I grew up listening to my family’s "true" ghost stories, each creepy tale ending with a declaration that "there are no such things as ghosts." As a teenager, I devoured books of folklore, with all their tales of ghosts, witches, and long-legetty beasties: and also many books about paranormal research. As an adult, I’m a complete unbeliever but still very fond of both reading and writing ghost stories!
I once made the mistake of reading several of James’ ghost stories, one after another, while alone in the house.
I was making a cup of coffee when something started scratching stealthily at the inside of a cupboard door. I had to lower myself from the ceiling before I discovered that some scrunched carrier bags hung inside the cupboard had unscrunched, causing the ghostly scratching. But that’s why I love James’ ghost stories.
The second in a series of republished classic literature, The Ghost Stories of M. R. James collects the tales that best illustrate his quiet mastery of the ghost story form. Running through each of these stories is a slowly escalating sense of unease and dread, which ultimately shifts into the wildly uncanny. James' characters exist in a world of ancient objects whose atrocious histories begin to repeat when they are disturbed, and the blinkered repression common to James' narratives only amplifies the shock of the spectral appearance.
We all think we know "A Christmas Carol" but after the Muppet version, I find myself thinking of it as simply comical.
Until I re-read it, I forget just how chilling the ghosts who visit Scrooge are. And I love "Captain Murderer," Dickens’ account of how his nursemaid terrified him with scary tales, because it takes me back to my own childhood love of terrors.
Then there are stories like "The Signalman," which is not at all funny, darkened with the signalman’s dreadful loneliness and apprehension.
Dickens was a Master. Even his humorous ghost stories have an edge of fear.
Who needs Bram Stoker and boring old Dracula, when Joseph Sheridan Le Fanu had a better name, and penned the original vampire tale, Carmilla, a whole quarter-century earlier?
Personally, I dislike obvious attempts to scare or horrify me. So I appreciate that Le Fanu is always subtle, concentrating on creating an atmosphere of threat and fear, as in Schalken the Painter. He is never obvious, but always eerie.
INCLUDESCarmillaSchalken The PainterAn Account of Some Strange Disturbances in Aungier StreetAn Authentic Narrative Of A Haunted HouseUltor De Lacy: A Legend Of CapercullenThe Haunted BaronetDickon The Devil
I like a writer of ghost stories to personally believe in ghosts, as Benson did.
I also appreciate that he brings to even his scariest and most horrible tales the same sharp social observation and wit that he brought to his Mapp and Lucia stories.
Note, however, that the great M. R. James thought Benson’s stories "went over the line of legitimate horridness." Well, I love James, but disagree with him here. I dislike gross horror myself, but think a touch of Benson-style horridness now and again is enlivening (if that’s the right term for a ghost story).
'His body was pressed against the wall at the head of the bed, and the face was a mask of agonised horror and fruitless entreaty. But the eyes were already glazed in death, and before Francis could reach the bed the body had toppled over and lay inert and lifeless. Even as he looked, he heard a limping step go down the passage outside.'
E. F. Benson was a master of the ghost story and now all his rich, imaginative, spine-tingling and beautifully written tales are presented together in this bumper collection. The range and variety of these spooky narratives…
I shared a love of ghost stories with my mother and we often recommended them to each other.
But Mum had a thing for ghost stories set in the Arctic winter, with its killing cold and six months of darkness. She reckoned that, as a setting for ghostly goings-on, it couldn’t be beaten.
I wish I could still give her a copy of Dark Matter. She would have read it in a sitting. A wonderful evocation of the disturbing power of darkness, cold, and isolation.
'What is it? What does it want? Why is it angry with me?'
January 1937.
Clouds of war are gathering over a fogbound London. Twenty-eight year old Jack is poor, lonely and desperate to change his life. So when he's offered the chance to be the wireless operator on an Arctic expedition, he jumps at it. Spirits are high as the ship leaves Norway: five men and eight huskies, crossing the Barents Sea by the light of the midnight sun. At last they reach the remote, uninhabited bay where they will camp for the next year. Gruhuken. But the Arctic…
