Showing posts with label Ghost stories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Ghost stories. Show all posts

Thursday, August 8, 2024

"Ghost Stories" by Jack Ross

When a book is titled Ghost Stories, that brings with it certain expectations on the part of a reader. New Zealand poet, editor, writer and teacher Jack Ross tries to break such expectations in his 2019 collection of this title. This is first evidenced by redefining terms on the rear cover blurb:

David Foster Wallace once wrote that "every love story is a ghost story." Not all of the stories in Jack Ross's new collection are about love, but certainly all of them concern ghosts--imaginary, real, or entirely absent. As it turns out there are even stranger things in the world from haunted hotel rooms in Beijing to drunken poetry readings on Auckland's North Shore.
The blurb by Tracey Slaughter also helps frame the reader:

There's no one in New Zealand literature exploring the dark ways of narrative with the alchemical touch of Jack Ross ...
These quotes, and Ross's own eccentric Introduction, "The Classic New Zealand Ghost Story," makes one realize that the ghost stories herein are by no means typical fare--and indeed, some are not ghost stories by most people's definition. Besides the Introduction, there are nine stories, followed by a section called "The Cross-Correspondences", comprised of seventy-two numbered paragraphs followed by a (sort-of) nonfiction addendum explication of some of the aspects found in the previous paragraphs. Much of the whole seems experimental in terms of narrative construction.

There is also a kind of hodge-podge in tracing of subjects within each story, for that seems to me the author's approach. A self-reflexive comment in the story "Catfish" seems particularly apt:  "It's just that most of my imaginative life is now conducted in the third person, in communication with the writers of books and the creators, for the most part, of bad TV." That statement reflects the contents of most of the stories, in which topics run from numerology to L. Frank Baum, old movies to Mayan eschatology, General Grant of the US Civil War on to sites to see in modern China, as well as covering aspects of Kipling--some of his stories, as well as his "mad" sister, Alice Fleming. 

The cover illustration (by Graham Fletcher) is quite nice, but the text on the rear cover is almost too small to read. The text inside the book suffers from the same smallness (punctuation is easy to miss). Ross and the same publisher has just published (in July 2024) a second volume titled Haunts.

Monday, August 8, 2016

Penroysteth Castle. A legend of Terror

An anonymous ghost story published in an Australian newspaper at Christmas 1848.


PENROYSTETH CASTLE.  A LEGEND OF TERROR.  AN ORIGINAL TALE.



Geelong Advertiser (December 1848)



I was born in 1811, on the eve of the battle of Waterloo, although nowhere near the scene of that memorable contest. Ajmeer, the most central station of India, having over looked, with its thrice sanctified minarets and pagodas, the roof beneath which I was ushered into the world. My father, Colonel Berkely Wagstaffe, then in command of a dragoon regiment, dying shortly afterwards of a malignant fever, I was taken by my surviving parent, the Lady Alicia, to England, where I was received by Sir Greville Wagstaffe as the heir presumptive to the immense estates of Penroysteth Castle and Domain, lying in the county of Cornwall, and of the ancient baronetcy attached to those possessions.


 
My mother, who, as Lady Alicia Gisborne, daughter of the Viscount Hanbury, had allied herself at the age of sixteen to my father at the age of forty, although still young and beautiful, preserving her widowed state, gave herself up entirely to the care of my nurture and education, in the fond hope that an extinct peerage in the Wagstaffe family might be revived in my favor, through the joint means of influence and wealth, and the strawberry leaved coronet of my ancestors might again encircle the brow of her only and darling son.
 


I received my early education at the attractive College of Harrow, passing the vacations at a pretty country seat bequeathed to my mother for her life, by her departed husband, but on reaching my sixteenth year, I was removed to the splendid mansion of my grandfather, where Lady Alicia had been invited to take up her abode, and my subsequent training in arts and arms confided to a Dr Emanuel, a gentleman of Hebrew descent, but of the Christian profession; and thus sur rounded with every means of luxury and happiness, I passed the time until the period appointed for entering on the usual circle of continental travel.
 


Previous to this, however, occurred the solemn and strange events which it is my immediate purpose to leave upon record. I said that I had every means of happiness within any reach, but nevertheless, unalloyed enjoyment of early life, as in many other cases, was not destined to be mine, and the thorn brier in my path was a domestic in the employment of Sir Greville, a man who acted ostensibly as his valet, but really as major domo of the establishment. Unquestionable as were the position and prospects of Lady Alicia and myself in the Castle to which I was the heir, yet so complete was the mastery that this cold, caustic, impenetrable man had gained over my grandfather, that nothing could take place without his being consulted and his acquiesence obtained. Lady Alicia could not get the family coach for an airing, nor I my saddle horse, dogs, gun or fishing rod, for an hour's amusement, without his nasty temper was in some way propitiated; every servant but one was at his nod or beck; to him they owed their situations, and upon his favour alone they retained them, he had surrounded his master with his own dependents, and contrived in every, the most trivial matter, to have his own way and advance his own interests. His jealousy at the introduction of myself, Lady Alicia, and Dr Emanuel into the house, where no mistress had been seen for twenty years, and no one had hitherto divided the sway with himself, knew no bounds, and every system of annoyance short of absolute rudeness, was practised towards us all, but particularly to myself.
 


Naturally of a high spirited and independent character, I determined to wage ceaseless war with this bugbear of my existence; vowing in the heat of my indignation, that either he or I should be wanting at the castle, before twelve months had passed over our heads; nor was I without allies against Stafford (such was his name,) for Brierly, the butler and his son Jack, an under game keeper, were his sworn enemies, and owed the retention of their places to the forty years' servitude of the former, in the responsible situation which he held in the household. By their means, I resolved to obtain my end, and the narrative of the events which followed my determination, will show the nature and extent of my success. Mr Stafford being of Scotch extraction, pretended amongst other amiable qualities, to an extra degree of presbyterian sanctimoniousness, and failing to find a preacher after his own heart, in the national church, succeeded in introducing on the estate, an Independent dissenter, who was not only allowed to establish himself, amongst the mining laborers of the domain, but received an annual stipend from the liberal purse of Sir Greville. To this place of worship, the Major Domo used regularly to march on every Sabbath morning, followed and surrounded by the whole sept of those Caledonian menials, whose services he had dexterously substituted, in the place of the simpler but less flexible domestics of Cornish breeding. At chapel, he acted himself as precentor, and occasionally exercised the gifts, as he termed them, of prayer and exhortation; never failing, however, to exact the most rigid deference to his person, as well from the humble miners, who attended, as from his own domestic companions; while at home, he displayed an exclusiveness of disposition, and established an espionage that was perfectly intolerable, ever to the most servile of his creatures.
 


A few months after my arrival at Penroysteth, one of the poorer servants obtained the privilege, of having his daughter placed upon the serving staff at the castle, through the influence of Stafford, under whose patronage it was announced the family had been taken, with a view to bettering their condition and pushing their fortunes in life. Lucy Deacon, when introduced to her new sphere of occupation, was about fifteen, a pretty demure looking creature, whose exemplary attendance at the meeting house and Sunday school, had gained her, I presumed, the favorable notice of her patron. She was placed by his instructions under the especial care of Mrs Heath, the housekeeper, and it was intimated, that on no account were my casual visits to that quarter of the house to be encouraged. It may easily be imagined that this gratuitous piece of impertinence, was the most effectual way to put a youth like myself upon conduct the very opposite to that which was to be so carefully guarded against. I made it in short, a point, to find needless excuses for visiting Mrs Heath's sanctum, and seducing her ward into a flirtation, but finding, after repeated trials, that the little maiden, both when under the eye of the housekeeper, and when alone with myself, was not only invariably staid and respectful, but seemed to be distressed by my foolish attentions, I had the grace to abandon this line of attack and fall back upon other resources of aggression.
 


Things were in this position, when my seventeenth birthday arrived, and by the permission of Sir Greville, I united a number of my old schoolmates at Harrow, to join in the festivities of the week, set apart to commemorate this important event. The first two or three days after our set had mustered, were devoted to those pursuits which boys particularly covet. Under the charge of careful gamekeepers, we sallied out one day, to whip the neighboring stream for trout; the second, we ransacked the preserves for pheasants and woodcocks; a third, we rode about the grounds, and held cricket or archery matches; and on the fourth, we drew the warrens and covers, and coursed with the best greyhounds of Penroysteth and the neighborhood. On the fifth, we joined the elder guests at a magnificent picnic, and in the evening took our parts in the gaieties of a ball; this, indeed, was the gala day, being that of my nativity, and the following day being the last of the week, the company broke up, and took their departure for their several homes. Three or four of the senior class, amongst my own companions, were detained at my request over the following Sunday, but we passed the Saturday morning in sauntering over the house and grounds, in a manner that evidenced the ennui which the contrast of extreme quietude to extreme excitement naturally occasions in the overstrained and undisciplined mind. In a sheer fit of idleness, we lounged down into the basement story of the building, and carried our restless search over every room of the servants' department, from the store-room and scullery to use servants’ hall and butler’s pantry and housekeeper's room. In the last, we found Lucy engaged in arranging the furniture, and led by myself we began, with all the precocious faculties of boy-men, to make love to Mr Stafford's protegée.


 


Judge of my surprise, when, instead of witnessing the distress, or at least customary reserve which I had expected on her part, I found her prepared at all points, and able by repartee, look and action, to play the part of a finished coquette. Observing her more particularly, I saw that her personal appearance had been highly improved in dress, carriage, and manner; she was actually metamorphosed into a fine young woman, with a pair of bold, black, sparkling eyes, and a red full-lipped month, which although rather large, displayed, when she laughed, a set of teeth that glistened like enameled ivory; her hands were not quite so perfect as a tenderly-bred lady's, but the skin of her face was clear, although dark, and suffused with a damson colored bloom that a duchess might have envied. Out of the pleasant understanding, however, which we had established, with the beauty of Mrs Heath's sanctum, we were suddenly roused and put to flight, by the entrance of the pragmatical guardian of the young lady, the glossy stare of whose eye, and whose lengthened physiognomy effectually neutralize all our fun, and sent us off in search of old Brierly, upon whom we had agreed to call, to assist in making fireworks for that evening's contemplated display.
 


We found the butler busy, under Sir Greville's instructions, superintending the cleaning out of a suite of apartments, which had never before been entered by myself, nor to my knowledge by any inmate of the place. Catching at any trifle, wherewith to amuse ourselves, we commenced gambolling through these rooms, criticising the antique furniture, and making the cobwebbed walls and ceiling ring to our boisterous laughter. This natural escapade however was presently and formally checked by the appearance of the old domestic himself, who assured us of the displeasure with which my grandfather would view any unseemly exhibition of hilarity in a place sacred, as we understood him, to the memory of the dead. This announcement having eventually restrained the effervescence of our spirits within due bounds, our curiosity expended itself in a series of questions as to the meaning of Brierley's caution. Who was the dead, and what the nature of his end? It turned out to be one of those generic stories so frequently found attached to old houses and families, especially amongst an ill-educated and superstitious peasantry, of dark deeds and darker characters, whose shadows, long after their day, rested upon those stricken walls, and either consigned them to the ominous solitude of the grave, or left them in the sole possession of those rest less and unembodied spirits, who, according to tradition, still haunted the scenes of their former guilt. After the lapse of nearly a century, the wing, in which these apartments were situated, was to be re-occupied; but it was plain to see that neither, the butler nor his underlings were at all reconciled to the task imposed upon them, while, with many a mutter and many a whisper or shake of the head, the handmaidens strove to get through their allotted task before the evening shades came on.
 


"By Jove," I cried, "here is an adventure; let us he the first to occupy the haunted rooms, the first to greet the ghosts on their restoration to animated society. What say you?"
 


"Agreed, agreed," was echoed by my companions, on every side, and what was then propounded, half in jest, was before the night set in determined on, in serious consultation amongst ourselves. As soon, accordingly, as the household was dismissed from evening prayer, we took possession of the largest room, resolving, with the aid of Brierley, to make a night of it, and by the blaze of a cheerful fire, assisted by numerous wax can dies, and a capital supper of cold game and pastry, with some light Rhenish wines, we made ourselves and each other equally comfortable and cheerful.
 


We sat down to the tempting comestibles amidst general jesting and laughter, and with many a toast to the health of the supposed spiritual tenants, we made the time wag pleasantly, until within half an hour of midnight, when, drawing our chairs round the fire, we endeavoured to amuse ourselves by recounting the pleasures, occupations, and exploits of the foregoing week; the conversation, however, began in a few moments to flag, and I saw that drowsiness was fast overpowering the whole party, except myself, the result, as I conjectured, of the late hour and the meal of which they had so heartily partaken. In short, the whole three were, in a marvellous short space of time, nodding in their chairs; whilst I, leaning back in my seat, saw the fire burning low on the hearth, and the candles casting their cross flickering light athwart the various objects at hand, without feeling much inclination either to stir up the one or rearrange the other.
 


I was finally about to sink, myself, into a state of unconsciousness, when suddenly my ear was saluted by a low whirring noise, that sounded as if from some concealed closet within the room, and something like a chain wheel running abruptly down. Roused from my reclining attitude, I gazed around with an anxious eye and a palpitating heart my surprise was increased when I heard this singular sound I describe, followed by the distinct and deep, but distant boom of a clock; one-two-three-four-five-six-seven-eight-nine-ten-eleven-twelve, I heard echoed, now clearer and louder, now fainter and thicker, upon the midnight air without; and I was conjecturing what church was near enough to Penroysteth, for me to hear the note of time so distinctly, when the entrance door opened and rolled back upon its hinges to its utmost stretch, with a quick but perfectly noiseless motion, and the figure of a female, dressed in deep mourning habiliments, stood upon the threshold; a mantilla or shawl was drawn over her head, in a manner that caused its sable colour to contrast frightfully with the grave-like pallour of her features; her eyes, fixed yet gleaming, were directed into the void space of the apartment, nor did they move the slightest in their hollow sockets, as she advanced with apparent unconsciousness of our presence, wringing her attenuated hands with the deepest expression of unutterable woe!
 


Rooted to the spot with intense dismay, I stood and looked upon the unearthly visitant as if paralyzed with the terror which parted my lips, caused my tongue to cleave to the palate, and the hair of my scalp to crawl with unmitigated terror; a minute sufficed her to cross the room and vanish through the opposite door, which rolled in the same mysterious manner upon its hinges, although touched by no visible hand; to afford her exit. As the skirt of her robe cleared the sill, both doors closed with a bang that echoed through the house, and I fell as if struck by an electric battery, to all appearance dead, upon the hearth.
 


The combined noises which I have mentioned, startled my companions from their slumbers, when they beheld with affright my prostrate and inanimate form stretched upon the floor, nor was their alarm decreased when on stooping to raise me in their arms, they observed my white shirt front and collar bathed in blood. To this circumstance, perhaps, I owe my life, for the congestion of the brain under which I was laboring, was relieved by a copious discharge of the sanguine stream, which in a few moments was discovered to be flowing from my nostrils. At this juncture, the careful Brierly, who suspecting that we might fall asleep and allow the room to catch fire, by the fall of a brand from the grate or a candle from the table, fortunately made his appearance. Snatching me up, and followed by the bewildered youths, who as they could give no explanation of the occurrence, were wisely despatched to their respective beds, he carried me to my own room, and called up Mr Emanuel to attend me. My tutor, learned himself, in medical science, ascertaining at once that my system must have sustained some inexplicable shock, treated me accordingly, and as a state of collapse supervened, immediately applied such stimulants as were necessary, until a physician could arrive to take his place. My life was safe from the moment ay physical faculties were regenerated, but for forty-eight hours I was weak to childishness, and wandered in my conversation. It does not appear, however, that they gathered from my incoherent remarks, any clue to our adventure or its catastrophe; and as Brierly and the boys were silent from sufficient motives, concerning our Saturday night's freak, I was enabled to keep my own secret, until the appointed time for the development of the mystery had arrived.
 


I said kept my secret, but this assertion I must now qualify – I kept for a time; but ten days of prostration on a sick bed made me, in my very helplessness, glad of a confident, and I chose, as might naturally be expected, my nurse.
 


On the day following the catastrophe which I have recorded, my old school-fellows took their departure, leaving me, restless, pale and fevered, to the care of my mother and Lucy deacon.  The former, delicate and nervous, was no very fit associate for an invalid’s room; but her want of skill and attention was amply compensated for by the gentleness and assiduity of the latter, who, having been raised to the posit of the lady’s own maid, was thus, perhaps fortunately brought into communication with her formerly thoughtless persecutor.  She was not long in worming from me the matter that weighed so heavily upon my heart, and, despite her care and fondness, threw a continual gloom over my otherwise recovering frame of mind and body.  She advised me to hold an interview with an ancient crone, whose knowledge of the traditions and mysteries of Cornish family memoirs was considered to be unrivalled; I consented and the following found Betty Laban seated by my bedside, recounting the story which I now subjoin, and which, from a natural object connected with its most important event, I shall designate -
 


THE LEGEND OF THE RAVEN’S OAK.
 


Sir Nigel Wagstaffe was possessor of Penroysteth Castle, in the day of Queen Elizabeth, at whose court he became one of the followers of the Raleigh faction, as opposed to that of the minion, Leicester, and accompanied his noble-minded carer in the expedition he set on foot for the settlement of Virginia and Guiana in North and South America.
 


In early life Sir Nigel became enamoured of the daughter of one of his dependents, by name Anne Courthope, and with whom, under the intriguing connivance of her mother, it was supposed he had formed a connection, ratified by their secret marriage; when Sir Nigel accompanied Sir Walter upon his voyage to Virginia, she also made one of the passengers by the same vessel, but never returned, having, it was averred, followed her own inclination in publicly and openly marrying an adventurous planter, who was amongst the earliest settlers at the foundation of that colony.
 


Sir Nigel, soon after his return, set at rest all conjecture and gossip upon the subject, by allying himself in marriage to Margaret, the daughter of Sir Robert Warden, of Warwickshire, at the same time that Raleigh married (although in secrecy) the cousin of this lady (Mary Throckmorton), for fear of the ridiculous jealousy and selfishly exacting admiration of the imperial and imperious Elizabeth.  During the course of these events, Mabel, the mother of Anne Courthope (herself of Gipsy or Bohemian descent) continued to live upon the estate, where her influence over the tenantry was remarkable, and arose equally from her superior deportment, which might have given her ascendancy under any circumstances, and on account of her threatening and vindictive character, rendered more terrible by the power which she paraded, not only foretelling the destiny of others, but of bringing about her own maledictions.
 


Subsequently, Sir Nigel having taken a share in the glorious repulsion of the Armada, accompanied Sir Cloudesly Shovel in his brilliant descent upon the Spanish coast.  Returning thence in safety, he brought with him a beautiful lady, a native of that country, who had been rescued by him from a convent, and who, rather than return to her captivity, resolved to place herself under the loathsome protection of her deliverer.
 


The unfortunate but now happy Isabel was received with open arms by Lady Margaret, whose heart yearned over this victim of religious tyranny and forced affections.  It soon became plain, however, to all, save her who was the most injured party, that Sir Nigel and Donna Isabel were indulging in hopes of a closer union than, at present, law and society would permit; this event indeed, which they seemed at last to take no care in concealing, was approaching rapidly, for, from the day in which Sir Nigel had returned from Spain his wife had sickened and waned in a manner that showed her death would not long divide him from the object of his unholy passion.  To effect her decease was now the study of the Spanish lady, her conspirator in this diabolical act being Mabel, whose drugs and charms were used at once to gratify her own her own malignity against her daughter’s superceder, and remove her vile employer’s obstacle to the coveted sovereignty of Penroysteth.  Becoming impatient at the lingering character of Lady Margaret’s fatal illness she passionately urged upon Mabel no longer to delay the termination of their plot, and received, in return, an assurance that if she would meet the hag in the dead of the succeeding night at the foot of the great Penroysteth Oak, the lord and pride of its broad green woods, a final charm should be worked that would determine within twenty-four hours the fate of their long ravelled web of wickedness.
 


The hour arrived, and the Dona kept her appointment with Mabel at the oak; she was cowering over a fire in a tripod, that throwing around a fitful glare, displayed a coffin covered with velvet and surmounted with the Penroysteth crest (a ducal coronet with a plume of crimson feathers issuing proper) by the side of which she crouched.  Having performed some of her Bohemian incantations, she took off the coffin lid, and discovered within, a human form clad in the habiliments of the grave, and presenting the features, fixed in death, of Sir Nigel’s wife.
 


“To complete your destiny and hers,” said Mabel, pointing to the semblance of the body, “you must bury this dagger in the heart of that automaton.”




Isabel at first trembled, so wonderfully exact were the figure and face, in likeness to those of her meditated victim, and she was not yet prepared to commit murder, in a manner so violent and repulsive to the feelings of a woman, but being urged by Mabel and assured by the recollection that not ten minutes had elapsed, since she had stood by and spoken to the dying Lady Margaret, she raised her hand and drove the weapon with which it was armed, in the body of the figure that was reposing beneath her arm.
 


A frightful shriek awoke the echoes of the solemn wood, as the striker in dismay heard a groan burst from the cerements, saw its lineaments visibly stir beneath the shroud, and a burst of warm gore follow the weapon, as it was wrenched again from the wound, by the demoniac Mabel.
 


What length of time might have passed after this tragedy had occurred, before the discovery which followed, is not known, for although Sir Nigel and Lady Isabel were missing the next morning, it was not perhaps for forty eight hours afterwards, that one of the rangers was led to the spot, by the croaking of a huge black raven, perched upon the topmost branches of the old oak; from this indeed, it acquired the name of the “Raven Oak.”
 


Suffice it now to say, that there were found the coffin, and hanging half out of it, with the cerements disturbed as if by some convulsive struggle, the body, cold and dead, of Sir Nigel; near it was crouched the form, living but possessed, of Dona Isabel, a jabbering, frightful, hopeless maniac.  On the night of that murder, Lady Margaret had died, her breath passing from her, at the very moment that the deceived paramour of her lord had ended his life, with the poisoned dagger prepared by Mabel.  It will easily be conjectured, that to accomplish her great and dreadful revenge, the Bohemian had caused Sir Nigel to succumb to the power of some potent drugs, and placing his rigid form in the coffin, had directed the unconscious hand of the Spaniard, to its fearful and effectual aim, in the self same hour, that the subtle poisons concocted by herself, and administered by her agent, had ended the life of that other and joint object of her intense and undying hatred.
 


Little remains to be told; the body of Sir Nigel was removed to the castle, where it was laid in state, side by side with that of his injured and lamented spouse; the ravings of Isabel threw suspicion on Mabel, and as the first James then commenced his reign, she found but small mercy, when arraigned as a witch, she was tried, convicted and burnt at a stake; before she suffered, she acknowledged the whole of her complicated designs and their result, glorying in the gratification of her aim and reckless of that hereafter, in which, according to the doctrines of her sect, she believed not.  The last marvel connected with this tale of horrors has yet to be told.  On the morning set apart for the funeral of Sir Nigel and Lady Margaret, his corpse was found wanting! The coffin was empty, the bier had been robbed – they looked for Donna Isabel who had been placed in proper custody, but she was gone, no one knew whither, neither she nor the dead body of her paramour was ever discovered,
 


“the clue to that secret of the grave,” concluded the narrator, “remains to be revealed to the person who dares to waylay and accost the spirit of that woman of blood and poison, of adultery and murder, whose impalpable and restless shade has appeared to you and you alone!”
 


I started, shuddered, and fell back in another swoon, at Betty’s gloomy, yet impressive address, as she closed her narrative; I awoke, to find myself in the arms of Lucy, who was crying her eyes out, over my unconscious form; I kissed her, as I took the hand of the affectionate girl, and bade her to let the whole of this painful and awe inspiring affair rest between ourselves, muttering however, as I sunk down upon the pillows, “I will fathom the depths of this mystery yet, I will follow it, and speak to it, no matter where it may lead me.”

Monday, July 14, 2014

The Ghost Story Awards

Announcing new annual awards devoted to the classic ghost story tradition…


Three stalwarts of the classic ghost story have combined to launch new awards for the best ghost story and the best ghost story collection each year. The journals Ghosts & Scholars and Supernatural Tales and the literary society A Ghostly Company will jointly sponsor the awards. The winners will be chosen by votes of their readers and members.


The term ‘ghost story’ is intended to be understood broadly, to mean any supernatural motif. The classic exponents of the field did not always write about ghosts, but also about a wide range of other uncanny entities, and sometimes left room for doubt too. The awards will cover new stories in a similar range. The awards are for short stories and short story collections or anthologies.


The first awards will be made in 2015 for stories and books first published in English in print and paper form in 2014. Voters will be able to name up to three choices for each award. Readers and members are asked to think about who they would like to vote for throughout the year. The book award may be for either a single-author collection or a multiple-author anthology. Votes will be requested early in 2015.

The awards will be made to the story and book receiving the most votes. As a safeguard, Award Administrators will exceptionally be able to disqualify any win resulting from unfair practice. They will also have the casting vote in the event of a tie.

The award winners will each receive a specially commissioned statuette and a year’s free membership or subscription to A Ghostly Company, Supernatural Tales and The Ghosts & Scholars Newsletter.

Enquiries to the Awards Secretary – Mark Valentine, markl[dot]valentine[at]btinternet[dot]com. Rules available on request.

Monday, April 15, 2013

Dreams, Ghosts and Fairies

A nice article on the ghost story with views expressed by some contemporary exponents, from The Bookman, December 1923.

DREAMS, GHOSTS AND FAIRIES

We are such stuff as dreams are made of, and it seems likely that ghosts and fairies are even more so. Peter Pan may be right in suggesting that fairies only exist so long as we believe in them, or it may be that, like ghosts, they have an existence whether anybody believes in them or not. With our inherited instincts, traditions, knowledge, it should be possible for us to dream of things that have never actually come within the range of our personal experience; but could primitive man invent or dream of things he had never seen or been told about? It looks anyhow as if these unsubstantial creatures being come into our consciousness, the fairies can never be permanently banished from the world nor all ghosts laid for ever. One age grows sceptical and denies them utterly, but the next repents and they are taken back into belief again. Not many years ago they were so out of favour that the very Christmas Annuals, where ghosts had for so long been at home, would have no more of them; people were said to be weary of them and their incredible appearances. More recently editors and publishers, here and there, laid it down that nobody wanted fairy stories — the children of the new days were past them and wanted something more sensible.

The books of this season do not justify those opinions. They are not only rich in new fairy tales, but many of the old ones are among them, reissued in as delectable form as ever. Here for instance, to mention no others, are three volumes of Hans Andersen's inimitable fairy tales with illustrations by Dugald Stewart Walker; another collection of them in a handsome book illustrated by Heath Robinson; and a fascinating selection in eight volumes of the choicest of that multitude of fairy stories that are in Andrew Lang's long series of many coloured volumes. As for ghost stories, in the last few months there have seen Miss May Sinclair's "Uncanny Tales," R. Ellis Roberts's "The Other End," E. F. Benson's "Visible and Invisible," and Mr. Bohun Lynch has been preparing a full anthology of ghost stories by modern writers that Messrs. Cecil Palmer are about to publish. Nor are the older writers in this kind neglected. Here is a new and handsome edition of Poe's "Tales of Mystery and Imagination," cleverly illustrated by Harry Clarke; and, more significant, there is a revival of interest in that half-forgotten Victorian, Sheridan Le Fanu, whose eerie series of stories, "In a Glass Darkly," is just republished; and Dr. M. R. James, himself one of the most grimly imaginative of ghost-story writers, has been selecting and editing a collection of Le Fanu's haunting tales under the title of "Madam Crowl's Ghost," just published by Messrs. Bell & Sons. Whether these and many other such-like doings are to be taken as signs of the times or as having no particular significance has been submitted to the judgment of the authors who have kindly sent us the following opinions:

MISS MAY SINCLAIR :
(1) My "attitude" towards ghost stories is one of enthralling interest and admiration if they are well told. I regard the ghost story as a perfectly legitimate form of art and at the same time as the most difficult. Ghosts have their own atmosphere and their own reality; they have also their setting in the everyday reality we know; the story-teller is handling two realities at the same time; he is working on two planes, in two atmospheres, and must fail if he lets one do violence to the other.
(2) I am not a judge of "popularity," but I should say off-hand that an interest in ghost stories has always existed, and is neither a sign of morbidity nor of "increased belief in spiritual phenomena." The ghost-lover is on the look-out for his own special thrill, which is, or may be, independent of any belief in the supernatural.
(3) I think Henry James's "The Turn of the Screw" the most perfect and the most convincing ghost story I’ve ever read.

ROBERT HICHENS:
I thoroughly enjoy a good ghost story. No, I don't think their popularity is a sign that the public is becoming morbid. Nor do I think it indicates a renewed belief in spiritual phenomena. Since Lord Lytton wrote "The Haunters and the Haunted, or the House and the Brain," and no doubt long before then, the average man has, I think, always enjoyed reading a tale of the supernatural. I think the best ghost story I have ever read is contained in Henry James's volume, "The Two Magics."

MISS MARIE CORELLI
(1) My "attitude towards ghost stories" has always been one of amused incredulity, and surprise that any reasonable person with a sound brain should believe in them. "Ghosts," if seen at all, are always projected from one's own imagination. A moment's concentrated visualisation will enable me to see anyone I wish to see, whether such person be dead or living, and there is nothing terrifying in such "apparitions" which are always evoked by one's own mind.
(2) The interest in "ghost" stories does not prove that the public are "morbid," or that they have more than the usual interest in so-called "spiritual" phenomena. It is merely the natural desire of every thinking human being to escape from the humdrum surroundings of everyday living into a realm of imagination. The imagination of mankind has always projected itself into the Unseen, and from that Unseen has brought forth ideas that have changed the face and progress of civilisation. And still to the Unseen, it turns, despite all check to its advance, and tales of mystery, with suggestions that are mystic and wonderful, captivate the mind without actually influencing belief in the marvelous, simply because of the possibility of their being true. With Horatio, in "Hamlet," they say:

"O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!"

And accept the reply:

"And therefore as a stranger give it welcome!"
(3) "Hamlet," because in this instance the "Ghost" is not projected from Hamlet's own mind: it appears to others not closely concerned with the tragedy, before Hamlet himself sees it. This opens the way to some interesting speculation as to what Shakespeare thought of psychic phenomena in his day — a day which was rife with superstition and witchcraft. But like all discussions concerning t h e world's greatest poet, we are not likely to find any clue to the workings of that marvellous brain.

MR. HUGH WALPOLE:
(1) If a ghost story succeeds in making my flesh creep I like it and approve of it. It has to my mind no other raison d’être.
(2) I think there is a renewed interest rather than belief in spirit phenomena, and undoubtedly that leads to an increase in ghost stories.
(3) The most convincing ghost story I ever read is "The Turn of the Screw," by Henry James.

MR. K C. BAILEY:
If ghost stories are more popular of late, I should think the cause is to be found in the revival of interest in mystery and adventure which we see in many other forms. I don't believe that a liking for ghost stories is connected with a morbid turn of mind. So many lovers of such things have been, like Scott, most normal people. Nor do I see any connection between ghost stories and the modern dabbling in the occult. Some of the best ghost stories were written in the sixties and seventies, And the mid-Victorians were neither morbid nor credulous.

When you ask for a "convincing" story you impose a rather awkward test. I don't know that I was ever convinced even for the moment of reading. But I fancy the most eerie thrills I have ever had came from Dr. Montague James's stories—for instance "The Diary of Mr. Poynter" and "Number 13."

I take it of course that you want ghost stories in the precise sense, not such things as "Thrawn Janet" or Wandering Willie's tale in "Redgauntlet."

STACY AUMONIER
I loathe and abominate ghost stories. All those that I have read appear to me to be utterly inane and silly. The reason of their present popularity is surely pretty obvious. It is the outcome of that post-war wave of spiritualism, which was a movement organised by a bunch of charlatans, who saw the sound commercial possibilities in the exploitation of the grief of those who had lost their sons and lovers in the war. I believe in spirituality, but I do not believe in spiritualism or ghosts. If I met a ghost I should cut it.

SIR OLIVER LODGE:
The invention of ghost stories is a comparatively easy form of fiction; and as long as there seemed to be no foundation for the reality of such things, this kind of fiction was harmless and possibly amusing. But now that unexplained phenomena are known to occur, and a serious effort is being made to investigate than and to sift out truth from falsehood, the further invention of imaginary sensational occurrences is undesirable, and may be confusing to those who are not scrupulous about evidence.

What the public is really interested in is the amount of underlying truth, and the meaning that may be involved, in supernormal experiences. To arrive at sound conclusions demands careful and continued and unbiased study; the concoction of imaginary narratives is useless to that end, and is not what the public really wants.

Nevertheless, in illustration of the information we have so far obtained, it may be legitimate for people with literary gift and adequate knowledge to expound or exhibit their present conception of the less familiar side of the universe, under the guise of an imaginative sketch, or other form of dramatic representation. The public must learn that such efforts represent nothing more serious than the present views of the artist or scribe. If he is a genius his work may be of interest, and may be helpful, even though it must be regarded as scientifically negligible. The standard example of the kind of thing I mean is Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress." It has been edifying to thousands, and no one can be misled into supposing it a narrative of fact.

The time is not yet anything like ripe for a complete formulation of the facts: but when that time arrives, it will be found, I expect, as usual, that Truth is stranger than Fiction, and that Imagination falls, not perhaps superficially but deeply and seriously, below Reality.

MR. F. BRITTEN AUSTIN:
(1) My attitude towards ghost stories? Presumably this refers to the use of ghost stories, invented ad hoc or alleged to be true, in fiction. My attitude towards such is the same as towards any other raw material of fiction—if the result produces the effect intended by the writer upon the mind of the reader, evokes, i.e. a powerful emotion, its use is automatically justified. Hamlet without the ghost would lose much of its dramatic strength.
(2) I consider that their popularity is neither a sign of increasing morbidity in the public nor an indication of actual belief in the reality of spiritualistic phenomena. It is merely another aspect of the universal and primitive craving for the "Undiscovered Country" which, under various metamorphoses, from the Odyssey onwards, has been one of the main themes of Romance. The restriction of the geographical field, consequent on the explorations of the nineteenth century, has perhaps tended to emphasise—for writer and reader alike—the unexhausted potentialities of the psychical Unknown, dimly lit by a lamp of Science not yet carried beyond the threshold, and whose alleged phenomena awake atavistic echoes (which do not necessarily prove the phenomena untrue) in the minds of all of us. Since the atavistic echo is perhaps responsible for the magical though not the philosophical beauty of true poetry, it must necessarily be potent in any other form of imaginative literature. The instinct of a certain type of writer will be to employ it; the instinct of almost all readers will be to thrill to it. Also, since the latest hypotheses of Physical Science tend to break down the nineteenth century distinction between the material and the immaterial, and these things filter down into the collective consciousness of the public, both writers and readers feel themselves justified in exploring potentialities and alleged phenomena which a preceding generation, educated to a scientific Positivism, was compelled—in defence of any reputation for intelligence —to reject with scoffing incredulity. Since the ban has been somewhat lifted, both writers and readers hasten to avail themselves of their new freedom.
(3) In fiction or alleged fact? The number is so vast that I beg to be excused from definite choice. In fiction, the first that comes into my head is Kipling's "They"—but, possibly, if I set myself to a recapitulation of all that I have ever read, I might remember something more convincing though certainly not more beautiful.

MRS. BELLOC LOWNDES:
(1) Stories dealing with the supernatural always interest me—provided that they are written by believers in the future life.
(2) I think their popularity is owing to a renewal of belief in spiritual phenomena.
(3) The two most convincing ghost stories I have ever read are the apparitions of Strafford in "John Inglesant," and the passage about the cat in Monsignor Benson's "Necromancers."

MR. R. ELLIS ROBERTS
It is odd how some people, in their distaste for the abnormal and the supernatural, will try to make out that the ghost-story is something new. Fairies, I suppose, need no defence, except from the attacks of humourless educationalists. Dreams are either out of favour or violently in fashion, according to your view of Freud and Jung. But ghosts, spirits, obsessions of places or persons—stories about these will rouse an unintelligent. anger which springs, I believe, from a frightened materialism. It is more comfortable if you believe a tree to be just a tree, a river nothing but water for washing or power, and a mountain a rather larger lump of dirt. But science does not hold that view now, religion has never held it, and common sense—well, common sense is the craft of treating and using things, not the art of understanding them.

There is, however, a new "magic" story. You can find its beginnings in Poe; it is implicit in much of Hawthorne; Le Fanu was groping after it, and Lytton wrote the first example of it. Its power lies in this: that the author assumes that life, experience, sensation, memory and fancy contain something which neither reason nor common sense can satisfactorily explain. Generally the author of the new kind of magic story treats life, or some aspect of life, as sacramental: the pioneer in our day was Mr. Arthur Machen, and he was succeeded by Dr. James, Monsignor Hugh Benson, Mr. E. F. Benson (whose "Image in the Sand" is not nearly well enough known), Miss Violet Hunt, Mr. Algernon Blackwood, and, in one inimitable volume, "The Celestial Omnibus," Mr. E. M. Forster. I do not see how an attitude towards life which appeals to these men, and has since appealed to Mr. J. D. Beresford, Miss May Sinclair and Mr. Walter de la Mare, can possibly be dismissed as nonsense. The attitude in all of there is roughly the same, but the approach varies widely. I have no doubt that the greatest of these are Mr. Machen, Mr. E. M. Forster and Mr. de la Mare.

I am a great admirer of Miss Sinclair's last book, but I find her method rather too philosophical compared with Mr. Machen's frank appeal to magic, Mr. Forster's reliance on a kind of impudent fancy, and Mr. de is Mare's accepting mysticism. Whether the art of these stories is legitimate or not seems to me a barren question: it is generally asked by those who wish a story to have some immediate purpose, and not to travel outside their experience of life. This demand would have hampered the world's greatest: the ghosts in "Macbeth" and "Hamlet" are not there deliberately to instruct or improve us. But if you must defend it on ethically utilitarian grounds, I cannot imagine creative literature having a better job than reminding an age too immersed in sensuous experience that a knock on the door may not be the postman's, and the wind in the chimney or a tapping on the wall may be other than they seem. Science has got rid of matter: why should art cling to materialism? It is just worth noticing that some of the most successful "ghost stories" of our time have been written by novelists— Mr. Henry James, Mr. Rudyard Kipling and Mr. H. G. Wells—the bulk of whose work is concerned with the everyday life of everyday people.

Monday, December 10, 2012

VALANCOURT - 20th Century Classics

Valancourt Books have announced a new series of 20th Century Classics, which includes quite a few reprints of rare ghostly, supernatural or fantastic novels. Titles lined up include I Am Jonathan Scrivener by Claude Houghton, introduced by Michael Dirda; a range of volumes by John Blackburn; The Witch and the Priest by Hilda Lewis; The Hand of Kornelius Voyt by Oliver Onions; He Arrived At Dusk by R.C. Ashby; and Flower Phantoms by Ronald Fraser. The books will all be reset and have new introductions.  The list looks like it will prove a good opportunity to read some fine, hard-to-find, but neglected work, and I'm pleased to be involved with introductions for some of them.

Friday, July 20, 2012

Ghost Stories

A nice article about ghost stories by C.S. Evans that appeared in The Bookman in December 1919.

The Lure of the Occult

It was probably the cave man who told the first ghost story, and he almost certainly told it very well, because he believed in it. To him, consciously at war with nature, the presence of an inimical force external to nature seemed an obvious thing, and he evolved his theology from his theories concerning it, just as he evolved his religious ritual from the ceremonies he devised to circumvent or placate it. We men of a later age stand where the cave man did in our relations to the unknown; the same problems that perplexed him perplex us, except that we recognise in them far greater complications and are a little less serious in approaching them. His witch doctors dwelt remote, clothed in awful mystery, with every appurtenance of terror skull and bones and snakeskin and filth about them; ours wear top hats and frock coats and are grocers and other respectable things in the day time. He worked charms with dried blood and potent herbs; our masters of the occult do conjuring tricks with tambourines and Iittle tables.


It is, however, to literature that we must turn if we are to realise the essential elements of man's attitude to the unknown. Not merely to the written records of man's experiences and investigations, not to the journals of psychical research societies, which are, generally speaking, inexpressibly dull, but to those imagined things, those “ghost stories" which now and again capable artists give us, and which we read in the profound hope that they are not true. All such stories, all that count at any rate, concern themselves with terror. Their aim is the recherche du frisson, they are the modern counterpart of the ancient witch doctor's hymn to his spirits; they are, the expression of the wild, unreasoning fear that numbs the heart of man when he feels that presently something may spring at him out of the dark.

There are very few ghost stories which possess this authentic thrill, and the fashion of them changes, for we are more sophisticated nowadays than we used to be. Our great grandfathers could extract an enjoyable horror from spirits that walked about in moated granges satisfactorily clanking chains. All that these simple souls required to make them happy was a headless horror in a dark passage outside a panelled chamber carrying its eyes in its hand. For such robust susceptibilities Mrs. Radcliffe, the Rev. Charles Maturin and Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley catered; but to day our scepticism of anything so concrete as their phantoms destroys our enjoyment; we must needs dignify our tremors by a quasi scientific explanation. We have classified our ghosts, so that young ladies in drawing-rooms can talk glibly of elementals, poltergeists, etherical projections, Barrovians, Vagrarians, Semi, and all the rest of it, in appropriate jargon.

The shortest and perhaps the most perfect ghost story in the world is told by Dr. M. R. James in his " Ghost Stories of an Antiquary.” It is the tale of a woman who was staying in a strange house. She was shown her room; she entered, locked the door, undressed, blew out the candle and got into bed. Then, as she lay there in the dark, came a little, horrible voice from above: "Now we're safely shut in for the night!" . . .

If that story does not produce a thrill, no more sophisticated tale will do so. It is the ghost story reduced to its lowest terms the essential ghost story, the effect of which is to rouse those unreasoning terrors which lie dormant in all of us, and which wake to life in the presence of the unknown. There are many ways of sounding these depths of terror. The effective ghost story must be mysterious, yet mystery is not enough. One of the most mysterious things in the world is an equilateral triangle, but only the crazed soul of a Futurist artist is likely to be haunted by a thing like that. The effective ghost story must be horrible, yet horror is not enough; there is a certain horror in the thought of a comet plunging for ever into the depths of space, but the tranquil mind is not disturbed thereby. The horror of the occult must be symbolistic, portentous; it must carry with it a sense of loathing and unspeakable obscenity. The sought for frisson, hardly attained, must be a very shudder of the soul, the awful gesture of life threatened by malign and desolating forces.

Masterpieces in this genre are of course very few. One may indeed count them on the fingers of a hand. Some of Edgar Poe's tales ought certainly to be included in any list of the greatest ghost stories, especially "The Fall of the House of Usher," a tale which for sheer concentrated horror is unequalled in literature. The opening passages of that wonderful tale strike upon the consciousness like a knell. Material things dissolve, and one steps across the borderland. Place should be given also to the one or two somewhat more complex and ambitious studies made by Bulwer Lytton, particularly in "Zanoni" and "A Strange Story," but like most of his other work, Lytton's tales of the supernatural are more than a little exotic, and we of the present age may be forgiven if we regard them, as some what pretentious. It is however the modern writer who has excelled pre eminently in the tale of the occult. Dr. M. R. James's "Ghost Stories of an Antiquary," two volumes of which were published by Mr. Edward Arnold five or six years ago, contain some of the eeriest tales ever written. You may sup full of horrors if you sup with Dr. James. He never bothers with the dreary scientific kind of tale, but is frankly at home with medieval superstitions and black magic; his properties are familiar spirits, anthropophagous, with clutching hairy paws, and spiders especially spiders. A cold shiver runs down the spine even when one thinks in retrospect of that horrible old gentleman of his whose face was a mass of cobwebs.

Mr. Algernon Blackwood has written a great many stories of the occult but few of them can be classed in the first rank of ghost stories. He began well with “The Whisperer and Other Tales," but some of his later books read like extracts from the proceedings of the Psychical Research Society. He peers forward amiably into the unknown blinking benevolently, and tightly clutching a volume of Bergson.

Very different, and far finer from an artistic point of view, are the stories of Mr. Arthur Machen, collected in the volume called "The House of Souls " (published by Grant Richards some years ago, but now, I believe, out of print). Nor must Mr. Oliver Onion's "Widdershins" (Martin Secker) be forgotten, and those masterpieces of Rudyard Kipling's, scattered about in various volumes – “The Mark of the Beast," "They," and "The Brushwood Boy." In a place very little after these I would put three books by William Hope Hodgson, whose pen, alas, is laid down for ever: "The House on the Borderland," "The Ghost Pirates,” and "The Boats of the Glen Carrig."

And so we come, by devious degrees, to the supreme masterpiece of all the literature of the supernatural, the story called "The Turn of the Screw," which you shall find in the volume by Henry James entitled "The Two Magics." Fastidious artist as he was, Henry James approached even a conte of the horrible with delicacy. He knew that the crowning horror of horrible things is achieved when they are placed in close juxtaposition with the commonplace, and he knew, too, that the sense of horror is best awakened and maintained by means of a subjective study. “The Turn of the Screw” may be described as the story of the corruption of the souls of two children by malign influences exercised through the spirits of the dead, but it is something far more than this. The significance of it glows and fades, changing with the mood so that, on a second or third reading one wonders whether it is intended as a ghost story at all whether it is not rather a profound study of the effect of fear upon a delicate and sensitive nature. One may never know why the boy Miles left his bed at night to stare in horrible entrancement at that figure on the lawn, or whether the ghost of Peter Quint really walked to work evil. One is not sure whether the girl Flora held fearful communings in the wood with the spirit of the governess, dead and for ever damned, or whether the whole thing was not merely the overstrained imagination of the narrator. In either case, the sense of horror is insistent, and in some obscure way the author has managed to hint at a significance which is revolting and obscene.

Outside art, there is another kind of writing of the occult which has become increasingly common in recent years the record of so called personal experience in the realm of the unknown. This branch of literature has a jargon of its own. People do not die, they “pass over," and their spirits hold of telephonic communication with the living through the agency of “mediums,” and with the help of a whole paraphernalia of cabinets am tambourines and ouija boards and planchette. Of all branches of literature there is none that is less calculated to appeal to the imagination than this. It is associated with material accessories which are almost symbolically unbeautiful –oilcloth, and the smell of paraffin oil, cheap American organs and concertinas, stout and stupid middle aged women, Americans with names like Hiram K. Brown, squalor, and confusion, and untidiness of mind. Everybody has seen the kind of book I mean with the portrait of the "subject" in the front looking like the lady who proclaims from the back page of the newspaper, “I had bad legs and dropsical swellings, but Billions' Pills cured me!" In the face of this feeble nonsense the strongest souls turn sceptic, and beside it the witchcraft of ancient days seems a dignified and even a worthy belief.

I have said enough about books on the occult to render the detailed reviewing of the newest batch of them unnecessary. “Patience Worth, a Psychic Mystery," by Caspar Yost, comes to us from America and is one of those authentic documents. The less one says about it the better, except that judging from the specimens of Patience Worth's literary exercises, as communicated to the medium and duly recorded, the lady would have done better to have rested mute and inglorious on the “other side." Patience Worth speaks in a kind of debased Wardour Street English which must be distressing to those of her spirit companions whose souls are still sensitive to the beauties of language.

"The Ghost World," by J. Wickwar, is a collection of anecdotes of the occult. Violet Tweedale's “Ghosts I Have Seen" is a volume of literary tittle tattle with an occult bias. The author is a daughter of one of the Chambers of Edinburgh, and she has much that is interesting to say, but ghosts must by this time be three a penny in her household. The only thrill I got from the book was produced by the two awful eyes on Mr. Jenkins's wry effective cover. But perhaps the author did not write the book with the object of pleasing epicures in sensation.

"The Eternal Question,'' by Allan Clarke, is obviously a sincere outpouring from the heart of a man who has suffered the grief of a great loss; it would he indecent to be flippant about it. And "Voices from the Void." by Hester Travers Smith, is void of any convincing voices.

I cannot like these books, but Mr. Edward Arnold has promised us a new volume of the "Ghost Stories of an Antiquary," and already I feel the pleasant shivers running down my spine. . . . There was that horrible creature that moved across the picture to the windows of the house. I shall turn on all the lights before I go to bed.