The Collected Supernatural and Weird Fiction of Amelia B. Edwards

Twenty tales from beyond the veil from a mistress of the strange and other worldly

It is widely held that many of the finest writers of the classic ghostly and macabre story were women. Some would propose that this remains true among modern exponents of the craft. It was certainly true of Amelia Edwards whose collection of otherworldly fiction is highly regarded and extensive, notwithstanding her many other talents. It is interesting that Edwards came into contact with another famous ghost story writer, Charles Dickens, as a consequence of providing articles, poetry and stories for his magazine, Household Words. Whether by coincidence or design Edwards' literary style was so similar to Dickens' as to cause confusion as to the identity of the actual author of some stories. Whilst this will please Dickens aficionados, Edwards own work stands on its own merits as a fine collection of Victorian gothic tales. In later life Edwards became an Egyptologist and was responsible for the preservation of many priceless monuments and artefacts. Available in soft cover and hard cover with dust jacket. 

All at once I heard their footsteps in the house again. They were going rapidly to and fro overhead; then up and down the stairs; then overhead again; and presently I heard a couple of bolts shot, and apparently a heavy wooden bar put up, on the other side of the inner kitchen-door which I had just been at so much pains to barricade. This done, they seemed to go away. A distant door banged heavily; and again there was silence.<br>
Five minutes, ten minutes, went by. Bergheim still slept heavily; but his breathing, I fancied, was less stertorous, and his countenance less rigid, than when I first discovered his condition. I had no water with which to bathe his head; but I rubbed his forehead and the palms of his hands with beer, and did what I could to keep his body upright.<br>
Then I heard the enemy coming back to the front, slowly, and with heavy footfalls. They paused for a moment at the front door, seemed to set something down, and then retreated quickly. After an interval of about three minutes, they returned in the same way; stopped at the same place; and hurried off as before. This they did several times in succession. Listening with suspended breath and my ear against the keyhole, I distinctly heard them deposit some kind of burden each time—evidently a weighty burden, from the way in which they carried it; and yet, strange to say, one that, despite its weight, made scarcely any noise in the setting down.<br>
Just at this moment, when all my senses were concentrated in the one act of listening, Bergheim stirred for the first time, and began muttering.<br>
“The man!” he said, in a low, suppressed tone. “The man under the hearth!”<br>
I flew to him at the first sound of his voice. He was recovering. Heaven be thanked, he was recovering! In a few minutes we should be two—two against two—right and might on our side—both ready for the defence of our lives!<br>
“One man under the hearth,” he went on, in the same unnatural tone. “Four men at the bottom of the pond—all murdered—foully murdered!”<br>
I had scarcely heeded his first words; but now, as their sense broke upon me, that great rush of exultation and thankfulness was suddenly arrested. My heart stood still; I trembled; I turned cold with horror.<br>
Then the veins swelled on his forehead; his face became purple; and he struck out blindly, as one oppressed with some horrible nightmare.<br>
“Blood!” he gasped. “Everywhere blood—don’t touch it. God’s vengeance—help!” . . .<br>
And so, struggling violently in my arms, he opened his eyes, stared wildly round, and made an effort to get upon his feet.<br>
“What is the matter?” he said, sinking back again, and trembling from head to foot. “Was I asleep?”<br>
I rubbed his hands and forehead again with beer. I tasted it, and finding no ill flavour upon it, put a tiny drop to his lips.<br>
“You are all right now,” I said. “You were very tired, and you fell asleep after supper. Don’t you remember?”<br>
He put his hand to his head. “Ah, yes,” he said, “I remember. I have been dreaming” . . .<br>
He looked round the room in a bewildered way; then, struck all at once by the strange disorder of the furniture, asked what was the matter.<br>
I told him in the least alarming way, and with the fewest words I could muster, but before I could get to the end of my explanation he was up, ready for resistance, and apparently himself again.<br>
“Where are they?” he said. “What are they doing now? Outside, do you say? Why, good heavens! man, they’re blocking us in. Listen!—don’t you hear?—it is the rustling of straw. Bring the blunderbuss! quick!—to the window . . . God grant we may not be too late!”<br>
We both rushed to the window; Bergheim to undo the shutter, and I to shoot down the first man in sight.<br>
“Look there!” he said, and pointed to the door.<br>
A thin stream of smoke was oozing under the threshold and stealing upward in a filmy cloud that already dimmed the atmosphere of the room.<br>
“They are going to burn us out!” I exclaimed.<br>
“No, they are going to burn us alive,” replied Bergheim, between his clenched teeth. “We know too much, and they are determined to silence us at all costs, though they burn the house down over our heads. Now hold your breath, for I am going to open the window, and the smoke will rush in like a torrent.” <br>
He opened it, but very little came in—for this reason, that the outside was densely blocked with straw, which had not yet ignited. <br>