The Phantom Coach: A Connoisseur's Collection of Victorian Ghost Stories
Language: English
Pages: 320
ISBN: 1620408058
Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub
Ghost stories date back centuries, but those written in the Victorian era have a unique atmosphere and dark beauty. Michael Sims, whose previous Victorian collections Dracula's Guest (vampires) and The Dead Witness (detectives) have been widely praised, has gathered twelve of the best stories about humanity's oldest supernatural obsession. The Phantom Coach includes tales by a surprising, often legendary cast, from Charles Dickens and Margaret Oliphant to Henry James, Rudyard Kipling, and Arthur Conan Doyle, as well as well as lost gems by forgotten masters such as Mary E. Wilkins Freeman and W.F. Harvey. Amelia Edwards' chilling story gives the collection its title, while Ambrose Bierce ("The Moonlit Road"), Elizabeth Gaskell, ("The Old Nurse's Story") and W. W. Jacobs ("The Monkey's Paw") will turn you white as a sheet. With a skillful introduction to the genre and notes on each story by Michael Sims, The Phantom Coach is a spectacular collection of ghostly Victorian thrills.
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footsteps to guide us. The crew are anxious that we should cast off and steam round the floe and so to the southward, for the ice has opened up during the night, and the sea is visible upon the horizon. They argue that Captain Craigie is certainly dead, and that we are all risking our lives to no purpose by remaining when we have an opportunity of escape. Mr. Milne and I have had the greatest difficulty in persuading them to wait until tomorrow night, and have been compelled to promise that we
window, a living window, one to see through! Why, then, had they never seen it, these old folk? I saw as I looked up suddenly the faint greyness as of visible space within—a room behind, certainly dim, as it was natural a room should be on the other side of the street—quite indefinite: yet so clear that if some one were to come to the window there would be nothing surprising in it. For certainly there was a feeling of space behind the panes which these old half-blind ladies had disputed about
you saw him!” I said. To lean upon her, and feel her so soft, so kind, gave me a pleasure I cannot describe, and her arms round me, and her voice saying “Honey, my honey!”—as if she were nearly crying too. Lying there I came back to myself, quite sweetly, glad of everything. But I wanted some assurance from them that they had seen him too. I waved my hand to the window that was still standing open, and the room that was stealing away into the faint dark. “This time you saw it all?” I said,
later and the peacocks were there.” “You didn’t see straight the first time.” “I expected you would say that.” “The peacocks are there now; I saw them just now.” “Yes, I suppose so; I suppose they flew back.” “But they couldn’t.” “Looks as if they did.” “Why, how could such a thing be? It couldn’t be.” “Well, all I know is those peacocks were gone for an hour that afternoon and the red roses on the yellow ground were there instead.” The widow stared at her a moment, then she began to
were here a few minutes ago. I expect they knew my car had broken down, and came to see the fun.” “Nothing serious, I hope? How do cars break down?” “In fifty different ways. Only mine has chosen the fifty-first.” She laughed merrily at the tiny joke, cooed with delicious laughter, and pushed her hat back. “Let me hear,” she said. “Wait a moment,” I cried, “and I’ll get you a cushion.” She set her foot on the rug all covered with spare parts, and stooped above it eagerly. “What delightful