A GypsyProphecy by Bram Stoker

A Gipsy Prophecy

By

Bram Stoker

"I really think," said the Doctor, "that, at any rate, one of us

should go and try whether or not the thing is an imposture."

"Good!" said Considine. "After dinner we will take our cigars

and stroll over to the camp."

Accordingly, when the dinner was over, and the La Tour finished,

Joshua Considine and his friend, Dr. Burleigh, went over to the

east side of the moor, where the gipsy encampment lay. As they were

leaving, Mary Considine, who had walked as far as the end of the

garden where it opened into the laneway, called after her husband:

"Mind, Joshua, you are to give them a fair chance, but don't give

them any clue to a fortune-and don't you get flirting with any of the

gipsy maidens-and take care to keep Gerald out of harm."

For answer Considine held up his hand, as if taking a stage oath,

and whistled the air of the old song, "The Gipsy Countess." Gerald

joined in the strain, and then, breaking into merry laughter, the

two men passed along the laneway to the common, turning now and then

to wave their hands to Mary, who leaned over the gate, in the

twilight, looking after them.

It was a lovely evening in the summer; the very air was full

of rest and quiet happiness, as though an outward type of the

peacefulness and joy which made a heaven of the home of the young

married folk. Considine's life had not been an eventful one. The

only disturbing element which he had ever known was in his wooing

of Mary Winston, and the long-continued objection of her ambitious

parents, who expected a brilliant match for their only daughter.

When Mr. and Mrs. Winston had discovered the attachment of the young

barrister, they had tried to keep the young people apart by sending

their daughter away for a long round of visits, having made her

promise not to correspond with her lover during her absence. Love,

however, had stood the test. Neither absence nor neglect seemed

to cool the passion of the young man, and jealousy seemed a thing

unknown to his sanguine nature; so, after a long period of waiting,

the parents had given in, and the young folk were married.

They had been living in the cottage a few months, and were just

beginning to feel at home. Gerald Burleigh, Joshua's old college

chum, and himself a sometime victim of Mary's beauty, had arrived a

week before, to stay with them for as long a time as he could tear

himself away from his work in London.

When her husband had quite disappeared Mary went into the house,

and, sitting down at the piano, gave an hour to Mendelssohn.

It was but a short walk across the common, and before the cigars

required renewing the two men had reached the gipsy camp. The place

was as picturesque as gipsy camps-when in villages and when business

is good-usually are. There were some few persons round the fire,

investing their money in prophecy, and a large number of others,

poorer or more parsimonious, who stayed just outside the bounds but

near enough to see all that went on.

As the two gentlemen approached, the villagers, who knew Joshua,

made way a little, and a pretty, keen-eyed gipsy girl tripped up and

asked to tell their fortunes. Joshua held out his hand, but the girl,

without seeming to see it, stared at his face in a very odd manner.

Gerald nudged him:

"You must cross her hand with silver," he said. "It is one of the

most important parts of the mystery." Joshua took from his pocket a

half-crown and held it out to her, but, without looking at it, she

answered:

"You must cross the gipsy's hand with gold."

Gerald laughed. "You are at a premium as a subject," he said.

Joshua was of the kind of man-the universal kind-who can tolerate

being stared at by a pretty girl; so, with some little deliberation,

he answered:

"All right; here you are, my pretty girl; but you must give me a

real good fortune for it," and he handed her a half sovereign, which

she took, saying:

"It is not for me to give good fortune or bad, but only to read

what the Stars have said." She took his right hand and turned it palm

upward; but the instant her eyes met it she dropped it as though it

had been red hot, and, with a startled look, glided swiftly away.

Lifting the curtain of the large tent, which occupied the centre of

the camp, she disappeared within.

"Sold again!" said the cynical Gerald. Joshua stood a little

amazed, and not altogether satisfied. They both watched the large

tent. In a few moments there emerged from the opening not the young

girl, but a stately looking woman of middle age and commanding

presence.

The instant she appeared the whole camp seemed to stand still. The

clamour of tongues, the laughter and noise of the work were, for a

second or two, arrested, and every man or woman who sat, or crouched,

or lay, stood up and faced the imperial looking gipsy.

"The Queen, of course," murmured Gerald. "We are in luck to-night."

The gipsy Queen threw a searching glance around the camp, and then,

without hesitating an instant, came straight over and stood before

Joshua.

"Hold out your hand," she said in a commanding tone.

Again Gerald spoke, sotto voce: "I have not been spoken to in that

way since I was at school."

"Your hand must be crossed with gold."

"A hundred per cent at this game," whispered Gerald, as Joshua

laid another half sovereign on his upturned palm.

The gipsy looked at the hand with knitted brows; then suddenly

looking up into his face, said:

"Have you a strong will-have you a true heart that can be brave

for one you love?"

"I hope so; but I am afraid I have not vanity enough to say 'yes.'"

"Then I will answer for you; for I read resolution in your

face-resolution desperate and determined if need be. You have a

wife you love?"

"Yes," emphatically.

"Then leave her at once-never see her face again. Go from her now,

while love is fresh and your heart is free from wicked intent. Go

quick-go far, and never see her face again!"

Joshua drew away his hand quickly, and said, "Thank you!" stiffly

but sarcastically, as he began to move away.

"I say!" said Gerald, "you're not going like that, old man; no use

in being indignant with the Stars or their prophet-and, moreover, your

sovereign-what of it? At least, hear the matter out."

"Silence, ribald!" commanded the Queen, "you know not what you do.

Let him go-and go ignorant, if he will not be warned."

Joshua immediately turned back. "At all events, we will see this

thing out," he said. "Now, madam, you have given me advice, but I

paid for a fortune."

"Be warned!" said the gipsy. "The Stars have been silent for long;

let the mystery still wrap them round."

"My dear madam, I do not get within touch of a mystery every day,

and I prefer for my money knowledge rather than ignorance. I can get

the latter commodity for nothing when I want any of it."

Gerald echoed the sentiment. "As for me I have a large and

unsaleable stock on hand."

The gipsy Queen eyed the two men sternly, and then said, "As you

wish. You have chosen for yourself, and have met warning with scorn,

and appeal with levity. On your own heads be the doom!"

"Amen!" said Gerald.

With an imperious gesture the Queen took Joshua's hand again,

and began to tell his fortune.

"I see here the flowing of blood; it will flow before long; it is

running in my sight. It flows through the broken circle of a severed

ring."

"Go on!" said Joshua, smiling. Gerald was silent.

"Must I speak plainer?"

"Certainly; we commonplace mortals want something definite. The

Stars are a long way off, and their words get somewhat dulled in the

message."

The gipsy shuddered, and then spoke impressively. "This is the

hand of a murderer-the murderer of his wife!" She dropped the hand

and turned away.

Joshua laughed. "Do you know," said he, "I think if I were you I

should prophesy some jurisprudence into my system. For instance, you

say 'this hand is the hand of a murderer.' Well, whatever it may be

in the future-or potentially-it is at present not one. You ought

to give your prophecy in such terms as 'the hand which will be a

murderer's,' or, rather, 'the hand of one who will be the murderer

of his wife.' The Stars are really not good on technical questions."

The gipsy made no reply of any kind, but, with drooping head and

despondent mien, walked slowly to her tent, and, lifting the curtain,

disappeared.

Without speaking the two men turned homewards, and walked across

the moor. Presently, after some little hesitation, Gerald spoke.

"Of course, old man, this is all a joke; a ghastly one, but still

a joke. But would it not be well to keep it to ourselves?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, not to tell your wife. It might alarm her."

"Alarm her! My dear Gerald, what are you thinking of? Why, she

would not be alarmed or afraid of me if all the gipsies that ever

didn't come from Bohemia agreed that I was to murder her, or even

to have a hard thought of her, whilst so long as she was saying

'Jack Robinson.' "

Gerald remonstrated. "Old fellow, women are superstitious-far

more than we men are; and, also, they are blessed-or cursed-with a

nervous system to which we are strangers. I see too much of it in

my work not to realise it. Take my advice and do not let her know,

or you will frighten her."

Joshua's lips unconsciously hardened as he answered: "My dear

fellow, I would not have a secret from my wife. Why, it would be

the beginning of a new order of things between us. We have no

secrets from each other. If we ever have, then you may begin to

look out for something odd between us."

"Still," said Gerald, "at the risk of unwelcome interference, I

say again be warned in time."

"The gipsy's very words," said Joshua. "You and she seem quite

of one accord. Tell me, old man, is this a put-up thing? You told

me of the gipsy camp-did you arrange it all with Her Majesty?" This

was said with an air of bantering earnestness. Gerald assured him

that he only heard of the camp that morning; but he made fun of

every answer of his friend, and, in the process of this raillery,

the time passed, and they entered the cottage.

Mary was sitting by the piano but not playing. The dim twilight

had waked some very tender feelings in her breast, and her eyes were

full of gentle tears. When the men came in she stole over to her

husband's side and kissed him. Joshua struck a tragic attitude.

"Mary," he said in a deep voice, "before you approach me, listen

to the words of Fate. The Stars have spoken and the doom is sealed."

"What is it, dear? Tell me the fortune, but do not frighten me."

"Not at all, my dear; but there is a truth which it is well that

you should know. Nay, it is necessary so that all your arrangements

can be made beforehand, and everything be decently done and in order."

"Go on, dear; I am listening."

"Mary Considine, your effigy may yet be seen at Madame Tussaud's.

The juris-imprudent stars have announced their fell tidings that this

hand is red with blood-your blood. Mary! Mary! my God!" He sprang

forward, but too late to catch her as she fell fainting on the floor.

"I told you," said Gerald. "You don't know them as well as I do."

After a little while Mary recovered from her swoon, but only to

fall into strong hysterics, in which she laughed and wept and raved

and cried, "Keep him from me-from me, Joshua, my husband," and many

other words of entreaty and of fear.

Joshua Considine was in a state of mind bordering on agony, and

when at last Mary became calm he knelt by her and kissed her feet

and hands and hair and called her all the sweet names and said all

the tender things his lips could frame. All that night he sat by

her bedside and held her hand. Far through the night and up to the

early morning she kept waking from sleep and crying out as if in

fear, till she was comforted by the consciousness that her husband

was watching beside her.

Breakfast was late the next morning, but during it Joshua

received a telegram which required him to drive over to Withering,

nearly twenty miles. He was loth to go; but Mary would not hear

of his remaining, and so before noon he drove off in his dog-cart

alone.

When he was gone Mary retired to her room. She did not appear at

lunch, but when afternoon tea was served on the lawn, under the great

weeping willow, she came to join her guest. She was looking quite

recovered from her illness of the evening before. After some casual

remarks, she said to Gerald: "Of course it was very silly about last

night, but I could not help feeling frightened. Indeed I would feel

so still if I let myself think of it. But, after all, these people

may only imagine things, and I have got a test that can hardly fail

to show that the prediction is false-if indeed it be false," she

added sadly.

"What is your plan?" asked Gerald.

"I shall go myself to the gipsy camp, and have my fortune told

by the Queen."

"Capital. May I go with you?"

"Oh, no! That would spoil it. She might know you and guess at me,

and suit her utterance accordingly. I shall go alone this afternoon."

When the afternoon was gone Mary Considine took her way to the

gipsy encampment. Gerald went with her as far as the near edge of

the common, and returned alone.

Half-an-hour had hardly elapsed when Mary entered the drawing-room,

where he lay on a sofa reading. She was ghastly pale and was in a

state of extreme excitement. Hardly had she passed over the threshold

when she collapsed and sank moaning on the carpet. Gerald rushed to

aid her, but by a great effort she controlled herself and motioned

him to be silent. He waited, and his ready attention to her wish

seemed to be her best help, for, in a few minutes, she had somewhat

recovered, and was able to tell him what had passed.

"When I got to the camp," she said, "there did not seem to be a

soul about. I went into the centre and stood there. Suddenly a tall

woman stood beside me. 'Something told me I was wanted!' she said.

I held out my hand and laid a piece of silver on it. She took from

her neck a small golden trinket and laid it there also; and then,

seizing the two, threw them into the stream that ran by. Then she

took my hand in hers and spoke: 'Naught but blood in this guilty

place,' and turned away. I caught hold of her and asked her to tell

me more. After some hesitation, she said: 'Alas! alas! I see you

lying at your husband's feet, and his hands are red with blood.'"

Gerald did not feel at all at ease, and tried to laugh it off.

"Surely," he said, "this woman has a craze about murder."

"Do not laugh," said Mary, "I cannot bear it," and then, as if

with a sudden impulse, she left the room.

Not long after Joshua returned, bright and cheery, and as hungry

as a hunter after his long drive. His presence cheered his wife, who

seemed much brighter, but she did not mention the episode of the

visit to the gipsy camp, so Gerald did not mention it either. As if

by tacit consent the subject was not alluded to during the evening.

But there was a strange, settled look on Mary's face, which Gerald

could not but observe.

In the morning Joshua came down to breakfast later than usual.

Mary had been up and about the house from an early hour; but as the

time drew on she seemed to get a little nervous, and now and again

threw around an anxious look.

Gerald could not help noticing that none of those at breakfast

could get on satisfactorily with their food. It was not altogether

that the chops were tough, but that the knives were all so blunt.

Being a guest, he, of course, made no sign; but presently saw Joshua

draw his thumb across the edge of his knife in an unconscious sort

of way. At the action Mary turned pale and almost fainted.

After breakfast they all went out on the lawn. Mary was making up

a bouquet, and said to her husband, "Get me a few of the tea-roses,

dear."

Joshua pulled down a cluster from the front of the house. The

stem bent, but was too tough to break. He put his hand in his pocket

to get his knife; but in vain. "Lend me your knife, Gerald," he said.

But Gerald had not got one, so he went into the breakfast-room and

took one from the table. He came out feeling its edge and grumbling.

"What on earth has happened to all the knives-the edges seem all

ground off?" Mary turned away hurriedly and entered the house.

Joshua tried to sever the stalk with the blunt knife as country

cooks sever the necks of fowl-as schoolboys cut twine. With a little

effort he finished the task. The cluster of roses grew thick, so he

determined to gather a great bunch.

He could not find a single sharp knife in the sideboard where

the cutlery was kept, so he called Mary, and when she came, told her

the state of things. She looked so agitated and so miserable that he

could not help knowing the truth, and, as if astounded and hurt,

asked her:

"Do you mean to say that you have done it?"

She broke in, "Oh, Joshua, I was so afraid."

He paused, and a set, white look came over his face. "Mary!"

said he, "is this all the trust you have in me? I would not have

believed it."

"Oh, Joshua! Joshua!" she cried entreatingly, "forgive me," and

wept bitterly.

Joshua thought a moment and then said: "I see how it is. We

shall better end this or we shall all go mad."

He ran into the drawing-room.

"Where are you going?" almost screamed Mary.

Gerald saw what he meant-that he would not be tied to blunt

instruments by the force of a superstition, and was not surprised

when he saw him come out through the French window, bearing in his

hand a large Ghourka knife, which usually lay on the centre table,

and which his brother had sent him from Northern India. It was one

of those great hunting-knives which worked such havoc, at close

quarters with the enemies of the loyal Ghourkas during the mutiny,

of great weight but so evenly balanced in the hand as to seem light,

and with an edge like a razor. With one of these knives a Ghourka

can cut a sheep in two.

When Mary saw him come out of the room with the weapon in his

hand she screamed in an agony of fright, and the hysterics of last

night were promptly renewed.

Joshua ran toward her, and, seeing her falling, threw down the

knife and tried to catch her.

However, he was just a second too late, and the two men cried out

in horror simultaneously as they saw her fall upon the naked blade.

When Gerald rushed over he found that in falling her left hand

had struck the blade, which lay partly upwards on the grass. Some of

the small veins were cut through, and the blood gushed freely from

the wound. As he was tying it up he pointed out to Joshua that the

wedding ring was severed by the steel.

They carried her fainting to the house. When, after a while, she

came out, with her arm in a sling, she was peaceful in her mind and

happy. She said to her husband:

"The gipsy was wonderfully near the truth; too near for the real

thing ever to occur now, dear."

Joshua bent over and kissed the wounded hand.

Tex-Mex, with ghosts!

Since I will be traveling to Texas in about two months I thought I'd do a piece about hauntings in Texas, maybe even visit a site or two when I am there. In my mind Gothic stories and ghost stories go together, and while I have a lot of curiosity about ghosts and ghost stories I honestly think I would be be scared to death if I ever encountered a haunting. I have no desire to investigate a haunting, I just like reading ghost stories (whether real or made up). I chose a few random spooky things to talk about from the Lone Star State.

Whether you believe in haunting or not it seems that any place associated with strong emotions, especially sad emotions, has the potential to become the site of a haunting. All three of the places discussed seem to be locales that have lots of emotions attached to them and the residue of those emotions is what seems to make the places what they are, along with their resident ghosts.

Old Stagecoach Road, Marshall, Texas

 

This road is said to be built over the remains of an old Native American trail, so the place has seen many lives lived over a long period of time. Just about every kind of paranormal experience and experiences with cryptids (or supernatural animals and persons) have been associated with this road. The stagecoach became a primary mode of transportation roughly during the 1850's and remained so until the advent of the railroads which then made stagecoach transportation irrelevant and very inconvenient afterward. 

 

Stories are told of a "Death Coach that is seen, drawn by four black horses. If you see it you are doomed to die soon. Witnesses report seeing strange lights while on the road, if they park their cars they feel pressure and see hand prints on their vehicles after going there even though no people were seen while they were there. The east Texas Bigfoot, chupacabra, vampires, and a goat-man have also been reported in the area. There is a graffiti covered bridge along the road and folklore says that vampires and strangers were buried near the bridge to keep them away from the town nearby. The goat-man also supposedly buries his victims by the bridge. A weeping woman called La Llorona, wanders around looking for her lost children after murdering them in a fit of insanity after being spurned by her lover, when she finally realized what she did. There is also a woman dressed in white, who was a civil war nurse who appears on the road because she was killed in a stagecoach accident during the heyday of stagecoach travel and an murdering ax-man has also been known to make his appearance on the road as well.

With just the stories of Old Stagecoach road there are a myriad of ideas for budding authors out there who want to try their hand at writing a ghost story inspired by all the events that have taken place on this road.

The more I read about Old Stagecoach Road the more I think I want to stay away from it!

The Baker Hotel- Mineral Springs, TX.

 

There are stories of numerous hauntings in the Baker Hotel in Mineral Springs Texas. Rumor has it that the hotel is being restored after closing down in 1970.

The first reports of haunting came from hotel employees who said there was an apparition of a woman on the seventh floor. The woman is believed to be the mistress of the hotel manager and she stayed in a suite of rooms on the seventh floor. She became distraught because something happened with her lover and dramatically leaped to her death from the top of the building. Hotel staff and guests report they smelled her perfume and that she was also known to flirt with males she found attractive. Hotel maids reported that even though no one stayed in her former room, lipstick marks were found on the drinking glasses in there.

The basement is said to be haunted by a former employee who died in a tragic elevator accident. Psychics and ghost hunting teams have investigated the place and it is said to be haunted by many spirits. They say not all of the spirits stay because something tragic has happened to them, some of them come there because in life they enjoyed being at the place and they have good memories of it so they return.

An interesting story is told by persons who worked in a bank across the street from the old hotel during the 1990's: The bank windows looked out on the hotel and day after day the employees noticed that windows in the place would be opened and the next day different windows were opened and the previous ones were closed. They thought someone was living in the old hotel as a caretaker. They did not find out until after observing the windows for a period of time that no one lived there and that there was no caretaker! Who was opening and closing all the different windows then? I guess the ghosts wanted a bit of fresh air. Hundreds of mysterious orbs have been photographed in the hotel. 

Presidio La Bahia-Goliad,TX

This was a fort which was built over an old failed French fort in 1721 by the Spanish Army. It was the only Spanish fort built on the Gulf Coast of the USA, and is known as a fine example of Spanish architecture in North America. It was the scene of two battles during the Mexican War of Independence. The fort eventually became part of the new "United Mexican States" in 1821. In 1835, during the Texas revolution, insurgents marched on the fort. The Mexicans surrendered and the Texans now controlled the fort, it was renamed "Fort Defiance".

When Santa Ana led the siege against the Alamo, which is about 90 miles away from La Bahia, the Alamo commander sent word to La Bahia that he needed reinforcements. The commander of La Bahia, a man named Fannin was not too thrilled about the request and half-heartedly put together a relief party. The reinforcements were badly outfitted, they took a long time to get ready and were pretty incompetent while trying to travel the 90 miles to the Alamo. Their oxen ran away, they did not bring adequate food and it is doubtful such badly prepared reinforcements would have been any help at all to those besieged at the Alamo anyway, but the reinforcements abandoned their attempt at offering help and went back to La Bahia. When the Alamo fell, General Sam Houston ordered the garrison at La Bahia to leave the fort and fall back to a safer position. Again the garrison delayed, half halfheartedly prepared to leave and were caught just outside the walls of the fort by the Mexican forces. The garrison was captured and imprisoned there. (It appears that General Fannin was a man who could not really make up his mind about anything and his delays resulted in hardships and death for his men.)

After imprisonment, the garrison members were all taken outside the walls and executed by the Mexican forces in what is now known as the Goliad Massacre. Given the circumstances, it is not hard to imagine that you hear the screaming and crying of soldiers who have been imprisoned by an enemy and murdered there. There is no trouble understanding why this place is said to be haunted by all the soldier's spirits who met there demise after many battles and after being massacred by their enemies. The bad karma hangs about the place.

What will you visit when you are in Texas? It is a generously sized state that prides itself on doing things the big Texas way. There is a generous history of folklore and numerous accounts of hauntings and ghost stories across the whole state. If you do happen to see a Texas ghost, let me know if it was really bigger than the other ghosts you have seen!

What's all the mystery at this house?

The Winchester House is Located in San Jose, California. Last year I was able to visit the house while staying nearby.

Winchester House, San Jose, California

The house is an amazing conglomeration of Victorian architecture built by Sarah Winchester, the widow of gun magnate William Winchester, of Repeating Rifle fame. The couple had only one child and sadly the child died in infancy. Mrs. Winchester was what could be described as filthy rich and but put much of her fortune into building and remodeling the house. She furnished it with custom made and expensive furnishings. The house truly is a sight to be seen, inside and out, just for its architecture and furnishings alone. It is a time capsule of the Victorian era.

Winchester Rifles

 

Rumor has it that the house is haunted and that the bizarre building, remodeling and odd things that were added into the residence were because Mrs. Winchester believed she was haunted by the spirits of those who were killed by her husband's repeating rifles. Therefore, she put secret passages, stairways to nowhere, and used the mystical number 13 everywhere in the home to confuse the spirits. There are 13 cupolas on the greenhouse, the sink drains have 13 holes, stairways have 13 steps, and she signed her will, which had 13 parts to it, a total of 13 times. Pretty unusual, to say the least. 

A treasure trove of stained glass, custom made for the house.

 

Some sources say she held nightly seances and fed the spirits banquets of gourmet food. The tale goes like this...after her husband and child died, a spiritualist told Mrs. Winchester that the spirits of those killed by Winchester rifles were angry and that she needed to move away from the East Coast to get away from them. She moved across the country to California and purchased a farm house in San Jose which was continuously added to and remodeled for the next 30 some odd years until her death.

Spiritualism, with seances, table tilting, ghostly knocking, and other such phenomenon was a popular pastime in the late 1800's, so if Mrs. Winchester attended seances and such she was just like many other people of the time period. She was very rich so she could do what she wanted and spend as much as she liked, she was alone in the world, possibly with a guilty conscience and put all her effort into creating the interesting house that is left today.

One of the many rooms in the Winchester house.

Was it to confuse ghosts that were after her? There are several reports of haunting and unusual manifestations from tour guides, caretakers, and paranormal groups that have visited the house. It should not surprise anyone that a house with such a history has some haunting or residual spirits, especially those of the residents themselves.

The other side of the story... Mrs. Winchester admired Francis Bacon, Shakespeare, and she was also a Freemason. Throughout the house she used masonic symbolism such as the pillars on the premises named Boaz and Joachim, which are masonic symbols. She also had stained glass windows made using words of Francis Bacon and Shakespeare. Mrs Winchester is also reportedly known to be a Rosicrucian and symbolism from that creed is also evident in the house.

The house, looking quite mysterious at night.

Are all the ghost stories about a crazed old rich lady true or are they just sensationalism made up to attract tourists by the busload to this destination??? You decide. The place is definitely worth a look, but it is also shameless in its promotion as a tourist destination.

Sources:

http://winchestermysteryhouse.com/thehouse.cfm

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Winchester_Mystery_House

http://thetruthaboutthewinchesterhouse.com/

Lesser known tales of the strange...

William F. Harvey (1885-1937) was an English author known for his short stories that could be classified as weird or of the horror genre. August Heat is one of his more well-known tales.

 

August Heat by W. F. Harvey

---

PHENISTONE ROAD, CLAPHAM.
August 20th, 190--.
I have had what I believe to be the most remarkable day in my life, and while the events are still fresh in my mind, I wish to put them down on paper as clearly as possible.
Let me say at the outset that my name is James Clarence Withencroft.
I am forty years old, in perfect health, never having known a day's illness.
By profession I am an artist, not a very successful one, but I earn enough money by my black-and--white work to satisfy my necessary wants.
My only near relative, a sister, died five years ago, so that I am independent. I breakfasted this morning at nine, and after glancing through the morning paper I lighted my pipe and proceeded to let my mind wander in the hope that I might chance upon some subject for my pencil.
The room, though door and windows were open, was oppressively hot, and I had just made up my mind that the coolest and most comfortable place in the neighborhood would be the deep end of the public swimming bath, when the idea came.
I began to draw. So intent was I on my work that I left my lunch untouched, only stopping work when the clock of St. Jude's struck four.
The final result, for a hurried sketch, was, I felt sure, the best thing I had done. It showed a criminal in the dock immediately after the judge had pronounced sentence. The man was fat---enormously fat. The flesh hung in rolls about his chin; it creased his huge, stumpy neck. He was clean shaven (perhaps I should say a few days before he must have been clean shaven) and almost bald. He stood in the dock, his short, clumsy fingers clasping the rail, looking straight in front of him. The feeling that his expression conveyed was not so much one of horror as of utter, absolute collapse.
There seemed nothing in the man strong enough to sustain that mountain of flesh.
I rolled up the sketch, and without quite knowing why, placed it in my pocket. Then with the rare sense of happiness which the knowledge of a good thing well done gives, I left the house.
I believe that I set out with the idea of calling upon Trenton, for I remember walking along Lytton Street and turning to the right along Gilchrist Road at the bottom of the hill where the men were at work on the new tram lines.
From there onwards I have only the vaguest recollection of where I went. The one thing of which I was fully conscious was the awful heat, that came up from the dusty asphalt pavement as an almost palpable wave. I longed for the thunder promised by the great banks of copper- coloured cloud that hung low over the western sky.
I must have walked five or six miles, when a small boy roused me from my reverie by asking the time.
It was twenty minutes to seven.
When he left me I began to take stock of my bearings. I found myself standing before a gate that led into a yard bordered by a strip of thirsty earth, where there were flowers, purple stock and scarlet geranium. Above the entrance was a board with the inscription--

CHS. ATKINSON. MONUMENTAL MASON.
WORKER IN ENGLISH AND ITALIAN MARBLES

From the yard itself came a cheery whistle, the noise of hammer blows, and the cold sound of steel meeting stone.
A sudden impulse made me enter.
A man was sitting with his back towards me, busy at work on a slab of curiously veined marble. He turned round as he heard my steps and I stopped short.
It was the man I had been drawing, whose portrait lay in my pocket.
He sat there, huge and elephantine, the sweat pouring from his scalp, which he wiped with a red silk handkerchief. But though the face was the same, the expression was absolutely different.
He greeted me smiling, as if we were old friends, and shook my hand.
I apologized for my intrusion.
"Everything is hot and glary outside," I said. "This seems an oasis in the wilderness."
"I don't know about the oasis," he replied, "but it certainly is hot, as hot as hell. Take a seat, sir!"
He pointed to the end of the gravestone on which he was at work, and I sat down.
"That's a beautiful piece of stone you've got hold of," I said.
He shook his head. "In a way it is," he answered; "the surface here is as fine as anything you could wish, but there's a big flaw at the back, though I don't expect you'd ever notice it. I could never make really a good job of a bit of marble like that. It would be all right in the summer like this; it wouldn't mind the blasted heat. But wait till the winter comes. There's nothing quite like frost to find out the weak points in stone."
"Then what's it for?" I asked.
The man burst out laughing.
"You'd hardly believe me if I was to tell you it's for an exhibition, but it's the truth. Artists have exhibitions: so do grocers and butchers; we have them too. All the latest little things in headstones, you know."
He went on to talk of marbles, which sort best withstood wind and rain, and which were easiest to work; then of his garden and a new sort of carnation he had bought. At the end of every other minute he would drop his tools, wipe his shining head, and curse the heat.
I said little, for I felt uneasy. There was something unnatural, uncanny, in meeting this man.
I tried at first to persuade myself that I had seen him before, that his face, unknown to me, had found a place in some out-of-the-way corner of my memory, but I knew that I was practising little more than a plausible piece of self-deception.
Mr. Atkinson finished his work, spat on the ground, and got up with a sigh of relief.
"There! what do you think of that?" he said, with an air of evident pride. The inscription which I read for the first time was this--

SACRED TO THE MEMORY
OF
JAMES CLARENCE WITHENCROFT.
BORN JAN. 18TH, 1860.
HE PASSED AWAY VERY SUDDENLY
ON AUGUST 20TH, 190--
"In the midst of life we are in death."

For some time I sat in silence. Then a cold shudder ran down my spine. I asked him where he had seen the name.
"Oh, I didn't see it anywhere," replied Mr. Atkinson. "I wanted some name, and I put down the first that came into my head. Why do you want to know?"
"It's a strange coincidence, but it happens to be mine." He gave a long, low whistle.
"And the dates?"
"I can only answer for one of them, and that's correct."
"It's a rum go!" he said.
But he knew less than I did. I told him of my morning's work. I took the sketch from my pocket and showed it to him. As he looked, the expression of his face altered until it became more and more like that of the man I had drawn.
"And it was only the day before yesterday," he said, "that I told Maria there were no such things as ghosts!"
Neither of us had seen a ghost, but I knew what he meant.
"You probably heard my name," I said.
"And you must have seen me somewhere and have forgotten it! Were you at Clacton-on-Sea last July?"
I had never been to Clacton in my life. We were silent for some time. We were both looking at the same thing, the two dates on the gravestone, and one was right.
"Come inside and have some supper," said Mr. Atkinson.
His wife was a cheerful little woman, with the flaky red cheeks of the country-bred. Her husband introduced me as a friend of his who was an artist. The result was unfortunate, for after the sardines and watercress had been removed, she brought out a Doré Bible, and I had to sit and express my admiration for nearly half an hour.
I went outside, and found Atkinson sitting on the gravestone smoking.
We resumed the conversation at the point we had left off. "You must excuse my asking," I said, "but do you know of anything you've done for which you could be put on trial?"
He shook his head. "I'm not a bankrupt, the business is prosperous enough. Three years ago I gave turkeys to some of the guardians at Christmas, but that's all I can think of. And they were small ones, too," he added as an afterthought.
He got up, fetched a can from the porch, and began to water the flowers. "Twice a day regular in the hot weather," he said, "and then the heat sometimes gets the better of the delicate ones. And ferns, good Lord! they could never stand it. Where do you live?"
I told him my address. It would take an hour's quick walk to get back home.
"It's like this," he said. "We'll look at the matter straight. If you go back home to-night, you take your chance of accidents. A cart may run over you, and there's always banana skins and orange peel, to say nothing of fallen ladders."
He spoke of the improbable with an intense seriousness that would have been laughable six hours before. But I did not laugh.
"The best thing we can do," he continued, "is for you to stay here till twelve o'clock. We'll go upstairs and smoke, it may be cooler inside."
To my surprise I agreed.
--------------------------------------------
We are sitting now in a long, low room beneath the eaves. Atkinson has sent his wife to bed. He himself is busy sharpening some tools at a little oil-stone, smoking one of my cigars the while.
The air seems charged with thunder. I am writing this at a shaky table before the open window.
The leg is cracked, and Atkinson, who seems a handy man with his tools, is going to mend it as soon as he has finished putting an edge on his chisel.
It is after eleven now. I shall be gone in less than an hour.
But the heat is stifling.
It is enough to send a man mad.

Three Reasons Why You Should Never Name Your Child "Richard Parker"

1. In Edgar Allen Poe's 1838 novel, a character, Richard Parker, gets eaten by his crew mates.
2. In 1884, a real person named Richard Parker gets eaten by his crew mates.
3. Are reasons number 1 and number 2 not enough for you?
   
   
   
    
   Edgar Allen Poe is known as a horror master for writing weird poems and short stories. Did you know he also wrote a novel? Only one. One novel, The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym of Nantucket.
   
   
   In 1838, Poe wrote a story about Arthur Gordon Pym. Pym was an adventurous youth, who eventually becomes a stowaway on a whaling ship. The ship, named Grampus, is the target of a mutiny and a shipwreck, Pym is one of the survivors. While waiting to be rescued, the survivors run out of food and in their deprived state of mind come up with the idea that one of them should sacrifice himself to feed the others. The survivor named Richard Parker draws the short stick and gets chosen for the honor. (Insert here grisly Poe descriptions of the cannibalistic scene.) Shortly after eating their shipmate, the remaining ships crew are rescued.
   
   
   The story goes on and at the end Pym sails off into the sunset heading for the South Pole. Poe himself, called it a silly story, but Jules Verne and Herman Melville mined that silly story for their stories afterward, namely, An Antarctic Mystery, and Moby Dick.
     
   Fast forward to from 1838 to 1884, and a ship carrying a cabin boy named Richard Parker, unsuccessfully tries to sail from from England to Australia- it encounters a storm, and is wrecked and sinks. The few survivors, unprepared for being lost at sea and in fear of starvation, decide to eat fellow crew member and cabin boy Richard Parker (!), who is conveniently already sick, and happens to be the youngest one aboard the lifeboat. They say a prayer over him then promptly slit his jugular and carve him up for food and drink his blood. They do get rescued, just a few days after eating their crew mate, and are eventually tried for his murder. (It eventually becomes a precedent setting legal case.) 
   
   
   
    
   Talk about uncanny coincidences! How is it that Poe writes this story, uses a particular name and then this grisly story becomes a reality. Both Richard Parkers get shipwrecked and are eaten by their crew mates! Clearly there is enough eerie evidence here for you to to never name your kid Richard Parker, especially if you live by any body of water. Beware all you Richard Parkers that already are...if you ever wanted to try sailing or boating or even go on a cruise, don't! You have been forewarned of what could be your fate!
   
   
   Incidentally, fast forwarding to 2001, (or 2012 for the movie version),Yann Martel writes a story about a young man who is shipwrecked while sailing across the ocean with his parents, The Life of Pi. In this shipwreck story there is a character named (you guessed it), Richard Parker! But, this Richard Parker turns out to be a character who does the eating, he does not get eaten. To find out more about that Richard Parker you'll have to read the book or watch the movie. Kudos to the author for inserting an inside joke, having a Richard Parker involved in yet another shipwreck story.
   
   
   
    
   
   
   Sources: http://mentalfloss.com/article/30093/edgar-allan-poes-eerie-richard-parker-coincidence
   http://www.cracked.com/article_18421_6-insane-coincidences-you-wont-believe-actually-happened.html
   This coincidence is also mentioned in the book: She is Not Invisible by Marcus Sedgwick.
   
   

Spotlight on Algernon Blackwood

English author, Algernon Blackwood was one of the most prolific authors of ghost stories in the golden age of Victorian literature. He lived from 1869 to 1951. Born in England, he lived there for the majority of his life but spent some time in Canada as a (not very successful) dairy farmer and hotelier. He was known to be an avid outdoorsman and this is reflected in his stories such as The Willows, The Wendigo and A Haunted Island. Blackwood had a variety of jobs in his life and finally found a place to belong as an author. 

  

He was a member of The Ghost Club, Charles Dickens and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle were also members. The club, founded in London in 1862, investigated and researched the paranormal. He was also a member of the 

Hermetic Order of the Golden Dawn . He investigated Buddhism and other religions, it has been speculated he did this because of his strict Calvinist upbringing, but he was also a product of his times and during this era, pictures made of human hair, seances and spiritualism were all the rage. Blackwood is known for writing ghost stories that are not gory but have an uneasy psychological effect. His talent is the emotion he weaves with his words. Some might find his writings wordy, but it was the style of the time, his stories don't reach out and knock you on the head but they make you wonder about every little sound or shadow you think you are seeing or hearing in the dead of night!

The Willows

Blackwood is the creator of the character, John Silence, one of the first occult or paranormal detectives. His writing talent was also praised by Lovecaft. One of his most famous stories would be The Willows, (novella length). An early collection of his work (1914) is entitled "Incredible Adventures", it includes these stories "The Regeneration of Lord Ernie","The Sacrifice", "The Damned", "A Descent into Egypt", and "Wayfarers". Other highly recommended works include- The Wendigo, John Silence stories, A Haunted Island, The Empty House, The Kit-Bag, and The Strange Adventures of a Private Secretary in New York.

His works are in the public domain so free versions of his story collections can be found and downloaded for kindle or other electronic devices, and are also available free online at sites such as

Project Gutenberg here: Algernon Blackwood at Gutenberg.org, here: Algernonblackwood.org, and here:Algernon Blackwood at American Literature. Check them out.