The Mammoth Book of Ghost Stories by Women (Mammoth Books) (2 page)

“The Phantom Coach” by Amelia B. Edwards, originally published in
All the Year Round
, 1864.

“The Old Nurse’s Story” by Elizabeth Gaskell, originally published in
Famous Ghost Stories by English Authors
, (Gowans & Gray, 1910)

“Among the Shoals Forever” by Gail Z. Martin, copyright © 2012

“Afterward” by Edith Wharton, originally published in
The Century Magazine
(The Century Co, 1910)

“A Silver Music” by Gaie Sebold, copyright © 2012

Ghost stories have always been my favourite kind of tale, especially in the short form. Recently I’ve read or re-read several pieces by women whose work I admire, both from the Victorian era and from today (Michelle Paver’s excellent novel
Dark Matter
and Susan Hill’s short novel
The Small Hand
spring to mind, as well as short stories such as Edith Wharton’s “Afterward”, to be found in this anthology) – while at the same time reading grumblings about the lack of “women in genre fiction”. The truth is that there isn’t really a
lack
, as such – women have always written in the horror and supernatural fields, and continue to do so. Proportionately, they form a smaller part of the genre as a whole. They are, however, a
significant
part, which leads me to this anthology.

I wanted to put together a collection of ghost stories – both old and new – that would showcase the talents of women in the genre, both past and present; and because there’s a wealth of talent out there, regardless of the writers’ gender.

These stories range from Amelia B. Edwards’s “The Phantom Coach”, which first saw print in 1864, through stories by such luminaries of the past as Edith Wharton, Elizabeth Gaskell, Mary E. Wilkins-Freeman, Mary Elizabeth Braddon and Mary Cholmondeley, right up to modern writers such as Lilith Saintcrow, Muriel Gray, Sarah Pinborough, Marion Arnott and Nina Allan. The subject matter covered is wide, from ghostly children to visitations by departed loved ones both human and animal, intended to warn, scare, or even comfort – Mary E. Wilkins-Freeman offers a genuinely heartrending spectral visitor in “The Lost Ghost”, while stories such as “The Fifth Bedroom” by Alex Bell (her first ghost story) show us a more malevolent creature by far.

Although the stories vary from tales of ghostly children to those of lost pets, from murder to accidental death, from rage to sorrow and back again, one thing is central to all: a slight chilling of the skin as you read. A feeling of something being not
quite
there but rather just behind you, ready to make itself known, and leaving you reluctant to turn out the light.

Enjoy the stories, and ladies – thank you for your help in bringing this anthology to print.

Marie O’Regan
Derbyshire, England, November, 2011.

Kim Lakin-Smith

Dean Bartholomew Richards saw three figures at the periphery of his vision. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass and the Lady Chapel was transfigured. He tilted his chin to the blaze. Lichfield Cathedral was the Lord’s house, he told himself. It was not to be slighted by spirits.

A cold wind blew in from the direction of the altar. Dean Richards turned around slowly, the three figures shifting so that they continued to flicker at the corner of his eye. He walked past Saint Chad’s shrine and felt the temperature drop. Shadows lengthened. At his back, the sun went in.

Something wet touched the dean’s nose. He dabbed it with a sleeve. Staring up at the distant vaulting, he saw snow dusting down. He had heard about the phenomenon from the canons but hoped it was just the fantasies of young men left alone in a dark cathedral. But in his heart he could not deny the haunting had become more substantial. Sir Scott’s renovators were reporting screams like those of the damned, shadows writhing over walls, and spots of raging heat. Ice coated the Skidmore screen, a thousand tiny diamonds amongst the gilt. And then there were the children, their arrival always heralded by the inexplicable fall of snow.

Dean Richards rubbed the bulb of his nose. Faith must keep him stalwart.

“Come, children,” he whispered, fearing the words.

Snow dusted the flagstones. Silence packed in around him.

He spotted them at the foot of The Sleeping Children monument; two girls in white nightdresses – exact replicas of the dead sisters depicted in the marble monument. The elder child made the shape of a bird with interlaced fingers. The younger smiled. Snow settled on his shoulders, and he forced himself to advance to within several feet of the sisters. Kneeling on the cold flagstones, he clasped his hands.

“‘The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want; he makes me down to lie’.” He heard the tremble in his voice but pressed on. The important thing was to focus on the appropriate passages. The Beatitudes for these pitiful, not-quite children? Or a parable to lead them to the light?

He fixed his gaze on his hands until curiosity got the better of him. Glancing up, he felt a jolt of fear. The girls had moved closer and now knelt side by side, their insubstantial hands joined in prayer. But the longer he stared at the ghosts, the more solid they became.

“‘In pastures green, he leadeth me—’”

The youngest girl’s lip curled back into a snarl.

“‘The quiet waters by—’”

The older sister flinched, a blur of movement.

To the dean’s horror, both underwent a metamorphosis. Eyes flickering shut, their skin turned silky white while their bodies stiffened and set.

The dean could not help himself. Forgetting the three spectres at the outer reaches of his vision, he stretched out a hand to comfort the poor dead children.

“Sleep now,” he whispered, hand hovering above the youngest’s exquisitely carved head. “In the arms of the Lord.” He lowered his hand to bless the girl.

The ghost girl’s eyes shot wide open, her sister’s too – stone angels brought to life. Their mouths strained and the screams of hundreds of men issued forth.

Dean Richards leaped back on to his feet. The noise was ear-splitting and unnatural. Flames burst from the flagstoned floor and licked the walls. Shadows writhed. The snow changed to falling ash.

“‘Our Father, which art in Heaven . . .’” The heat was terrible. “‘Hallowed be Thy name.’” Dean Richards felt searing pain and stared at his palms to see the flesh bubbling.
Help me, my God
, he cried inside, and aloud, “‘Thy kingdom come, Thy will be done!’”

He tried to run. The smell of burning bodies filled his nostrils and he tripped, his head pounding against the flagstones. His lips blistered around his prayer. The blackness set in.

Lichfield. City of philosophers. From the pig-in-a-poke cottages and elegant residences of Dam Street, to the shady sanctuary of Minster Pool, to the dung-and-fruit scented market place, Lichfield was glorious in its Middle Englishness.

Nowhere was this more apparent than in The Close. While the city walls and its south and west gates were long gone, the elite nature of the cathedral’s surrounding remained intact. Grand establishments housed the ecclesiastical and the educated in a square around the magnificent red-sandstone building.

The exception was the new breed of specialist who had taken up residence there. Stonemasons crawled about the western front of the cathedral like nibbling spiders. Hammers chinked. Chisels spilled red dust into the air.

On the afternoon of Monday, 22 October 1855, the strangest figures for miles around should have been the craftsmen at work on repairing the cathedral. But that changed the instant a troupe of five men came marching past the row of Tudor townhouses opposite the western front. Dressed in feathers and rags, they wore rings on their fingers and bells on their toes, and carried patchwork packs like colourful hunchbacks.

The stonemasons would later tell their families it was a change in the air which first alerted them to the mummers’ presence. Hanging off precipices many feet up, the men detected a country aroma. Their minds turned to hay ricks, windfalls, smoking jam kettles and bonfires. A few even smiled before they craned their necks to look down.

Sitting on the steps to one side of the courtyard, a set of plans across his knee, Canon Nicholas Russell detected the scent and was reminded of long summers spent at his grandmother’s cottage in Alrewas. But then he squinted over at the mummer troupe, with their multi-hued ragged tunics and sooty faces, and had visions of ungodly rituals enacted on chalk hills, of painted faces, and runes cast, and unfettered sensuality. Nicholas clutched the plans to his chest and got up.

The troupe arrived at the foot of the steps. Each man wore a variation of the rags. One had fantastically blue eyes and an embroidered red cross around his neck. Nicholas shuddered at the sight; it had a bloody and bandaged look. The next grinned like an imbecile, showing fat white teeth. This man wore a pair of stitched donkey’s ears on his head, and stood running what appeared to be a pin-on tail through his hands. A third man wore a tall black hat and was exceptionally thin. These three were peculiar in their own right, but it was the two figures to the fore of the group who disturbed Nicholas the most. One was a monster of a man with blackened eyes and green-painted skin to match his rags who wore a necklace of dead, dried things. The second was a boy of ten or so, wearing red horns and a doublet of scarlet rags.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen.” Nicholas hated the quiver in his voice.

The man in green nodded. “Isn’t it?” He inhaled deeply. “Lichfield in autumn. Reminds me of my childhood.”

“You’re a local man?” Nicholas eyed the weird fellow.

“Once upon a time. It probably takes a city as ghost-riddled as Lichfield to produce a man of my ilk.” He glanced back at his men and they shrugged agreement.

Ghost-riddled?
Nicholas tensed. Had the stonemasons been gossiping? Certainly he and his fellow canons had done everything in their power to refute the rumours, but the apparitions would insist on appearing to clergy and laymen alike.

The leader of the troupe leaned in. That smell of mouldering fruit and damp straw . . . Nicholas almost choked against it.

“Word was put our way concerning Dean Richards’s recent incapacity.”

Nicholas tried to process the statement. The man’s flippancy grated. But before he could respond, the boy with the horns butted in.

“Want us to warm up them working folk, Mr Savage?” The boy produced a black velvet bag held by two sticks, almost identical to the collection purses used in the cathedral.

“Good idea, Thom. Go on now, fellas. Get us a crowd going.”

The devil boy and the other three climbed the stairs between Nicholas and the man in green. Leaving their organic perfume in the air, the four strode over to the scaffolded west front.

Mr Savage, as the devil boy had referred to him, called after them. “Ask after the best ale house. One with lodgings.” He arched a thick black eyebrow. “Some people need guidance. Without a strong hand, we’re as lost as lambs. And there are always wolves on the prowl, hey, minister?” The man’s shoulders shook in amusement. Tiny bells inside his clothing tinkled.

Nicholas folded the plans and slid them into a pocket of his cassock. “It is good to see a Lichfield son return to the fold. And now, if you will excuse me.” He glanced pointedly up at the late afternoon sky. “The weather sickens.”

He was about to hurry off when Mr Savage brought his huge green face closer. The man’s breath smelled of freshly dug soil. His eyes shone blue-white.

“Dean Richards sent word that he wishes to see me. Be a good fellow and lead the way.” His heavy brow bulged. “That’s a demand, Canon Nicholas.”

The Deanery was a red-brick Queen Anne mansion with tall chimneys and a central pediment. Ailen, the green man, imagined an interior dedicated to stoked fireplaces, plum pie and antique furnishings. Indeed, the house provided all of these things when a bustling housekeeper let them in – in spite of her clear alarm at Ailen’s costume. The comforts of the house did not extend to the dean’s bedroom, however. Following the faintly sanctimonious young canon across the threshold, Ailen was disappointed to find the room in semi-darkness and the air perfumed with lavender. Disappointed because he had hoped a strong-willed man like Dean Richards would not have taken ill after his fright.

“The Shakes,” Ailen muttered under his breath.

Canon Nicholas glanced back. “Excuse me?”

Ailen shook his head. “Nothing.”

A lamp burned low on the bedside cabinet. By its weak light, he saw eiderdowns piled high on a large bed, wall-mounted crucifixes, dried lavender arrangements – to soothe the nerves – and long tapestry curtains drawn tight to keep the cold out. Or something other.

Sound issued from beneath the eiderdowns. Muttered prayer – or, as Ailen understood it, just another form of incantation.

“Dean Richards?” said Nicholas.

The covers were thrown back. Dean Richards stared out, wild-eyed and with a halo of white hair about his head.

“Nicholas?” The Dean scrubbed his fists into his eyes. He blinked at Ailen, mole-like. “And you, friend? Are you phantom or mortal man?” A shiver visibly passed through the man and he hugged himself.