Haunted

"Haunted" by Joseph Thomas Sheridan Le Fanu is a collection of eerie and suspenseful ghost stories that exemplifies the author's mastery of supernatural fiction. Published in 1871, the book features a range of interconnected tales that explore themes of love, loss, and the unknown, all woven within a richly atmospheric setting. Le Fanu's nuanced characters and psychological depth create a haunting experience, inviting readers to delve into the mysteries of the afterlife and the thin veil between the living and the dead. With its gothic elements and chilling narratives, "Haunted" remains a classic in the realm of ghost literature.

• Horror

								
Some few years ago one of those great national conventions which draw
together all ages and conditions of the sovereign people of America was
held in Charleston, South Carolina.

Colonel Demarion, one of the State Representatives, had attended that
great national convention; and, after an exciting week, was returning
home, having a long and difficult journey before him.

A pair of magnificent horses, attached to a light buggy, flew merrily
enough over a rough-country for a while; but toward evening stormy
weather reduced the roads to a dangerous condition, and compelled the
Colonel to relinquish his purpose of reaching home that night, and to
stop at a small wayside tavern, whose interior, illuminated by blazing
wood-fires, spread a glowing halo among the dripping trees as he
approached it, and gave promise of warmth and shelter at least.

Drawing up to this modest dwelling, Colonel Demarion saw through its
uncurtained windows that there was no lack of company within. Beneath
the trees, too, an entanglement of rustic vehicles, giving forth red
gleams from every dripping angle, told him that beasts as well as men
were cared for. At the open door appeared the form of a man, who, at the
sound of wheels, but not seeing in the outside darkness whom he
addressed, called out, "'Tain't no earthly use a-stoppin' here."

Caring more for his chattels than for himself, the Colonel paid no
further regard to this address than to call loudly for the landlord.

At the tone of authority, the man in outline more civilly announced
himself to be the host; yet so far from inviting the traveller to
alight, insisted that the house was "as full as it could pack;" but that
there was a place a little farther down the road where the gentleman
would be certain to find excellent accommodation.

"What stables have you here?" demanded the traveller, giving no more
heed to this than to the former announcement; but bidding his servant to
alight, and preparing to do so himself.

"Stables!" repeated the baffled host, shading his eyes so as to
scrutinize the newcomer, "stables, Cap'n?"

"Yes, stables. I want you to take care of my horses; I can take care
of myself. Some shelter for cattle you must have by the look of these
traps," pointing to the wagons. "I don't want my horses to be kept
standing out in this storm, you know."

"No, Major. Why no, cert'n'y; Marion's ain't over a mile, and----"

"Conf--!" muttered the Colonel; "but it's over the river, which I
don't intend to ford to-night under any consideration."

So saying, the Colonel leaped to the ground, directing his servant to
cover the horses and then get out his valise; while the host, thus
defeated, assumed the best grace he could to say that he would see what
could be done "for the horses."

"I am a soldier, my man," added the Colonel in a milder tone, as he
stamped his cold feet on the porch and shook off the rain from his
travelling-gear; "I am used to rough fare and a hard couch: all we want
is shelter. A corner of the floor will suffice for me and my rug; a
private room I can dispense with at such times as these."

The landlord seemed no less relieved at this assurance than mollified by
the explanation of a traveller whom he now saw was of a very different
stamp from those who usually frequented the tavern. "For the matter of
stables, his were newly put up, and first-rate," he said; and
"cert'n'y the Gen'ral was welcome to a seat by the fire while 'twas
a-storming so fierce."

Colonel Demarion gave orders to his servant regarding the horses, while
the landlord, kicking at what seemed to be a bundle of sacking down
behind the door, shouted--"Jo! Ho, Jo! Wake up, you sleepy-headed
n*gger! Be alive, boy, and show this gentleman's horses to the stables."
Upon a repetition of which charges a tall, gaunt, dusky figure lifted
itself from out of the dark corner, and grew taller and more gaunt as it
stretched itself into waking with a grin which was the most visible part
of it, by reason of two long rows of ivory gleaming in the red glare.
The hard words had fallen as harmless on Jo's ear-drum as the kicks upon
his impassive frame. To do Jo's master justice, the kicks were not
vicious kicks, and the rough language was but an intimation that
dispatch was needed. Very much of the spaniel's nature had Jo; and as he
rolled along the passage to fetch a lantern, his mouth expanded into a
still broader grin at the honor of attending so stately a gentleman.
Quick, like his master, too, was Jo to discriminate between "real
gentlefolks" and the "white trash" whose rough-coated, rope-harnessed
mules were the general occupants of his stables.

"Splendid pair, sir," said the now conciliating landlord. "Shove some o'
them mules out into the shed, Jo (which your horses 'll feel more to hum
in my new stalls, Gen'ral)."

Again cautioning his man Plato not to leave them one moment, Colonel
Demarion turned to enter the house.

"You'll find a rough crowd in here, sir," said the host, as he paused on
the threshold; "but a good fire, anyhow. 'Tain't many of these loafers
as understand this convention business--I presume, Gen'ral, you've
attended the convention--they all on 'em thinks they does, tho'. Fact
most on 'em thinks they'd orter be on the committee theirselves. Good
many on 'em is from Char'ston to-day, but is in the same fix as yerself,
Gen'ral--can't get across the river to-night."

"I see, I see," cried the statesman, with a gesture toward the
sitting-room. "Now what have you got in your larder, Mr. Landlord? and
send some supper out to my servant; he must make a bed of the
carriage-mats to-night."

The landlord introduced his guest into a room filled chiefly with that
shiftless and noxious element of Southern society known as "mean
whites." Pipes and drinks, and excited arguments, engaged these people
as they stood or sat in groups. The host addressed those who were
gathered round the log-fire, and they opened a way for the new-comer,
some few, with republican freedom, inviting him to be seated, the rest
giving one furtive glance, and then, in antipathy born of envy, skulking
away.

The furniture of this comfortless apartment consisted of sloppy,
much-jagged deal tables, dirty whittled benches, and a few uncouth
chairs. The walls were dirty with accumulated tobacco stains, and so
moist and filthy was the floor, that the sound only of scraping seats
and heavy footsteps told that it was of boards and not bare earth.

Seated with his back toward the majority of the crowd, and shielded by
his newspaper, Colonel Demarion sat awhile unobserved; but was presently
recognized by a man from his own immediate neighborhood, when the
information was quickly whispered about that no less a person than their
distinguished Congressman was among them.

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