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A Royal Engineer in the Low Countries

A Cavalry Surgeon at Waterloo

With the Third Guards during the Peninsular War

The First and Last Campaigns of the Great War

Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Vincent O'Sullivan

Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Algernon Blackwood

Narratives of the Anglo-Zulu War

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The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of James Hain Friswell: Ghost Stories and Phantom Fancies

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The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of James Hain Friswell: Ghost Stories and Phantom Fancies
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Author(s): James Hain Friswell
Date Published: 2012/09
Page Count: 176
Softcover ISBN-13: 978-0-85706-903-0
Hardcover ISBN-13: 978-0-85706-902-3

A rare treasure of ghostly tales from the Victorian era

Shropshire born James Hain Friswell (1825-78) was a prolific author of the Victorian age. A noted defender of the Christian faith, much of his non-fiction output quite naturally concentrated on religious matters. He also contributed to a number of journals of his time, wrote non-fiction on a plethora of subjects and penned a number of novels and short stories. He was especially regarded in his own time for his efforts to improve the quality of literature for young readers. In this special Leonaur edition is Friswell’s small, but select, collection of the ghostly and other worldly fiction. Here is Ghost Stories and Phantom Fancies, a dozen or so pieces (including a poem) to please aficionados of supernatural fiction as it was a written during its golden age including, ‘The Dead Man’s Story,’ ‘The Black Madonna,’ ‘The Oxford Ghost,’ ‘A Phantom of the Du Barry’ and others. This comparatively concise work published in 1858 is, of course, rare on the antiquarian market so the Leonaur editors are pleased to be able to represent it to modern readers as part of our Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction series.
Leonaur editions are newly typeset and are not facsimiles; each title is available in softcover and hardback with dustjacket.

He then began to stick the tapers in all the cornices, on the balustrades, on the images—in short, wherever he could find a place for them—and the church was in a short time in a blaze of light, the upper part appearing by the contrast in still deeper gloom, and the blackened visages of the saints seeming to cast still more stern glances around them. He approached the bier—cast a terrified look upon the corpse—and closed his eyes with a shudder. What fearful, what dazzling beauty? He turned away his head, and sought to regain his place; but, from the strange curiosity which a man feels when under the impression of fear, he could not resist the impulse that induced him again to look, although agitated by the same convulsive shudder.<br>
There was, in fact, something terrible in the proud and striking beauty of the corpse. It would not have caused him so much terror, probably, had the features been ugly; but nothing gloomy, nothing savouring of death, was to be seen in that face. It bore the stamp of life, and appeared to the philosopher to follow his movements even with closed eyes. He hastened to place himself in one of the stalls of the choir, opened his book, and to give himself courage, began to read in the loudest tones he could. His voice struck upon the old wooden walls of the church, so long abandoned to silence, without echo, without noise; his deep bass voice resounded amidst a deathly silence. He himself felt it to be strange and unnatural.<br>
“What should I be afraid of!” he repeated to himself; “she cannot rise from her bier, for she will be too much afraid of the Holy Word—and what sort of a Cossack should I be to entertain fear! I have been drinking rather more than I ought, and that is the cause of my feeling afraid. Suppose I take a pinch of snuff—ah! excellent—what very good snuff!” Nevertheless, in turning over the leaves of the book, he could not help looking at the bier; and an internal voice seemed to whisper—“There she is! there!—see, she is getting up!—see, she lifts up her head!—look!”<br>
The most profound silence, however, continued to prevail; the corpse remained immovable, the tapers threw out floods of light. The illuminated church, with the dead body in the middle, was in truth horrible to behold. Thomas began to chant, raising his voice in all its tones to drown the fear which, in spite of himself, he still felt, but continually turning his eyes towards the bier and involuntary asking himself this question—“Suppose she were to rise! suppose she were to rise!”<br>
The corpse continued motionless; no sound was to be heard—not the least noise of living creature—not even a cricket; nothing but the occasional crackling of a taper, or the light dull sound of a drop of wax falling on the pavement.<br>
“If she were to rise!”<br>
She raised her head!<br>
He looked on stupefied, and rubbed his eyes. “Can it be?—yes! She is no longer lying down; she is sitting on the bier!”<br>
With a violent efforts he turned away his head, but in an instant after his eyes were again fixed on the corpse. She approached him slowly, with glazed eyes, but with extended arms, as if endeavouring to lay hold of some one. She came straight towards him. Confused, terrified, he yet hastened to trace with his finger a circle round the place where he stood, and began with violent effort to repeat the exorcisms which had been taught him by an old monk as safeguards against witches and evil spirits.<br>
The corpse advanced to the verge of the circle, but evidently had not power to pass the invisible limit. She suddenly became blue and livid, like one who has been some days dead. Her features were hideous, her teeth chattered, and her glassy eyes were wide open; but she saw nothing. Trembling with rage, she moved round with extended arms, still seeking to lay hold of Thomas. At length she stopped, held up her finger in a menacing way, and then slowly drew back and again stretched herself upon the bier.<br>
The philosopher remained aghast, unable to collect his senses, and casting looks of terror upon the long narrow coffin in which the corpse was now extended. Suddenly that coffin was lifted up, and, with a sharp shrill sound, rushed through the air, darting about all parts of the church, hovering over the very head of the poor philosopher, but unable to pass the circle traced around him. He repeated his exorcisms; the coffin precipitated itself with a loud sound into the middle of the church, and again became immovable. The corpse, now of a livid green, again rose up; but, as at this moment the crowing of a cock was heard in the distance, again replaced herself in the coffin, and all was still.
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