NEW RELEASE: Those Ghostly Victorians by Annette Siketa

 

Those Ghostly Victorians

by Annette Siketa

ABOUT THE BOOK

At its zenith, the belief in ghosts in the Victorian era bordered on the hysterical. From stately homes to deserted wells, no dwelling was complete without a resident ghost. Halls and mansions and even the odd palace or two, spawned a multitude of family legends, many of which still persist.

Many people claimed to have direct contact with a ghost through an object such as a ouija board or a pen, the latter collectively known as 'spiritual writing'. For example, a secretary allegedly continued to take dictation from his employer long after the latter was dead.

Whether it was through books, plays, or supposedly true stories, the influence of the supernatural was profound. And it is not difficult to understand why, especially in the 'lower class', the majority of whom were uneducated.

With nothing but drabness and poverty on the horizon, events such as a windy night or a violent storm were likely to set the imagination running. Was that an old sack scurrying across the courtyard, or is it the ghost of the master's favourite but long dead dog?

Even after the First World War and the subsequent increase in education, the barrier of incredulity not only remained intact, but strengthened to almost plague proportion. Indeed, such was the abundance of sightings, apparitions, and 'spooky creatures', that psychiatry became a profitable profession.

Ghosts were no longer restricted to slinking around corners or popping-up behind headstones at night. They became less simple and primitive than their predecessors, and took advantage of the progress in science, exploration, and technology to devise new methods of haunting.

They now caught a bus or a train. It was amazing how many of them learned to use a typewriter, or hold an artists palette in order to paint a picture. Their knowledge of modernisation became so insightful, that had they been able to return to the mortal world, they would have been geniuses.

This is not to suggest that as literature and social attitudes advanced, ghosts became less frightening. On the contrary, not only did it increase their level of influence but their evil deeds as well. Writers such as Edgar Alan Poe, Algernon Blackwood, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in his early works, created stories that were both terrifying and absorbing.

And nothing was seemingly 'off limits'. Instead of being confined to a cemetery, a centuries old skeleton could rise from the grave and raid a pantry. A dead man can return to seek revenge - perhaps all those who look into his eyes are destined to meet their doom. A surgeon is haunted to death by a needlessly amputated arm. Such abilities increased the level of horror, and when combine with other supernatural elements, added impetus to fear.

In this collection, I have provided various examples of 'the other world'. So, turn out the lamp, read this book by torchlight, and if a shadow happens to 'move' in the corner...don't call me!

EXCERPT

Introduction.    At its zenith, the belief in ghosts in the Victorian era bordered on the hysterical.  From stately homes to deserted wells, no dwelling was complete without a resident ghost.  Halls and mansions and even the odd palace or two, spawned a multitude of family legends, many of which still persist. Many people claimed to have direct contact with a ghost through an object such as a ouija board or a pen, the latter collectively known as 'spiritual writing'.  For example, a secretary allegedly continued to take dictation from his employer long after the latter was dead. Whether it was through books, plays, or supposedly true stories, the influence of the supernatural was profound.  And it is not difficult to understand why, especially in the 'lower class', the majority of whom were uneducated.  With nothing but drabness and poverty on the horizon, events such as a windy night or a violent storm were likely to set the imagination running.  Was that an old sack scurrying across the courtyard, or is it the ghost of the master's favourite but long dead dog? Even after the First World War and the subsequent increase in education, the barrier of incredulity not only remained intact, but strengthened to almost plague proportion.  Indeed, such was the abundance of sightings, apparitions, and 'spooky creatures', that psychiatry became a profitable profession.   Ghosts were no longer restricted to slinking around corners or popping-up behind headstones at night.  They became less simple and primitive than their predecessors, and took advantage of the progress in science, exploration, and technology to devise new methods of haunting. They now caught a bus or a train.  It was amazing how many of them learned to use a typewriter, or hold an artists palette in order to paint a picture.  Their knowledge of modernisation became so insightful, that had they been able to return to the mortal world, they would have been geniuses. This is not to suggest that as literature and social attitudes advanced, ghosts became less frightening.  On the contrary, not only did it increase their level of influence but their evil deeds as well.  Writers such as Edgar Alan Poe, Algernon Blackwood, and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle in his early works, created stories that were both terrifying and absorbing. And nothing was seemingly 'off limits'.  Instead of being confined to a cemetery, a centuries old skeleton could rise from the grave and raid a pantry.  A dead man can return to seek revenge – perhaps all those who look into his eyes are destined to meet their doom.  A surgeon is haunted to death by a needlessly amputated arm.  Such abilities increased the level of horror, and when combine with other supernatural elements, added impetus to fear. In this collection, I have provided various examples of 'the other world'.  Yet in the final analysis we are all haunted by dreams…or nightmares, so turn out the light, read this book by torchlight, and if a shadow happens to ‘move’ in the corner…don’t call me!   A Good Deed.   England, 1894.   She was known in the village as Miss Margaret.  Few knew her surname and even fewer cared, for with her sharp tongue, cold heart, long skinny fingers and frizzled white hair, many were convinced she was a witch.  Miss Margaret had lived in the two room stone cottage near the cliffs for most of her adult life.  She had no friends or acquaintances to speak of, and local gossip claimed that, although she was of noble stock, she had been 'born on the wrong side of the blanket'.  Her only known relative was a niece, Lily, with whom she had not spoken in years. The nearest neighbours were Elizabeth and Jack Barnet, who owned a dairy farm.  Elizabeth was passing on her way to market when she saw Miss Margaret working in the front yard.  The first autumn chill was nipping the air, and the old woman looked more feeble than usual. "Good morning, Miss Margaret.  Tis rather cold today.  The weather is changing and not for the better.  You ought to have a lass to look after you in the coming months." "I don't need anyone." "Suppose you took a tumble, or when the really bad weather sets in, you fell ill and couldn't get out of bed?  Who would fetch and carry for you?  Surely it would be wise to have a serving girl stay with you at least until spring." "And have her rob me when I'm not looking?  No, thank you.  I'll keep my money where it is." For the main part, Elizabeth Barnet was kind and considerate.  She had a soft spot for the elderly, and would often give them eggs and milk and butter from the farm - meat too when it was available.  But she also had the ability to mix wisdom with sarcasm, so that it was sometimes difficult to determine whether she was speaking shrewdly or impudently.  The old woman's lack of gratitude had roused Elizabeth's ire, and she now made a suggestion that was bound to cause annoyance. "I really think you should reconsider.  If you'll pardon me for saying so, you're not getting any younger.  What about Lily's eldest daughter, Mary?  She's a good worker, knows her place, and is pleasant in manner." Miss Margaret looked at her contemptuously.  "I will not have that hussy nor any of her spawn in my house!  As far as I'm concerned, my niece does not exist.  Good day to you!"  Elizabeth turned and walked away, the sound of the slamming cottage door gratifying in her ears.  "That'll teach the old witch," she murmured, but a few days later, she began to wonder if her mischief had not backfired.  The days and nights were getting colder, and whilst this would certainly account for Miss Margaret's non-appearance in her yard or at the market, it did not explain why her chimney was not belching smoke.  When Jack returned from tending a suppurating pig, Elizabeth gave voice to her concern.  "I am rather worried about Miss Margaret." "Well, if you are," he said, sitting on a bench outside the front door, "you're the only one who is." "Be serious.  I think there's something wrong.  I haven't seen her in days, and the cottage looks deserted.  Perhaps we should pay her a visit.  I'll take some eggs as an excuse." "Not fresh ones.  They're too good for her."  Jack removed his gore-splattered boots.  "Let me get washed and changed.  I might breed pigs but I'm no swine.  I doubt she's ever done a hard days work in her life - miserable old cat."   ***   Jack and Elizabeth stood outside the cottage.  He knocked on the door.  There was no answer.  "Hello?  Miss Margaret!  Are you in there?"  Still no answer.  He tried the old-fashioned handle and heard it 'click'.  The door was unlocked.  So far, there was nothing to suggest that anything was amiss, and yet tentatively, almost reluctantly, they entered the cottage. The interior was typical of most small cottages in the area - an all-purpose room with a bedchamber at the side.  What was not typical was the sparseness.  There were no dried flowers or curing ham hanging from the beams, no pictures, no photographs, and no form of bric-a-brac.  The only furniture was a scrubbed table, two wooden chairs, a large cupboard in a corner, and a rocking chair by the fire.  Adding to the intrigue was the fact that it was scrupulously clean, almost as if nobody lived there. Having never been inside before, Elizabeth was surprised by the lack of possessions.  She went across and inspected the hearth, and although there were ashes in the grate, they were stone cold. "I don't like this," she said anxiously. Jack pointed to the closed bedroom door.  "I reckon she's in there, and judging from the smell, she's dead."  Elizabeth swallowed hard.  She had seen plenty of dead cows in her time, the grotesque remains of a lamb that had been mauled by wild dogs, and chickens that had been pecked to death by its brethren, but never a dead human. Jack opened the bedroom door.  One look was enough.  "Yep - dead as a dried sardine." Repulsed and yet curious, Elizabeth joined her husband and looked at the corpse on the bed.  "Oh, Jack, she's so pale.  When an animal dies, its body goes stiff.  Do you think Miss Margaret is stiff?" Jack chuckled.  "As a board." She slapped his arm.  "This is no time for jokes.  What shall we do?  We can't leave her here." He thought for a moment, and then albeit reluctantly, pronounced judgement.  "I suppose we'll have to take care of things, at least until Lily can be contacted.  We should look for any documents and letters.  We should also make an inventory of anything valuable.  Once it gets out she's dead, the cottage will likely attract thieves." "She won't like us poking around." "My dear woman, she's hardly in a position to object.  I'll take the bedroom and you search in here.  See if you can find some candles.  This may take some time."   ***   It was about ten minutes later when Elizabeth entered the bedroom.  "Look at this."  She displayed three candle stumps on her palm.  They were so small that the wick was practically non-existent.  "They were on the mantelpiece, and yet I found two boxes of new candles at the back of the cupboard.  It's almost as if she was afraid to use them." "If you think that's strange, take a look in there."  He pointed to a large chest in the corner, the lid of which was resting against the wall.  Elizabeth lit a new candle and peered into the chest.  The flame was reflected in a silver tea service, a salver, a punch bowl, two fruit platters, and at least four pairs of tongs.  She extracted an exquisitely engraved spoon and held it close to the candle. "It has a hallmark so it must be real silver.  Look at those sheets and pillowcases.  I'd swear they've never been used."  She turned her head and scrutinised the linen on the bed, averting her gaze from the dead woman's eyes.  Not only were they open, but they seemed to be staring at her accusingly.  What linen could be seen was grey and repaired many times. Jack looked around the dingy room.  "Best find pen and paper and then…"  He broke off when Elizabeth suddenly gasped.  "What is it?" he demanded, his voice a little jittery.  He too had noticed the dead woman's stare. Still squatting in front of the chest, Elizabeth had removed the lid of the teapot.  "It's full of money…lots of money, silver coins and a roll of bank notes." He lifted the pot out of the chest, and as he ran the coins through his fingers, several fell to the floor.  "I could re-stock the farm with this," he said, his tone a mixture of bitterness and envy.  "I suppose it will all go to Lily, but even so, I can't help wishing it was mine." "That poor girl.  Orphaned when she was no more than a babe, and then to be thrown out when she was 16 because she attended a dance against Margaret's orders.  Fancy her thinking that music and dancing were the devil's work." "You can't condemn her piety," said Jack, reasonably.  "Still, it did cause her to have some queer notions." Elizabeth took up the thread of the conversation.  "She never cared tuppence for Lily.  Worked her day and night, filling her head with all that religious rubbish, and then turning on her when the poor lass wanted a bit of fun.  If it hadn't been for Tom Smiggins, goodness knows what would have happened to the girl." "Lily was very lucky.  Tom is a good man and a fine carpenter." Elizabeth jerked a thumb at the corpse.  "She would never have said so.  She didn't even attend their wedding."  A vein of shrewishness rose to the fore.  "And I'll tell you something else, Jack Barnet, she'll not be using one of those new sheets as a shroud.  The one on the bed will do." "They belong to Lily now.  It's her decision what she does with her Aunt's things." "No, it isn't.  The last thing Miss Margaret said to me was, 'As far as I'm concerned, my niece does not exist'." Jack frowned.  "Are you sure?"  Elizabeth bristled.  "Don't you call me a liar!" "I'm not, but a Judge might." "Find a bible and I'll swear on it." Seemingly convinced, Jack clutched the teapot a little tighter.  "In that case, we must be guided by her words.  Lily gets nothing." "Yes, but it leaves us with a problem.  We will have to pay for the funeral."  Her voice was full of self-justification as she added, "And I think we're entitled to some recompense for all the eggs and milk we've given her.  I thought she couldn't afford to pay for them, and yet all the time she was hoarding money."   ***   After the funeral, a wake was held at the farm.  The morbid and the curious were well represented, as were those who wanted to ensure 'the old witch' was really dead.  There was an awkward moment when Lily inquired as to her aunt's belongings.  This was particularly relevant as the deed to the cottage had been found at the bottom of the chest. "I've tried several times to patch things up over the years," said Lily.  "I had hoped that old age would cause her to relent a little, at least enough to see the children, but she didn't want anything to do with us." Elizabeth painted a sympathetic smile on her face.  "I'm sorry, my dear.  I know how painful this must be, but as I told you, her final words were very specific."  Lily sighed in lament.  "I know.  She hated my mother, and when she died, Aunt Margaret took it out on me.  If you ask me, her life wasn't worth a bean if she couldn't hate someone." "We have ordered a decent headstone.  I hope you won't be ashamed of our choice.  It was the best we could…erm…"  Elizabeth looked embarrassed as she finished, "…afford."  She was speaking the truth.  The Barnets' had decided it would be unseemly for the dead woman to pay for her own funeral.  The alleged 'decent' headstone was a piece of white marble with a barely visible crack running through it.  Miss Margaret's particulars and two lines from a poem – a very short one, were to be engraved in the marble at two pence a letter.   ***   At length, the mourners took their departure, and after attending to the livestock, Jack and Elizabeth went to bed, satisfied they had given the miserable old woman a decent send-off.  The moon was high when Elizabeth suddenly awoke.  She tugged at Jack's arm but he was already awake.  They listened intensely.  Somebody was moving around in the kitchen. "Perhaps it's one of the farm-hands looking for something to eat," whispered Elizabeth. "What?  He broke in to make a bacon sandwich in the middle of the night?  Don't be daft, woman." The sound of a crash settled the issue.  Walking on tiptoe and avoiding the boards known to creak, Jack and Elizabeth crept down the stairs and peered into the kitchen. The moonlight shining through the broad kitchen window, highlighted the stone floor, the table & chairs, the flour crocks and the curing haunches of bacon hanging from the ceiling.  It also shone on a figure wrapped in a faded white shroud, and there was no mistaking the glassy-eyes and pursed lips. The Barnets' watched in horrified fascination as Miss Margaret went to a cupboard and removed the silver teapot and spoons.  Then, standing at the table and with lips moving silently, she counted the spoons and inspected them, as though checking for any sign of slovenly washing-up. Seemingly satisfied, and one-by-one, she removed the coins from the teapot.  Whether bronze or silver, they rolled across the table of their own accord, stopping at the edge as though held in place by an invisible barrier.  However, they did not remain upright.  Instead, they gathered in their respective denominations and formed into stacks. And then a cloud obscured the moon and the kitchen was plunged into darkness.  The Barnets' turned and fled up the stairs, bolting the door behind them and jumping into bed.  Clutching each other as though their lives depended on it, neither slept til dawn, kept awake by fear and the constant rolling of the coins. But the relief of daylight was short-lived, and after three nights of relentless rolling coins and the banging of cupboard doors, the Barnets' were nervous wrecks.  With their pallid faces and the dark circles around their eyes, they looked like corpses themselves. "Jack, we can't go on like this.  She might come upstairs and pull her sheets off our bed while we're asleep.  We've hardly slept a wink as it is, and the last thing we need is to fall ill." Jack nodded in agreement.  "I'm so tired that I tried to milk a bull.  I think we'll have to get rid of her sheets, along with everything else that was hers." "How?  We can't give the things to Lily without revealing the truth." "True.  Seems to me it's Miss Margaret who wants her stuff back, so we'll go to the churchyard and put it on her grave." "Now who's being daft?  Someone will steal it afterwards.  That silverware is valuable." Jack shrugged indifferently.  "Not our problem.  We will return her belongings.  What happens afterwards is none of our business."

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