, and the door opened. A cold wind rushed up the staircase, and a long loud wail of disappointment and misery from his wife gave him courage to run down to her side, and then to the gate beyond. The street lamp flickering opposite shone on a quiet and deserted road.

GREEN TEA

JOSEPH SHERIDAN LE FANU

PROLOGUE

Martin Hesselius, the German Physician

Though carefully educated in medicine and surgery, I have never practised either. The study of each continues, nevertheless, to interest me profoundly. Neither idleness nor caprice caused my secession from the honourable calling which I had just entered. The cause was a very trifling scratch inflicted by a dissecting knife. This trifle cost me the loss of two fingers, amputated promptly, and the more painful loss of my health, for I have never been quite well since, and have seldom been twelve months together in the same place.

In my wanderings I became acquainted with Dr. Martin Hesselius, a wanderer like myself, like me a physician, and like me an enthusiast in his profession. Unlike me in this, that his wanderings were voluntary, and he a man, if not of fortune, as we estimate fortune in England, at least in what our forefathers used to term easy circumstances. He was an old man when I first saw him; nearly five-and-thirty years my senior.

In Dr. Martin Hesselius, I found my master. His knowledge was immense, his grasp of a case was an intuition. He was the very man to inspire a young enthusiast, like me, with awe and delight. My admiration has stood the test of time and survived the separation of death. I am sure it was well-founded.

For nearly twenty years I acted as his medical secretary. His immense collection of papers he has left in my care, to be arranged, indexed and bound. His treatment of some of these cases is curious. He writes in two distinct characters. He describes what he saw and heard as an intelligent layman might, and when in this style of narrative he had seen the patient either through his own hall-door, to the light of day, or through the gates of darkness to the caverns of the dead, he returns upon the narrative, and in the terms of his art and with all the force and originality of genius, proceeds to the work of analysis, diagnosis and illustration.

Here and there a case strikes me as of a kind to amuse or horrify a lay reader with an interest quite different from the peculiar one which it may possess for an expert. With slight modifications, chiefly of language, and of course a change of names, I copy the following. The narrator is Dr. Martin Hesselius. I find it among the voluminous notes of cases which he made during a tour in England about sixty-four years ago.

It is related in series of letters to his friend Professor Van Loo of Leyden. The professor was not a physician, but a chemist, and a man who read history and metaphysics and medicine, and had, in his day, written a play.

The narrative is therefore, if somewhat less valuable as a medical record, necessarily written in a manner more likely to interest an unlearned reader.

These letters, from a memorandum attached, appear to have been returned on the death of the professor, in 1819, to Dr. Hesselius. They are written, some in English, some in French, but the greater part in German. I am a faithful, though I am conscious, by no means a graceful translator, and although here and there I omit some passages, and shorten others, and disguise names, I have interpolated nothing.

CHAPTER I

Dr. Hesselius Relates How He Met the Rev. Mr. Jennings

The Rev. Mr. Jennings is tall and thin. He is middle-aged, and dresses with a natty, old-fashioned, high-church precision. He is naturally a little stately, but not at all stiff. His features, without being handsome, are well formed, and their expression extremely kind, but also shy.

I met him one evening at Lady Mary Heyduke’s. The modesty and benevolence of his countenance are extremely prepossessing.

We were but a small party, and he joined agreeably enough in the conversation, He seems to enjoy listening very much more than contributing to the talk; but what he says is always to the purpose and well said. He is a great favourite of Lady Mary’s, who it seems, consults him upon many things, and thinks him the most happy and blessed person on earth. Little knows she about him.

The Rev. Mr. Jennings is a bachelor, and has, they say, sixty thousand pounds in the funds. He is a charitable man. He is most anxious to be actively employed in his sacred profession, and yet though always tolerably well elsewhere, when he goes down to his vicarage in Warwickshire, to engage in the actual duties of his sacred calling, his health soon fails him, and in a very strange way. So says Lady Mary.

There is no doubt that Mr. Jennings’ health does break down in, generally, a sudden and mysterious way, sometimes in the very act of officiating in his old and pretty church at Kenlis. It may be his heart, it may be his brain. But so it has happened three or four times, or oftener, that after proceeding a certain way in the service, he has of a sudden stopped short, and after a silence, apparently quite unable to resume, he has fallen into solitary, inaudible prayer, his hands and his eyes uplifted, and then pale as death, and in the agitation of a strange shame and horror, descended trembling, and got into the vestry-room, leaving his congregation, without explanation, to themselves. This occurred when his curate was absent. When he goes down to Kenlis now, he always takes care to provide a clergyman to share his duty, and to supply his place on the instant should he become thus suddenly incapacitated.

When Mr. Jennings breaks down quite, and beats a retreat from the vicarage, and returns to London, where, in a dark street off Piccadilly, he inhabits a very narrow house, Lady Mary says that he is always perfectly well. I have my own opinion about that. There are degrees of course. We shall see.

Mr. Jennings is a perfectly gentlemanlike man. People, however, remark something odd. There is an impression a little ambiguous. One thing which certainly contributes to it, people I think don’t remember; or, perhaps, distinctly remark. But I did, almost immediately. Mr. Jennings has a way of looking sidelong upon the carpet, as if his eye followed the movements of something there. This, of course, is not always. It occurs now and then. But often enough to give a certain oddity, as I have said, to his manner, and in this glance travelling along the floor there is something both shy and anxious.

A medical philosopher, as you are good enough to call me, elaborating theories by the aid of cases sought out by himself, and by him watched and scrutinised with more time at command, and consequently infinitely more minuteness than the ordinary practitioner can afford, falls insensibly into habits of observation, which accompany him everywhere, and are exercised, as some people would say, impertinently, upon every subject that presents itself with the least likelihood of rewarding inquiry.

There was a promise of this kind in the slight, timid, kindly, but reserved gentleman, whom I met for the first time at this agreeable little evening gathering. I observed, of course, more than I here set down; but I reserve all that borders on the technical for a strictly scientific paper.

I may remark, that when I here speak of medical science, I do so, as I hope some day to see it more generally understood, in a much more comprehensive sense than its generally material treatment would warrant. I believe the entire natural world is but the ultimate expression of that spiritual world from which, and in which alone, it has its life. I believe that the essential man is a spirit, that the spirit is an organised substance, but as different in point of material from what we ordinarily understand by matter, as light or electricity is; that the material body is, in the most literal sense, a vesture, and death consequently no interruption of the living man’s existence, but simply his extrication from the natural body—a process which commences at the moment of what we term death, and the completion of which, at furthest a few days later, is the resurrection in power.

The person who weighs the consequences of these positions will probably see their practical bearing upon medical science. This is, however, by no means the proper place for displaying the proofs and discussing the consequences of this too generally unrecognized state of facts.

In pursuance of my habit, I was covertly observing Mr. Jennings, with all my caution—I think he perceived it—and I saw plainly that he was as cautiously observing me. Lady Mary happening to address me by my name, as Dr. Hesselius, I saw that he glanced at me more sharply, and then became thoughtful for a few minutes.

After this, as I conversed with a gentleman at the other end of the room, I saw him look at me more steadily, and with an interest which I thought I understood. I then saw him take an opportunity of chatting with Lady Mary, and was, as one always is, perfectly aware of being the subject of a distant inquiry and answer.

This tall clergyman approached me by-and-by; and in a little time we had got into conversation. When two people, who like reading, and know books and places, having travelled, wish to discourse, it is very strange if they can’t find topics. It was not accident that brought him near me, and led him into conversation. He knew German and had read my Essays on Metaphysical Medicine which suggest more than they actually say.

This courteous man, gentle, shy, plainly a man of thought and reading, who moving and talking among us, was not altogether of us, and whom I already suspected of leading a life whose transactions and alarms were carefully concealed, with an impenetrable reserve from, not only the world, but his best beloved friends—was cautiously weighing in his own mind the idea of taking a certain step with regard to me.

I penetrated his thoughts without his being aware of it, and was careful to say nothing which could betray to his sensitive vigilance my suspicions respecting his position, or my surmises about his plans respecting myself.

We chatted upon indifferent subjects for a time but at last he said:

I was very much interested by some papers of yours, Dr. Hesselius, upon what you term Metaphysical Medicine—I read them in German, ten or twelve years ago—have they been translated?

No, I’m sure they have not—I should have heard. They would have asked my leave, I think.

I asked the publishers here, a few months ago, to get the book for me in the original German; but they tell me it is out of print.

So it is, and has been for some years; but it flatters me as an author to find that you have not forgotten my little book, although, I added, laughing, ten or twelve years is a considerable time to have managed without it; but I suppose you have been turning the subject over again in your mind, or something has happened lately to revive your interest in it.

At this remark, accompanied by a glance of inquiry, a sudden embarrassment disturbed Mr. Jennings, analogous to that which makes a young lady blush and look foolish. He dropped his eyes, and folded his hands together uneasily, and looked oddly, and you would have said, guiltily, for a moment.

I helped him out of his awkwardness in the best way, by appearing not to observe it, and going straight on, I said: ?Those revivals of interest in a subject happen to me often; one book suggests another, and often sends me back a wild-goose chase over an interval of twenty years. But if you still care to possess a copy, I shall be only too happy to provide you; I have still got two or three by me—and if you allow me to present one I shall be very much honoured."

You are very good indeed, he said, quite at his ease again, in a moment:

I almost despaired—I don’t know how to thank you.

Pray don’t say a word; the thing is really so little worth that I am only ashamed of having offered it, and if you thank me any more I shall throw it into the fire in a fit of modesty.

Mr. Jennings laughed. He inquired where I was staying in London, and after a little more conversation on a variety of subjects, he took his departure.

CHAPTER II

The Doctor Questions Lady Mary and She Answers

I like your vicar so much, Lady Mary, said I, as soon as he was gone. He has read, travelled, and thought, and having also suffered, he ought to be an accomplished companion.

So he is, and, better still, he is a really good man, said she. His advice is invaluable about my schools, and all my little undertakings at Dawlbridge, and he’s so painstaking, he takes so much trouble—you have no idea—wherever he thinks he can be of use: he’s so good-natured and so sensible.

It is pleasant to hear so good an account of his neighbourly virtues. I can only testify to his being an agreeable and gentle companion, and in addition to what you have told me, I think I can tell you two or three things about him, said I.

Really!

Yes, to begin with, he’s unmarried. Yes, that’s right—go on.

"He has been writing, that is he was, but for two or three years perhaps, he has not gone on with his work, and the book was upon some rather abstract subject—perhaps theology."

Well, he was writing a book, as you say; I’m not quite sure what it was about, but only that it was nothing that I cared for; very likely you are right, and he certainly did stop—yes.

And although he only drank a little coffee here to-night, he likes tea, at least, did like it extravagantly.

"Yes, that’s quite true."

He drank green tea, a good deal, didn’t he? I pursued. Well, that’s very odd! Green tea was a subject on which we used almost to quarrel.

But he has quite given that up, said I. So he has.

And, now, one more fact. His mother or his father, did you know them?

Yes, both; his father is only ten years dead, and their place is near Dawlbridge. We knew them very well, she answered.

Well, either his mother or his father—I should rather think his father, saw a ghost, said I.

Well, you really are a conjurer, Dr. Hesselius.

Conjurer or no, haven’t I said right? I answered merrily.

"You certainly have, and it was his father: he was a silent, whimsical man, and he used to bore my father about his dreams, and at last he told him a story about a ghost he had seen and talked with, and a very odd story it was. I remember it particularly, because I was so afraid of him. This story was long before he died—when I was quite a child—and his ways were so silent and moping, and he used to drop in sometimes, in the dusk, when I was alone in the drawingroom, and I used to fancy there were ghosts about him."

I smiled and nodded.

And now, having established my character as a conjurer, I think I must say good-night, said I. "But how did you find it out?"

By the planets, of course, as the gipsies do, I answered, and so, gaily we said good-night.

Next morning I sent the little book he had been inquiring after, and a note to Mr. Jennings, and on returning late that evening, I found that he had called at my lodgings, and left his card. He asked whether I was at home, and asked at what hour he would be most likely to find me.

Does he intend opening his case, and consulting me professionally, as they say? I hope so. I have already conceived a theory about him. It is supported by Lady Mary’s answers to my parting questions. I should like much to ascertain from his own lips. But what can I do consistently with good breeding to invite a confession? Nothing. I rather think he meditates one. At all events, my dear Van L., I shan’t make myself difficult of access; I mean to return his visit tomorrow. It will be only civil in return for his politeness, to ask to see him. Perhaps something may come of it. Whether much, little, or nothing, my dear Van L., you shall hear.

CHAPTER III

Dr. Hesselius Picks Up Something in Latin Books

Well, I have called at Blank Street.

On inquiring at the door, the servant told me that Mr. Jennings was engaged very particularly with a gentleman, a clergyman from Kenlis, his parish in the country. Intending to reserve my privilege, and to call again, I merely intimated that I should try another time, and had turned to go, when the servant begged my pardon, and asked me, looking at me a little more attentively than well-bred persons of his order usually do, whether I was Dr. Hesselius; and, on learning that I was, he said, Perhaps then, sir, you would allow me to mention it to Mr. Jennings, for I am sure he wishes to see you.

The servant returned in a moment, with a message from Mr. Jennings, asking me to go into his study, which was in effect his back drawing-room, promising to be with me in a very few minutes.

This was really a study—almost a library. The room was lofty, with two tall slender windows, and rich dark curtains. It was much larger than I had expected, and stored with books on every side, from the floor to the ceiling. The upper carpet—for to my tread it felt that there were two or three—was a Turkey carpet. My steps fell noiselessly. The bookcases standing out, placed the windows, particularly narrow ones, in deep recesses. The effect of the room was, although extremely comfortable, and even luxurious, decidedly gloomy, and aided by the silence, almost oppressive. Perhaps, however, I ought to have allowed something for association. My mind had connected peculiar ideas with Mr. Jennings. I stepped into this perfectly silent room, of a very silent house, with a peculiar foreboding; and its darkness, and solemn clothing of books, for except where two narrow looking-glasses were set in the wall, they were everywhere, helped this somber feeling.

While awaiting Mr. Jennings’ arrival, I amused myself by looking into some of the books with which his shelves were laden. Not among these, but immediately under them, with their backs upward, on the floor, I lighted upon a complete set of Swedenborg’s Arcana Caelestia, in the original Latin, a very fine folio set, bound in the natty livery which theology affects, pure vellum, namely, gold letters, and carmine edges. There were paper markers in several of these volumes, I raised and placed them, one after the other, upon the table, and opening where these papers were placed, I read in the solemn Latin phraseology, a series of sentences indicated by a pencilled line at the margin. Of these I copy here a few, translating them into English.

When man’s interior sight is opened, which is that of his spirit, then there appear the things of another life, which cannot possibly be made visible to the bodily sight…

By the internal sight it has been granted me to see the things that are in the other life, more clearly than I see those that are in the world. From these considerations, it is evident that external vision exists from interior vision, and this from a vision still more interior, and so on…

There are with every man at least two evil spirits…

With wicked genii there is also a fluent speech, but harsh and grating. There is also among them a speech which is not fluent, wherein the dissent of the thoughts is perceived as something secretly creeping along within it.

The evil spirits associated with man are, indeed from the hells, but when with man they are not then in hell, but are taken out thence. The place where they then are, is in the midst between heaven and hell, and is called the world of spirits—when the evil spirits who are with man, are in that world, they are not in any infernal torment, but in every thought and affection of man, and so, in all that the man himself enjoys. But when they are remitted into their hell, they return to their former state…

If evil spirits could perceive that they were associated with man, and yet that they were spirits separate from him, and if they could flow in into the things of his body, they would attempt by a thousand means to destroy him; for they hate man with a deadly hatred…

Knowing, therefore, that I was a man in the body, they were continually striving to destroy me, not as to the body only, but especially as to the soul; for to destroy any man or spirit is the very delight of the life of all who are in hell; but I have been continually protected by the Lord. Hence it appears how dangerous it is for man to be in a living consort with spirits, unless he be in the good of faith…

Nothing is more carefully guarded from the knowledge of associate spirits than their being thus conjoint with a man, for if they knew it they would speak to him, with the intention to destroy him…

The delight of hell is to do evil to man, and to hasten his eternal ruin.

A long note, written with a very sharp and fine pencil, in Mr. Jennings’ neat hand, at the foot of the page, caught my eye. Expecting his criticism upon the text, I read a word or two, and stopped, for it was something quite different, and began with these words, Deus misereatur mei—May God compassionate me. Thus warned of its private nature, I averted my eyes, and shut the book, replacing all the volumes as I had found them, except one which interested me, and in which, as men studious and solitary in their habits will do, I grew so absorbed as to take no cognisance of the outer world, nor to remember where I was.

I was reading some pages which refer to representatives and correspondents, in the technical language of Swedenborg, and had arrived at a passage, the substance of which is, that evil spirits, when seen by other eyes than those of their infernal associates, present themselves, by correspondence, in the shape of the beast (fera) which represents their particular lust and life, in aspect direful and atrocious. This is a long passage, and particularises a number of those bestial forms.

CHAPTER IV

Four Eyes Were Reading the Passage

I was running the head of my pencil-case along the line as I read it, and something caused me to raise my eyes.

Directly before me was one of the mirrors I have mentioned, in which I saw reflected the tall shape of my friend, Mr. Jennings, leaning over my shoulder, and reading the page at which I was busy, and with a face so dark and wild that I should hardly have known him.

I turned and rose. He stood erect also, and with an effort laughed a little, saying:

I came in and asked you how you did, but without succeeding in awaking you from your book; so I could not restrain my curiosity, and very impertinently, I’m afraid, peeped over your shoulder. This is not your first time of looking into those pages. You have looked into Swedenborg, no doubt, long ago?

Oh dear, yes! I owe Swedenborg a great deal; you will discover traces of him in the little book on Metaphysical Medicine, which you were so good as to remember.

Although my friend affected a gaiety of manner, there was a slight flush in his face, and I could perceive that he was inwardly much perturbed.

I’m scarcely yet qualified, I know so little of Swedenborg. I’ve only had them a fortnight, he answered, and I think they are rather likely to make a solitary man nervous—that is, judging from the very little I have read—I don’t say that they have made me so, he laughed; and I’m so very much obliged for the book. I hope you got my note?

I made all proper acknowledgments and modest disclaimers.

I never read a book that I go with, so entirely, as that of yours, he continued. I saw at once there is more in it than is quite unfolded. Do you know Dr. Harley? he asked, rather abruptly.

In passing, the editor remarks that the physician here named was one of the most eminent who had ever practised in England.

I did, having had letters to him, and had experienced from him great courtesy and considerable assistance during my visit to England.

I think that man one of the very greatest fools I ever met in my life, said Mr. Jennings.

This was the first time I had ever heard him say a sharp thing of anybody, and such a term applied to so high a name a little startled me.

Really! and in what way? I asked. In his profession, he answered.

I smiled.

I mean this, he said: "he seems to me, one half, blind—I mean one half of all he looks at is dark—preternaturally bright and vivid all the rest; and the worst of it is, it seems willful. I can’t get him—I mean he won’t—I’ve had some experience of him as a physician, but I look on him as, in that sense, no better than a paralytic mind, an intellect half dead. I’ll tell you—I know I shall some time—all about it, he said, with a little agitation. You stay some months longer in England. If I should be out of town during your stay for a little time, would you allow me to trouble you with a letter?"

I should be only too happy, I assured him.

Very good of you. I am so utterly dissatisfied with Harley. A little leaning to the materialistic school, I said.

"A mere materialist, he corrected me; you can’t think how that sort of thing worries one who knows better. You won’t tell any one—any of my friends you know—that I am hippish; now, for instance, no one knows—not even Lady Mary—that I have