Table of Contents
4 • Foreword: Brit Boffin Delivers Steampunk’s Pure Quill! or After Such Knowledge, What Thrills? • (2010) • essay by Paul Di Filippo
7 • Introduction: When Steampunk Was Real • (2010) • essay by Mike Ashley
10 • Mr. Broadbent’s Information • (1909) • short fiction by Henry A. Hering
26 • The Automaton • (1900) • short fiction by Reginald Bacchus and C. Ranger Gull [as by Reginald Bacchus and Ranger Gull]
46 • The Abduction of Alexandra Seine • (1900) • short story by Fred C. Smale
62 • The Gibraltar Tunnel • (1914) • short fiction by Jean Jaubert (trans. of Le tunnel de Gibraltar)
80 • From Pole to Pole • (1904) • short story by George Griffith (variant of From Pole to Pole: An Account of a Journey Through the Axis of the Earth; Collated from the Diaries of the Late Professor Haffkin and His Niece, Mrs. Arthur Princeps)
106 • In the Deep of Time • (1897) • novelette by George Parsons Lathrop
154 • The Brotherhood of Seven Kings: The Star Shaped Marks • (1898) • short fiction by L. T. Meade and Robert Eustace (variant of The Star Shaped Marks)
182 • The Plague of Lights • (1904) • short fiction by Owen Oliver (variant of The Plague of Lights: A Tale of the Year 1906)
196 • What the Rats Brought • (1903) • short story by Ernest Favenc
208 • The Great Catastrophe • (1910) • short fiction by George Davey
220 • Within an Ace of the End of the World • (1900) • short story by Robert Barr
234 • An Interplanetary Rupture • (1906) • short fiction by Frank L. Packard (variant of An Inter-Planetary Rupture)
248 • The Last Days of Earth • (1901) • short story by Geo. C. Wallis (variant of The Last Days of Earth: Being the Story of the Launching of the “Red Sphere”) [as by George C. Wallis]
262 • The Plunge • (1916) • short fiction by George Allan England
Table of Contents
- Kirby McCauley – Introduction
- Ray Bradbury – At Midnight, in the Month of June
- Walter de la Mare – A: B: O.
- Thomas M. Disch – Minnesota Gothic
- Joseph Payne Brennan – The Jugular Man
- Fritz Leiber – Alice and the Allergy
- L. P. Hartley – The Island
- Gahan Wilson – Yesterday’s
- Dennis Etchison – Wet Season
- H. P. Lovecraft & August Derleth – Innsmouth Clay
- Robert E. Howard – People of the Black Coast
- Ramsey Campbell – Call First
- Richard L. Tierney – From Beyond the Stars
- Robert Bloch – The Funny Farm
- Carl Jacobi – The Face in the Wind
- Manly Wade Wellman – Goodman’s Place
- Mary Elizabeth Counselman – Kellerman’s Eyepiece
- Karl Edward Wagner – Sticks
- Marjorie Bowen – The Sign-Painter and the Crystal Fishes
1975 Blurb: “Eighteen spine-freezing visions of the world of supernatural terror which lurks within!
INTO THE MIND’S DARKEST SECRETS…ROBERT BLOCH, FRITZ LIEBER, ROBERT E. HOWARD, RAY BRADBURY, H. P LOVECRAFT… these are only a few of the renowned horror storytellers whose work haunts the pages of this book. Here you’ll discover a fatal night-time game of hide-and-seek… a rusted, mouldy trunk containing a ghastly artifact… a sinister fairy tale encounter in the autumn countryside… a strange device which calls the dead from the grave… an allergy with a macabre origin… a Halloween prank which brings eerie consequences… a touch of slimy evil in an ordinary family… these, and many other chilling experiences, await within these pages, to haunt the reader with a breath of cold terror.
A TREASURY OF HORROR MASTERWORKS NEVER BEFORE IN PAPERBACK!
Night Chills tends to get overlooked in the rush to praise [ McCauley’s other anthologies:] Frights  and especially Dark Forces ; but [Night Chills is] a first-class selection, reminiscent in many ways of the kind of anthology August Derleth was knocking out in the 1960s and 1970s.I
Night Chills, Story Synopses:
WARNING…MAY CONTAIN SPOILERS!
Walter De La Mare – A.B.O.: Keen antiquarians Dugdale and Pelluther excavate a metallic chest from beneath an ugly, stunted yew tree in the former’s garden. Engraved on the lid, a single word of which only the first three letters have survived the elements. They lug it inside for examination but “Would to God that we had forthwith carried the chest unopened to the garden and buried it deeper than deep!” Luckily for us, Dugdale takes a chisel to the lid and unleashes a spectacularly horrible, undead walking ABO.
According to McCauley, A.B.O. was first published in The Cornhill under the nom de plume Walter Ramal which may explain why anthologists have overlooked it down the years.
Joseph Payne Brennan – The Jugular Man: Marliss, an antiquarian, buys a curious turtle ornament at a second-hand market. The dealer explains that it came from an affluent Southern family who fell upon hard times. The turtle is fitted with a concealed bell which the family used to summon the servants. When the loyal old retainer developed crippling arthritis, they discontinued the practice unless there was a dire emergency. The years of disuse mean the bell no longer works.
At the same time as Marliss makes his purchase, the city is living in fear of the Jugular Man, a burglar with the nasty habit of slitting the throats of those he robs. When Marliss disturbs him at his midnight capers, the Jugular Man comes at him with a knife. Marliss grabs the first thing at hand – the turtle. The bell shrills. The faithful retainer hasn’t worn well in the grave ….
Robert Bloch – The Funny Farm: Joseph Satterlee, a retired accountant, lives as a recluse, his only companions the comic strips he’s amassed these past fifty years, having spent a small fortune on old newspapers that ran them during his youth. Mandrake the Magician, Prince Valiant, Happy Hooligan and Little Orphan Annie & Co., are his friends of fifty years.
Lenny Morgan, a burglar with a very nasty streak, gets wind of old Joe’s collection and dollar signs flash before his eyes.
All I can think of is that the editor suffered a break-in while compiling Night Chills because here’s another one!
Ramsey Campbell – Call First: Ned grows obsessed with an old man’s habit of always telephoning before he leaves the library, merely to let somebody know “I’m coming home now”. He also fixates about the ring the guy wears on his wedding finger, which seems to have a human finger-nail embedded where the stone should be. He decides to break into the man’s home, where he encounters a highly sophisticated – and original – burglar alarm. Every black magician should have one.
Gahan Wilson – Yesterday’s Witch: It’s an age old tradition among the kids that, once they’ve reached the age of thirteen, come Halloween they must pay a visit to Miss Marble’s place, ring her doorbell and run away. The reclusive old woman is a reputed witch and Fred Pulley claims he once spotted her in her garden pulling bones from the ground. And her teeth! “they’re long and yellow. And they come to points at the ends. I think I saw blood on them.”
Tonight it’s our narrator’s turn. He pulls on his papier mache corpse mask and sets off with his gang. Their comeuppance is way too gentle for my tastes. I’d have preferred she set about the little bastards with a chainsaw, but thats most likely the romantic in me talking again.
Mary Elizabeth Counselman – Kellerman’s Eyepiece: When he focuses on the Sea of Tranquility with the fire-damaged lens purchased from the Cruikshank Scientific Co, amateur astrologer Cyril Kellerman observes gnat-like beings with the face of Neil Armstrong emerging from the moon’s craters. Another customer in Tokyo, sixteen year old star-gazer Hideo Nagashima, who also witnesses this phenomena, dies in an ‘accidental’ fall from the roof, but not before he’s shared his scary Earth’s conquest theory with Kellerman. Story told entirely in correspondence and a newspaper clipping.
Karl E. Wagner – Sticks: Spring 1942. Having just received his call-up papers, pulp artist Colin Leverett decides upon a fishing expedition in the desolate Mann Brook region. Tramping the cairn alongside the stream, Leverett is intrigued by the profusion of latticed stick symbols strewn through the trees, each of which “remind … him unpleasantly of some bizarre crucifix.” Having sketched several of these weird stick figures, he investigates a decrepit farmhouse where he discovers far, far worse. The events of that day haunt him far worse than anything he experiences during the war and, when he returns home, his obsession with the sticks sees him incorporate them in much of his increasingly gruesome illustrative work which by now even Weird Tales is reluctantly rejecting as too horrific.
Several years later, Leverett is offered a commission to illustrate a collection of H. Kenneth Allard’s stories by specialist publisher Gothic House. His acceptance of the job sets in motion a grisly chain of events that sees the brutal murder of several horror luminaries and culminates in his final encounter with the abomination he first saw in the farmhouse cellar thirty years previous.
In his afterword to the story in Stuart David Schiff’s Whispers (Jove, 1987), Wagner reveals that the inspiration for Sticks came from a real-life experience of Weird Tales regular Lee Brown Coye and, naturally, the truth was eerier by far than the fiction.
Thomas M. Disch – Minnesota Gothic: While her parents are in California attending Grandpa’s cremation, seven year old Gretel is dumped on ancient neighbour, Minnie Haeckel and the whatever-it-is that’s animating her brother Lew’s corpse, thirty years after she dug it up. ‘Lew’ is an invalid who Minnie keeps locked away in his pigsty of a room, just as well, really as he has nasty paedophile tendencies. Matters come to a head when Minnie bakes a gingerbread toad. Lew warns Gretel that his sister is a wicked witch and the only way she can save herself is to take some dough, mould it into Minnie’s shape, and eat it ….
Fritz Leiber – Alice and the Allergy: For these past two years Dr. Howard’s young wife Alice has been a martyr to puffy-eyes, panic attacks and depression, but as yet neither he nor Dr. Renshaw from the Allergy lab have been able to discover what exactly sets her off. Howard believes what she really needs is a psychiatrist. She was raised by a man-hating aunt who filled her head with all sorts of notions and it hardly helped matters when she was attacked by the rapist-cum-strangler who’d terrorised three Midwestern cities over a lengthy period. But that man has been dead for two years, so why is she so terrified that he’s coming back for her.
I believe this to be timeless wisdom, though penned in 1976. It is for these reasons I love older terror fiction. And it is for these reasons that I dislike a lot of modern horror fiction.
AFTERWORD by Kirby McCauley
FRIGHTS (an anthology of new horror stories), St. Martin’s Press, 1976
‘The tale of terror is one of the oldest forms of storytelling, inherent to every human culture. It has been with us from the very beginning, whether in stories told around campfires or represented in drama, art, whispered over [our] night fires—or in broad daylight, for that matter—of brushes with scary things. And men who have put their experiences of awe and fright in written form have done so since earliest times, from The Odyssey of Homer forward to the date you see on your daily newspaper. Many of the great literary figures have created works of terror and the supernatural, Shakespeare, Goethe, Poe, Balzac, Dickens, the Brontë sisters, Tolstoy, Pushkin, Maupassant, Kipling, Mann, to name only some. The appeal of “things that go bump in the night” is very basic everywhere. And now this form [—i.e., the terror tale—of storytelling] is perhaps the last strong outpost of Romantic expression in the arts.
And yet, for all that, particularly in America, there is a kind of stubborn supercilious refusal in many quarters to recognize this kind of story as a literary form worthy of attention by serious, intelligent readers. The reasons for this are doubtlessly many, but one is surely the tongue-in-cheek interest in bad horror movies and their overworked reliance upon familiar supernatural characters, Dracula and Frankenstein the two best known. All these stereotypes have their place, but how big a place is the question. Where the interest seems to be destructive is when the essential inspiration and attitude [are] irreverent or sadistic. Concerning the former, I am among those who believe that the magazine “Unknown” and magazines in its tradition failed because their predominant premise was too whimsical. “Unknown” did run a good many excellent stories, but also a good deal of “cute, clever, and amusing” material written by writers having a condescending, self-indulgent fun at the reader’s expense. People do occasionally like humor in their supernatural tales, and, indeed, there is an element of ironic humor near the heart of the good story of terror; but it must be carefully controlled or the reader is unlikely to engage in the sober kind of pondering necessary for maximum enjoyment of the strange story…
The mainstay appeal is the chill of probing the unknown, as the bestselling books in the genre testify. And the tale of the humorous macabre is usually most satisfying when written by those who have reverance and love for the non-humorous supernatural and who themselves write it well—a W. W. Jacobs, a Robert Bloch, or a Gahan Wilson. One knows in reading their funny supernaturals that it is an affectionate and respectful use of humor, and, probably deep down, a usage that is made with an occasional look over the proverbial shoulder. Many of those attracted to the light and whimsical tradition have, I would suggest, weak credentials in the respect and reverence department: their true loves are elsewhere—and it shows.
The intrusion of the sadistic into the supernatural terror story is more serious and perrenial. Any genre that frequently has to do with fear and death must naturally approach territory that is ripe for sadistic treatment. But not only is there a difference in treatment between the sadistic story and the true supernatural story, there is an equally great difference in inspiration and appeal, as Fritz Leiber ably points out in the Introduction to this book. Tales of the supernatural appeal on many levels, but none of them involve a focus on physical suffering and unpleasantness for its own sake.
Labels are tricky. What does one call this rather broad same-spirited form? I tend to prefer the term “terror”, but it seems to me only one of several satisfactory ones. Many are turning away from the word “horror,” but I like all the terms: stories of horror, wonder, terror, fantasy, the inexplicable, the supernatural, as long as the inspiration is not that of the dilettante or the sadist. FRIGHTS is the title of this collection because it seemed to me to convey a welcome to a broad variety of eerie and suspenseful stories. Additionally, I tried to collect stories that are a bit different, that struck me as more than another vampire story or another deal-with-the-Devil story; the somewhat off-road modern tale of suspense and horror was my goal. And- –important, I think—all the stories in this book have never been published before. There are, I believe, some very vital and fine things being written today in this field, and there should be more places to focus those new works.In a small way I hope this book enlarges that showcase.’
New York City
January 11, 1976
Jacket & Paperback Cover Art by George Zeil, 1976
(Images: Abe Books; Too Much Horror Fiction)
“The Story of a Ghost”
From a “Letter to Sura”
Pliny, the Younger*, ca. 70s AD
Our leisure furnishes me with the opportunity of learning from you, and you with that of instructing me. Accordingly, I particularly wish to know whether you think there exist such things as phantoms, possessing an appearance peculiar to themselves, and a certain supernatural power, or that mere empty delusions receive a shape from our fears. For my part, I am led to believe in their existence, especially by what I hear happened to Curtius Rufus.
While still in humble circumstances and obscure, Curtius Rufus was a hanger-on in the suit of the Governor of Africa. While pacing the colonnade one afternoon, there appeared to him a female form of superhuman size and beauty. She informed the terrified man that she was “Africa,” and had come to foretell future events; for that he would go to Rome, would fill offices of state there, and would even return to that same province with the highest powers, and die in it. All which things were fulfilled. Moreover, as he touched at Carthage, and was disembarking from his ship, the same form is said to have presented itself to him on the shore.
It is certain that, being seized with illness, and auguring the future from the past and misfortune from his previous prosperity, he himself abandoned all hope of life, though none of those about him despaired.
Is not the following story again still more appalling and not less marvellous?
I will relate it as it was received by me:
‘There was at Athens a mansion, spacious and commodious, but of evil repute and dangerous to health. In the dead of night there was a noise as of iron, and, if you listened more closely, a clanking of chains was heard, first of all from a distance, and afterward hard by. Presently a spectre used to appear, an ancient man sinking with emaciation and squalor, with a long beard and bristly hair, wearing shackles on his legs and fetters on his hands, and shaking them. Hence the inmates, by reason of their fears, passed miserable and horrible nights in sleeplessness. This want of sleep was followed by disease, and, their terrors increasing, by death. For in the daytime as well, though the apparition had departed, yet a reminiscence of it flitted before their eyes, and their dread outlived its cause. The mansion was accordingly deserted, and condemned to solitude, was entirely abandoned to the dreadful ghost. However, it was advertised, on the chance of someone, ignorant of the fearful curse attached to it, being willing to buy or to rent it. Athenodorus, the philosopher, came to Athens and read the advertisement. When he had been informed of the terms, which were so low as to appear suspicious, he made inquiries, and learned the whole of the particulars. Yet none the less on that account, nay, all the more readily, did he rent the house.
‘As evening began to draw on, he ordered a sofa to be set for himself in the front part of the house, and called for his notebooks, writing implements, and a light. The whole of his servants he dismissed to the interior apartments, and for himself applied his soul, eyes, and hand to composition, that his mind might not, from want of occupation, picture to itself the phantoms of which he had heard, or any empty terrors. At the commencement there was the universal silence of night. Soon the shaking of irons and the clanking of chains was heard, yet he never raised his eyes nor slackened his pen, but hardened his soul and deadened his ears by its help. The noise grew and approached: now it seemed to be heard at the door, and next inside the door. He looked round, beheld and recognized the figure he had been told of. It was standing and signaling to him with its finger, as though inviting him. He, in reply, made a sign with his hand that it should wait a moment, and applied himself afresh to his tablets and pen. Upon this the figure kept rattling its chains over his head as he wrote. On looking round again, he saw it making the same signal as before, and without delay took up a light and followed it. It moved with a slow step, as though oppressed by its chains, and, after turning into the courtyard of the house, vanished suddenly and left his company. On being thus left to himself, he marked the spot with some grass and leaves which he plucked.
‘Next day he applied to the magistrates, and urged them to have the spot in question dug up. There were found there some bones attached to and intermingled with fetters; the body to which they had belonged, rotted away by time and the soil, had abandoned them thus naked and corroded to the chains. They were collected and interred at the public expense, and the house was ever afterward free from the spirit, which had obtained due sepulture.’
The above story I believe on the strength of those who affirm it. What follows I am myself in a position to affirm to others. I have a freedman, who is not without some knowledge of letters. A younger brother of his was sleeping with him in the same bed. The latter dreamed he saw someone sitting on the couch, who approached a pair of scissors to his head, and even cut the hair from the crown of it. When day dawned he was found to be cropped round the crown, and his locks were discovered lying about.
A very short time afterward a fresh occurrence of the same kind confirmed the truth of the former one. A lad of mine was sleeping, in company with several others, in the pages’ apartment. There came through the windows (so he tells the story) two figures in white tunics, who cut his hair as he lay, and departed the way they came. In his case, too, daylight exhibited him shorn, and his locks scattered around.
Nothing remarkable followed, except, perhaps, this, that I was not brought under accusation, as I should have been, if Domitian (in whose reign these events happened) had lived longer. For in his desk was found an information against me which had been presented by Carus; from which circumstance may be conjectured—inasmuch as it is the custom of accused persons to let their hair grow—that the cutting off of my slaves’ hair was a sign of the danger which threatened me being averted.
I beg, then, that you will apply your great learning to this subject. The matter is one which deserves long and deep consideration on your part; nor am I, for my part, undeserving of having the fruits of your wisdom imparted to me. You may even argue on both sides (as your way is), provided you argue more forcibly on one side than the other, so as not to dismiss me in suspense and anxiety, when the very cause of my consulting you has been to have my doubts put an end to.
(*Translated from the Latin by John Delaware Lewis and William Melmoth)
(Image: Pinterest, uncredited.)
About the Author
Greeks, Ghost Hunts, & the First Haunted House Story
“From ghoulies and ghosties And long-leggedy beasties And things that go bump in the night, Good Lord, deliver us!” ~ Old Scottish Saying
‘Stories of ghosts, the spirit world, and things “that go bump in the night” are common threads found deeply woven into the historical and cultural fabric of most nations and people of the world. The earliest recorded story involving the supernatural is the Epic of Gilgamesh, a 4,000-year-old Sumerian saga describing the journey to the spirit world by a Mesopotamian Priest-King of the city of Uruk in his quest for immortality. To his despair, he finds that the gods retain this gift beyond price for themselves. This epic first set forth the notion that the gods shaped humankind from clay, then breathed into their nostrils the breath of life. In time, that “breath of life” has become the thing that survives corporeal death: the spirit.
However, it’s Greeks that hold the prize for the first recorded tale that has all the trappings of the modern haunted house ghost story. Set down in a letter by Pliny the Younger (lawyer, an author and a natural philosopher of Ancient Rome) sometime during the last century B.C., the story takes place in Athens in a stately, deserted house with a “reputation for being unhealthy.” Hmm, sounds familiar…
As the story goes, residents of the house were tormented night after night by the clamor of clanking chains. The unsettling din would grow louder and louder until the ghost of an emaciated, disheveled old man—shackled and chained—appeared. Eventually no one would stay in the house, and it was abandoned.
One day, the Greek philosopher Athenodorus, intrigued by the story, rented the dwelling, determined to wait for the ghost’s appearance and to discover its purpose. I suppose he might be considered the original ghost hunter and this the first official ghost hunt. At any rate, late that night, as hoped, the clatter of chains began to sound throughout the house, growing ever closer until it filled the room where he waited. Then the decrepit apparition materialized … and beckoned.
Stoically, Athenodorus followed. As the ghost reached an open area in the house, it suddenly disappeared. Quickly, Athenodorus marked the spot with a clump of grass. The following day, under the supervision of a local magistrate, the spot was dug up, revealing the shackled and chained skeletal remains of a man.
So, as you can see, the concept of spirits that walk the Earth and interact with the living has a very old and well-established foundation. Humankind, since earliest antiquity, has believed in the existence of the unseen. Thousands of years of belief have been woven in our collective psyche, allowing for the acceptance (at the very least) of the possibility of ghosts and hauntings. Even the staunchest skeptic carries the seeds of belief. As Mark Twain reportedly once said, “I don’t believe in ghosts, but I am afraid of them.”’
The Legend of Bluebeard is a centuries-old folk tale made popular in 1697 by fairy-tale author Charles Perrault. A classic example of psychological and serial-killer horror tropes, Bluebeard tells the tale of a rich nobleman who is also a violent killer, recognized, feared, and hated due in part to his blue beard—that, and, perhaps, the unnatural, rather macabre habit he has of brutally murdering and saving the corpses of his wives. Wife #8, though, is still alive when we come to the story.
One day, Bluebeard sets out on a little trip, leaving Wife #8 the keys to all the rooms in the castle—including the one room which he insists she never enter. We learn that Bluebeard subjected each of his former wives to the very same “key-to-the-forbidden-room test”. Wife #8, being unable to resist the temptation, becomes curious; so, she unlocks the door to the forbidden room.
The Horror! Inside, she discovers the tortured, mutilated corpses of Bluebeard’s former wives—some crumpled, some hanging, but all extremely dead. Wife #8 drops the key in her haste to leave the horrible room. When Bluebeard returns home, early, and discovers the key, he confronts Wife #8 about it and makes a promise to her that she will suffer the same fate as all of his previous wives.
(Art by Sae Jung Choi)
If you just happen to stumble upon the dilapidated St. George’s Church in the Czech Republic, passing through the crumbling entrance to glance around at the shadowy interior, you might just be in for the most terrifying moment of your life. Abandoned since the 1960s, the church has long since been devoid of human worshippers, but that doesn’t mean it’s empty. Ghostly shrouded figures line its pews, some hovering in doorways and in the aisles.
Located in the northwestern Bohemia town of Luková, the ‘Church of Nine Ghosts’ first fell into disrepair after the ceiling caved in during a funeral service in 1968. Locals took that as a bad omen, and boarded up the 14th century structure, holding services outside instead. But many residents saw the church as an important part of the town’s history, and wanted to see it restored.
“The figures represent the ghosts of Sudeten Germans who lived in Lukova before World War Two and who came to pray at this church every Sunday,” says artist Jakub Hadrava, who was commissioned to create the installation. “I hope to show the world that this place had a past and it was a normal part of everyday life, but that fate has a huge influence on our lives.”
Made of plaster, the ghosts were put in place over the summer of 2014 in the hopes of drawing more tourists to the region, raising money to rehabilitate the historic 1352 church. The plan worked, as people have come from all over the world to see the statues in this unusual environment, and the church will soon be restored to its former glory.
Gateway into St Olave’s churchyard, dubbed ‘St Ghastly Grim’ by Charles Dickens. Photo: Mike Stuchbery. (Atlas Obscura)
The Fascination of the Ghost Story
An Essay by Arthur B. Reeve, 1919
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?
l 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.