This House is Haunted Read Free Page A

do not propose to entertain you this evening with some of the more preposterous utterances of that delightful creature Sam Weller. Nor do I plan on uplifting your spirits through the bravery of my beloved boy Master Copperfield. Neither shall I seek to stir your emotions through a retelling of the last days of that unfortunate angel Little Nell Trent, may God have mercy on her soul.” He hesitated, allowing our anticipation to build, and we watched him, already captivated by his presence. “Instead,” he continued after a long pause, his voice growing deep and mellifluous now, the words emerging slowly, “I intend to read a ghost story that I have only recently completed, one which is scheduled to appear in the Christmas number of All the Year Round . It is a most terrifying tale, ladies and gentlemen, designed to stir the blood and unsettle the senses. It speaks of the paranormal, of the undead, of those pitiful creatures who wander the afterlife in search of eternal reconciliation. It contains a character who is neither alive nor deceased, neither sentient nor spirit. I wrote it to chill the blood of my readers and despatch ghouls into the beating heart of their dreams.”
    As he said this a cry went up from halfway down the hall and I turned my head, as did most of those in attendance, to see a young woman of about my own age, twenty-one, throwing her hands in the air and running down the aisle in fright. I sighed and secretly despised her for disgracing her sex.
    “Should any other ladies wish to leave,” said Mr. Dickens, who appeared to be delighted by this interruption, “might I urge you to do so now? I would not like to interrupt the flow of the story and the time has come for me to begin.”
    At these words, a small boy appeared from the side of the stage, approached the novelist and offered a low bow, before thrusting a sheaf of pages into Mr. Dickens’ hand. The boy ran off, the writer glanced at what he held, looked about him with a wild expression on his face and began to read.
    “Halloa! Below there!” he shouted in such an extraordinary and unexpected roar that I could not help but jump in my seat. A lady behind me uttered an oath and a gentleman on the aisle dropped his spectacles. Apparently enjoying the reaction that his cry had caused, Mr. Dickens paused for a few moments before continuing, whereupon I quickly found myself entranced by his tale. A single spotlight illuminated his pale face and his tone fluctuated between characters, describing fear, confusion and distress with only a slight change of modulation to his tone. His sense of timing was impeccable as he said one thing that made us laugh, then another that made us feel unsettled and then a third that made us leap in fright. He portrayed the two characters at the centre of the story—a signalman who worked by a railway tunnel and a visitor to that place—with such gusto that one almost believed that there were two actors on stage performing either role. The tale itself was, as he had suggested in his introduction,a disconcerting one, centring on the signalman’s belief that a spectre was informing him of calamities to come. The ghost had appeared once and a terrible crash had ensued; he had appeared a second time and a lady had died in the railway carriage as it passed. It had appeared a third time more recently, gesticulating wildly, urging the signalman to get out of the way, but as yet no misfortune had occurred and the nervous fellow was distressed at the thought of what horror might lie ahead. I considered Mr. Dickens rather devilish in the manner in which he took pleasure in stirring the emotions of his audience. When he knew that we were scared, he would incite us further, building on the threat and menace he had laid out for us and then, when we were certain that a terrible thing was about to happen, he would let us down, peace would be restored and we who had been holding our collective breaths in anticipation of some fresh