The 9th Fontana Book of Great Ghost Stories

INTRODUCTION

I wish I could say truthfully that I had seen a ghost.

I have read about reputedly haunted houses, listened to friends who knew someone who had experienced some kind of psychic phenomena, but as a professional horror-monger I really am ashamed to say that the dim world of the hereafter has, to date, given me the go-by.

This, I feel, is nothing short of a tragedy, because I would dearly like proof that some form of life exists beyond the grave. After all is said and done, one is dead longer than one is alive. Not that a ghost proves anything, one way or another. ‘Time image’, ‘extension of personality’, ‘atmosphere’, and ‘fear-flamed imagination’ – all can be responsible for the phenomena known as ghosts; and I have yet to meet anyone who has held an intelligent conversation with an apparition.

Of course, there may be people who think they have, and to those fortunate few doubt can no longer exist. The opinions of down-to-earth sceptics are of no importance; they, the lucky few, know, and knowledge is an asset which rises above belief, replaces mere faith and slaughters doubt.

That is why I have opened this anthology with Death Cannot Wither by Judith Merril. Edna Colby not only saw her dead husband, she talked to him, touched him, and apparently even made love with him. The reader may have some doubts as to whether the entire business takes place in her mind, but to Edna he was as real as Monday morning.

The Lady’s Maid’s Bell by Edith Wharton has, on the other hand, a genuine old-fashioned ghost. She – the former lady’s maid – is seen by more than one person and haunts for a good reason. Not for her the aimless wandering of dark corridors, plus the odd shriek, which appears to be the usual practice of her kind. This really is a blood-curdler and I recommend it for your attention.

Keeping His Promise, by that true master of the macabre, Algernon Blackwood, is another sleep murderer – with a difference. The ghost is seen by only one man, but its snores are heard by two. Is this a shared delusion, or is Field really keeping his promise?

The Coat by A. E. D. Smith is reputed to be based on an actual dream, and a fine old nightmare it must have been. This is the story of a fear-ghost and none the less real for that. If you must go on cycling holidays, I can only advise you to keep away from empty houses and discarded coats.

The Four-Fifteen Express by Amelia B. Edwards undoubtedly deals with a time-ghost. Here we have an apparently flesh-and-blood man, entering a train carriage and conducting a conversation about events which belong to the past. There would be nothing unusual about this, were it not for the fact . . . But I have no intention of spoiling your fun. Read the story.

Sally by Patrick Davis is a beautiful piece of work. The artist is one of those fortunate people I mentioned earlier; he knows he can see his lovely ghost, even though everyone else is blind. The author has portrayed the wild Devonshire coast brilliantly and I am very pleased to include Sally in this collection.

The Song in the House by Ann Bridge has a conventional ghost: a wraith who has been stranded on the beach of time. I believe many occupants of old country houses must have had similar experiences to the one depicted in this story, and perhaps one day there will be an explanation for them. In the meantime, a ghost from the distant past is still a chilling prospect.

The Sweeper by Ex-Private X is a marvellous piece of macabre. I can think of nothing more terrifying than a ghost who periodically sweeps the garden path, and on each visit comes a little nearer the house . . .

The Glove by Roger Hicks takes place in the frozen wastes of Antarctica, and hence is a chilling tale in more senses than one. It has a neat little twist at the end.

The Return of Imray by Rudyard Kipling is a must for any collection of ghost stories and I can only wonder that it has never been used before in this type of anthology. What with the ghost that tramps around the bungalow at night, the dog that just will not come indoors after sunset (wise animal) and snakes over the ceiling, I can only conclude that those gentlemen in the India Service were men of iron.

My own contribution, The Liberated Tiger, was, as indeed are all my stories, written blind. In other words, I took up my ballpoint pen and began to write. I had no idea how it would end until the last page but one. I hope you like it.

A last word. If anyone has a resident ghost: a real, dyed-in-the-wool apparition that can be guaranteed to put in an appearance, please let me know. As I have said, I’d dearly like to meet one.

R. Chetwynd-Hayes