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…

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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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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