As with so many writers of the nineteenth century, the author of this single volume collection of tales of the supernatural and other worldly, Sabine Baring-Gould was a man of many talents. Born near Exeter in 1834, his output was astonishing and his bibliography contains at least 1,240 works. In his time he was a well known and admired antiquarian, scholar and novelist. Many remember him as a writer of hymns, among which ‘Onward Christian Soldiers’ is the most well known today. The ghost story was such a popular literary form in the Victorian period that it barely needs saying that Baring-Gould tried his hand at writing them—it would be more surprising if he had not. This did not guarantee he would be a good writer of chilling tales, but fortunately for posterity he was. This Leonaur collection of Baring-Gould’s supernatural fiction includes three novelettes, ‘Margery of Quether’ a chilling story that features an eternal succubus, ‘A Professional Secret’ and ‘Mustapha.’ Among the twenty-two short stories in this substantial Leonaur edition readers will find ‘Crowdy Marsh,’ ‘Glamr,’ ‘The Dead Trumpeter of Hurst Castle,’ ‘The 9.30 Up Train,’ ‘The ‘Bold Venture’ and many others.
Leonaur editions are newly typeset and are not facsimiles; each title is available in softcover and hardback with dustjacket.
Grettir feels the board at his back quivering, for Thorhall is awake and is trembling in his bed. The steps pass round to the back of the house, and then the snapping of the wood shows that the creature is destroying some of the outhouse doors. He tires of this apparently, for his footfall comes clear towards the main entrance to the hall. The moon is veiled behind a watery cloud, and by the uncertain glimmer Grettir fancies that he sees two dark hands thrust in above the door. His apprehensions are verified, for, with a loud snap, a long strip of panel breaks, and light is admitted. Snap—snap! another portion gives way, and the gap becomes larger. Then the wattles slip from their places, and a dark arm rips them out in bunches, and flings them away. There is a cross-beam to the door, holding a bolt which slides into a stone groove. Against the grey light, Grettir sees a huge black figure heaving itself over the bar. Crack! that has given way, and the rest of the door falls in shivers to the earth.<br>
“Oh, heavens above!” exclaims the bonder.<br>
Stealthily the dead man creeps on, feeling at the beams as he comes; then he stands in the hall, with the firelight on him. A fearful sight; the tall figure distended with the corruption of the grave, the nose fallen off, the wandering, vacant eyes, with the glaze of death on them, the sallow flesh patched with green masses of decay; the wolf-grey hair and beard have grown in the tomb, and hang matted about the shoulders and breast; the nails, too, they have grown. It is a sickening sight—a thing to shudder at, not to see.<br>
Motionless, with no nerve quivering now, Thorhall and Grettir held their breath.<br>
Glámr’s lifeless glance strayed round the chamber; it rested on the shaggy bundle by the high seat. Cautiously he stepped towards it. Grettir felt him groping about the lower lappet and pulling at it. The cloak did not give way. Another jerk; Grettir kept his feet firmly pressed against the posts, so that the rug was not pulled off. The vampire seemed puzzled, he plucked at the upper flap and tugged. Grettir held to the bench and bed-board, so that he was not moved, but the cloak was rent in twain, and the corpse staggered back, holding half in its hands, and gazing wonderingly at it.<br>
Before it had done examining the shred, Grettir started to his feet, bowed his body, flung his arms about the carcass, and, driving his head into the chest, strove to bend it backward and snap the spine. A vain attempt! The cold hands came down on Grettir’s arms with diabolical force, riving them from their hold. Grettir clasped them about the body again; then the arms closed round him, and began dragging him along. The brave man clung by his feet to benches and posts, but the strength of the vampire was the greater; posts gave way, benches were heaved from their places, and the wrestlers at each moment neared the door. Sharply writhing loose, Grettir flung his hands round a roof-beam. He was dragged from his feet; the numbing arms clenched him round the waist, and tore at him; every tendon in his breast was strained; the strain under his shoulders became excruciating, the muscles stood out in knots.<br>
Still he held on; his fingers were bloodless; the pulses of his temples throbbed in jerks; the breath came in a whistle through his rigid nostrils. All the while, too, the long nails of the dead man cut into his side, and Grettir could feel them piercing like knives between his ribs. Then at once his hands gave way, and the monster bore him reeling towards the porch, crashing over the broken fragments of the door. Hard as the battle had gone with him indoors, Grettir knew that it would go worse outside, so he gathered up all his remaining strength for one final desperate struggle.
your wishlist 
your account
Click on image to enlarge
Mouse over the image to zoom in
