I Came Back Haunted! Don’t Miss Stories #1, #2, #3 AND #4! in Our New Rare/Vintage Ghost Story Anthology! You have to read these!

FINALCOVERDon’t forget to read my new ghost story anthology! FOUR stories have already been posted…these are rare vintage stories by lesser-known but very high quality writers. They are among the creepiest oddly haunting stories I have ever encountered, and that’s saying a lot.

Sanguine Woods Books(sm) will be offering a full ebook in late fall 2017 that will include along with these stories, a handful of new ghost stories written in that old-fashioned vein by some of the great modern writers of ghostly fiction.

So stay tuned! And, thank you so much for your support!

Click here to read Story #1 “How Love Came to Professor Guildea” by Robert Smythe Hichens, 1900…

Click here to read Story #2 “What Did Miss Darrington See?” by Emma B. Cobb, 1881…

Click here to read Story #3 “The Woman at Seven Brothers” by Wilbur Daniel Steele, 1888…

Click here to read Story #4 “The Lianhan Shee” by Will Carleton, 1830…

We Came Back Haunted: An Essay on the Ghostly by Ernest Rhys (1921)

We Came Back Haunted

Ernest Rhys, 1921


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In my recent Ghost Book (The Haunters and the Haunted,1921), M. Larigot, himself a writer of supernatural tales, collected a remarkable batch of documents, fictive or real, describing the one human experience that is hardest to make good. Perhaps the very difficulty of it has rendered it more tempting to the writers who have dealt with the subject. His collection, notably varied and artfully chosen as it is, yet by no means exhausts the literature, which fills a place apart with its own recognised classics, magic masters, and dealers in the occult. Their testimony serves to show that the forms by which men and women are haunted are far more diverse and subtle than we knew. So much so, that one begins to wonder at last if every person is not liable to be “possessed.” For, lurking under the seeming identity of these visitations, the dramatic differences of their entrances and appearances, night and day, are so marked as to suggest that the experience is, given the fit temperament and occasion, inevitable.

One would even be disposed, accepting this idea, to bring into the account, as valid, stories and pieces of literature not usually accounted part of the ghostly canon. There are the novels and tales whose argument is the tragedy of a haunted mind. Such are Dickens’ Haunted Man, in which the ghost is memory; Hawthorne’s Scarlet Letter, in which the ghost is cruel conscience; and Balzac’s Quest of the Absolute, in which the old Flemish house of Balthasar Claes, in the Rue de Paris at Douai, is haunted by a dæmon more potent than that of Canidia. One might add some of Balzac’s shorter stories, among them “The Elixir”; and some of Hawthorne’s Twice-Told Tales, including “Edward Randolph’s Portrait.” On the French side we might note too that terrible graveyard tale of Guy de Maupassant, La Morte, in which the lover who has lost his beloved keeps vigil at her grave by night in his despair, and sees—dreadful resurrection—“que toutes les tombes étaient ouvertes, et tous les cadavres en étaient sortis.” And why? That they might efface the lying legends inscribed on their tombs, and replace them with the actual truth. Villiers de l’Isle Adam has in his Contes Cruels given us the strange story of Véra, which may be read as a companion study to La Morte, with another recall from the dead to end a lover’s obsession. Nature and supernature cross in de l’Isle Adam’s mystical drama Axël—a play which will never hold the stage, masterly attempt as it is to dramatise the inexplainable mystery.

Among later tales ought to be reckoned Edith Wharton’s Tales of Men GHSTSGRBXN1937and Ghosts, and Henry James’s The Two Magics, whose “Turn of the Screw” gives us new instances of the evil genii that haunt mortals, in this case two innocent children. One remembers sundry folk-tales with the same motive—of children bewitched or forespoken—inspiring them. And an old charm in Orkney which used to run:

“Father, Son, Holy Ghost!
Bitten sall they be,
Bairn, wha have bitten thee!
Care to their black vein,
Till thou hast thy health again!
Mend thou in God’s name!”

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Rue Morgue #176! Are You Reading It?

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INSIDE ISSUE #176

FEATURES

TWILIGHT OF THE GODS Series creators Bryan Fuller and Michael Green bring Neil Gaiman’s American Gods to network television. Plus: Vincenzo Natali on directing Crispin Glover, Dark Horse’s American Gods comic and a look back at Gaiman’s novel. By Andrea Subissati, Pedro Cabezuelo and Jess Peacock

THE GREAT AND SECRET SHOWMAN The life and legacy of cultural boogeyman Anton Szandor LaVey on the 20th anniversary of his death. Plus: the occult in fashion and a few words with 3teeth frontman Lex. By Sean Plummer, Benoit Black and Andrea Subissati

THE WONDER FEARS The Watcher in the Woods director John Hough takes us back to the Disney movie that traumatized a generation of tots. Plus: a look at Disney’s dark side. By Amy Seidman and Paul Corup

CHAINSAW AND DAVE’S CLASS REUNION Summer School’s lovable gorehounds celebrate 30 years of the characters who made being a horror fan cool. Plus: a dossier of horror devotees. By Jeff Szpirglas and Tal Zimerman

DEPARTMENTS

NOTE FROM UNDERGROUND Andrea says hello.

POST-MORTEM Letters from fans, readers and weirdos

DREADLINES News highlights, horror happenings

THE CORONER’S REPORT Weird stats, morbid facts and more

NEEDFUL THINGS Strange trinkets from our bazaar of the bizarre

CINEMACABRE The latest films, the newest DVDs and reissues feat. The Void

THE LATE-NITE ARCHIVE I Bury the Living

BOWEN’S BASEMENT The Horror of Party Beach

BLOOD IN FOUR COLOURS Comics feat. Not Drunk Enough

THE NINTH CIRCLE Book reviews feat. John Cornell’s Chalk

THE FRIGHT GALLERY The spooky works of Eric Millen

THE GORE-MET Human Pork Chop and Dr. Lamb

AUDIO DROME Music reviews feat. new album from Ghoultown

PLAY DEAD Game reviews feat. Resident Evil 7: Biohazard

CLASSIC CUT The Cat and the Canary

Source and Buying Info:

http://www.rue-morgue.com/online-store/Rue-Morgue-176-May-Jun-2017-p83323287

Story #3: “The Woman at Seven Brothers” by Wilbur Daniel Steele, from The Greatest Ghost Stories Ever Told, ed. by Sanguine Woods, 2017

The Woman at Seven Brothers

Wilbur Daniel Steele¹, 1908

“You—you see,” said I, “she’s cleared the rip there now, and the music’s gone. You—you hear?”

“Yes,” said she, turning back slow. “That’s where it stops every night—night after night—it stops just there—at the rip.”

When she spoke again her voice was different. I never heard the like of it, thin and taut as a thread. It made me shiver, sir.

“I hate ’em!” That’s what she said. “I hate ’em all. I’d like to see ’em dead. I’d love to see ’em torn apart on the rocks, night after night. I could bathe my hands in their blood, night after night.”

I tell you sir, I was innocent. I didn’t know any more about the world at twenty-two than some do at twelve. My uncle and aunt in Duxbury brought me up strict; I studied hard in high school, I worked hard after hours, and I went to church twice on Sundays, and I can’t see it’s right to put me in a place like this, with crazy people. Oh yes, I know they’re crazy—you can’t tell me. As for what they said in court about finding her with her husband, that’s the Inspector’s lie, sir, because he’s down on me, and wants to make it look like my fault.

No, sir, I can’t say as I thought she was handsome—not at first. For one thing, her lips were too thin and white, and her color was bad. I’ll tell you a fact, sir; that first day I came off to the Light I was sitting on my cot in the store-room (that’s where the assistant keeper sleeps at the Seven Brothers), as lonesome as I could be, away from home for the first time, and the water all around me, and, even though it was a calm day, pounding enough on the ledge to send a kind of a woom-woom-woom whining up through all that solid rock of the tower. And when old Fedderson poked his head down from the living-room with the sunshine above making a kind of bright frame around his hair and whiskers, to give me a cheery, “Make yourself to home, son!” I remember I said to myself: “He’s all right. I’ll get along with him. But his wife’s enough to sour milk.” That was queer, because she was so much under him in age—’long about twenty-eight or so, and him nearer fifty. But that’s what I said, sir.

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Vintage “Horror Lit”: The Supernatural in Modern Literature by Dr. Dorothy Scarborough, 1927

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Table of Contents

I • The Gothic Romance, 6Untitled

II • Later Influences, 54

III • Modern Ghosts, 81

IV • The Devil and His Allies, 130

V • Supernatural Life, 174

VI • The Supernatural in Folk Tales, 242

VII • Supernatural Science, 251

VIII • Conclusion, 281

ghost-stories-famous-modern-ghost-stories_-humorous-ghost-stories_-the-supernatural-in-modern-fiction_7040348About Dr. Scarborough

Dorothy Scarborough, PhD was a professor of English, a novelist, and a respected folklorist. She called herself a “song catcher.” She believed radio threatened the survival of folk songs, and she traveled around the Appalachian Mountains recording centuries-old ballads with a hand-powered Dictaphone. She collected as many of these songs as she could before those who sang them died¹. Scarborough believed these folksongs told stories about a community’s values and its collective history.

Novelist, folklorist, a catcher of songs, this conscientious, brilliant woman has left a legacy of great literary value; but, perhaps, her most enduring and valuable work, was her work recording the oral history of songs from America’s regional cultures and, in doing so, preserving the creative expressions of ordinary people from times past.

¹https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Wind_(novel)Untitled

The Greatest Ghost Stories Ever Told—A New Anthology Featuring Rare Vintage Stories & Originals from Great Modern Writers…

Hello Reader! And Welcome! We are giddy with excitement!

We love it when you pay us a visit. It gets lonely in here, shut up in the dark with all of these haints and haunts. We’d love to see you more regularly, so, we decided to try something new! A whole book of new and classic ghost stories, posted here and our sister blog: Haint-Blue Shudders; one story at a time. For all those stormy candle-lit nights. We know you are going to enjoy this story collection!

FINALCOVER

Cover concept & design by Woody Dexter. ((c) 2017 Sanguine Woods Publishing(sm)

The Greatest Ghost Stories Ever Told will be published here, and at Haint-Blue—story by story—with the permission of the book’s editor, Sanguine Woods; and when it is final, it will be made available as an ebook for sale online (details TBD). As the book grows, we will add an active Table of Contents, which will allow you to jump between posts/stories as you will; and author bios with interesting details as to how their stories came about.

I hope these quality ghost stories—some dusty and long forgotten—will please you as they have us. Thanks for stopping by loyal reader. We appreciate you here at Haint-Blue!



We open our anthology, The Greatest Ghost Stories Ever Told with a short essay by Ernest Rhys. Rhys was a writer and editor who compiled various collections of stories during the late 19th and early 20th centuries.

The Greatest Ghost Stories Ever Told

Edited with an Afterword, Notes, and Annotations by Sanguine Woods.
The Greatest Ghost Stories Ever Told is a publication of Sanguine Woods Publishing(sm),(c) 2017. All Rights Reserved. (Note: All content in this publication is used by permission of the authors/the authors’ legal representative(s), or is available on the Public Domain. An Acknowledgements page will be included at the end of the ebook and trade paperback editions.)

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Story #1: “How Love Came to Professor Guildea” by Robert Smythe Hichens, from The Greatest Ghost Stories Ever Told, ed. by Sanguine Woods, 2017

How Love Came to Professor Guildea

Robert Smythe Hichens¹, 1900

“It seemed to be a human voice, and yet oddly sexless. In order to resolve his doubt he withdrew into the darkness of the curtains, ceased to watch Napoleon and simply listened with keen attention, striving to forget that he was listening to a bird, and to imagine that he was overhearing a human being in conversation. After two or three minutes’ silence the voice spoke again, and at some length, apparently repeating several times an affectionate series of ejaculations with a cooing emphasis that was unutterably mawkish and offensive. The sickliness of the voice, its falling intonations and its strange indelicacy, combined with a die-away- softness and meretricious refinement, made the Father’s flesh creep….”

Dull people often wondered how it came about that Father Murchison and Professor Frederic Guildea were intimate friends. The one was all faith, the other all skepticism. The nature of the Father was based on love. He viewed the world with an almost childlike tenderness above his long, black cassock; and his mild, yet perfectly fearless, blue eyes seemed always to be watching the goodness that exists in humanity, and rejoicing at what they saw. The Professor, on the other hand, had a hard face like a hatchet, tipped with an aggressive black goatee beard. His eyes were quick, piercing and irreverent. The lines about his small, thin-lipped mouth were almost cruel. His voice was harsh and dry, sometimes, when he grew energetic, almost soprano. It fired off words with a sharp and clipping utterance. His habitual manner was one of distrust and investigation. It was impossible to suppose that, in his busy life, he found any time for love, either of humanity in general or of an individual.

Yet his days were spent in scientific investigations which conferred immense benefits upon the world.

Both men were celibates. Father Murchison was a member of an Anglican order which forbade him to marry. Professor Guildea had a poor opinion of most things, but especially of women. He had formerly held a post as lecturer at Birmingham. But when his fame as a discoverer grew he removed to London. There, at a lecture he gave in the East End, he first met Father Murchison. They spoke a few words. Perhaps the bright intelligence of the priest appealed to the man of science, who was inclined, as a rule, to regard the clergy with some contempt. Perhaps the transparent sincerity of this devotee, full of common sense, attracted him. As he was leaving the hall he abruptly asked the Father to call on him at his house in Hyde Park Place. And the Father, who seldom went into the West End, except to preach, accepted the invitation.

“When will you come?” said Guildea.

He was folding up the blue paper on which his notes were written in a tiny, clear hand. The leaves rustled drily in accompaniment to his sharp, dry voice.

“On Sunday week I am preaching in the evening at St. Saviour’s, not far off,” said the Father.

“I don’t go to church.”

“No,” said the Father, without any accent of surprise or condemnation.

“Come to supper afterwards?”

“Thank you. I will.”

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