In reality, people of all classes, races, and education levels were dabbling in the occult in some way or other. Queen Victoria believed wholeheartedly in the occult, psychics, paranormal, magnetism, and conducted seances. Yes, this was a monarch who devoted a great deal of time to the supernatural/paranormal and the people responded to it. Ever played the Ouija board? Guess what? It came out in 1890, supposedly as a parlor game, but it was used immensely by those trying to contact spirits. After all, it's other name way "the spirit board". So yes, the Victorian and Edwardian Eras were filled with spiritualists and mediums. So when Algernon Blackwood began writing his ghost stories, he found a huge audience waiting to devour them.
It's kinda of in the same vain as some of the earlier Stephen King books. People love to read King and get scared. In the same manner we haven't changed much from our ancestors, for they loved a good ghost story as well. Think about all the authors who ventured into that particular genre: Edgar Allen Poe, the founder of the genre, Blackwood, H. P. Lovecraft, and Stephen King just to name a few. Yes, we love our horror. Yet, we are repelled and attracted when we face real horror. Rather strange don't you think? We love to be scared, but within conditions which we deem relevant and safe. Facing horror in reality we are disgusted, but we are unable to turn our eyes from what we are seeing. Perhaps its the genetic memory of our ancestors' which turn us into mindless primals seeking the scent of fear or horror. It's an interesting thought which I might look into further considering my own search to understand fear better. Or maybe you will think about it too....
Back to the beginning though, I am reading a collection of ghost stories by Algernon Blackwood and they are pretty good. Very relevant to the time period that's for sure. By the way, the one I'm reading is free on Amazon, you might want to check it out. And if you liked the short ghost tale yesterday, here's my favorite one: Enjoy
Death Coach
A New York Ghost Story
retold by
S. E. Schlosser
It is midnight. The streets of Cohoes grow silent as the citizens turn off their lights one by one and go to their well-earned rest. The night is dark, and the wind whispers softly, touching the trees and houses, rattling a window pane here and there.
In one house, a woman sits beside her window, waiting silently for the doctor to arrive. Her beloved husband lies on the bed next to her. In the light of a single candle, she can see his emaciated face. He is in terrible pain, which even the drugs prescribed by the doctor cannot abate. She clutches his hand tightly, feeling the cold creeping through it. He is barely breathing now. She knows he is slipping away. One part of her is thankful, for she cannot bear to see him in so much pain. Most of her wants to scream out in desperation, begging him not to leave her alone.
Outside the house, the soft rumble of wheels and the clip-clop of hooves echo through the still night. The woman tears her eyes from her husband's face and looks out of the window, expecting to see the doctor's curricle pulling into the street. Instead, she sees a dark, closed coach with black gaping holes where the windows should be. The shafts at the front of the coach are empty, yet she can hear the sound of invisible horses' hooves, as the coach moves slowly down the street.
She draws in a deep breath and exhales slowly. It is the Death Coach. Her husband had told her it would come for him that night, but she hadn't believed him. Hadn't wanted to believe him. Yet there it is, rolling slowly up to the front of the house to stop by the front gate. The sight terrifies her, and she clutches her husband's hand tightly. He opens his eyes and smiles feebly at her, trying to squeeze her hand.
"Is it here?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. She nods.
"I love you," he says to his wife. She leans down and kisses him, feels his last breath on her lips. The grip on her hand loosens, and she knows he is dead. She straightens up, looking tenderly at his dead face through her tears.
A movement by the door causes her to look up. She sees her husband's spirit standing at the door. He gazes first at his dead body, and then smiles at her. Then he turns and walks down the stairs. She moves at once to the window, flinging it open and leaning out, hoping to see him again. The front door opens, and her husband steps out the front porch and walks slowly to the Death Coach. The door opens, and he pauses for a moment to look towards the window, knowing she is watching. He waves and she waves back, tears streaming down her face. Then her husband steps into the coach and the door closes behind him. Slowly, the Death Coach rumbles down the street, turns a corner, and is gone.
"Goodbye, my love," she calls softly, as the Death Coach disappears. Her husband's pain is over, but hers has just begun. With a heavy heart, she closes the window, and goes down the stairs to telephone the doctor and tell him her husband is dead.
In one house, a woman sits beside her window, waiting silently for the doctor to arrive. Her beloved husband lies on the bed next to her. In the light of a single candle, she can see his emaciated face. He is in terrible pain, which even the drugs prescribed by the doctor cannot abate. She clutches his hand tightly, feeling the cold creeping through it. He is barely breathing now. She knows he is slipping away. One part of her is thankful, for she cannot bear to see him in so much pain. Most of her wants to scream out in desperation, begging him not to leave her alone.
Outside the house, the soft rumble of wheels and the clip-clop of hooves echo through the still night. The woman tears her eyes from her husband's face and looks out of the window, expecting to see the doctor's curricle pulling into the street. Instead, she sees a dark, closed coach with black gaping holes where the windows should be. The shafts at the front of the coach are empty, yet she can hear the sound of invisible horses' hooves, as the coach moves slowly down the street.
She draws in a deep breath and exhales slowly. It is the Death Coach. Her husband had told her it would come for him that night, but she hadn't believed him. Hadn't wanted to believe him. Yet there it is, rolling slowly up to the front of the house to stop by the front gate. The sight terrifies her, and she clutches her husband's hand tightly. He opens his eyes and smiles feebly at her, trying to squeeze her hand.
"Is it here?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. She nods.
"I love you," he says to his wife. She leans down and kisses him, feels his last breath on her lips. The grip on her hand loosens, and she knows he is dead. She straightens up, looking tenderly at his dead face through her tears.
A movement by the door causes her to look up. She sees her husband's spirit standing at the door. He gazes first at his dead body, and then smiles at her. Then he turns and walks down the stairs. She moves at once to the window, flinging it open and leaning out, hoping to see him again. The front door opens, and her husband steps out the front porch and walks slowly to the Death Coach. The door opens, and he pauses for a moment to look towards the window, knowing she is watching. He waves and she waves back, tears streaming down her face. Then her husband steps into the coach and the door closes behind him. Slowly, the Death Coach rumbles down the street, turns a corner, and is gone.
"Goodbye, my love," she calls softly, as the Death Coach disappears. Her husband's pain is over, but hers has just begun. With a heavy heart, she closes the window, and goes down the stairs to telephone the doctor and tell him her husband is dead.
Thanks again to S.E. Schlosser for retelling this tale and all the other great folklore tales.
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