So begins our advent, full of ghosties and ghoulies and various other alliterative spookies that begin with the letter G and even several that do not. We will begin with Jerome K. Jerome’s classic, Told After Supper (via Fullbooks), which adequately captures both the spookiness and the ridiculousness of Christmas Ghost Stories.
Please be aware that by “Christmas Ghost Stories” we do not mean ghost stories that occur at Christmas. Oh, heavens no. Ghosts are strictly an advent phenomenon, as Jerome (may I call you that? Jerome?) points out. The ghostiest day and night of the year is Christmas Eve, and, of course, at midnight the animals gain the ability to speak. And you’re damn lucky if you happen to miss what your cat says about you behind your back.
Anyhoodle, we are going to attempt to post one delightful, seasonal, spooky and out-of-copyright story per day here until The Big Day. When, by god, Santa better bring me a goddamn pony once and for all. I’ve about had it with that old charlatan.
Told After Supper
Jerome K. Jerome
This etext was prepared by David Price, email email@example.com
from the 1891 Leadenhall Press edition.
How the Stories came to be told
Teddy Biffles’ Story–Johnson and Emily; or, the Faithful Ghost
Interlude–The Doctor’s Story
Mr. Coombe’s Story–The Haunted Mill; or, the Ruined Home
My Uncle’s Story–The Ghost of the Blue Chamber
A Personal Explanation
My Own Story
It was Christmas Eve.
I begin this way because it is the proper, orthodox, respectable
way to begin, and I have been brought up in a proper, orthodox,
respectable way, and taught to always do the proper, orthodox,
respectable thing; and the habit clings to me.
Of course, as a mere matter of information it is quite unnecessary
to mention the date at all. The experienced reader knows it was
Christmas Eve, without my telling him. It always is Christmas Eve,
in a ghost story,
Christmas Eve is the ghosts’ great gala night. On Christmas Eve
they hold their annual fete. On Christmas Eve everybody in
Ghostland who IS anybody–or rather, speaking of ghosts, one should
say, I suppose, every nobody who IS any nobody–comes out to show
himself or herself, to see and to be seen, to promenade about and
display their winding-sheets and grave-clothes to each other, to
criticise one another’s style, and sneer at one another’s
“Christmas Eve parade,” as I expect they themselves term it, is a
function, doubtless, eagerly prepared for and looked forward to
throughout Ghostland, especially the swagger set, such as the
murdered Barons, the crime-stained Countesses, and the Earls who
came over with the Conqueror, and assassinated their relatives, and
died raving mad.
Hollow moans and fiendish grins are, one may be sure, energetically
practised up. Blood-curdling shrieks and marrow-freezing gestures
are probably rehearsed for weeks beforehand. Rusty chains and gory
daggers are over-hauled, and put into good working order; and
sheets and shrouds, laid carefully by from the previous year’s
show, are taken down and shaken out, and mended, and aired.
Oh, it is a stirring night in Ghostland, the night of December the
Ghosts never come out on Christmas night itself, you may have
noticed. Christmas Eve, we suspect, has been too much for them;
they are not used to excitement. For about a week after Christmas
Eve, the gentlemen ghosts, no doubt, feel as if they were all head,
and go about making solemn resolutions to themselves that they will
stop in next Christmas Eve; while lady spectres are contradictory
and snappish, and liable to burst into tears and leave the room
hurriedly on being spoken to, for no perceptible cause whatever.
Ghosts with no position to maintain–mere middle-class ghosts–
occasionally, I believe, do a little haunting on off-nights: on
All-hallows Eve, and at Midsummer; and some will even run up for a
mere local event–to celebrate, for instance, the anniversary of
the hanging of somebody’s grandfather, or to prophesy a misfortune.
He does love prophesying a misfortune, does the average British
ghost. Send him out to prognosticate trouble to somebody, and he
is happy. Let him force his way into a peaceful home, and turn the
whole house upside down by foretelling a funeral, or predicting a
bankruptcy, or hinting at a coming disgrace, or some other terrible
disaster, about which nobody in their senses want to know sooner
they could possibly help, and the prior knowledge of which can
serve no useful purpose whatsoever, and he feels that he is
combining duty with pleasure. He would never forgive himself if
anybody in his family had a trouble and he had not been there for a
couple of months beforehand, doing silly tricks on the lawn, or
balancing himself on somebody’s bed-rail.
Then there are, besides, the very young, or very conscientious
ghosts with a lost will or an undiscovered number weighing heavy on
their minds, who will haunt steadily all the year round; and also
the fussy ghost, who is indignant at having been buried in the
dust-bin or in the village pond, and who never gives the parish a
single night’s quiet until somebody has paid for a first-class
funeral for him.
But these are the exceptions. As I have said, the average orthodox
ghost does his one turn a year, on Christmas Eve, and is satisfied.
Why on Christmas Eve, of all nights in the year, I never could
myself understand. It is invariably one of the most dismal of
nights to be out in–cold, muddy, and wet. And besides, at
Christmas time, everybody has quite enough to put up with in the
way of a houseful of living relations, without wanting the ghosts
of any dead ones mooning about the place, I am sure.
There must be something ghostly in the air of Christmas–something
about the close, muggy atmosphere that draws up the ghosts, like
the dampness of the summer rains brings out the frogs and snails.
And not only do the ghosts themselves always walk on Christmas Eve,
but live people always sit and talk about them on Christmas Eve.
Whenever five or six English-speaking people meet round a fire on
Christmas Eve, they start telling each other ghost stories.
Nothing satisfies us on Christmas Eve but to hear each other tell
authentic anecdotes about spectres. It is a genial, festive
season, and we love to muse upon graves, and dead bodies, and
murders, and blood.
There is a good deal of similarity about our ghostly experiences;
but this of course is not our fault but the fault ghosts, who never
will try any new performances, but always will keep steadily to
old, safe business. The consequence is that, when you have been at
one Christmas Eve party, and heard six people relate their
adventures with spirits, you do not require to hear any more ghost
stories. To listen to any further ghost stories after that would
be like sitting out two farcical comedies, or taking in two comic
journals; the repetition would become wearisome.
There is always the young man who was, one year, spending the
Christmas at a country house, and, on Christmas Eve, they put him
to sleep in the west wing. Then in the middle of the night, the
room door quietly opens and somebody–generally a lady in her
night-dress–walks slowly in, and comes and sits on the bed. The
young man thinks it must be one of the visitors, or some relative
of the family, though he does not remember having previously seen
her, who, unable to go to sleep, and feeling lonesome, all by
herself, has come into his room for a chat. He has no idea it is a
ghost: he is so unsuspicious. She does not speak, however; and,
when he looks again, she is gone!
The young man relates the circumstance at the breakfast-table next
morning, and asks each of the ladies present if it were she who was
his visitor. But they all assure him that it was not, and the
host, who has grown deadly pale, begs him to say no more about the
matter, which strikes the young man as a singularly strange
After breakfast the host takes the young man into a corner, and
explains to him that what he saw was the ghost of a lady who had
been murdered in that very bed, or who had murdered somebody else
there–it does not really matter which: you can be a ghost by
murdering somebody else or by being murdered yourself, whichever
you prefer. The murdered ghost is, perhaps, the more popular; but,
on the other hand, you can frighten people better if you are the
murdered one, because then you can show your wounds and do groans.
Then there is the sceptical guest–it is always ‘the guest’ who
gets let in for this sort of thing, by-the-bye. A ghost never
thinks much of his own family: it is ‘the guest’ he likes to haunt
who after listening to the host’s ghost story, on Christmas Eve,
laughs at it, and says that he does not believe there are such
things as ghosts at all; and that he will sleep in the haunted
chamber that very night, if they will let him.
Everybody urges him not to be reckless, but he persists in his
foolhardiness, and goes up to the Yellow Chamber (or whatever
colour the haunted room may be) with a light heart and a candle,
and wishes them all good-night, and shuts the door.
Next morning he has got snow-white hair.
He does not tell anybody what he has seen: it is too awful.
There is also the plucky guest, who sees a ghost, and knows it is a
ghost, and watches it, as it comes into the room and disappears
through the wainscot, after which, as the ghost does not seem to be
coming back, and there is nothing, consequently, to be gained by
stopping awake, he goes to sleep.
He does not mention having seen the ghost to anybody, for fear of
frightening them–some people are so nervous about ghosts,–but
determines to wait for the next night, and see if the apparition
It does appear again, and, this time, he gets out of bed, dresses
himself and does his hair, and follows it; and then discovers a
secret passage leading from the bedroom down into the beer-cellar,-
-a passage which, no doubt, was not unfrequently made use of in the
bad old days of yore.
After him comes the young man who woke up with a strange sensation
in the middle of the night, and found his rich bachelor uncle
standing by his bedside. The rich uncle smiled a weird sort of
smile and vanished. The young man immediately got up and looked at
his watch. It had stopped at half-past four, he having forgotten
to wind it.
He made inquiries the next day, and found that, strangely enough,
his rich uncle, whose only nephew he was, had married a widow with
eleven children at exactly a quarter to twelve, only two days ago,
The young man does not attempt to explain the circumstance. All he
does is to vouch for the truth of his narrative.
And, to mention another case, there is the gentleman who is
returning home late at night, from a Freemasons’ dinner, and who,
noticing a light issuing from a ruined abbey, creeps up, and looks
through the keyhole. He sees the ghost of a ‘grey sister’ kissing
the ghost of a brown monk, and is so inexpressibly shocked and
frightened that he faints on the spot, and is discovered there the
next morning, lying in a heap against the door, still speechless,
and with his faithful latch-key clasped tightly in his hand.
All these things happen on Christmas Eve, they are all told of on
Christmas Eve. For ghost stories to be told on any other evening
than the evening of the twenty-fourth of December would be
impossible in English society as at present regulated. Therefore,
in introducing the sad but authentic ghost stories that follow
hereafter, I feel that it is unnecessary to inform the student of
Anglo-Saxon literature that the date on which they were told and on
which the incidents took place was–Christmas Eve.
Nevertheless, I do so.
NOW THE STORIES CAME TO BE TOLD
It was Christmas Eve! Christmas Eve at my Uncle John’s; Christmas
Eve (There is too much ‘Christmas Eve’ about this book. I can see
that myself. It is beginning to get monotonous even to me. But I
don’t see how to avoid it now.) at No. 47 Laburnham Grove, Tooting!
Christmas Eve in the dimly-lighted (there was a gas-strike on)
front parlour, where the flickering fire-light threw strange
shadows on the highly coloured wall-paper, while without, in the
wild street, the storm raged pitilessly, and the wind, like some
unquiet spirit, flew, moaning, across the square, and passed,
wailing with a troubled cry, round by the milk-shop.
We had had supper, and were sitting round, talking and smoking.
We had had a very good supper–a very good supper, indeed.
Unpleasantness has occurred since, in our family, in connection
with this party. Rumours have been put about in our family,
concerning the matter generally, but more particularly concerning
my own share in it, and remarks have been passed which have not so
much surprised me, because I know what our family are, but which
have pained me very much. As for my Aunt Maria, I do not know when
I shall care to see her again. I should have thought Aunt Maria
might have known me better.
But although injustice–gross injustice, as I shall explain later
on–has been done to myself, that shall not deter me from doing
justice to others; even to those who have made unfeeling
insinuations. I will do justice to Aunt Maria’s hot veal pasties,
and toasted lobsters, followed by her own special make of
cheesecakes, warm (there is no sense, to my thinking, in cold
cheesecakes; you lose half the flavour), and washed down by Uncle
John’s own particular old ale, and acknowledge that they were most
tasty. I did justice to them then; Aunt Maria herself could not
but admit that.
After supper, Uncle brewed some whisky-punch. I did justice to
that also; Uncle John himself said so. He said he was glad to
notice that I liked it.
Aunt went to bed soon after supper, leaving the local curate, old
Dr. Scrubbles, Mr. Samuel Coombes, our member of the County
Council, Teddy Biffles, and myself to keep Uncle company. We
agreed that it was too early to give in for some time yet, so Uncle
brewed another bowl of punch; and I think we all did justice to
that–at least I know I did. It is a passion with me, is the
desire to do justice.
We sat up for a long while, and the Doctor brewed some gin-punch
later on, for a change, though I could not taste much difference
myself. But it was all good, and we were very happy–everybody was
Uncle John told us a very funny story in the course of the evening.
Oh, it WAS a funny story! I forget what it was about now, but I
know it amused me very much at the time; I do not think I ever
laughed so much in all my life. It is strange that I cannot
recollect that story too, because he told it us four times. And it
was entirely our own fault that he did not tell it us a fifth.
After that, the Doctor sang a very clever song, in the course of
which he imitated all the different animals in a farmyard. He did
mix them a bit. He brayed for the bantam cock, and crowed for the
pig; but we knew what he meant all right.
I started relating a most interesting anecdote, but was somewhat
surprised to observe, as I went on, that nobody was paying the
slightest attention to me whatever. I thought this rather rude of
them at first, until it dawned upon me that I was talking to myself
all the time, instead of out aloud, so that, of course, they did
not know that I was telling them a tale at all, and were probably
puzzled to understand the meaning of my animated expression and
eloquent gestures. It was a most curious mistake for any one to
make. I never knew such a thing happen to me before.
Later on, our curate did tricks with cards. He asked us if we had
ever seen a game called the “Three Card Trick.” He said it was an
artifice by means of which low, unscrupulous men, frequenters of
race-meetings and such like haunts, swindled foolish young fellows
out of their money. He said it was a very simple trick to do: it
all depended on the quickness of the hand. It was the quickness of
the hand deceived the eye.
He said he would show us the imposture so that we might be warned
against it, and not be taken in by it; and he fetched Uncle’s pack
of cards from the tea-caddy, and, selecting three cards from the
pack, two plain cards and one picture card, sat down on the
hearthrug, and explained to us what he was going to do.
He said: “Now I shall take these three cards in my hand–so–and
let you all see them. And then I shall quietly lay them down on
the rug, with the backs uppermost, and ask you to pick out the
picture card. And you’ll think you know which one it is.” And he
Old Mr. Coombes, who is also one of our churchwardens, said it was
the middle card.
“You fancy you saw it,” said our curate, smiling.
“I don’t ‘fancy’ anything at all about it,” replied Mr. Coombes, “I
tell you it’s the middle card. I’ll bet you half a dollar it’s the
“There you are, that’s just what I was explaining to you,” said our
curate, turning to the rest of us; “that’s the way these foolish
young fellows that I was speaking of are lured on to lose their
money. They make sure they know the card, they fancy they saw it.
They don’t grasp the idea that it is the quickness of the hand that
has deceived their eye.”
He said he had known young men go off to a boat race, or a cricket
match, with pounds in their pocket, and come home, early in the
afternoon, stone broke; having lost all their money at this
He said he should take Mr. Coombes’s half-crown, because it would
teach Mr. Coombes a very useful lesson, and probably be the means
of saving Mr. Coombes’s money in the future; and he should give the
two-and-sixpence to the blanket fund.
“Don’t you worry about that,” retorted old Mr. Coombes. “Don’t you
take the half-crown OUT of the blanket fund: that’s all.”
And he put his money on the middle card, and turned it up.
Sure enough, it really was the queen!
We were all very much surprised, especially the curate.
He said that it did sometimes happen that way, though–that a man
did sometimes lay on the right card, by accident.
Our curate said it was, however, the most unfortunate thing a man
could do for himself, if he only knew it, because, when a man tried
and won, it gave him a taste for the so-called sport, and it lured
him on into risking again and again; until he had to retire from
the contest, a broken and ruined man.
Then he did the trick again. Mr. Coombes said it was the card next
the coal-scuttle this time, and wanted to put five shillings on it.
We laughed at him, and tried to persuade him against it. He would
listen to no advice, however, but insisted on plunging.
Our curate said very well then: he had warned him, and that was
all that he could do. If he (Mr. Coombes) was determined to make a
fool of himself, he (Mr. Coombes) must do so.
Our curate said he should take the five shillings and that would
put things right again with the blanket fund.
So Mr. Coombes put two half-crowns on the card next the coal-
scuttle and turned it up.
Sure enough, it was the queen again!
After that, Uncle John had a florin on, and HE won.
And then we all played at it; and we all won. All except the
curate, that is. He had a very bad quarter of an hour. I never
knew a man have such hard luck at cards. He lost every time.
We had some more punch after that; and Uncle made such a funny
mistake in brewing it: he left out the whisky. Oh, we did laugh
at him, and we made him put in double quantity afterwards, as a
Oh, we did have such fun that evening!
And then, somehow or other, we must have got on to ghosts; because
the next recollection I have is that we were telling ghost stories
to each other.
TEDDY BIFFLES’ STORY
Teddy Biffles told the first story, I will let him repeat it here
in his own words.
(Do not ask me how it is that I recollect his own exact words–
whether I took them down in shorthand at the time, or whether he
had the story written out, and handed me the MS. afterwards for
publication in this book, because I should not tell you if you did.
It is a trade secret.)
Biffles called his story –
JOHNSON AND EMILY
THE FAITHFUL GHOST
(Teddy Biffles’ Story)
I was little more than a lad when I first met with Johnson. I was
home for the Christmas holidays, and, it being Christmas Eve, I had
been allowed to sit up very late. On opening the door of my little
bedroom, to go in, I found myself face to face with Johnson, who
was coming out. It passed through me, and uttering a long low wail
of misery, disappeared out of the staircase window.
I was startled for the moment–I was only a schoolboy at the time,
and had never seen a ghost before,–and felt a little nervous about
going to bed. But, on reflection, I remembered that it was only
sinful people that spirits could do any harm to, and so tucked
myself up, and went to sleep.
In the morning I told the Pater what I had seen.
“Oh yes, that was old Johnson,” he answered. “Don’t you be
frightened of that; he lives here.” And then he told me the poor
It seemed that Johnson, when it was alive, had loved, in early
life, the daughter of a former lessee of our house, a very
beautiful girl, whose Christian name had been Emily. Father did
not know her other name.
Johnson was too poor to marry the girl, so he kissed her good-bye,
told her he would soon be back, and went off to Australia to make
But Australia was not then what it became later on. Travellers
through the bush were few and far between in those early days; and,
even when one was caught, the portable property found upon the body
was often of hardly sufficiently negotiable value to pay the simple
funeral expenses rendered necessary. So that it took Johnson
nearly twenty years to make his fortune.
The self-imposed task was accomplished at last, however, and then,
having successfully eluded the police, and got clear out of the
Colony, he returned to England, full of hope and joy, to claim his
He reached the house to find it silent and deserted. All that the
neighbours could tell him was that, soon after his own departure,
the family had, on one foggy night, unostentatiously disappeared,
and that nobody had ever seen or heard anything of them since,
although the landlord and most of the local tradesmen had made
Poor Johnson, frenzied with grief, sought his lost love all over
the world. But he never found her, and, after years of fruitless
effort, he returned to end his lonely life in the very house where,
in the happy bygone days, he and his beloved Emily had passed so
many blissful hours.
He had lived there quite alone, wandering about the empty rooms,
weeping and calling to his Emily to come back to him; and when the
poor old fellow died, his ghost still kept the business on.
It was there, the Pater said, when he took the house, and the agent
had knocked ten pounds a year off the rent in consequence.
After that, I was continually meeting Johnson about the place at
all times of the night, and so, indeed, were we all. We used to
walk round it and stand aside to let it pass, at first; but, when
we grew at home with it, and there seemed no necessity for so much
ceremony, we used to walk straight through it. You could not say
it was ever much in the way.
It was a gentle, harmless, old ghost, too, and we all felt very
sorry for it, and pitied it. The women folk, indeed, made quite a
pet of it, for a while. Its faithfulness touched them so.
But as time went on, it grew to be a bit a bore. You see it was
full of sadness. There was nothing cheerful or genial about it.
You felt sorry for it, but it irritated you. It would sit on the
stairs and cry for hours at a stretch; and, whenever we woke up in
the night, one was sure to hear it pottering about the passages and
in and out of the different rooms, moaning and sighing, so that we
could not get to sleep again very easily. And when we had a party
on, it would come and sit outside the drawing-room door, and sob
all the time. It did not do anybody any harm exactly, but it cast
a gloom over the whole affair.
“Oh, I’m getting sick of this old fool,” said the Pater, one
evening (the Dad can be very blunt, when he is put out, as you
know), after Johnson had been more of a nuisance than usual, and
had spoiled a good game of whist, by sitting up the chimney and
groaning, till nobody knew what were trumps or what suit had been
led, even. “We shall have to get rid of him, somehow or other. I
wish I knew how to do it.”
“Well,” said the Mater, “depend upon it, you’ll never see the last
of him until he’s found Emily’s grave. That’s what he is after.
You find Emily’s grave, and put him on to that, and he’ll stop
there. That’s the only thing to do. You mark my words.”
The idea seemed reasonable, but the difficulty in the way was that
we none of us knew where Emily’s grave was any more than the ghost
of Johnson himself did. The Governor suggested palming off some
other Emily’s grave upon the poor thing, but, as luck would have
it, there did not seem to have been an Emily of any sort buried
anywhere for miles round. I never came across a neighbourhood so
utterly destitute of dead Emilies.
I thought for a bit, and then I hazarded a suggestion myself.
“Couldn’t we fake up something for the old chap?” I queried. “He
seems a simple-minded old sort. He might take it in. Anyhow, we
could but try.”
“By Jove, so we will,” exclaimed my father; and the very next
morning we had the workmen in, and fixed up a little mound at the
bottom of the orchard with a tombstone over it, bearing the
TO THE MEMORY OF
HER LAST WORDS WERE –
“TELL JOHNSON I LOVE HIM”
“That ought to fetch him,” mused the Dad as he surveyed the work
when finished. “I am sure I hope it does.”
We lured him down there that very night; and–well, there, it was
one of the most pathetic things I have ever seen, the way Johnson
sprang upon that tombstone and wept. Dad and old Squibbins, the
gardener, cried like children when they saw it.
Johnson has never troubled us any more in the house since then. It
spends every night now, sobbing on the grave, and seems quite
“There still?” Oh yes. I’ll take you fellows down and show you
it, next time you come to our place: 10 p.m. to 4 a.m. are its
general hours, 10 to 2 on Saturdays.
INTERLUDE–THE DOCTOR’S STORY
It made me cry very much, that story, young Biffles told it with so
much feeling. We were all a little thoughtful after it, and I
noticed even the old Doctor covertly wipe away a tear. Uncle John
brewed another bowl of punch, however, and we gradually grew more
The Doctor, indeed, after a while became almost cheerful, and told
us about the ghost of one of his patients.
I cannot give you his story. I wish I could. They all said
afterwards that it was the best of the lot–the most ghastly and
terrible–but I could not make any sense of it myself. It seemed
He began all right and then something seemed to happen, and then he
was finishing it. I cannot make out what he did with the middle of
It ended up, I know, however, with somebody finding something; and
that put Mr. Coombes in mind of a very curious affair that took
place at an old Mill, once kept by his brother-in-law.
Mr. Coombes said he would tell us his story, and before anybody
could stop him, he had begun.
Mr Coombes said the story was called –
THE HAUNTED MILL
THE RUINED HOME
(Mr. Coombes’s Story)
Well, you all know my brother-in-law, Mr. Parkins (began Mr.
Coombes, taking the long clay pipe from his mouth, and putting it
behind his ear: we did not know his brother-in-law, but we said we
did, so as to save time), and you know of course that he once took
a lease of an old Mill in Surrey, and went to live there.
Now you must know that, years ago, this very mill had been occupied
by a wicked old miser, who died there, leaving–so it was rumoured-
-all his money hidden somewhere about the place. Naturally enough,
every one who had since come to live at the mill had tried to find
the treasure; but none had ever succeeded, and the local wiseacres
said that nobody ever would, unless the ghost of the miserly miller
should, one day, take a fancy to one of the tenants, and disclose
to him the secret of the hiding-place.
My brother-in-law did not attach much importance to the story,
regarding it as an old woman’s tale, and, unlike his predecessors,
made no attempt whatever to discover the hidden gold.
“Unless business was very different then from what it is now,” said
my brother-in-law, “I don’t see how a miller could very well have
saved anything, however much of a miser he might have been: at all
events, not enough to make it worth the trouble of looking for it.”
Still, he could not altogether get rid of the idea of that
One night he went to bed. There was nothing very extraordinary
about that, I admit. He often did go to bed of a night. What WAS
remarkable, however, was that exactly as the clock of the village
church chimed the last stroke of twelve, my brother-in-law woke up
with a start, and felt himself quite unable to go to sleep again.
Joe (his Christian name was Joe) sat up in bed, and looked around.
At the foot of the bed something stood very still, wrapped in
It moved into the moonlight, and then my brother-in-law saw that it
was the figure of a wizened little old man, in knee-breeches and a
In an instant the story of the hidden treasure and the old miser
flashed across his mind.
“He’s come to show me where it’s hid,” thought my brother-in-law;
and he resolved that he would not spend all this money on himself,
but would devote a small percentage of it towards doing good to
The apparition moved towards the door: my brother-in-law put on
his trousers and followed it. The ghost went downstairs into the
kitchen, glided over and stood in front of the hearth, sighed and
Next morning, Joe had a couple of bricklayers in, and made them
haul out the stove and pull down the chimney, while he stood behind
with a potato-sack in which to put the gold.
They knocked down half the wall, and never found so much as a four-
penny bit. My brother-in-law did not know what to think.
The next night the old man appeared again, and again led the way
into the kitchen. This time, however, instead of going to the
fireplace, it stood more in the middle of the room, and sighed
“Oh, I see what he means now,” said my brother-in-law to himself;
“it’s under the floor. Why did the old idiot go and stand up
against the stove, so as to make me think it was up the chimney?”
They spent the next day in taking up the kitchen floor; but the
only thing they found was a three-pronged fork, and the handle of
that was broken.
On the third night, the ghost reappeared, quite unabashed, and for
a third time made for the kitchen. Arrived there, it looked up at
the ceiling and vanished.
“Umph! he don’t seem to have learned much sense where he’s been
to,” muttered Joe, as he trotted back to bed; “I should have
thought he might have done that at first.”
Still, there seemed no doubt now where the treasure lay, and the
first thing after breakfast they started pulling down the ceiling.
They got every inch of the ceiling down, and they took up the
boards of the room above.
They discovered about as much treasure as you would expect to find
in an empty quart-pot.
On the fourth night, when the ghost appeared, as usual, my brother-
in-law was so wild that he threw his boots at it; and the boots
passed through the body, and broke a looking-glass.
On the fifth night, when Joe awoke, as he always did now at twelve,
the ghost was standing in a dejected attitude, looking very
miserable. There was an appealing look in its large sad eyes that
quite touched my brother-in-law.
“After all,” he thought, “perhaps the silly chap’s doing his best.
Maybe he has forgotten where he really did put it, and is trying to
remember. I’ll give him another chance.”
The ghost appeared grateful and delighted at seeing Joe prepare to
follow him, and led the way into the attic, pointed to the ceiling,
“Well, he’s hit it this time, I do hope,” said my brother-in-law;
and next day they set to work to take the roof off the place.
It took them three days to get the roof thoroughly off, and all
they found was a bird’s nest; after securing which they covered up
the house with tarpaulins, to keep it dry.
You might have thought that would have cured the poor fellow of
looking for treasure. But it didn’t.
He said there must be something in it all, or the ghost would never
keep on coming as it did; and that, having gone so far, he would go
on to the end, and solve the mystery, cost what it might.
Night after night, he would get out of his bed and follow that
spectral old fraud about the house. Each night, the old man would
indicate a different place; and, on each following day, my brother-
in-law would proceed to break up the mill at the point indicated,
and look for the treasure. At the end of three weeks, there was
not a room in the mill fit to live in. Every wall had been pulled
down, every floor had been taken up, every ceiling had had a hole
knocked in it. And then, as suddenly as they had begun, the
ghost’s visits ceased; and my brother-in-law was left in peace, to
rebuild the place at his leisure.
“What induced the old image to play such a silly trick upon a
family man and a ratepayer?” Ah! that’s just what I cannot tell
Some said that the ghost of the wicked old man had done it to
punish my brother-in-law for not believing in him at first; while
others held that the apparition was probably that of some deceased
local plumber and glazier, who would naturally take an interest in
seeing a house knocked about and spoilt. But nobody knew anything
We had some more punch, and then the curate told us a story.
I could not make head or tail of the curate’s story, so I cannot
retail it to you. We none of us could make head or tail of that
story. It was a good story enough, so far as material went. There
seemed to be an enormous amount of plot, and enough incident to
have made a dozen novels. I never before heard a story containing
so much incident, nor one dealing with so many varied characters.
I should say that every human being our curate had ever known or
met, or heard of, was brought into that story. There were simply
hundreds of them. Every five seconds he would introduce into the
tale a completely fresh collection of characters accompanied by a
brand new set of incidents.
This was the sort of story it was:-
“Well, then, my uncle went into the garden, and got his gun, but,
of course, it wasn’t there, and Scroggins said he didn’t believe
“Didn’t believe what? Who’s Scroggins?”
“Scroggins! Oh, why he was the other man, you know–it was wife.”
“WHAT was his wife–what’s SHE got to do with it?”
“Why, that’s what I’m telling you. It was she that found the hat.
She’d come up with her cousin to London–her cousin was my sister-
in-law, and the other niece had married a man named Evans, and
Evans, after it was all over, had taken the box round to Mr.
Jacobs’, because Jacobs’ father had seen the man, when he was
alive, and when he was dead, Joseph–”
“Now look here, never you mind Evans and the box; what’s become of
your uncle and the gun?”
“The gun! What gun?”
“Why, the gun that your uncle used to keep in the garden, and that
wasn’t there. What did he do with it? Did he kill any of these
people with it–these Jacobses and Evanses and Scrogginses and
Josephses? Because, if so, it was a good and useful work, and we
should enjoy hearing about it.”
“No–oh no–how could he?–he had been built up alive in the wall,
you know, and when Edward IV spoke to the abbot about it, my sister
said that in her then state of health she could not and would not,
as it was endangering the child’s life. So they christened it
Horatio, after her own son, who had been killed at Waterloo before
he was born, and Lord Napier himself said–”
“Look here, do you know what you are talking about?” we asked him
at this point.
He said “No,” but he knew it was every word of it true, because his
aunt had seen it herself. Whereupon we covered him over with the
tablecloth, and he went to sleep.
And then Uncle told us a story.
Uncle said his was a real story.
THE GHOST OF THE BLUE CHAMBER
(My Uncle’s Story)
“I don’t want to make you fellows nervous,” began my uncle in a
peculiarly impressive, not to say blood-curdling, tone of voice,
“and if you would rather that I did not mention it, I won’t; but,
as a matter of fact, this very house, in which we are now sitting,
“You don’t say that!” exclaimed Mr. Coombes.
“What’s the use of your saying I don’t say it when I have just said
it?” retorted my uncle somewhat pettishly. “You do talk so
foolishly. I tell you the house is haunted. Regularly on
Christmas Eve the Blue Chamber [they called the room next to the
nursery the ‘blue chamber,’ at my uncle’s, most of the toilet
service being of that shade] is haunted by the ghost of a sinful
man–a man who once killed a Christmas wait with a lump of coal.”
“How did he do it?” asked Mr. Coombes, with eager anxiousness.
“Was it difficult?”
“I do not know how he did it,” replied my uncle; “he did not
explain the process. The wait had taken up a position just inside
the front gate, and was singing a ballad. It is presumed that,
when he opened his mouth for B flat, the lump of coal was thrown by
the sinful man from one of the windows, and that it went down the
wait’s throat and choked him.”
“You want to be a good shot, but it is certainly worth trying,”
murmured Mr. Coombes thoughtfully.
“But that was not his only crime, alas!” added my uncle. “Prior to
that he had killed a solo cornet-player.”
“No! Is that really a fact?” exclaimed Mr. Coombes.
“Of course it’s a fact,” answered my uncle testily; “at all events,
as much a fact as you can expect to get in a case of this sort.
“How very captious you are this evening. The circumstantial
evidence was overwhelming. The poor fellow, the cornet-player, had
been in the neighbourhood barely a month. Old Mr. Bishop, who kept
the ‘Jolly Sand Boys’ at the time, and from whom I had the story,
said he had never known a more hard-working and energetic solo
cornet-player. He, the cornet-player, only knew two tunes, but Mr.
Bishop said that the man could not have played with more vigour, or
for more hours in a day, if he had known forty. The two tunes he
did play were “Annie Laurie” and “Home, Sweet Home”; and as
regarded his performance of the former melody, Mr. Bishop said that
a mere child could have told what it was meant for.
“This musician–this poor, friendless artist used to come regularly
and play in this street just opposite for two hours every evening.
One evening he was seen, evidently in response to an invitation,
going into this very house, BUT WAS NEVER SEEN COMING OUT OF IT!”
“Did the townsfolk try offering any reward for his recovery?” asked
“Not a ha’penny,” replied my uncle.
“Another summer,” continued my uncle, “a German band visited here,
intending–so they announced on their arrival–to stay till the
“On the second day from their arrival, the whole company, as fine
and healthy a body of men as one could wish to see, were invited to
dinner by this sinful man, and, after spending the whole of the
next twenty-four hours in bed, left the town a broken and dyspeptic
crew; the parish doctor, who had attended them, giving it as his
opinion that it was doubtful if they would, any of them, be fit to
play an air again.”
“You–you don’t know the recipe, do you?” asked Mr. Coombes.
“Unfortunately I do not,” replied my uncle; “but the chief
ingredient was said to have been railway refreshment-room pork-pie.
“I forget the man’s other crimes,” my uncle went on; “I used to
know them all at one time, but my memory is not what it was. I do
not, however, believe I am doing his memory an injustice in
believing that he was not entirely unconnected with the death, and
subsequent burial, of a gentleman who used to play the harp with
his toes; and that neither was he altogether unresponsible for the
lonely grave of an unknown stranger who had once visited the
neighbourhood, an Italian peasant lad, a performer upon the barrel-
“Every Christmas Eve,” said my uncle, cleaving with low impressive
tones the strange awed silence that, like a shadow, seemed to have
slowly stolen into and settled down upon the room, “the ghost of
this sinful man haunts the Blue Chamber, in this very house.
There, from midnight until cock-crow, amid wild muffled shrieks and
groans and mocking laughter and the ghostly sound of horrid blows,
it does fierce phantom fight with the spirits of the solo cornet-
player and the murdered wait, assisted at intervals, by the shades
of the German band; while the ghost of the strangled harpist plays
mad ghostly melodies with ghostly toes on the ghost of a broken
Uncle said the Blue Chamber was comparatively useless as a
sleeping-apartment on Christmas Eve.
“Hark!” said uncle, raising a warning hand towards the ceiling,
while we held our breath, and listened; “Hark! I believe they are
at it now–in the BLUE CHAMBER!”
THE BLUE CHAMBER
I rose up, and said that I would sleep in the Blue Chamber.
Before I tell you my own story, however–the story of what happened
in the Blue Chamber–I would wish to preface it with –
A PERSONAL EXPLANATION
I feel a good deal of hesitation about telling you this story of my
own. You see it is not a story like the other stories that I have
been telling you, or rather that Teddy Biffles, Mr. Coombes, and my
uncle have been telling you: it is a true story. It is not a
story told by a person sitting round a fire on Christmas Eve,
drinking whisky punch: it is a record of events that actually
Indeed, it is not a ‘story’ at all, in the commonly accepted
meaning of the word: it is a report. It is, I feel, almost out of
place in a book of this kind. It is more suitable to a biography,
or an English history.
There is another thing that makes it difficult for me to tell you
this story, and that is, that it is all about myself. In telling
you this story, I shall have to keep on talking about myself; and
talking about ourselves is what we modern-day authors have a strong
objection to doing. If we literary men of the new school have one
praiseworthy yearning more ever present to our minds than another
it is the yearning never to appear in the slightest degree
I myself, so I am told, carry this coyness–this shrinking
reticence concerning anything connected with my own personality,
almost too far; and people grumble at me because of it. People
come to me and say –
“Well, now, why don’t you talk about yourself a bit? That’s what
we want to read about. Tell us something about yourself.”
But I have always replied, “No.” It is not that I do not think the
subject an interesting one. I cannot myself conceive of any topic
more likely to prove fascinating to the world as a whole, or at all
events to the cultured portion of it. But I will not do it, on
principle. It is inartistic, and it sets a bad example to the
younger men. Other writers (a few of them) do it, I know; but I
will not–not as a rule.
Under ordinary circumstances, therefore, I should not tell you this
story at all. I should say to myself, “No! It is a good story, it
is a moral story, it is a strange, weird, enthralling sort of a
story; and the public, I know, would like to hear it; and I should
like to tell it to them; but it is all about myself–about what I
said, and what I saw, and what I did, and I cannot do it. My
retiring, anti-egotistical nature will not permit me to talk in
this way about myself.”
But the circumstances surrounding this story are not ordinary, and
there are reasons prompting me, in spite of my modesty, to rather
welcome the opportunity of relating it.
As I stated at the beginning, there has been unpleasantness in our
family over this party of ours, and, as regards myself in
particular, and my share in the events I am now about to set forth,
gross injustice has been done me.
As a means of replacing my character in its proper light–of
dispelling the clouds of calumny and misconception with which it
has been darkened, I feel that my best course is to give a simple,
dignified narration of the plain facts, and allow the unprejudiced
to judge for themselves. My chief object, I candidly confess, is
to clear myself from unjust aspersion. Spurred by this motive–and
I think it is an honourable and a right motive–I find I am enabled
to overcome my usual repugnance to talking about myself, and can
thus tell –
MY OWN STORY
As soon as my uncle had finished his story, I, as I have already
told you, rose up and said that _I_ would sleep in the Blue Chamber
that very night.
“Never!” cried my uncle, springing up. “You shall not put yourself
in this deadly peril. Besides, the bed is not made.”
“Never mind the bed,” I replied. “I have lived in furnished
apartments for gentlemen, and have been accustomed to sleep on beds
that have never been made from one year’s end to the other. Do not
thwart me in my resolve. I am young, and have had a clear
conscience now for over a month. The spirits will not harm me. I
may even do them some little good, and induce them to be quiet and
go away. Besides, I should like to see the show.”
Saying which, I sat down again. (How Mr. Coombes came to be in my
chair, instead of at the other side of the room, where he had been
all the evening; and why he never offered to apologise when I sat
right down on top of him; and why young Biffles should have tried
to palm himself off upon me as my Uncle John, and induced me, under
that erroneous impression, to shake him by the hand for nearly
three minutes, and tell him that I had always regarded him as
father,–are matters that, to this day, I have never been able to
They tried to dissuade me from what they termed my foolhardy
enterprise, but I remained firm, and claimed my privilege. I was
‘the guest.’ ‘The guest’ always sleeps in the haunted chamber on
Christmas Eve; it is his perquisite.
They said that if I put it on that footing, they had, of course, no
answer; and they lighted a candle for me, and accompanied me
upstairs in a body.
Whether elevated by the feeling that I was doing a noble action, or
animated by a mere general consciousness of rectitude, is not for
me to say, but I went upstairs that night with remarkable buoyancy.
It was as much as I could do to stop at the landing when I came to
it; I felt I wanted to go on up to the roof. But, with the help of
the banisters, I restrained my ambition, wished them all good-
night, and went in and shut the door.
Things began to go wrong with me from the very first. The candle
tumbled out of the candlestick before my hand was off the lock. It
kept on tumbling out of the candlestick, and every time I picked
put it up and put it in, it tumbled out again: I never saw such a
slippery candle. I gave up attempting to use the candlestick at
last, and carried the candle about in my hand; and, even then, it
would not keep upright. So I got wild and threw it out of window,
and undressed and went to bed in the dark.
I did not go to sleep,–I did not feel sleepy at all,–I lay on my
back, looking up at the ceiling, and thinking of things. I wish I
could remember some of the ideas that came to me as I lay there,
because they were so amusing. I laughed at them myself till the
I had been lying like this for half an hour or so, and had
forgotten all about the ghost, when, on casually casting my eyes
round the room, I noticed for the first time a singularly
contented-looking phantom, sitting in the easy-chair by the fire,
smoking the ghost of a long clay pipe.
I fancied for the moment, as most people would under similar
circumstances, that I must be dreaming. I sat up, and rubbed my
No! It was a ghost, clear enough. I could see the back of the
chair through his body. He looked over towards me, took the
shadowy pipe from his lips, and nodded.
The most surprising part of the whole thing to me was that I did
not feel in the least alarmed. If anything, I was rather pleased
to see him. It was company.
I said, “Good evening. It’s been a cold day!”
He said he had not noticed it himself, but dared say I was right.
We remained silent for a few seconds, and then, wishing to put it
pleasantly, I said, “I believe I have the honour of addressing the
ghost of the gentleman who had the accident with the wait?”
He smiled, and said it was very good of me to remember it. One
wait was not much to boast of, but still, every little helped.
I was somewhat staggered at his answer. I had expected a groan of
remorse. The ghost appeared, on the contrary, to be rather
conceited over the business. I thought that, as he had taken my
reference to the wait so quietly, perhaps he would not be offended
if I questioned him about the organ-grinder. I felt curious about
that poor boy.
“Is it true,” I asked, “that you had a hand in the death of that
Italian peasant lad who came to the town once with a barrel-organ
that played nothing but Scotch airs?”
He quite fired up. “Had a hand in it!” he exclaimed indignantly.
“Who has dared to pretend that he assisted me? I murdered the
youth myself. Nobody helped me. Alone I did it. Show me the man
who says I didn’t.”
I calmed him. I assured him that I had never, in my own mind,
doubted that he was the real and only assassin, and I went on and
asked him what he had done with the body of the cornet-player he
He said, “To which one may you be alluding?”
“Oh, were there any more then?” I inquired.
He smiled, and gave a little cough. He said he did not like to
appear to be boasting, but that, counting trombones, there were
“Dear me!” I replied, “you must have had quite a busy time of it,
one way and another.”
He said that perhaps he ought not to be the one to say so, but that
really, speaking of ordinary middle-society, he thought there were
few ghosts who could look back upon a life of more sustained
He puffed away in silence for a few seconds, while I sat watching
him. I had never seen a ghost smoking a pipe before, that I could
remember, and it interested me.
I asked him what tobacco he used, and he replied, “The ghost of cut
cavendish, as a rule.”
He explained that the ghost of all the tobacco that a man smoked in
life belonged to him when he became dead. He said he himself had
smoked a good deal of cut cavendish when he was alive, so that he
was well supplied with the ghost of it now.
I observed that it was a useful thing to know that, and I made up
my mind to smoke as much tobacco as ever I could before I died.
I thought I might as well start at once, so I said I would join him
in a pipe, and he said, “Do, old man”; and I reached over and got
out the necessary paraphernalia from my coat pocket and lit up.
We grew quite chummy after that, and he told me all his crimes. He
said he had lived next door once to a young lady who was learning
to play the guitar, while a gentleman who practised on the bass-
viol lived opposite. And he, with fiendish cunning, had introduced
these two unsuspecting young people to one another, and had
persuaded them to elope with each other against their parents’
wishes, and take their musical instruments with them; and they had
done so, and, before the honeymoon was over, SHE had broken his
head with the bass-viol, and HE had tried to cram the guitar down
her throat, and had injured her for life.
My friend said he used to lure muffin-men into the passage and then
stuff them with their own wares till they burst and died. He said
he had quieted eighteen that way.
Young men and women who recited long and dreary poems at evening
parties, and callow youths who walked about the streets late at
night, playing concertinas, he used to get together and poison in
batches of ten, so as to save expense; and park orators and
temperance lecturers he used to shut up six in a small room with a
glass of water and a collection-box apiece, and let them talk each
other to death.
It did one good to listen to him.
I asked him when he expected the other ghosts–the ghosts of the
wait and the cornet-player, and the German band that Uncle John had
mentioned. He smiled, and said they would never come again, any of
I said, “Why; isn’t it true, then, that they meet you here every
Christmas Eve for a row?”
He replied that it WAS true. Every Christmas Eve, for twenty-five
years, had he and they fought in that room; but they would never
trouble him nor anybody else again. One by one, had he laid them
out, spoilt, and utterly useless for all haunting purposes. He had
finished off the last German-band ghost that very evening, just
before I came upstairs, and had thrown what was left of it out
through the slit between the window-sashes. He said it would never
be worth calling a ghost again.
“I suppose you will still come yourself, as usual?” I said. “They
would be sorry to miss you, I know.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” he replied; “there’s nothing much to come for
now. Unless,” he added kindly, “YOU are going to be here. I’ll
come if you will sleep here next Christmas Eve.”
“I have taken a liking to you,” he continued; “you don’t fly off,
screeching, when you see a party, and your hair doesn’t stand on
end. You’ve no idea,” he said, “how sick I am of seeing people’s
hair standing on end.”
He said it irritated him.
Just then a slight noise reached us from the yard below, and he
started and turned deathly black.
“You are ill,” I cried, springing towards him; “tell me the best
thing to do for you. Shall I drink some brandy, and give you the
ghost of it?”
He remained silent, listening intently for a moment, and then he
gave a sigh of relief, and the shade came back to his cheek.
“It’s all right,” he murmured; “I was afraid it was the cock.”
“Oh, it’s too early for that,” I said. “Why, it’s only the middle
of the night.”
“Oh, that doesn’t make any difference to those cursed chickens,” he
replied bitterly. “They would just as soon crow in the middle of
the night as at any other time–sooner, if they thought it would
spoil a chap’s evening out. I believe they do it on purpose.”
He said a friend of his, the ghost of a man who had killed a water-
rate collector, used to haunt a house in Long Acre, where they kept
fowls in the cellar, and every time a policeman went by and flashed
his bull’s-eye down the grating, the old cock there would fancy it
was the sun, and start crowing like mad; when, of course, the poor
ghost had to dissolve, and it would, in consequence, get back home
sometimes as early as one o’clock in the morning, swearing
fearfully because it had only been out for an hour.
I agreed that it seemed very unfair.
“Oh, it’s an absurd arrangement altogether,” he continued, quite
angrily. “I can’t imagine what our old man could have been
thinking of when he made it. As I have said to him, over and over
again, ‘Have a fixed time, and let everybody stick to it–say four
o’clock in summer, and six in winter. Then one would know what one
“How do you manage when there isn’t any cock handy?” I inquired.
He was on the point of replying, when again he started and
listened. This time I distinctly heard Mr. Bowles’s cock, next
door, crow twice.
“There you are,” he said, rising and reaching for his hat; “that’s
the sort of thing we have to put up with. What IS the time?”
I looked at my watch, and found it was half-past three.
“I thought as much,” he muttered. “I’ll wring that blessed bird’s
neck if I get hold of it.” And he prepared to go.
“If you can wait half a minute,” I said, getting out of bed, “I’ll
go a bit of the way with you.”
“It’s very good of you,” he rejoined, pausing, “but it seems unkind
to drag you out.”
“Not at all,” I replied; “I shall like a walk.” And I partially
dressed myself, and took my umbrella; and he put his arm through
mine, and we went out together.
Just by the gate we met Jones, one of the local constables.
“Good-night, Jones,” I said (I always feel affable at Christmas-
“Good-night, sir,” answered the man a little gruffly, I thought.
“May I ask what you’re a-doing of?”
“Oh, it’s all right,” I responded, with a wave of my umbrella; “I’m
just seeing my friend part of the way home.”
He said, “What friend?”
“Oh, ah, of course,” I laughed; “I forgot. He’s invisible to you.
He is the ghost of the gentleman that killed the wait. I’m just
going to the corner with him.”
“Ah, I don’t think I would, if I was you, sir,” said Jones
severely. “If you take my advice, you’ll say good-bye to your
friend here, and go back indoors. Perhaps you are not aware that
you are walking about with nothing on but a night-shirt and a pair
of boots and an opera-hat. Where’s your trousers?”
I did not like the man’s manner at all. I said, “Jones! I don’t
wish to have to report you, but it seems to me you’ve been
drinking. My trousers are where a man’s trousers ought to be–on
his legs. I distinctly remember putting them on.”
“Well, you haven’t got them on now,” he retorted.
“I beg your pardon,” I replied. “I tell you I have; I think I
ought to know.”
“I think so, too,” he answered, “but you evidently don’t. Now you
come along indoors with me, and don’t let’s have any more of it.”
Uncle John came to the door at this point, having been awaked, I
suppose, by the altercation; and, at the same moment, Aunt Maria
appeared at the window in her nightcap.
I explained the constable’s mistake to them, treating the matter as
lightly as I could, so as not to get the man into trouble, and I
turned for confirmation to the ghost.
He was gone! He had left me without a word–without even saying
It struck me as so unkind, his having gone off in that way, that I
burst into tears; and Uncle John came out, and led me back into the
On reaching my room, I discovered that Jones was right. I had not
put on my trousers, after all. They were still hanging over the
bed-rail. I suppose, in my anxiety not to keep the ghost waiting,
I must have forgotten them.
Such are the plain facts of the case, out of which it must,
doubtless, to the healthy, charitable mind appear impossible that
calumny could spring.
But it has.
Persons–I say ‘persons’–have professed themselves unable to
understand the simple circumstances herein narrated, except in the
light of explanations at once misleading and insulting. Slurs have
been cast and aspersions made on me by those of my own flesh and
But I bear no ill-feeling. I merely, as I have said, set forth
this statement for the purpose of clearing my character from
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