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The Supernatural in Fiction by Andrew Lang 1905

It is a truism that the supernatural in fiction should, as a general rule, be left in the vague.  In the creepiest tale I ever read, the horror lay in this—there was no ghost!  You may describe a ghost with all the most hideous features that fancy can suggest—saucer eyes, red staring hair, a forked tail, and what you please—but the reader only laughs.  It is wiser to make as if you were going to describe the spectre, and then break off, exclaiming, “But no!  No pen can describe, no memory, thank Heaven, can recall, the horror of that hour!”  So writers, as a rule, prefer to leave their terror (usually styled “The Thing”) entirely in the dark, and to the frightened fancy of the student.  Thus, on the whole, the treatment of the supernaturally terrible in fiction is achieved in two ways, either by actual description, or by adroit suggestion, the author saying, like cabmen, “I leave it to yourself, sir.”  There are dangers in both methods; the description, if attempted, is usually overdone and incredible: the suggestion is apt to prepare us too anxiously for something that never becomes real, and to leave us disappointed. Examples of both methods may be selected from poetry and prose.  The examples in verse are rare enough; the first and best that occurs in the way of suggestion is, of course, the mysterious lady in “Christabel.” “She was most beautiful to see, Like a lady of a far countrée.” Who was she?  What did she want?  Whence did she come?  What was the horror she revealed to the night in the bower of Christabel? “Then drawing in her breath aloud Like one that shuddered, she unbound The cincture from beneath her breast. Her silken robe and inner vest Dropt to her feet, and full in view Behold her bosom and half her side— A sight to dream of, not to tell! O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!” And then what do her words mean? “Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow, This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow.” What was it—the “sight to dream of, not to tell?”

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The Legend of the Devil's Bridge in Wales by Amelia Barr 1875

Wherever any singular freak of nature occurred which was imagined to be beyond the power of the fairy family, it is remarkable that the Devil was always credited with the phenomenon; and some of the most charming and humorous fictions in our language are those in which his skill and cunning are again pitted against that of humanity. Among many, we select the popular account of the building of the natural bridge across the Mynach river in Wales, because it is really a gem of this branch of literature. "Once upon a time, an old woman had a cow that fed on the Crom Toidder mountain, and came home night and morning to be milked. One evening she did not come, and the old lady, much troubled, went to fetch her. When she came to where the Mynach flows between the two high rocks, she saw the cow on the other side. Then she set up a loud lamentation, for she saw the cow could not come to her, and she could not go to the cow; for the river could not be crossed, and it was a day's journey to go round. In this strait the Devil appeared. 'So, so, you've lost your cow, old lady, have you? Never mind; I 'll build you a bridge, and you shall go and fetch her.' 'Thankee, kindly, sir; I'll be much obliged to you if you will,' and she curtsied low and with great humility. 'To be sure I will,' and he cast a look at her out of the corner of his eye. 'But the cow 's worth something—I must have toll —keep that dog quiet, can't you?' For the old woman had a cur dog that kept on growling and grumbling. 'Harkee, old lady--if I build you the bridge, I 'll have the first that crosses it. Is it a bargain?' She was sorely troubled. If she went over for the cow, she knew that she had sold herself to the Devil; and if the cow came to her, she lost her cow. 'Bridge or no bridge?' said the Devil. 'Build the bridge, sir, if you please.' 'Ay, ay,' said the Devil; 'it's very easy to say build the bridge, but do you agree to the toll?' 'Yes, sure, sir,' replied the woman —- and with that the Devil put both his forefingers to his mouth and gave a shrill whistle—-and there was the bridge sure enough, and the Devil sitting on the middle of it, smiling away like clock work, rocking himself to and fro, and switching his tail with great satisfaction. The old woman shook like an aspen leaf; but she took a crust of bread from her pocket, and showing it to the dog, threw it over the bridge. And the dog ran over the bridge and passed the Devil where he sat in the middle. 'Whip that dog,' said the Devil, for he was cut to the quick at being outwitted by the old woman; but he did not want the dog, and he did not try to stop him: so the bridge was crossed and the spell broken. He was mortified and angry; but being a gentleman, he arose and doffed his cap to the old lady—-for the keen respect the keen—and having done so, he hung his tail, much humbled, and walked off." Mr. Hemingway makes the following comment on the incident: "It must be acknowledged that Satan behaved very honorably, and kept his word—-which is more than men always do." Everyone knows that such stories as this abound in Ireland; and Wales and the Isle of Man are equally prolific.

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The Ghosts of Dogs and Animals in Wales by Wirt Sikes 1880

Of spectral animals there is no great diversity in Cambria, unless one should class under this head sundry poetic creatures which more properly belong to the domain of magic, or to fairyland. The spirits of favourite animals which have died return occasionally to visit their masters. Sometimes it is a horse, which is seen on a dark night looking in at the window, its eyes preternaturally large. More often it is the ghost of a dog which revisits the glimpses of the moon. Men sometimes become as fondly attached to a dog as they could to any human being, and, where the creed of piety is not too severe, the possibility of a dog’s surviving after death in a better world is admitted. ‘It is hard to look in that dog’s eyes and believe,’ said a Welshman to me, ‘that he has not a bit of a soul to be saved.’ The almost human companionship of the dog for man is a familiar fact. It is not strange, therefore, that the dog should be the animal whose spirit, in popular belief, shares the nature of man’s after death. Sometimes the spirit in animal form is the spirit of a mortal, doomed to wear this shape for some offence. This again trenches on the ground of magic; but the ascription to the spirit-world is distinct in modern instances. There was a Rev. Mr. Hughes, a clergyman of the Church of England, in the isle and county of Anglesea, who was esteemed the most popular preacher thereabout in the last century, and upon this account was envied by the rest of the clergy, ‘which occasioned his becoming a field preacher for a time, though he was received into the Church again.’ As he was going one night to preach, he came upon an artificial circle in the ground, between Amlwch village and St. Elian Church, where a spirit in the shape of a large greyhound jumped against him and threw him from his horse. This experience was repeated on a second night. The third night he went on foot, and warily; and now he saw that the spirit was chained. He drew near, but keeping beyond the reach of the chain, and questioned the spirit: ‘Why troublest thou those that pass by?’ The spirit replied that its unrest was due to a silver coin it had hidden under a stone when in the flesh, and which belonged to the church of St. Elian. The clergyman being told where the coin was, found it and paid it over to the church, and the chained spirit was released.

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The Accursed House by Emile Gaboriau 1891

Download the Works of Emile Gaboriau for a limited time at http://tinyurl.com/EmileGaboriau See also True Crime + Mystery Fiction - 500 Books on 2 DVDroms Emile Gaboriau, best known for his remarkable detective stories, was born at Sanson in 1853, and died at Paris in 1873. He was for a time private secretary of Paul Feval, the novelist, and published a great variety of work. In 1866 appeared in the paper called "Le Pays" his first great detective story, "L'Affaire Lerouge," which the author dramatised in collaboration with Hostein in 1872. Like all of the great series, "L'Affaire Lerouge," "Monsieur Lecoq," "Les Esclaves de Paris," etc., are written in an easy flowing style, and are full of exciting moments. It is interesting to trace the ancestry of the modern detective story. The first seeds are said to be found in Voltaire's "Zadig"; they germinate in Poe's tales, take form in Gaboriau, and are in full bloom in Conan Doyle's "Sherlock Holmes." THE Vicomte de B______, an amiable and charming young man, was peacefully enjoying an income of 30,000 livres yearly, when, unfortunately for him, his uncle, a miser of the worst species, died, leaving him all his wealth, amounting to nearly two millions. In running through the documents of succession, the Vicomte de B______ learned that he was the proprietor of a house in the Rue de la Victoire. He learned, also, that the unfurnished building, bought in 1849 for 300,000 francs, now brought in, clear of taxes, rentals amounting to 82,000 francs a year. "Too much, too much, entirely," thought the generous vicomte, "my uncle was too hard; to rent at this price is usury, one can not deny it. When one bears a great name like mine, one should not lend himself to such plundering. I will begin to-morrow to lower my rents, and my tenants will bless me." With this excellent purpose in view, the Vicomte de B_____ sent immediately for the concierge of the building, who presented himself as promptly, with back bent like a bow. "Bernard, my friend," said the vicomte, "go at once from me and notify all your tenants that I lower their rents by one-third." That unheard-of word "lower" fell like a brick on Bernard's head. But he quickly recovered himself; he had heard badly; he had not understood. "Low—er the rents!" stammered he. "Monsieur le Vicomte deigns to jest. Lower! Monsieur, of course means to raise the rents." "I was never more serious in my life, my friend," the vicomte returned; "I said, and I repeat it, lower the rents." This time the concierge was surprised to the point of bewilderment — so thrown off his balance that he forgot himself and lost all restraint. "Monsieur has not reflected," persisted he. "Monsieur will regret this evening. Lower the tenants rents! Never was such a thing known, monsieur! If the lodgers should learn of it, what would they think of monsieur? What would people say in the neighborhood? Truly—-" "Monsieur Bernard, my friend," dryly interrupted the vicomte, "I prefer, when I give an order, to be obeyed without reply. You hear me—-go!" Staggering like a drunken man, Monsieur Bernard went out from the house of his proprietor. All his ideas were upset, overthrown, confounded. Was he, or was he not, the plaything of a dream, a ridiculous nightmare? Was he himself Pierre Bernard, or Bernard somebody else? "Lower his rents! lower his rents!" repeated he. "It is not to be believed! If indeed the lodgers had complained! But they have not complained; on the contrary, all are good payers. Ah! if his uncle could only know this, he would rise from the tomb! His nephew has gone mad, 'tis certain! Lower the rents! They should have up this young man before a family council; he will finish badly! Who knows—after this —what he will do next? He lunched too well, perhaps, this morning." And the worthy Bernard was so pale with emotion when he re-entered his lodge, so pale and spent, that on seeing him enter, his wife and daughter Amanda exclaimed as with one voice: "Goodness! what is it? What has happened to you now?" "Nothing," responded he, with altered voice, "absolutely nothing." "You are deceiving me," insisted Madame Bernard, "you are concealing something from me; do not spare me; speak, I am strong—what did the new proprietor tell you? Does he think of turning us off?" "If it were only that! But just think, he told me with his own lips, he told me to—ah! you will never believe me—-" "Oh, yes; only do go on." "You will have it, then!— Well, then, he told me, he ordered me to notify all the tenants that—he lowered their rents one-third! Did you hear what I said? —lowered the rents of the tenants—-" But neither Madame nor Mademoiselle Bernard heard him out — they were twisting and doubling with convulsive laughter. "Lower!" repeated they; "ah! what a good joke, what a droll man! Lower the tenants' rents." But Bernard, losing his temper and insisting that he must be taken seriously in his own lodge, his wife lost her temper too, and a quarrel followed! Madame Bernard declaring that Monsieur Bernard had, beyond a doubt, taken his fantastic order from the bottom of a litre of wine in the restaurant at the corner. But for Mademoiselle Amanda the couple would undoubtedly have come to blows, and finally Madame Bernard, who did not wish to be thought demented, threw a shawl over her head and ran to the proprietor's house. Bernard had spoken truly; with her own two ears, ornamented with big, gilded hoops, she heard the incredible word. Only, as she was a wise and prudent woman, she demanded "a bit of writing" to put, as she said, "her responsibility under cover." She, too, returned thunderstruck, and all the evening in the lodge, father, mother, and daughter deliberated. Should they obey? or should they warn some relative of this mad young man, whose common sense would oppose itself to such insanity? They decided to obey. Next morning, Bernard, buttoning himself into his best frock coat, made the rounds of the three-and-twenty lodges to announce his great news. Ten minutes afterward the house in the Rue de la Victoire was in a state of commotion impossible to describe. People who, for forty years had lived on the same floor, and never honored each other with so much as a tip of the hat, now clustered together and chatted eagerly. "Do you know, monsieur?" "It is very extraordinary." "Simply unheard of!" "The proprietor's lowered my rent!" "One-third, is it not? Mine also." "Astounding! It must be a mistake!" And despite the affirmations of the Bernard family, despite even the "bit of writing" "under cover," there were found among the tenants doubting Thomases, who doubted still in the face of everything. Three of them actually wrote to the proprietor to tell him what had passed, and to charitably warn him that his concierge had wholly lost his mind. The proprietor responded to these skeptics, confirming what Bernard had said. Doubt, thereafter, was out of the question. Then began reflections and commentaries. "Why had the proprietor lowered his rents?" "Yes, why?" "What motives," said they all, "actuate this strange man? For certainly he must have grave reasons for a step like this! An intelligent man, a man of good sense, would never deprive himself of good fat revenues, well secured, for the simple pleasure of depriving himself. One would not conduct himself thus without being forced, constrained by powerful or terrible circumstances." And each said to himself: "There is something under all this!" "But what?" And from the first floor to the sixth they sought and conjectured and delved in their brains. Every lodger had the preoccupied air of a man that strives with all his wits to solve an impossible cipher, and everywhere there began to be a vague disquiet, as it happens when one finds himself in the presence of a sinister mystery. Some one went so far as to hazard: "This man must have committed a great and still hidden crime; remorse pushes him to philanthropy." "It was not a pleasant idea, either, the thought of living thus side by side with a rascal; no, by no means; he might be repentant, and all that, but suppose he yielded to temptation once more!" "The house, perhaps, was badly built?" questioned another, anxiously. "Hum-m, so-so! no one could tell; but all knew one thing—it was very, very old!" "True! and it had been necessary to prop it when they dug the drain last year in the month of March." "Maybe it was the roof, then, and the house is top-heavy?" suggested a tenant on the fifth floor. "Or perhaps," said a lodger in the garret, "there is a press for coining counterfeit money in the cellar; I have often heard at night a sound like the dull, muffled thud of a coin-stamper." The opinion of another was that Russian, maybe Prussian, spies had gained a lodgment in the house, while the gentleman of the first story was inclined to believe that the proprietor purposed to set fire to his house and furniture with the sole object of drawing great sums from the insurance companies. Then began to happen, as they all declared, extraordinary and even frightful things. On the sixth and mansard floors it appeared that strange and absolutely inexplicable noises were heard. Then the nurse of the old lady on the fourth story, going one night to steal wine from the cellar, encountered the ghost of the defunct proprietor—he even held in his hand a receipt for rent—by which she knew him! And the refrain from loft to cellar was: "There is something under all this!" From disquietude it had come to fright; from fright it quickly passed to terror. So that the gentleman of the first floor, who had valuables in his rooms, made up his mind to go, and sent in notice by his clerk. Bernard went to inform the proprietor, who responded: "All right, let the fool go!" But next day the chiropodist of the second floor, though he had naught to fear for his valuables, imitated the gentleman beneath him. Then the bachelors and the little households of the fifth story quickly followed this example. From that moment it was a general rout. By the end of the week, everybody had given notice. Every one awaited some frightful catastrophe. They slept no more. They organized patrols. The terrified domestics swore that they too would quit the accursed house and remained temporarily only on tripled wages. Bernard was no more than the ghost of himself; the fever of fear had worn him to a shadow. "No," repeated his wife mournfully at each fresh notification, "no, it is not natural." Meanwhile three-and-twenty "For Rent" placards swung against the facade of the house, drawing an occasional applicant for lodgings. Bernard—never grumbling now—climbed the staircase and ushered the visitor from apartment to apartment. "You can have your choice," said he to the people that presented themselves, "the house is entirely vacant; all the tenants have given notice as one man. They do not know why, exactly, but things have happened, oh! yes, things! a mystery such as was never before known—the proprietor has lowered his rents!" And the would-be lodgers fled away affrighted. The term ended, three-and-twenty vans carried away the furniture of the three-and-twenty tenants. Everybody left. From top to bottom, from foundations to garret, the house lay empty of lodgers. The rats themselves, finding nothing to live on, abandoned it also. Only the concierge remained, gray green with fear in his lodge. Frightful visions haunted his sleep. He seemed to hear lugubrious howlings and sinister murmurs at night that made his teeth chatter with terror and his hair erect itself under his cotton nightcap. Madame Bernard no more closed an eye than he. And Amanda in her frenzy renounced all thought of the operatic stage and married—for nothing in the world but to quit the paternal lodge—a young barber and hair-dresser whom she had never before been able to abide. At last, one morning, after a more frightful nightmare than usual, Bernard, too, took a great resolution. He went to the proprietor, gave up his keys, and scampered away. ....................................... And now on the Rue de la Victoria stands the abandoned house, "The Accursed House," whose history I have told you. Dust thickens upon the closed slats, grass grows in the court. No tenant ever presents himself now; and in the quarter, where stands this Accursed House, so funereal is its reputation that even the neighboring houses on either side of it have also depreciated in value. Lower one's rents!! Who would think of such a thing!!!

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The Case for Occult Knowledge & Medicine by Algernon Blackwood 1891

THERE are sure to be many struggles, some of short duration, others long and painful, as the warmth of the rays from this Eastern Sun gradually overcomes and melts away the strong prejudices of early religious education. The natural bias, which everywhere, and on every occasion, this materialistic age exercises over all minds, against the absolute existence of force and spirit in its thousand forms as opposed to matter, has to be slowly undermined before it can be hurled over and finally swept away. The wrenches are many, but the real and earnest seeker after truth will count them but gain, if their absence finally leave his mind open, unprejudiced and generously receptive to the influence of Truth. Galileo, Kepler, Bruno, Paracelsus, Crookes, and a host of others, greater and less, stand out grandly to prove that the truly progressive scientist is an outcast and a martyr, while his discoveries are afterwards accepted with changed names. What more is modern science than a reflection of ancient lore; a reproduction of those thoughts that centuries ago played through the brains of the eastern philosophers? A reproduction! aye—but a poor one at that. Mesmerism was hissed; laughed at; hooted off the stage; scorned! Hypnotism is now accepted by "men of science". Darwinism—that gleam of truth from above—is militant against the churches. One day, we hope, the vast system of evolution, of which the Darwinian principle contains a distorted germ, will open out in all its grandeur before the eyes of deluded scientists, and they will gasp and groan as they behold what so long was hidden from them by the veil of their own blinding prejudice.

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The History of the Were-wolf, 1885 Article

WERE-WOLF, a man-wolf, a man who, either periodically or for a time, is transformed, or transforms himself into a wolf, becoming possessed of all the powers and appetites of a wolf in addition to his own, and being especially remarkable for his appetite for human flesh. The belief in the transformation of men into wolves or other beasts of prey has been very widely diffused; there is perhaps no people among whom some evidence of its former prevalence does not exist. It is not yet extinct, even in Europe. In many of the rural districts of France, the loup-garou (the latter part of the word is a corruption of the Teutonic wer-wolf), is still an object of dread. This superstition lingers too among the country-people of Northern Europe, and a particular form of It flourishes vigorously among the Bulgarians, Slavonians, and Serbs, and even among the more intelligent inhabitants of Greece. Its details vary in different countries and districts. The definition given above includes only the commonest and the best marked of its incidents. Probably, it has not yet entirely disappeared In any country whose rural districts are infested with wolves or other wild animals; and manifestations fitted to suggest it may be occasionally observed in the mad-houses of most countries. The animal whose shape is taken, as already stated, is not always, though usually, a wolf; it was probably always the animal most formidable, or considered most inimical to man. In Abyssinia, it is the hyena. Occasional notices of lycanthropy, as it is called, are found in classical writers; and lycanthropy, as there described, was the change of a man or woman into a wolf, so as to enable the man or woman to gratify an appetite for human flesh, either by magical means, or through the judgment of the gods, as a punishment for some dire offence. Sometimes the transformation was into the shape of a dog or a bull. Ovid, in his "Metamorphoses," tells the story of Lycaon, king of Arcadia, who, when entertaining Jupiter at a banquet, resolved to test his omniscience by serving up to him a hash of human flesh. The god, to punish him for this, transformed him into a wolf. Herodotus describes the Neuri as sorcerers who had the power of taking once a year, for several days, the shape of wolves; and the same account of them is given by Pomponius Mela, Pliny relates that, in Arcadia, every year, at the festival of Jupiter Lycaeus, one of the family of Autaeus was chosen by lot, and conducted to the brink of the Arcadian Lake, into which, after having hung his garments upon a tree, he plunged, and was transformed into a wolf. Nine years after, if alive, he returned to his friends, looking nine years older than when he disappeared. Some notices of lycanthropy are to be found in Petronius; and allusion to it is also made by Virgil iu the 8th "Eclogue." Marcellus Sidetes tells us of men who, every winter, were seized with the notion that they were dogs or wolves, and lived precisely like these animals, spending the night in lone cemeteries. This disorder attacked men chiefly in the beginning of the year, and was usually at its height in February. It is worth while observing that the classical instances of lycanthropy mostly refer to Arcadia, a pastoral country, whose inhabitants suffered greatly from the ravages of wolves.

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A German Werewolf Story by H.B. Marryatt 1918

My father was not born, or originally a resident, in the Hartz Mountains; he was the serf of an Hungarian nobleman, of great possessions, in Transylvania; but, although a serf, he was not by any means a poor or illiterate man. In fact, he was rich, and his intelligence and respectability were such, that he had been raised by his lord to the stewardship; but, whoever may happen to be born a serf, a serf must he remain, even though he become a wealthy man; such was the condition of my father. My father had been married for about five years; and, by his marriage, had three children—my eldest brother Cæsar, myself (Hermann), and a sister named Marcella. Latin is still the language spoken in that country; and that will account for our high-sounding names. My mother was a very beautiful woman, unfortunately more beautiful than virtuous: she was seen and admired by the lord of the soil; my father was sent away upon some mission; and, during his absence, my mother, flattered by the attentions, and won by the assiduities, of this nobleman, yielded to his wishes. It so happened that my father returned very unexpectedly, and discovered the intrigue. The evidence of my mother's shame was positive: he surprised her in the company of her seducer! Carried away by the impetuosity of his feelings, he watched the opportunity of a meeting taking place between them, and murdered both his wife and her seducer. Conscious that, as a serf, not even the provocation which he had received would be allowed as a justification of his conduct, he hastily collected together what money he could lay his hands upon, and, as we were then in the depth of winter, he put his horses to the sleigh, and taking his children with him, he set off in the middle of the night, and was far away before the tragical circumstance had transpired. Aware that he would be pursued, and that he had no chance of escape if he remained in any portion of his native country (in which the authorities could lay hold of him), he continued his flight without intermission until he had buried himself in the intricacies and seclusion of the Hartz (Harz) Mountains. Of course, all that I have now told you I learned afterwards. My oldest recollections are knit to a rude, yet comfortable cottage, in which I lived with my father, brother, and sister. It was on the confines of one of those vast forests which cover the northern part of Germany; around it were a few acres of ground, which, during the summer months, my father cultivated, and which, though they yielded a doubtful harvest, were sufficient for our support. In the winter we remained much in doors, for, as my father followed the chase, we were left alone, and the wolves, during that season, incessantly prowled about. My father had purchased the cottage, and land about it, of one of the rude foresters, who gain their livelihood partly by hunting, and partly by burning charcoal, for the purpose of smelting the ore from the neighbouring mines; it was distant about two miles from any other habitation. I can call to mind the whole landscape now: the tall pines which rose up on the mountain above us, and the wide expanse of forest beneath, on the topmost boughs and heads of whose trees we looked down from our cottage, as the mountain below us rapidly descended into the distant valley. In summer time the prospect was beautiful; but during the severe winter, a more desolate scene could not well be imagined.

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How THE RAVEN was Written by Sherwin Cody 1899

"The Raven" was published in New York just two years before Mrs. Poe died; it instantly made its author famous, although it brought him little or no money. It is said that he was paid only ten dollars for the poem; but as soon as it appeared it was the talk of the nation,—being copied into almost every newspaper. Poe had written and published many other poems, but none of them had attracted much attention. We have spoken of Poe as a story-writer, and now in "The Raven" we see him a great poet. It is not unusual to think of poetry as the work of inspiration or genius; but how it is written, nobody knows. Poe maintained that literary art is something that can be studied and learned. To illustrate this he told how he wrote "The Raven." Some people considered this a sort of joke; but it was not. When Poe began to write, his work was not at all good; as years went on, he learned by patient practice to write well. It was more than anything else this long course of training that made him so great. The essay in which he tells how he wrote "The Raven," begins by saying that when he thought of writing it he decided that it must not be too long nor too short. It must be short enough so that one could read it through at a sitting; but also it must be long enough to express fully the idea which he had in mind. Then, it must be beautiful. All true poetry is about beauty. It doesn't teach anything useful, or analyze anything, but it simply makes the reader feel a certain effect. When you read "The Raven" you hardly know what the poet is saying; but you feel the ghostly scene, and it makes you shudder; and there is a strange fascination about it that makes you like it, even if it is horrible.

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A Russian Werewolf Story by Elliott O'Donnell 1911

Closely allied to the vampire is the were-wolf, which, however, instead of devouring the intellect of human beings, feeds only on their flesh. Like the vampire, the were-wolf belongs to the order of elementals; but, unlike the vampire, it is confined to a very limited sphere—the wilds of Norway, Sweden, and Russia, and only appears in two guises, that of a human being in the daytime and a wolf at night. I have closely questioned many people who have travelled in those regions, but very few of them—one or two at the most—have actually come in contact with those to whom the existence of the were-wolf is not a fable but a fact. One of these travellers, a mere acquaintance whom I met in an hotel in the Latin Quarter of Paris, assured me that the authenticity of a story he would tell me, relating to the were-wolf, was, in the neighbourhood through which he travelled, never for a single moment doubted. My informant, a highly cultured Russian, spoke English, French, German, and Italian with as great fluency as I spoke my native tongue, and I believed him to be perfectly genuine. The incident he told me, to which unanimous belief was accredited, happened to two young men (whom I will call Hans and Carl), who were travelling to Nijni Novgorod, a city in the province of Tobolsk. The route they took was off the beaten track, and led them through a singularly wild and desolate tract of country. One evening, when they were trotting mechanically along, their horses suddenly came to a standstill and appeared to be very much frightened. They inquired of the driver the reason of such strange behaviour, and he pointed with his whip to a spot on the ice—they were then crossing a frozen lake—a few feet ahead of them. They got out of the sleigh, and, approaching the spot indicated, found the body of a peasant lying on his back, his throat gnawed away and all his entrails gone. "A wolf without a doubt," they said, and getting back into the sleigh, they drove on, taking good care to see that their rifles were ready for instant action. They had barely gone a mile when the horses again halted, and a second corpse was discovered, the corpse of a child with its face and thighs entirely eaten away. Again they drove on, and had progressed a few more miles when the horses stopped so abruptly that the driver was pitched bodily out; and before Carl and Hans could dismount, the brutes started off at a wild gallop. They were eventually got under control, but it was with the greatest difficulty that they were forced to turn round and go back, in order to pick up the unfortunate driver. The farther they went, the more restless they became, and when, at length, they approached the place where the driver had been thrown, they came to a sudden and resolute standstill. As no amount of whipping would now make them go on, Hans got out, and advancing a few steps, espied something lying across the track some little distance ahead of them. Gun in hand, he advanced a few more steps, when he suddenly stopped. To his utter amazement he saw, bending over a body, which he at once identified as that of their driver, the figure of a woman. She started as he approached, and, hastily springing up, turned towards him. The strange beauty of her face, her long, lithe limbs (she stood fully six feet high) and slender body,—the beauty of the latter enhanced by the white woollen costume in which she was clad,—had an extraordinary effect upon Hans. Her shining masses of golden hair, that curled in thick clusters over her forehead and about her ears; the perfect regularity of her features, and the lustrous blue of her eyes, enraptured him; whilst the expression both in her face and figure—in her sparkling eyes and firmly modelled mouth; in her red lips, and even in her pearly teeth, repulsed and almost frightened him. He gazed steadily at her, and, as he did so, the hold on his rifle involuntarily tightened. He then glanced from her face to her hands, and noticed with a spasm of horror that the tips of her long and beautifully shaped nails were dripping with blood, and that there was blood, too, on her knees and feet, blood all over her. He then looked at the driver and saw the wretched man's clothes had been partially stripped off, and that there were great gory holes in his throat and abdomen.

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Vampire Stories by Elliott O'Donnell 1911

According to a work by Jos. Ennemoser, entitled The Phantom World, Hungary was at one time full of vampires. Between the river Theiss and Transylvania, were (and still are, I believe) a people called Heyducs, who were much pestered with this particularly noxious kind of phantasm. About 1732, a Heyduc called Arnauld Paul was crushed to death by a wagon. Thirty days after his burial a great number of people began to die, and it was then remembered that Paul had said he was tormented by a vampire. A consultation was held and it was decided to exhume him. On digging up his body, it was found to be red all over and literally bursting with blood, some of which had forced a passage out and wetted his winding sheet. Moreover, his hair, nails, and beard had grown considerably. These being sure signs that the corpse was possessed by a vampire, the local bailie was fetched and the usual proceedings for the expulsion of the undesirable phantasm began. A stake, sharply pointed at one end, was handed to the bailie, who, raising it above his head, drove it with all his might into the heart of the corpse. There then issued from the body the most fearful screams, whereupon it was at once thrown into a fire that had been specially prepared for it, and burned to ashes. But, though this was the end of that particular vampire, it was by no means the end of the hauntings; for the deaths, far from decreasing in number, continued in rapid succession, and no less than seventeen people in the village died within a period of three months. The question now arose as to which of the other bodies in the cemetery were "possessed," it being very evident that more than one vampire lay buried there. Whilst the matter was at the height of discussion, the solution to the problem was brought about thus. A girl, of the name of Stanoska, awoke in the middle of the night, uttering the most heartrending screams, and declaring that the son of a man called Millo (who had been dead nine weeks) had nearly strangled her. A rush was at once made to the cemetery, and a general disinterment taking place, seventeen out of the forty corpses (including that of the son of Millo) showed unmistakable signs of vampirism. They were all treated according to the mode described, and their ashes cast into the adjacent river. A committee of inquiry concluded that the spread of vampirism had been due to the eating of certain cattle, of which Paul had been the first to partake. The disturbances ceased with the death of the girl and the destruction of her body, and the full account of the hauntings, attested to by officers of the local garrison, the chief surgeons, and most influential of the inhabitants of the district, was sent to the Imperial Council of War at Venice, which caused a strict inquiry to be made into the matter, and were subsequently, according to Ennemoser, satisfied that all was bona fide.

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Lilith, Demonology and Vampires, article in The Century 1873

The era of transition from animal to anthropomorphic demons is an era of monsters. The animal superstitions still survived sufficiently to furnish the bestial shapes through which, it was believed, the Archfiend delighted to wreak his malevolence upon the earth. He was accustomed to take possession of human forms, and, worse still, to transform human beings so possessed into wolves, into cats, into vampire bats. It was Europe which chiefly inherited this most revolting phase of demonism. With its Aryan blood came the doctrine of transmigration, with the easy antithesis that if animals could climb into men, men might relapse into animals. But upon this there came an invasion of Semitic religion, which had already a stock of legends establishing a relationship between the human and the diabolical worlds. A characteristic one was the Talmudic legend that Adam's first wife was Lilith, a beautiful woman with a heart of ice. Mr. Rosetti has painted an ideal Lilith, as the type of a beauty whose fascination is fatal. This Lilith, it is said, being too wicked to remain in Eden, was expelled, and Eve put in her place. Lilith then married Satan, and from them sprang all the devils which swarm in earth or air. Some far-off echo of this story seems to be represented in the Icelandic theory of elves. They say that once when Jehovah came to visit Eve he asked to see her children; but Eve had not washed and dressed them neatly, so she said they were all away. Whereupon for not being visible then the children of Eve, with exception of some who had appeared, were condemned to remain invisible, or at least to wander about the earth hiding from sight. Concerning Lilith one myth is told which seems to connect her with that snaky-haired Medusa whose head Perseus brought from Ethiopia. It is said that Lilith's beauty lay chiefly in her red hair; and when they who gazed on her died of the fascination, around each dead heart was found twined a single red hair. It is very likely that those beautiful red tresses have a mythological relation to the serpent-locks of Medusa which Leonardo da Vinci has depicted in his most wonderful work as of dazzling beauty. As Lilith was jealous of Eve, who had superseded her, there was a bitter enmity between her diabolical brood and the children of Eve, and so these devils were supposed to be always trying to take possession of human forms.

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Werewolf Stories from Poland by Walter K Kelly 1863

In Eastern Europe the werewolf appears in his most appalling aspect, as a being whose nature is blended with that of the vampyre. The same word is used to designate both in the languages of most branches of the Slave stock; but this appears to be a comparatively modern trait, for there is no sign of it in the ancient tradition of the Neurians, of which we have already spoken. In Poland there are traces of the old belief that werewolves were bound to assume that form at certain periods in every year; in the Middle Ages it was twice a year, at Christmas and St. John's Day; but in later legends the wilcolak, or werewolf, is generally the victim of a spiteful sorceress's vengeance. Once upon a time, when some young people were dancing on the banks of the Vistula, a wolf broke in among them and carried off the prettiest girl of the village. The young men pursued, but they were unarmed, and the wolf escaped with his booty to the woods. Fifty years afterwards, whilst the villagers were again making merry on the same spot, there appeared among them a woebegone, ice-grey man, in whom an aged villager recognized his long-lost brother. The latter narrated how he had long ago been turned into a wolf by a wicked witch; how he had carried off the beautiful girl during the harvest feast, and how the poor thing had died of grief a year after in the forest. "From that time forth," he said, "I flung myself with ravenous hunger upon every human being that came in my way;" and he showed his hands, which were still all smeared with blood. "For the last four years," he continued, "I have been going about again in human shape, and I am come to look once more upon my native place, for I must soon become a wolf again." Hardly had he uttered the words ere he sprang to his feet in the form of a wolf, and ran off howling, never to be seen again.

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Accusations of Witchcraft in History, 1874 article

Accusations of Witchcraft in History, article in The Irish Monthly Magazine 1874

WE are quite conscious of the ridicule to which a profession of belief in witchcraft must expose us in an age of such enlightenment as the present. The scalpel and the microscope have failed as yet to show traces of a spirit-world, and the warmest advocates of the theory of development shrink from proposing a "disembodied state," as the goal to which our race is tending—so that the belief in a spiritual existence, and consequently in witchcraft, to which our fathers clung so fondly, finds neither foundation nor support in the whole range of modern science. But like many another outcast it stood high in favour once. It was cherished and defended by the representatives of learning and of power; and exercised a great and often fatal influence upon the fortunes and even lives of our ancestors. The history of its progress and gradual decay has been ably treated of by Mr. Lecky; and those who feel a sufficient interest in it will find very pleasant reading in that chapter of his "Rationalism in Europe," to which he has given the title "Magic and Witchcraft." Now and then, indeed, Mr. Lecky allows himself to be carried away by prejudice; but on the whole, his work shows a spirit of fairness and impartiality rarely to be met with in rationalistic writings; and the occasional phrases, that grate so harshly on a Catholic ear, may be set down to the cause which he himself has pointed to in his "Introduction:" "No one can be truly said to understand any great system of belief if he has not in some degree realized the point of view from which its arguments assume an appearance of plausibility and cogency, the habit of thought which makes its various doctrines appear probable, harmonious, and consistent" (p. xix.) Without wishing to deny the great value of Mr. Lecky's labours, it may, we think, be fairly said that he too has failed to realize the Catholic "point of view," as must all those who have no practical acquaintance with the Church. The "habit of thought" which makes our "various doctrines appear harmonious and consistent," is not of rationalistic growth; and the best intentioned critic is likely to misinterpret facts and judge harshly of persons in our history, when himself uninfluenced by the spirit which dictated the one, and guided the other. If the number of convictions for an offence be admitted as evidence for the existence of the offence itself, or, at least, for a belief in its existence, then the belief in Witchcraft must have been widespread and enduring. When we reflect that from the reign of Henry VI. to that of George II., ,when the statute against Witchcraft was repealed, about thirty thousand persons were put to death, for this crime, in England alone, we can form a fair idea of the hold it had upon the people. Nor was it in England only that a suspicion of sorcery sent men and women to perish in the flames or on the scaffold. The Duke of Wurtemberg gave orders for a grand Witch-burning on the Tuesday of every week, at which from twenty to twenty-five, but never less than fifteen victims were to be consumed. And the order seems to have been only too faithfully carried out—for a catalogue still exists in the library of Hauber, containing the names of 157 persons burned in the Bishopric of Wurzbourg between 1627 and 1629. During the nineteen years' rule of John VI., Elector of Treves, numberless executions took place—suspicion fell upon all classes alike; citizens, senators, priests, even the rector of the University, himself one of the judges, were accused and condemned. Such was the state of popular excitement, that of two whole villages two women alone were left: and within seven years, the victims from twenty villages, in the immediate neighbourhood of Treves, amounted to 368.

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Superstitions of the French Canadians by Blanche MacDonell 1894

o excels all the rustic gallants in appearance. He wears gloves to conceal his claws, and disregards the trammels of conventionality by keeping his hat on his head to hide his horns. He selects the prettiest girl in the room as his partner, but his choice is usually the village coquette, whose vanity or levity has exposed her to the evil influence. In the midst of the gayety a piercing cry is heard. A strong odor of brimstone becomes perceptible, and the attractive cavalier is wafted out of the window, carrying with him some useful domestic utensil, as, for instance, a stove or the frying pan. The girl may escape with a sharp scratch of a claw, particularly if she should happen to wear a cross or a crucifix. Canadian rustics never answer "Entrez," when a knock is heard at the door; they invariably respond "Ouvrez." This is founded upon an old legend of a young woman who replied "Entrez" to such a summons, when the devil came in and carried her off. When one is starting in a hurry to bring the priest to the sick, the devil is stimulated to the most lively activity, for then it is the question of the loss and gain of a soul. On such occasions an endless variety of the most unforeseen accidents are sure to happen. The horses are found unharnessed, or the harness breaks without any reason, and strange lights flash before the horses' eyes. Prudent persons guard against such contingencies by providing themselves with two vehicles; then, if an accident happens to one, the other remains available.

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Voltaire on Vampires 1901

What is it in our eighteenth century that vampires exist? Is it after the reigns of Locke, Shaftesbury, Trenchard, and Collins? Is it under those of d'Alembert, Diderot, St. Lambert, and Duclos that we believe in vampires, and that the reverend father Dom Calmet, Benedictine priest of the congregation of St. Vannes, and St. Hidulphe, abbe of Senon— an abbey of a hundred thousand livres a year, in the neighborhood of two other abbeys of the same revenue—has printed and reprinted the history of vampires, with the approbation of the Sorbonne, signed Marcilli? These vampires were corpses, who went out of their graves at night to suck the blood of the living, either at their throats or stomachs, after which they returned to their cemeteries. The persons so sucked waned, grew pale, and fell into consumption; while the sucking corpses grew fat, got rosy, and enjoyed an excellent appetite. It was in Poland, Hungary, Silesia, Moravia, Austria, and Lorraine, that the dead made this good cheer. We never heard a word of vampires in London, nor even at Paris. I confess that in both these cities there were stock-jobbers, brokers, and men of business, who sucked the blood of the people in broad daylight; but they were not dead, though corrupted. These true suckers lived not in cemeteries, but in very agreeable palaces. Who would believe that we derive the idea of vampires from Greece? Not from the Greece of Alexander, Aristotle, Plato, Epicurus, and Demosthenes; but from Christian Greece, unfortunately schismatic. For a long time Christians of the Greek rite have imagined that the bodies of Christians of the Latin church, buried in Greece, do not decay, because they are excommunicated. This is precisely the contrary to that of us Christians of the Latin church, who believe that corpses which do not corrupt are marked with the seal of eternal beatitude. So much so, indeed, that when we have paid a hundred thousand crowns to Rome, to give them a saint's brevet, we adore them with the worship of "dulia."

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The Wood of the Dead by Algernon Blackwood 1916

See also Supernatural Horror in Fiction Literature - 350 Books on DVDrom One summer, in my wanderings with a knapsack, I was at luncheon in the room of a wayside inn in the western country, when the door opened and there entered an old rustic, who crossed close to my end of the table and sat himself down very quietly in the seat by the bow window. We exchanged glances, or, properly speaking, nods, for at the moment I did not actually raise my eyes to his face, so concerned was I with the important business of satisfying an appetite gained by tramping twelve miles over a difficult country. The fine warm rain of seven o’clock, which had since risen in a kind of luminous mist about the tree tops, now floated far overhead in a deep blue sky, and the day was settling down into a blaze of golden light. It was one of those days peculiar to Somerset and North Devon, when the orchards shine and the meadows seem to add a radiance of their own, so brilliantly soft are the colourings of grass and foliage. The inn-keeper’s daughter, a little maiden with a simple country loveliness, presently entered with a foaming pewter mug, enquired after my welfare, and went out again. Apparently she had not noticed the old man sitting in the settle by the bow window, nor had he, for his part, so much as once turned his head in our direction. Under ordinary circumstances I should probably have given no thought to this other occupant of the room; but the fact that it was supposed to be reserved for my private use, and the singular thing that he sat looking aimlessly out of the window, with no attempt to engage me in conversation, drew my eyes more than once somewhat curiously upon him, and I soon caught myself wondering why he sat there so silently, and always with averted head. He was, I saw, a rather bent old man in rustic dress, and the skin of his face was wrinkled like that of an apple; corduroy trousers were caught up with a string below the knee, and he wore a sort of brown fustian jacket that was very much faded. His thin hand rested upon a stoutish stick. He wore no hat and carried none, and I noticed that his head, covered with silvery hair, was finely shaped and gave the impression of something noble. Though rather piqued by his studied disregard of my presence, I came to the conclusion that he probably had something to do with the little hostel and had a perfect right to use this room with freedom, and I finished my luncheon without breaking the silence and then took the settle opposite to smoke a pipe before going on my way. Through the open window came the scents of the blossoming fruit trees; the orchard was drenched in sunshine and the branches danced lazily in the breeze; the grass below fairly shone with white and yellow daisies, and the red roses climbing in profusion over the casement mingled their perfume with the sweetly penetrating odour of the sea. It was a place to dawdle in, to lie and dream away a whole afternoon, watching the sleepy butterflies and listening to the chorus of birds which seemed to fill every corner of the sky. Indeed, I was already debating in my mind whether to linger and enjoy it all instead of taking the strenuous pathway over the hills, when the old rustic in the settle opposite suddenly turned his face towards me for the first time and began to speak. His voice had a quiet dreamy note in it that was quite in harmony with the day and the scene, but it sounded far away, I thought, almost as though it came to me from outside where the shadows were weaving their eternal tissue of dreams upon the garden floor. Moreover, there was no trace in it of the rough quality one might naturally have expected, and, now that I saw the full face of the speaker for the first time, I noted with something like a start that the deep, gentle eyes seemed far more in keeping with the timbre of the voice than with the rough and very countrified appearance of the clothes and manner. His voice set pleasant waves of sound in motion towards me, and the actual words, if I remember rightly, were — “You are a stranger in these parts?” or “Is not this part of the country strange to you?” There was no “sir,” nor any outward and visible sign of the deference usually paid by real country folk to the town-bred visitor, but in its place a gentleness, almost a sweetness, of polite sympathy that was far more of a compliment than either. I answered that I was wandering on foot through a part of the country that was wholly new to me, and that I was surprised not to find a place of such idyllic loveliness marked upon my map. “I have lived here all my life,” he said, with a sigh, “and am never tired of coming back to it again.” “Then you no longer live in the immediate neighbourhood?” “I have moved,” he answered briefly, adding after a pause in which his eyes seemed to wander wistfully to the wealth of blossoms beyond the window; “but I am almost sorry, for nowhere else have I found the sunshine lie so warmly, the flowers smell so sweetly, or the winds and streams make such tender music. . . ” His voice died away into a thin stream of sound that lost itself in the rustle of the rose-leaves climbing in at the window, for he turned his head away from me as he spoke and looked out into the garden. But it was impossible to conceal my surprise, and I raised my eyes in frank astonishment on hearing so poetic an utterance from such a figure of a man, though at the same time realising that it was not in the least inappropriate, and that, in fact, no other sort of expression could have properly been expected from him.

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Ghost Stories Unveiled, article in Chamber's Journal 1878

GHOST-STORIES UNVEILED, article in Chamber's Journal of Popular Literature, Science and Arts 1878 Join my Facebook Group See also Forgotten Tales of Ghosts and Hauntings - 100 Books on CDrom In former times, ghost-stories constituted much of the fireside talk; the weird tale was told of how a spectre clothed in appropriate white was seen to appear, and in due course to vanish; and the hearers, duly impressed with the apparent truth of a tale, for which no natural reason was vouchsafed, became themselves in a measure forced to believe. Science and common-sense are, however, now robbing these absurd stories of much of their glamour, by explaining in a simple straightforward way what by many has hitherto been held to be supernatural and therefore unaccountable. With these remarks we proceed to offer a few instances of explained ghost-stories kindly supplied to us by a contributor. He says: What I am going to do is simply to give some instances in which what might have made a capital ghost-story, proved to be nothing of the kind, and to draw from thence the inference that all such stories could, if only we were acquainted with all the facts, be accounted for by natural causes. I have myself been sorely puzzled to account for what I have seen. On one occasion I was passing by a cemetery on my way to a distant part of my parish. The night was dark and foggy; and as I walked along the road close to the iron fence, I perceived within the inclosure, apparently but a few yards off, a body of dim light that seemed to come up from the ground. Now my impressions were all in favour of ghosts, and if my judgment also had been equally in favour, I should have had a ghost-story to tell about that place. But I was determined to seek an explanation of the phenomenon; so I went up to the railings and looked hard at the light, but could make nothing of it. At the same time I became conscious of a dull sound proceeding from the ground where it stood. I could not understand it; and there I stood peering in until my ears suddenly gave me a clue to the mystery, for I fancied I detected the thud of a mattock. And such it was. The sexton was working against time to dig for a large vault, and the mysterious light was nothing more or less than that of his lantern, some feet below the surface, which threw up into the foggy air a volume of strange misty brightness. But really it made a very creditable ghost. Another adventure I had was more laughable, but not less perplexing at the time. The night was very dark indeed; and as I took a sudden turn in the road, I saw a feebly illuminated figure moving slowly some distance in advance and in the same direction with myself. My first impression was that some one was going to try to frighten me; so I grasped my stick, intending, as boys say, to whack in to the culprit. But as I drew nearer, the figure stopped; and in a moment or two the illumination became somewhat brighter. I got close up to it, prepared to strike, but for the life of me could not tell what it was. I passed it close, and looked round into it, and found it was an old woman going home from a day's washing. She had on, poor soul, a very attenuated cloak, through which the light of the lantern she was carrying feebly penetrated, and when she had stopped to snuff the candle with her fingers, the light of course burned brighter. She was very deaf, and had not heard my footsteps; so that when I spoke I frightened her, I fear, more than she had frightened me. Talking of not hearing footsteps in the dark. I remember once alarming a neighbour most unintentionally; and had he not discovered the true cause, he might to this day have had a tale of mystery to unfold upon the subject I was walking briskly home one night with a map—mounted with rings for hanging it to a wall—under my arm and goloshes on my feet The rings kept up a sort of clicking noise as I went, while the goloshes caused me to glide along the damp lane with the noiselessness of a cat. But I never thought of either circumstance till afterwards. Hearing footsteps in front, I fancied it might be my neighbour, it being about his time for coming home, so I pushed on. But the quicker I went the farther off he seemed. I went faster still, but still I came not up with him; until, determined to overtake him, I set off running at a brisk pace and only reached him as he was passing into his gate, having, beyond the possibility of doubt, made a run for it himself. Whether he took the clicking of the rings, unaccompanied by the sound of footsteps, for the clicking of a pistol or the mysterious rattle of a fancied ghost, I cannot say; but this is certain, that if he had only stopped or even not run away, he would have found out the cause of what was undoubtedly a curious accompaniment on a dark night.

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