The Best Ghost Stories Ever Told

by Stephen Brennan

  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 info@skyhorsepublishing.com.

  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 renais
sance 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 th
e 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.”