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    The Haunted House
    The Haunted House
    The Haunted House
    Ebook46 pages41 minutes

    The Haunted House

    By Charles Dickens

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    About this ebook

    The Haunted House Charles Dickens - The Haunted House is a story published in 1859 for the weekly periodical 'All the Year Round'. It was "Conducted by Charles Dickens", with contributions from other writers. It is a portmanteau story, with Dickens writing the opening and closing stories, framing stories by Dickens himself and five other authors: The Mortals in the House (Charles Dickens); The Ghost in the Clock Room (Hesba Stretton); The Ghost in the Double Room (George Augustus Sala); The Ghost in the Picture Room (Adelaide Anne Procter); The Ghost in the Cupboard Room (Wilkie Collins); The Ghost in Master B's Room (Charles Dickens); The Ghost in the Garden Room (Elizabeth Gaskell); and, The Ghost in the Corner Room (Charles Dickens).
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherPhoemixx Classics Ebooks
    Release dateSep 12, 2021
    ISBN9783986479541
    Author

    Charles Dickens

    Charles Dickens was born in 1812 and grew up in poverty. This experience influenced ‘Oliver Twist’, the second of his fourteen major novels, which first appeared in 1837. When he died in 1870, he was buried in Poets’ Corner in Westminster Abbey as an indication of his huge popularity as a novelist, which endures to this day.

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      Book preview

      The Haunted House - Charles Dickens

      PUBLISHER NOTES:

      Quality of Life, Freedom, More time with the ones you Love.

      Visit our website: LYFREEDOM.COM

      Chapter

      1

      The Mortals in the House

      Under none of the accredited ghostly circumstances, and environed by none of the conventional ghostly surroundings, did I first make acquaintance with the house which is the subject of this Christmas piece. I saw it in the daylight, with the sun upon it. There was no wind, no rain, no lightning, no thunder, no awful or unwonted circumstance, of any kind, to heighten its effect. More than that: I had come to it direct from a railway station: it was not more than a mile distant from the railway station; and, as I stood outside the house, looking back upon the way I had come, I could see the goods train running smoothly along the embankment in the valley. I will not say that everything was utterly commonplace, because I doubt if anything can be that, except to utterly commonplace people- -and there my vanity steps in; but, I will take it on myself to say that anybody might see the house as I saw it, any fine autumn morning.

      The manner of my lighting on it was this.

      I was travelling towards London out of the North, intending to stop by the way, to look at the house. My health required a temporary residence in the country; and a friend of mine who knew that, and who had happened to drive past the house, had written to me to suggest it as a likely place. I had got into the train at midnight, and had fallen asleep, and had woke up and had sat looking out of window at the brilliant Northern Lights in the sky, and had fallen asleep again, and had woke up again to find the night gone, with the usual discontented conviction on me that I hadn’t been to sleep at all;—upon which question, in the first imbecility of that condition, I am ashamed to believe that I would have done wager by battle with the man who sat opposite me. That opposite man had had, through the night—as that opposite man always has—several legs too many, and all of them too long. In addition to this unreasonable conduct (which was only to be expected of him), he had had a pencil and a pocket-book, and had been perpetually listening and taking notes. It had appeared to me that these aggravating notes related to the jolts and bumps of the carriage, and I should have resigned myself to his taking them, under a general supposition that he was in the civil-engineering way of life, if he had not sat staring straight over my head whenever he listened. He was a goggle-eyed gentleman of a perplexed aspect, and his demeanour became unbearable.

      It was a cold, dead morning (the sun not being up yet), and when I had out-watched the paling light of the fires of the iron country, and the curtain of heavy smoke that hung at once between me and the stars and between me and the day, I turned to my fellow-traveller and said:

      I beg your pardon, sir, but do you observe anything particular in me? For, really, he appeared to be taking down, either my travelling-cap or my hair, with a minuteness that was a liberty.

      The goggle-eyed gentleman withdrew his eyes from behind me, as if the back of the

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