Transcriber's note:
Two words in this text contain macrons over double ee. These
are denoted in the text with [=ee].
Superscripted text is denoted by the use of the following
markings: 12^{mi} where "mi" is superscripted.
A Transcriber's note at the end of the text lists the changes
made in transcription.
The Modern Library of the World's Best Books
THE BEST GHOST STORIES
Introduction by Arthur B. Reeve
The Modern Library
Publishers New York
Copyright, 1919, by
Boni & Liveright, Inc.
Manufactured in the United States of America by H. Wolff
CONTENTS
PAGE
INTRODUCTION - "THE FASCINATION OF THE GHOST STORY" _Arthur B. Reeve_ vii
THE APPARITION OF MRS. VEAL _Daniel De Foe_ 3
CANON ALBERIC'S SCRAP-BOOK _Montague Rhodes James_ 18
THE HAUNTED AND THE HAUNTERS _Edward Bulwer-Lytton_ 31
THE SILENT WOMAN _Leopold Kompert_ 60
BANSHEES 79
THE MAN WHO WENT TOO FAR _E.F. Benson_ 85
THE WOMAN'S GHOST STORY _Algernon Blackwood_ 108
THE PHANTOM RICKSHAW _Rudyard Kipling_ 118
THE RIVAL GHOSTS _Brander Matthews_ 141
THE DAMNED THING _Ambrose Bierce_ 160
THE INTERVAL _Vincent O'Sullivan_ 170
DEY AIN'T NO GHOSTS _Ellis Parker Butler_ 177
SOME REAL AMERICAN GHOSTS 188
INTRODUCTION
THE FASCINATION OF THE GHOST STORY
ARTHUR B. REEVE
What is the fascination we feel for the mystery of the ghost story?
Is it of the same nature as the fascination which we feel for the
mystery of the detective story?
Of the latter fascination, the late Paul Armstrong used to say that it
was because we are all as full of crime as Sing Sing - only we don't
dare.
Thus, may I ask, are we not fascinated by the ghost story because, no
matter what may be the scientific or skeptical bent of our minds, in our
inmost souls, secretly perhaps, we are as full of superstition as an
obeah man - only we don't let it loose?
Who shall say that he is able to fling off lightly the inheritance of
countless ages of superstition? Is there not a streak of superstition in
us all? We laugh at the voodoo worshiper - then create our own hoodooes,
our pet obsessions.
It has been said that man is incurably religious, that if all religions
were blotted out, man would create a new religion.
Man is incurably fascinated by the mysterious. If all the ghost stories
of the ages were blotted out, man would invent new ones.
For, do we not all stand in awe of that which we cannot explain, of that
which, if it be not in our own experience, is certainly recorded in the
experience of others, of that of which we know and can know nothing?
Skeptical though one may be of the occult, he must needs be interested
in things that others believe to be objective - that certainly are
subjectively very real to them.
The ghost story is not born of science, nor even of super-science,
whatever that may be. It is not of science at all. It is of another
sphere, despite all that the psychic researchers have tried to
demonstrate.
There are in life two sorts of people who, for want of a better
classification, I may call the psychic and the non-psychic. If I ask the
psychic to close his eyes and I say to him, "Horse," he immediately
visualizes a horse. The other, non-psychic, does not. I rather incline
to believe that it is the former class who see ghosts, or rather some of
them. The latter do not - though they share interest in them.
The artists are of the visualizing class and, in our more modern times,
it is the psychic who think in motion pictures, or at least in a
succession of still pictures.
However we explain the ghostly and supernatural, whether we give it
objective or merely subjective reality, neither explanation prevents the
non-psychic from being intensely interested in the visions of the
psychic.
Thus I am convinced that if we were all quite honest with ourselves,
whether we believe in or do not believe in ghosts, at least we are all
deeply interested in them. There is in this interest something that
makes all the world akin.
Who does not feel a suppressed start at the creaking of furniture in the
dark of night? Who has not felt a shiver of goose flesh, controlled only
by an effort of will? Who, in the dark, has not had the feeling of some
_thing_ behind him - and, in spite of his conscious reasoning, turned to
look?
If there be any who has not, it may be that to him ghost stories have no
fascination. Let him at least, however, be honest.
To every human being mystery appeals, be it that of the crime cases on
which a large part of yellow journalism is founded, or be it in the
cases of Dupin, of Le Coq, of Sherlock Holmes, of Arsene Lupin, of Craig
Kennedy, or a host of others of our fiction mystery characters. The
appeal is in the mystery.
The detective's case is solved at the end, however. But even at the end
of a ghost story, the underlying mystery remains. In the ghost story, we
have the very quintessence of mystery.
Authors, publishers, editors, dramatists, writers of motion pictures
tell us that never before has there been such an intense and wide
interest in mystery stories as there is to-day. That in itself explains
the interest in the super-mystery story of the ghost and ghostly doings.
Another element of mystery lies in such stories. Deeper and further
back, is the supreme mystery of life - after death - what?
"Impossible," scorns the non-psychic as he listens to some ghost story.
To which, doggedly replies the mind of the opposite type, "Not so.
I believe _because_ it is impossible."
The uncanny, the unhealthy - as in the master of such writing,
Poe - fascinates. Whether we will or no, the imp of the perverse lures us
on.
That is why we read with enthralled interest these excursions into the
eerie unknown, perhaps reading on till the mystic hour of midnight
increases the creepy pleasure.
One might write a volume of analysis and appreciation of this aptly
balanced anthology of ghost stories assembled here after years of
reading and study by Mr. J.L. French.
Foremost among the impressions that a casual reader will derive is the
interesting fact, just as in detective mystery stories, so in ghost
stories, styles change. Each age, each period has the ghost story
peculiar to itself. To-day, there is a new style of ghost story
gradually evolving.
Once stories were of fairies, fays, trolls, the "little people," of
poltergiest and loup garou. Through various ages we have progressed to
the ghost story of the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries until to-day,
in the twentieth, we are seeing a modern style, which the new science is
modifying materially.
High among the stories in this volume, one must recognize the masterful
art of Algernon Blackwood's "The Woman's Ghost Story."
"I was interested in psychic things," says the woman as she starts to
tell her story simply, with a sweep toward the climax that has the ring
of the truth of fiction. Here perhaps we have the modern style of ghost
story at its best.
Times change as well as styles. "The Man Who Went Too Far" is of intense
interest as an attempt to bring into our own times an interpretation of
the symbolism underlying Greek mythology, applied to England of some
years ago.
To see Pan meant death. Hence in this story there is a philosophy of
Pan-theism - no "me," no "you," no "it." It is a mystical story, with a
storm scene in which is painted a picture that reminds one strongly of
"The Fall of the House of Ushur," - with the frankly added words, "On him
were marks of hoofs of a monstrous goat that had leaped on
him," - uncompromising mysticism.
Happy is the Kipling selection, "The Phantom 'Rickshaw," if only for
that obiter dictum of ghost-presence as Kipling explains about the rift
in the brain: " - and a little bit of the Dark World came through and
pressed him to death!"
Then there are the racial styles in ghost stories. The volume takes us
from the "Banshees and Other Death Warnings" of Ireland to a strange
example of Jewish mysticism in "The Silent Woman." Mr. French has been
very wide in his choice, giving us these as well as many examples from
the literature of England and France. Finally, he has compiled from the
newspapers, as typically American, many ghost stories of New York and
other parts of the country.
Strange that one should find humor in a subject so weird. Yet we find
it. Take, for instance, De Foe's old narrative, "The Apparition of Mrs.
Veal." It is a hoax, nothing more. Of our own times is Ellis Parker
Butler's "Dey Ain't No Ghosts," showing an example of the modern Negro's
racial heritage.
In our literature and on the stage, the very idea of a Darky and a
graveyard is mirth-provoking. Mr. Butler extracts some pithy philosophy
from his Darky boy: "I ain't skeered ob ghosts whut am, c'ase dey ain't
no ghosts, but I jes' feel kinder oneasy 'bout de ghosts whut ain't!"
Humor is succeeded by pathos. In "The Interval" we find a sympathetic
twist to the ghost story - an actual desire to meet the dead.
It is not, however, to be compared for interest to the story of sheer
terror, as in Bulwer-Lytton's "The Haunted and the Haunters," with the
flight of the servant in terror, the cowering of the dog against the
wall, the death of the dog, its neck actually broken by the terror, and
all that go to make an experience in a haunted house what it should be.
Thus, at last, we come to two of the stories that attempt to give a
scientific explanation, another phase of the modern style of ghost
story.
One of these, perhaps hardly modern as far as mere years are concerned,
is this same story of Bulwer, "The Haunted and the Haunters." Besides
being a rattling good old-fashioned tale of horror, it attempts a
new-fashioned scientific explanation. It is enough to read and re-read
it.
It is, however, the lamented Ambrose Bierce who has gone furthest in the
science and the philosophy of the matter, and in a very short story,
too, splendidly titled "The Damned Thing."
"Incredible!" exclaims the coroner at the inquest.
"That is nothing to you, sir," replies the
newspaper man who relates the experience, and in
these words expresses the true feeling about
ghostly fiction, "that is nothing to you, if I
also swear that it is true!"
But furthest of all in his scientific explanation - not scientifically
explaining away, but in explaining the way - goes Bierce as he outlines a
theory. From the diary of the murdered man he picks out the following
which we may treasure as a gem:
"I am not mad. There are colors that we cannot
see. And - God help me! - the Damned Thing is of
such a color!"
This fascination of the ghost story - have I made it clear?
As I write, nearing midnight, the bookcase behind me cracks. I start and
turn. Nothing. There is a creak of a board in the hallway.
I know it is the cool night wind - the uneven contraction of materials
expanded in the heat of the day.
Yet - do I go into the darkness outside otherwise than alert?
It is this evolution of our sense of ghost terror - ages of it - that
fascinates us.
Can we, with a few generations of modernism behind us, throw it off with
all our science? And, if we did, should we not then succeed only in
abolishing the old-fashioned ghost story and creating a new, scientific
ghost story?
Scientific? Yes. But more, - something that has existed since the
beginnings of intelligence in the human race.
Perhaps, you critic, you say that the true ghost story originated in the
age of shadowy candle light and pine knot with their grotesqueries on
the walls and in the unpenetrated darkness, that the electric bulb and
the radiator have dispelled that very thing on which, for ages, the
ghost story has been built.
What? No ghost stories? Would you take away our supernatural fiction by
your paltry scientific explanation?
Still will we gather about the story teller - then lie awake o' nights,
seeing mocking figures, arms akimbo, defying all your science to crush
the ghost story.
BEST GHOST STORIES
THE APPARITION OF MRS. VEAL
BY DANIEL DE FOE
THE PREFACE
This relation is matter of fact, and attended with such circumstances,
as may induce any reasonable man to believe it. It was sent by a
gentleman, a justice of peace, at Maidstone, in Kent, and a very
intelligent person, to his friend in London, as it is here worded; which
discourse is attested by a very sober and understanding gentlewoman, a
kinswoman of the said gentleman's, who lives in Canterbury, within a few
doors of the house in which the within-named Mrs. Bargrave lives; who
believes his kinswoman to be of so discerning a spirit, as not to be put
upon by any fallacy; and who positively assured him that the whole
matter, as it is related and laid down, is really true; and what she
herself had in the same words, as near as may be, from Mrs. Bargrave's
own mouth, who, she knows, had no reason to invent and publish such a
story, or any design to forge and tell a lie, being a woman of much
honesty and virtue, and her whole life a course, as it were, of piety.
The use which we ought to make of it, is to consider, that there is a
life to come after this, and a just God, who will retribute to every one
according to the deeds done in the body; and therefore to reflect upon
our past course of life we have led in the world; that our time is short
and uncertain; and that if we would escape the punishment of the
ungodly, and receive the reward of the righteous, which is the laying
hold of eternal life, we ought, for the time to come, to return to God
by a speedy repentance, ceasing to do evil, and learning to do well: to
seek after God early, if happily He may be found of us, and lead such
lives for the future, as may be well pleasing in His sight.
A RELATION OF THE APPARITION OF MRS. VEAL
This thing is so rare in all its circumstances, and on so good
authority, that my reading and conversation has not given me anything
like it: it is fit to gratify the most ingenious and serious inquirer.
Mrs. Bargrave is the person to whom Mrs. Veal appeared after her death;
she is my intimate friend, and I can avouch for her reputation, for
these last fifteen or sixteen years, on my own knowledge; and I can
confirm the good character she had from her youth, to the time of my
acquaintance. Though, since this relation, she is calumniated by some
people, that are friends to the brother of this Mrs. Veal, who appeared;
who think the relation of this appearance to be a reflection, and
endeavor what they can to blast Mrs. Bargrave's reputation, and to laugh
the story out of countenance. But by the circumstances thereof, and the
cheerful disposition of Mrs. Bargrave, notwithstanding the ill-usage of
a very wicked husband, there is not yet the least sign of dejection in
her face; nor did I ever hear her let fall a desponding or murmuring
expression; nay, not when actually under her husband's barbarity; which
I have been witness to, and several other persons of undoubted
reputation.
Now you must know, Mrs. Veal was a maiden gentlewoman of about thirty
years of age, and for some years last past had been troubled with fits;
which were perceived coming on her, by her going off from her discourse
very abruptly to some impertinence. She was maintained by an only
brother, and kept his house in Dover. She was a very pious woman, and
her brother a very sober man to all appearance; but now he does all he
can to null or quash the story. Mrs. Veal was intimately acquainted with
Mrs. Bargrave from her childhood. Mrs. Veal's circumstances were then
mean; her father did not take care of his children as he ought, so that
they were exposed to hardships; and Mrs. Bargrave, in those days, had as
unkind a father, though she wanted neither for food nor clothing, whilst
Mrs. Veal wanted for both; insomuch that she would often say, Mrs.
Bargrave, you are not only the best, but the only friend I have in the
world, and no circumstances of life shall ever dissolve my friendship.
They would often condole each other's adverse fortunes, and read
together Drelincourt upon Death, and other good books; and so, like two
Christian friends, they comforted each other under their sorrow.
Some time after, Mr. Veal's friends got him a place in the custom-house
at Dover, which occasioned Mrs. Veal, by little and little, to fall off
from her intimacy with Mrs. Bargrave, though there was never any such
thing as a quarrel; but an indifferency came on by degrees, till at last
Mrs. Bargrave had not seen her in two years and a half; though above a
twelvemonth of the time Mrs. Bargrave hath been absent from Dover, and
this last half year has been in Canterbury about two months of the time,
dwelling in a house of her own.
In this house, on the 8th of September, 1705, she was sitting alone in
the forenoon, thinking over her unfortunate life, and arguing herself
into a due resignation to providence, though her condition seemed hard.
And, said she, I have been provided for hitherto, and doubt not but I
shall be still; and am well satisfied that my afflictions shall end when
it is most fit for me: and then took up her sewing-work, which she had
no sooner done, but she hears a knocking at the door. She went to see
who was there, and this proved to be Mrs. Veal, her old friend, who was
in a riding-habit. At that moment of time the clock struck twelve at
noon.
Madam, says Mrs. Bargrave, I am surprised to see you, you have been so
long a stranger; but told her, she was glad to see her, and offered to
salute her; which Mrs. Veal complied with, till their lips almost
touched; and then Mrs. Veal drew her hand across her own eyes, and said,
I am not very well; and so waived it. She told Mrs. Bargrave, she was
going a journey, and had a great mind to see her first. But, says Mrs.
Bargrave, how came you to take a journey alone? I am amazed at it,
because I know you have a fond brother. Oh! says Mrs. Veal, I gave my
brother the slip, and came away because I had so great a desire to see
you before I took my journey. So Mrs. Bargrave went in with her, into
another room within the first, and Mrs. Veal sat her down in an
elbow-chair, in which Mrs. Bargrave was sitting when she heard Mrs. Veal
knock. Then says Mrs. Veal, My dear friend, I am come to renew our old
friendship again, and beg your pardon for my breach of it; and if you
can forgive me, you are the best of women. O, says Mrs. Bargrave, do not
mention such a thing; I have not had an uneasy thought about it; I can
easily forgive it. What did you think of me? said Mrs. Veal. Says Mrs.
Bargrave, I thought you were like the rest of the world, and that
prosperity had made you forget yourself and me. Then Mrs. Veal reminded
Mrs. Bargrave of the many friendly offices she did her in former days,
and much of the conversation they had with each other in the times of
their adversity; what books they read, and what comfort, in particular,
they received from Drelincourt's Book of Death, which was the best, she
said, on that subject ever written. She also mentioned Dr. Sherlock, the
two Dutch books which were translated, written upon death, and several
others. But Drelincourt, she said, had the clearest notions of death,
and of the future state, of any who had handled that subject. Then she
asked Mrs. Bargrave, whether she had Drelincourt. She said, Yes. Says
Mrs. Veal, Fetch it. And so Mrs. Bargrave goes up stairs and brings it
down. Says Mrs. Veal, Dear Mrs. Bargrave, if the eyes of our faith were
as open as the eyes of our body, we should see numbers of angels about
us for our guard. The notions we have of heaven now, are nothing like
what it is, as Drelincourt says; therefore be comforted under your
afflictions, and believe that the Almighty has a particular regard to
you; and that your afflictions are marks of God's favor; and when they
have done the business they are sent for, they shall be removed from
you. And believe me, my dear friend, believe what I say to you, one
minute of future happiness will infinitely reward you for all your
sufferings. For, I can never believe (and claps her hand upon her knee
with great earnestness, which indeed ran through most of her discourse),
that ever God will suffer you to spend all your days in this afflicted
state; but be assured, that your afflictions shall leave you, or you
them, in a short time. She spake in that pathetical and heavenly
manner, that Mrs. Bargrave wept several times, she was so deeply
affected with it.
Then Mrs. Veal mentioned Dr. Kenrick's Ascetick, at the end of which he
gives an account of the lives of the primitive Christians. Their pattern
she recommended to our imitation, and said, their conversation was not
like this of our age: For now, says she, there is nothing but frothy,
vain discourse, which is far different from theirs. Theirs was to
edification, and to build one another up in faith; so that they were not
as we are, nor are we as they were: but, says she, we ought to do as
they did. There was an hearty friendship among them; but where is it now
to be found? Says Mrs. Bargrave, It is hard indeed to find a true friend
in these days. Says Mrs. Veal, Mr. Norris has a fine copy of verses,
called Friendship in Perfection, which I wonderfully admire. Have you
seen the book? says Mrs. Veal. No, says Mrs. Bargrave, but I have the
verses of my own writing out. Have you? says Mrs. Veal, then fetch them.
Which she did from above stairs, and offered them to Mrs. Veal to read,
who refused, and waived the thing, saying, holding down her head would
make it ache; and then desired Mrs. Bargrave to read them to her, which
she did. As they were admiring friendship, Mrs. Veal said, Dear Mrs.
Bargrave, I shall love you for ever. In these verses there is twice used
the word Elysian. Ah! says Mrs. Veal, these poets have such names for
heaven. She would often draw her hands across her own eyes, and say,
Mrs. Bargrave, do not you think I am mightily impaired by my fits? No,
says Mrs. Bargrave, I think you look as well as ever I knew you. After
all this discourse, which the apparition put in much finer words than
Mrs. Bargrave said she could pretend to, and as much more than she can
remember, (for it cannot be thought, that an hour and three quarters'
conversation could all be retained, though the main of it she thinks she
does,) she said to Mrs. Bargrave, she would have her write a letter to
her brother, and tell him, she would have him give rings to such and
such; and that there was a purse of gold in her cabinet, and that she
would have two broad pieces given to her cousin Watson.
Talking at this rate, Mrs. Bargrave thought that a fit was coming upon
her, and so placed herself in a chair just before her knees, to keep her
from falling to the ground, if her fits should occasion it: for the
elbow-chair, she thought, would keep her from falling on either side.
And to divert Mrs. Veal, as she thought, took hold of her gown-sleeve
several times, and commended it. Mrs. Veal told her, it was a scowered
silk, and newly made up. But for all this, Mrs. Veal persisted in her
request, and told Mrs. Bargrave, she must not deny her: and she would
have her tell her brother all their conversation, when she had
opportunity. Dear Mrs. Veal, says Mrs. Bargrave, this seems so
impertinent, that I cannot tell how to comply with it; and what a
mortifying story will our conversation be to a young gentleman? Why,
says Mrs. Bargrave, it is much better, methinks, to do it yourself. No,
says Mrs. Veal, though it seems impertinent to you now, you will see
more reason for it hereafter. Mrs. Bargrave then, to satisfy her
importunity, was going to fetch a pen and ink; but Mrs. Veal said, Let
it alone now, but do it when I am gone; but you must be sure to do it:
which was one of the last things she enjoined her at parting; and so she
promised her.
Then Mrs. Veal asked for Mrs. Bargrave's daughter; she said, she was not
at home: But if you have a mind to see her, says Mrs. Bargrave, I'll
send for her. Do, says Mrs. Veal. On which she left her, and went to a