source form: paranormal

Within the upstairs window is what appears to be a young boy peering outside. The building is locally famous as being the oldest wood school house in the state of Florida.

source form: hauntedhovel

These are just a few of the ghost pictures we have collected from around the internet over the years. As time goes by we will add more and more ghost pictures to the collection. We have seen hundreds and hundreds of pictures that are said to be ghost pictures. The truth appears to be that the majority of so-called ghost pictures can be explained away and essentially shown to be fakes. However,amongst those hundreds of ghost pictures there are a few that have really stuck in our brain and left us to think they really might be real ghost pictures. You have to make up your own mind but to us these are the most convincing ghost pictures we have found.

	This ghost photo is an old picture that is said to be a ghost picture of an older boy climbing the staircase of an old run down house. Perhaps he once lived in the house and met his end at a young age. Whichever the case, this ghost picture shows that he was in no hurry to leave the house even if it was as run down and as past its prime as he was at this point.
	A haunting picture of a ghost taken in a woman’s bedroom. The woman that took this picture in the early 1970′s was simply making up her bed in a new set of sheets and pillow cases when she felt something in the room. She couldn’t see it with her naked eye but when she took a picture and had the film developed she was shocked to find this image of woman staring back at her. This ghost picture has haunted her ever since.
	This ghost photo is known as The Brown Lady and is probably the most famous ghost picture ever taken. The story goes is that the woman in the ghost picture is the ghost of Lady Dorothy Townsend. Lady Townsend lived in Raynham Hall Mansion in Norfolk, England in the 1700′s. It is said that Lady Townsend’s husband, Charles Townsend, suspected his wife of being unfaithful and even though she is listed as having been buried in 1725 many people think that her death and funeral were faked. Instead, Lady Townsend was locked away in a remote part of the house until she passed away some years later. Ever since then she is thought to be haunting Raynham Hall. This particular ghost picture was taken in 1936 and appeared in Country Life magazine.
	This ghost picture was taken when a woman was convinced she wasn’t alone in the room. She would have this feeling every morning when she was getting ready for work. She just felt that she wasn’t the only one in the bedroom. As usual, nobody would believe her so she set out to take a picture and hoped that she would get an idea of what was happening every morning. When she had her photo developed she was shocked at the image she saw in her ghost picture. What she saw was the faint image of this naked woman getting out of her bed. Is it possible she had been sleeping next to a ghost for all that time? Her ghost picture would certainly suggest that.
	Of all the ghost pictures we have seen this has to be one of the ghost pictures that most tugs at our heat strings. The woman that took the ghost pictures says that some months after her first baby was born her father died. When her second baby was born the baby was born early and had to stay in the hospital for an extended period. All the time her new baby was in the hospital she kept thinking about her father and wishing he was there to give her strength. Her baby eventually recovered and went on to be big and strong. However, some time later when she was looking through picture taken in the hospital she was stopped in her tracks when she saw this picture. The face in the glass hovering over her poorly son was the face of her dead father. The ghost picture was proof positive to her that her father never left her side when she needed him the most.
	Some ghost pictures are as beautiful as they are perplexing. This ghost picture was taken when a young couple were out taking a night time walk in the woods. They had hoped to get a few picture of wild life but what they hadn’t counted on was capturing this beautiful picture of a ghost floating along the tree tops. They later found out there had been a murder in that section of the woods many years ago. It looks as if the soul of the person that was killed isn’t too shy and was happy to pose for a ghost picture even if the photographers didn’t know it at the time.
	This is more of a case of a ghost in a picture than a ghost picture – though it is that too. If you look carefully behind the family in this 1970′s picture you can just make out the face of a little boy appearing in the corner of the picture of Jesus hanging on the wall. A zoomed in version of the picture very clearly shows the boy’s face. Why the ghost of this little boy was showing up in the picture of Jesus it unknown. Perhaps he simply felt the most safe with Jesus by his side.
	Historic spots where a lot of people lost their lives are naturally hot spots for taking ghost pictures. Of all the historic spots in the United States the battlefield at Gettysburg is one that saw huge number of deaths. This is just one of the many photos taken at Gettysburg that has captured pictures of ghosts on photos taken on the sight. Hopefully the ghosts will find their rest at some point in history. Maybe once our country has let the ghosts of the war go in our own lives they will be able to rest.
	The man that top this ghost picture couldn’t quite figure out why his cat was always restless when it was sitting at this window in the man’s apartment. Then one day when he took a picture of his cat and had the film developed he discovered that he had actually taken a ghost picture. You can clearly see the ghost floating over by the window and right next to the cat. Remember, animals are more perceptive to the presence of ghosts than humans.
	This is another case for a ghost picture that is a beautiful picture as well as a photo of a ghost. This one was taken at a grave when the white ghost was clearly seen floating up from the grave. What a beautiful and inspiring ghost picture.

source from: ghoststoriesandpictures

source from: ghostsnstuff

The circumstances I am about to relate to you have truth to recommend them.
They happened to myself, and my recollection of them is as vivid as if they had
taken place only yesterday Twenty years, however, have gone by since that night.
During those twenty years I have told the story to but one other person. I tell
it now with a reluctance which I find it difficult to overcome. All I entreat,
meanwhile, is that you will abstain from forcing your own conclusions upon me. I
want nothing explained away I desire no arguments. My mind on this subject is
quite made up, and, having the testimony of my own senses to rely upon, I prefer
to abide by it.
Well! It was just twenty years ago, and within a day or two of the end of
the grouse season. I had been out all day with my gun, and had no sport to
speak of. The wind was due east; the month, December; the place, a bleak wide
moor in the far north of England. And I had lost my way It was not a pleasant
place in which to lose one’s way, with the first feathery flakes of a coming
snowstorm just fluttering down upon the heather, and the leaden evening closing
in all around. I shaded my eyes with my hand, and stared anxiously into the
gathering darkness, where the purple moorland melted into a range of low hills,
some ten or twelve miles distant. Not the faintest smoke-wreath, not the tiniest
cultivated patch, or fence, or sheep-track, met my eyes in any direction. There
was nothing for it but to walk on, and take my chance of finding what shelter I
could, by the way So I shouldered my gun again, and pushed wearily forward; for
I had been on foot since an hour after daybreak, and had eaten nothing since
breakfast.

Meanwhile, the snow began to come down with ominous steadiness, and the wind
fell. After this, the cold became more intense, and the night came rapidly up.
As for me, my prospects darkened with the darkening sky, and my heart grew heavy
as I thought how my young wife was already watching for me through the window of
our little inn parlour, and thought of all the suffering in store for her
throughout this weary night. We had been married four months, and, having spent
our autumn in the Highlands, were now lodging in a remote little village
situated just on the verge of the great English moorlands. We were very much in
love, and, of course, very happy This morning, when we parted, she had implored
me to return before dusk, and I had promised her that I would. What would I not
have given to have kept my word!
Even now, weary as I was, I felt that with a supper, an hour’s rest, and a
guide, I might still get back to her before midnight, if only guide and shelter
could be found.
And all this time, the snow fell and the night thickened. 1 stopped and
shouted every now and then, but my shouts seemed only to make the silence
deeper. Then a vague sense of uneasiness came upon me, and I began to remember
stories of travellers who had walked on and on in the falling snow until,
wearied out, they were fain to lie down and sleep their lives away Would it be
possible, I asked myself, to keep on thus through all the long dark night? Would
there not come a time when my limbs must fail, and my resolution give way? When
I, too, must sleep the sleep of death. Death! I shuddered. How hard to die just
now, when life lay all so bright before me! How hard for my darling, whose whole
loving heart but that thought was not to be borne! To banish it, I shouted
again, louder and longer, and then listened eagerly. Was my shout answered, or
did I only fancy that I heard a far-off cry? I halloed again, and again the echo
followed. Then a wavering speck of light came suddenly out of the dark,
shifting, disappearing, growing momentarily nearer and brighter. Running towards
it at full speed, I found myself, to my great joy, face to face with an old man
and a lantern.
‘Thank God!’ was the exclamation that burst involuntarily from my lips.
Blinking and frowning, he lifted his lantern and peered into my face.
‘What for?’ growled he, sulkily.
‘Well-for you. I began to fear I should be lost in the snow.
‘Eh, then, folks do get cast away hereabout fra’ time to time, an’ what’s to
hinder you from bein’ cast away likewise, if the Lord’s so minded?’
‘If the Lord is so minded that you and I shall be lost together, friend, we
must submit,’ I replied; ‘but I don’t mean to be lost without you. How far am I
now from Dwolding?’
A gude twenty mile, more or less.’ And the nearest village?’
‘The nearest village is Wyke, an’ that’s twelve mile t’other side.’
‘Where do you live, then?’
‘Out yonder,’ said he, with a vague jerk of the lantern.
‘You’re going home, I presume?’
‘Maybe I am.’
‘Then I’m going with you.’
The old man shook his head, and rubbed his nose reflectively with the handle
of the lantern.
‘It ain’t o’ no use,’ growled he. ‘He ‘ont let you in-not he.’
‘We’ll see about that,’ I replied, briskly. ‘Who is He?’
‘The master.’
‘Who is the master?’
‘That’s nowt to you,’ was the unceremonious reply.
‘Well, well; you lead the way, and I’ll engage that the master shall give me
shelter and a supper tonight.’
‘Eh, you can try him!’ muttered my reluctant guide; and, still shaking his
head, he hobbled, gnome-like, away through the falling snow A large mass loomed
up presently out of the darkness, and a huge dog rushed out, barking furiously.
‘Is this the house?’ I asked.
‘Ay, it’s the house. Down, Bey!’ And he fumbled in his pocket for the key.
I drew up close behind him, prepared to lose no chance of entrance, and saw
in the little circle of light shed by the lantern that the door was heavily
studded with iron nails, like the door of a prison. In another minute he had
turned the key and I had pushed past him into the house.
Once inside, I looked round with curiosity, and found myself in a great
raftered hall, which served, apparently, a variety of uses. One end was piled to
the roof with corn, like a barn. The other was stored with floursacks,
agricultural implements, casks, and all kinds of miscellaneous lumber; while
from the beams overhead hung rows of hams, flitches, and bunches of dried herbs
for winter use. In the centre of the floor stood some huge object gauntly
dressed in a dingy wrapping-cloth, and reaching half way to the rafters. Lifting
a corner of this cloth, I saw, to my surprise, a telescope of very considerable
size, mounted on a rude movable platform, with four small wheels. The tube was
made of painted wood, bound round with bands of metal rudely fashioned; the
speculum, so far as I could estimate its size in the dim light, measured at
least fifteen inches in diameter. While I was yet examining the instrument; and
asking myself whether it was not the work of some self-taught optician, a bell
rang sharply.
‘That’s for you,’ said my guide, with a malicious grin. ‘Yonder’s his room.
He pointed to a low black door at the opposite side of the hall. I crossed
over, rapped somewhat loudly, and went in, without waiting for an invitation. A
huge, white-haired old man rose from a table covered with books and papers, and
confronted me sternly
‘Who are you?’ said he. ‘How came you here? What do you want?’
‘James Murray, barrister-at-law On foot across the moor. Meat, drink, and
sleep.’
He bent his bushy brows into a portentous frown.
‘Mine is not a house of entertainment,’ he said, haughtily. ‘Jacob, how
dared you admit this stranger?’
‘I didn’t admit him,’ grumbled the old man. ‘He followed me over the muir,
and shouldered his way in before me. I’m no match for six foot two.’
‘And pray, sir, by what right have you forced an entrance into my house?’
‘The same by which I should have clung to your boat, if I were drowning. The
right of self-preservation.’
‘Self-preservation?’
‘There’s an inch of snow on the ground already,’ I replied, briefly; ‘and it
would be deep enough to cover my body before daybreak.’
He strode to the window, pulled aside a heavy black curtain, and looked out.
‘It is true,’ he said. ‘You can stay, if you choose, till morning. Jacob,
serve the supper.’
With this he waved me to a seat, resumed his own, and became at once
absorbed in the studies from which I had disturbed him.
I placed my gun in a corner, drew a chair to the hearth, and examined my
quarters at leisure. Smaller and less incongruous in its arrangements than the
hall, this room contained, nevertheless, much to awaken my curiosity. The floor
was carpetless. The whitewashed walls were in parts scrawled over with strange
diagrams, and in others covered with shelves crowded with philosophical
instruments, the uses of many of which were unknown to me. On one side of the
fireplace, stood a bookcase filled with dingy folios; on the other, a small
organ, fantastically decorated with painted carvings of medieval saints and
devils. Through the half-opened door of a cupboard at the further end of the
room, I saw a long array of geological specimens, surgical preparations,
crucibles, retorts, and jars of chemicals; while on the mantelshelf beside me,
amid a number of small objects, stood a model of the solar system, a small
galvanic battery, and a microscope. Every chair had its burden. Every corner was
heaped high with books. The very floor was littered over with maps, casts,
papers, tracings, and learned lumber of all conceivable kinds.
I stared about me with an amazement increased by every fresh object upon
which my eyes chanced to rest. So strange a room I had never seen yet seemed it
stranger still, to find such a room in a lone farmhouse amid those wild and
solitary moors! Over and over again, I looked from my host to his surroundings,
and from his surroundings back to my host, asking myself who and what he could
be? His head was singularly fine; but it was more the head of a poet than of a
philosopher. Broad in the temples, prominent over the eyes, and clothed with a
rough profusion of
perfectly white hair, it had all the ideality and much of the ruggedness
that characterises the head of Louis von Beethoven. There were the same deep
lines about the mouth, and the same stern furrows in the brow There was the same
concentration of expression. While I was yet observing him, the door opened, and
Jacob brought in the supper. His master then closed his book, rose, and with
more courtesy of manner than he had yet shown, invited me to the table.
A dish of ham and eggs, a loaf of brown bread, and a bottle of admirable
sherry, were placed before me.
‘I have but the homeliest farmhouse fare to offer you, sir,’ said my
entertainer. ‘Your appetite, I trust, will make up for the deficiencies of our
larder.’
I had already fallen upon the viands, and now protested, with the enthusiasm
of a starving sportsman, that I had never eaten anything so delicious.
He bowed stiffly, and sat down to his own supper, which consisted,
primitively, of a jug of milk and a basin of porridge. We ate in silence, and,
when we had done, Jacob removed the tray. I then drew my chair back to the
fireside. My host, somewhat to my surprise, did the same, and turning abruptly
towards me, said:
‘Sir, I have lived here in strict retirement for three-and-twenty years.
During that time, I have not seen as many strange faces, and I have not read a
single newspaper. You are the first stranger who has crossed my threshold for
more than four years. Will you favour me with a few words of information
respecting that outer world from which I have parted company so long?’
‘Pray interrogate me,’ I replied. ‘I am heartily at your service.’
He bent his head in acknowledgment, leaned forward, with his elbows resting
on his knees and his chin supported in the palms of his hands; stared fixedly
into the fire; and proceeded to question me.
His inquiries related chiefly to scientific matters, with the later progress
of which, as applied to the practical purposes of life, he was almost wholly
unacquainted. No student of science myself, I replied as well as my slight
information permitted; but the task was far from easy, and I was much relieved
when, passing from interrogation to discussion, he began pouring forth his own
conclusions upon the facts which I had been attempting to place before him. He
talked, and I listened spellbound. He talked till I believe he almost forgot my
presence, and only thought aloud. I had never heard anything like it then; I
have never heard anything like it since. Familiar with all systems of all
philosophies, subtle in analysis, bold in generalisation, he poured forth his
thoughts in an uninterrupted stream, and, still leaning forward in the same
moody attitude with his eyes fixed upon the fire, wandered from topic to topic,
from speculation to speculation, like an inspired dreamer. From practical
science to mental philosophy; from electricity in the wire to electricity in the
nerve; from Watts to Mesmer, from Mesmer to Reichenbach, from Reichenbach to
Swedenborg, Spinoza, Condillac, Descartes, Berkeley, Aristotle, Plato, and the
Magi and mystics of the East, were transitions which, however bewildering in
their variety and scope, seemed easy and harmonious upon his lips as sequences
in music. 13y-and-by-I forget now by what link of conjecture or illustration-he
passed on to that field which lies beyond the boundary line of even conjectural
philosophy, and reaches no man knows whither. He spoke of the soul and its
aspirations; of the spirit and its powers; of second sight; of prophecy; of
those phenomena which, under the names of ghosts, spectres, and supernatural
appearances, have been denied by the sceptics and attested by the credulous, of
all ages.
‘The world,’ he said, ‘grows hourly more and more sceptical of all that lies
beyond its own narrow radius; and our men of science foster the fatal tendency.
They condemn as fable all that resists experiment. They reject as false all that
cannot be brought to the test of the laboratory or the dissecting-room. Against
what superstition have they waged so long and obstinate a war, as against the
belief in apparitions? And yet what superstition has maintained its hold upon
the minds of men so long and so firmly? Show me any fact in physics, in history,
in archeology, which is supported by testimony so wide and so various. Attested
by all races of men, in all ages, and in all climates, by the soberest sages of
antiquity, by the rudest savage of today, by the Christian, the Pagan, the
Pantheist, the Materialist, this phenomenon is treated as a nursery tale by the
philosophers of our century. Circumstantial evidence weighs with them as a
feather in the balance. The comparison of causes with effects, however valuable
in physical science, is put aside as worthless and unreliable. The evidence of
competent witnesses, however conclusive in a court of justice, counts for
nothing. He who pauses before he pronounces, is condemned as a trifler. He who
believes, is a dreamer or a fool.’
He spoke with bitterness, and, having said thus, relapsed for some minutes
into silence. Presently he raised his head from his hands, and added, with an
altered voice and manner,
‘I, sir, paused, investigated, believed, and was not ashamed to state my
convictions to the world. I, too, was branded as a visionary, held up to
ridicule by my contemporaries, and hooted from that field of science in which I
had laboured with honour during all the best years of my life. These things
happened just three-and-twenty years ago. Since then, I
have lived as you see me living now, and the world has forgotten me, as I
have forgotten the world. You have my history.’
‘It is a very sad one,’ I murmured, scarcely knowing what to answer.
‘It is a very, common one,’ he replied. ‘I have only suffered for the truth,
as many a better and wiser man has suffered before me.
He rose, as if desirous of ending the conversation, and went over to the
window
‘It has ceased snowing,’ he observed, as he dropped the curtain, and came
back to the fireside.
‘Ceased!’ I exclaimed, starting eagerly to my feet. ‘Oh, if it were only
possible-but no! it is hopeless. Even if I could find my way across the moor, I
could not walk twenty miles tonight.’
‘Walk twenty miles tonight!’ repeated my host. ‘What are you thinking of?’
‘Of my wife,’ I replied, impatiently. ‘Of my young wife, who does not know
that I have lost my way, and who is at this moment breaking her heart with
suspense and terror.’
‘Where is she?’
At Dwolding, twenty miles away.’
‘At Dwolding,’ he echoed, thoughtfully. ‘Yes, the distance, it is true, is
twenty miles; but-are you so very anxious to save the next six or eight hours?’
‘So very, very anxious, that I would give ten guineas at this moment for a
guide and a horse.’
‘Your wish can be gratified at a less costly rate,’ said he, smiling. ‘The
night mail from the north, which changes horses at Dwolding, passes within five
miles of this spot, and will be due at a certain cross-road in about an hour and
a quarter. If Jacob were to go with you across the moor, and put you into the
old coach-road, you could find your way, I suppose, to where it joins the new
one?’
‘Easily-gladly.’
He smiled again, rang the bell, gave the old servant his directions, and,
taking a bottle of whisky and a wineglass from the cupboard in which he kept his
chemicals, said:
‘The snow lies deep, and it will be difficult walking tonight on the moor. A
glass of usquebaugh before you start?’
I would have declined the spirit, but he pressed it on me, and I drank it.
It went down my throat like liquid flame, and almost took my breath away.
‘It is strong,’ he said; ‘but it will help to keep out the cold. And now you
have no moments to spare. Good night!’
I thanked him for his hospitality, and would have shaken hands, but that he
had turned away before I could finish my sentence. In another minute I had
traversed the hall, Jacob had locked the outer door behind me, and we were out
on the wide white moor.
Although the wind had fallen, it was still bitterly cold. Not a star
glimmered in the black vault overhead Not a sound, save the rapid crunching of
the snow beneath our feet, disturbed the heavy stillness of the night. Jacob,
not too well pleased With his mission, shambled on before in sullen silence, his
lantern in h~5 hand, and his shadow at his feet. I followed, with my gun over my
shoulder, as little inclined for conversation as himself. My thoughts were full
of my late host. His voice yet rang in my ears. His eloquence yet held my
imagination captive. I remember to this day, with surprise, how my over-excited
brain retained whole sentences and parts of sentences, troops of brilliant
images, and fragments of splendid reasoning, in the very words in which he had
uttered them. Musing thus over what I had heard, and striving to recall a lost
link here and there, I strode on at the heels of my guide, absorbed and
unobservant. Presently-at the end, as it seemed to me, of only a few minutes-he
came to a sudden halt, and said:
‘Yon’s your road. Keep the stone fence to your right hand, and you can’t
fail of the way.
‘This, then, is the old coach-road?’ Ay, ’tis the old coach-road.’
‘And how far do I go, before I reach the cross-roads?’ ‘Nigh upon three
mile.’
I pulled out my purse, and he became more communicative.
The roads a fair road enough,’ said he, ‘for foot passengers; but ’twas over
steep and narrow for the northern traffic. You’ll mind where the parapets broken
away, close again the sign-post It’s never been mended since the accident,’
‘What accident?’
‘Eh, the night mail pitched right over into the valley below-a gude fifty
feet an’ more-just at the worst bit o’ road in the whole county.’
Horrible! Were many lives lost?’
‘All. Four were found dead, and t’other two died next morning.’
‘How long is it since this happened?’
‘Just nine year.’
‘Near the sign-post, you say? I will bear it in mind. Good night.’
‘Gude night, sir, and thankee.’ Jacob pocketed his half-crown, made a faint
pretence of touching his hat, and trudged back by the way he had come.
I watched the light of his lantern till it quite disappeared, and then
turned to pursue my way alone. This was no longer matter of the slightest
difficulty, for, despite the dead darkness overhead, the line of stone fence
showed distinctly enough against the pale gleam of the snow How silent it seemed
now, with only my footsteps to listen to; how silent and how solitary! A strange
disagreeable sense of loneliness stole over me. I walked faster. I hummed a
fragment of a tune. I cast up enormous sums in my head, and accumulated them at
compound interest. I did my best, in short, to forget the startling speculations
to which I had but just been listening, and, to some extent, I succeeded.
Meanwhile the night air seemed to become colder and colder, and though I
walked fast I found it impossible to keep myself warm. My feet were like ice. I
lost sensation in my hands, and grasped my gun mechanically I even breathed with
difficulty, as though, instead of traversing a quiet north country highway, I
were scaling the uppermost heights of some gigantic Alp. This last symptom
became presently so distressing, that I was forced to stop for a few minutes,
and lean against the stone fence. As I did so, I chanced to look back up the
road, and there, to my infinite relief, I saw a distant point of light, like the
gleam of an approaching lantern. I at first concluded that Jacob had retraced
his steps and followed me; but even as the conjecture presented itself, a second
light flashed into sight-a light evidently parallel with the first, and
approaching at the same rate of motion. It needed no second thought to show me
that these must be the carriage-lamps of some private vehicle, though it seemed
strange that any private vehicle should take a road professedly disused and
dangerous.
There could be no doubt, however, of the fact, for the lamps grew larger and
brighter every moment, and I even fancied I could already see the dark outline
of the carriage between them. It was coming up very fast, and quite noiselessly,
the snow being nearly a foot deep under the wheels.
And now the body of the vehicle became distinctly visible behind the lamps.
It looked strangely lofty. A sudden suspicion flashed upon me. Was it possible
that I had passed the cross-roads in the dark without observing the sign-post,
and could this be the very coach which I had come to meet?
No need to ask myself that question a second time, for here it came round
the bend of the road, guard and driver, one outside passenger, and four steaming
greys, all wrapped in a soft haze of light, through which the lamps blazed out,
like a pair of fiery meteors.
I jumped forward, waved my hat, and shouted. The mail came down at full
speed, and passed me. For a moment I feared that I had not been seen or heard,
but it was only for a moment. The coachman pulled up; the guard, muffled to the
eyes in capes and comforters, and apparently sound asleep in the rumble, neither
answered my hail nor made the slightest effort to dismount; the outside
passenger did not even turn his head. I opened the door for myself, and looked
in. There were but three travellers inside, so I stepped in, shut the door,
slipped into the vacant corner and congratulated myself on my good fortune.
The atmosphere of the coach seemed, if possible, colder than that of the
outer air, and was pervaded by a singularly damp and disagreeable smell. I
looked round at my fellow-passengers. They were all three, men, and all silent.
They did not seem to be asleep, but each leaned back in his corner of the
vehicle, as if absorbed in his own reflections. I attempted to open a
conversation.
‘How intensely cold it is tonight,’ I said, addressing my opposite
neighbour.
He lifted his head, looked at me, but made no reply.
‘The winter,’ I added, ‘seems to have begun in earnest.’
Although the corner, in which he sat was so dim that I could distinguish
none of his features very clearly, I saw that his eyes were still turned full
upon me. And yet he answered never a word.
At any other time I should have felt, and perhaps expressed, some annoyance,
but at the moment I felt too ill to do either. The icy coldness of the night air
had struck a chill to my very marrow, and the strange smell inside the coach was
affecting me with an intolerable nausea. I shivered from head to foot, and,
turning to my left-hand neighbour, asked if he had any objection to an open
window?
He neither spoke nor stirred.
I repeated the question somewhat more loudly, but with the same result. Then
I lost patience, and let the sash down. As I did so the leather strap broke in
my hand’, and I observed that the glass was covered with a thick coat of mildew,
the accumulation, apparently, of years. My attention being thus drawn to the
condition of the coach, I examined it more narrowly, and saw by the uncertain
light of the outer lamps that it was in [he last stage of dilapidation. Every
part of it was not only out of repair, but in a condition of decay. The sashes
splintered at a touch. The leather fittings were crusted over with mould, and
literally rotting from the woodwork. The floor was almost breaking away beneath
my feet. The whole machine, in short, was foul with damp, and had evidently been
dragged from some outhouse in which it had been mouldering away for years, to do
another day or two of duty on the road.
I turned to the third passenger, whom I had not yet addressed, and hazarded
one more remark.
‘This coach,’ I said, ‘is in a deplorable condition. The regular mail, I
suppose, is under repair?’
He moved his head slowly, and looked me in the face, without speaking a
word. I shall never forget that look while I live. I turned cold at heart under
it. I turn cold at heart even now when I recall it. His eyes glowed with a fiery
unnatural lustre. His face was livid as the face of a corpse. His bloodless lips
were drawn back as if in the agony of death, and showed the gleaming teeth
between.
The words that I was about to utter died upon my lips, and a strange
horror-a dreadful horror-came upon me. My sight had by this time become used to
the gloom of the coach, and I could see with tolerable distinctness. I turned to
my opposite neighbour. He, too, was looking at me, with the same startling
pallor in his face, and the same stony glitter in his eyes. I passed my hand
across my brow I turned to the passenger on the seat beside my own, and saw-oh
Heaven! how shall I describe what I saw? I saw that he was no living man-that
none of them were living, men, like myself! A pale phosphorescent light-the
light of putrefaction-played upon their awful faces; upon their hair, dank with
the dews of the grave; upon their clothes, earth-stained and dropping to pieces;
upon their hands, which were as the hands of corpses long buried. Only their
eyes, their terrible eyes, were living; and those eyes were all turned
menacingly upon me!
A shriek of terror, a wild unintelligible cry for help and mercy, burst from
my lips as I flung myself against the door, and strove in vain to open it.
In that single instant, brief and vivid as a landscape beheld in the flash
of summer lightning, I saw the moon shining down through a rift of stormy
cloud-the ghastly sign-post rearing its warning finger by the wayside-the broken
parapet-the plunging horses-the black gulf below Then, the coach reeled like a
ship at sea. Then, came a mighty crash-a sense of crushing pain-and then,
darkness.

It seemed as if years had gone by when I awoke one morning from a deep
sleep, and found my wife watching by my bedside. I will pass over the’ scene
that ensued, and give you, in half a dozen words, the tale she told me with
tears of thanksgiving. I had fallen over a precipice, close against the junction
of the old coach-road and the new, and had only been saved from certain death by
lighting upon a deep snowdrift that had accumulated at the foot of the rock
beneath. In this snowdrift I was discovered at daybreak, by a couple of
shepherds, who carried me to the nearest shelter, and brought a surgeon to my
aid. The surgeon found me in a state of raving delirium, with a broken arm and a
compound fracture of the skull. The letters in my pocket-book showed my name and
address; my wife was summoned to nurse me; and, thanks to youth and a fine
constitution, I came out of danger at last. The place of my fall, I need
scarcely say, was precisely that at which a frightful accident had happened to
the north mail nine years before.
I never told my wife the fearful events which I have just related to you. I
told the surgeon who attended me; but he treated the whole adventure as a mere
dream born of the fever in my brain. We discussed the question over and over
again, until we found that we could discuss it with temper no longer, and then
we dropped it. Others may form what conclusions they please-I know that twenty
years ago I was the fourth inside passenger in that Phantom Coach.

Source : classichorrorstories

Fannie Poteet sat cross-legged on her Uncle John’s front porch; her favorite rag doll clutched under one arm. The late afternoon sun shone through the leaves of the giant oak tree, casting its flickering light on the cabin. This golden motion of light entranced the child and she sat with her face turned upward, as if hypnotized. The steady hum of conversation flowed from inside of the cabin.

“Ellen, I’m sure happy that you came to church with us today. Why don’t you spend the night? It’s getting awfully late and it will be dark before you make it home.”

“I’ll be fine Sally,” replied Fannie’s mother. “Anyhow, you know how Lige is about his supper. I left plenty for him and the boys on the back of the stove, but he’ll want Fannie and me home. Besides, he’ll want to hear if Sam Bosworth’s wife managed to drag him into church.”

The laughter that followed her mother’s statement broke the child’s musings and she stood up, pulled her dress over the protruding petticoat, and stepped inside.

“Get your shawl Fannie. When the sun goes down, it’ll get chilly.”

As the little girl went to the chair by the fireplace to retrieve her wrap, her uncle came in from the back with a lantern.

“You’ll need this Ellen. The wick is new and I’ve filled it up for you.”

“I appreciate it Johnny,” Ellen said. “I’ll have Lige bring it back when he goes to town next week.”

Ellen kissed her younger brother good-bye and hugged Sally gently. Patting her sister-in-law on her swollen belly, she said,” I’ll be back at the end of the month. Don’t be lifting anything heavy. If that queasy feeling keeps bothering you, brew some of that mint tea I left in the kitchen. Lord knows I’ve never seen a baby keep its mammy so sick as much as this one has. It’s a boy for sure.”

Upon hearing this, Fannie frowned. She was the youngest in her family, and the only girl. After living with four brothers, she had prayed fervently to God every night for Him to let her aunt have a girl. The only other comfort she had was the pretty rag doll that her mother had made for her. Tucking the doll under her left arm and gathering the shawl with the same hand, she stood waiting patiently. Aunt Sally kissed her lightly on the cheek and squeezed Fannie gently. “If I have a girl, I hope that she will be as sweet as you,” her aunt whispered. Uncle John patted her on the head and said, “Bye Punkin. When that old momma cat has her kittens, I’ll give you the pick of the litter.”

This brought a smile to Fannie’s face and swept away the darkening thoughts of boys.

Ellen secured her own shawl about her shoulders and tossing one side around and over again, picked up the lantern, which had already been lit. Taking Fannie’s right hand, the pair proceeded on the three-mile trek back home. Heavy rains during the last week had left the dirt road virtually impassable for anyone on foot. Ellen and her daughter would return home the way they had come, by following the railroad track. The track was about one half mile above the road. It wound and wound around the mountains and through the valleys carrying the coal and lumber, which had been harvested from the land. Once on the track, they proceeded in the direction of their own home. Ellen began to tell Fannie about the trains and all of the distant places they went to. The little girl loved hearing her mother’s stories of all the big cities far away. She had been to town only a few times and had never traveled outside of Wise County. Fannie remembered her papa talking about his brother Jack.

Uncle Jack had left the county, as well as the state of Virginia. He was in a faraway place called Cuba, fighting for a man called Roosevelt. She wondered what kind of place Cuba was, and if it was anything like home.

The sun’s last rays were sinking behind the tree-studded mountains. Shadows rose ominously from the dense woods on both sides of the track. Rustling sounds from the brush caused Fannie to jump, but her mother’s soothing voice calmed her fears.

“It’s all right Child; just foxes and possums.”

A hoot owl’s mournful cry floated out of the encroaching darkness and Fannie tightened her grip on her mother’s hand.

Finally, night enveloped the landscape, and all that could be seen was the warm glow of the lantern and the shadow of the figures behind it. It was a moonless night, and the faint glow of a few stars faded in between the moving clouds. Fannie tripped over the chunks of gravel scattered between the ties and Ellen realized that her daughter was tired.

“We’ll rest awhile child. My guess is that we have less than a mile to go.”

Ellen set the lantern down and the weary travelers attempted to get comfortable sitting on the rail.

“Mammy, it’s so scary in the dark. Will God watch over us and protect us?”

“Yes, Fannie. Remember what that new young preacher said in church today. The Good Lord is always with you, and when you need His strength, call out His name. Better still, do what I do.”

“What’s that mammy?”

“Well,” Ellen said, stroking her daughter’s hair,” I sing one of my favorite hymns.”

While contemplating her mother’s advice, Fannie was distracted by a sound. The sound came from the direction they had traveled from, and the girl’s eyes peered into the ink like darkness. It was very faint, but unlike the other noises she had grown used to along the way. The slow methodic sound was someone walking, and coming in their direction.

“Mammy, do you hear that?”

“Hear what child?”

Fannie moved closer to her mother and said, “It’s somebody else coming!”

Ellen gave her daughter a comforting hug and replied,” You’re just imagining things Fannie. We’ve rested enough. Let’s get on home. Your papa will be worried.”

Ellen picked up the lantern, took Fannie’s hand, and the two resumed their journey. After a while, the sound that had unnerved the little girl began again. This time the steps were more distinct, and definitely closer. The distant ringing of heavy boots echoed in the dark.

“Mammy, I hear it again!”

“Hush child.”

Ellen swung the lantern around.

“See, there’s nothing there.”

Fannie secured the grip on her mother’s hand and clutched her rag doll tightly. The hoot owl continued its call in the distance, and the night breeze rustled the leaves in the trees.

“The air sure smells like rain,” said Ellen. “The wind is picking up a mite too. We’ll be home soon, little girl. Yonder is the last bend.”

Fannie found comfort in her mother’s voice, but in the darkness behind them, the steps rang louder. It was the sound of boots, heavy hobnail boots.

“Mammy, it’s getting closer!”

Ellen swung the lantern around again and said, “Child, there’s nothing out there. Tell you what; let’s sing “Precious Lord”.

Fannie joined in with her mother, but her voice quivered with fear as the heavy steps came closer and closer. She couldn’t understand why her mother seemed oblivious to the sound.

Ellen’s singing grew louder, and up ahead the warm glow of light from their own home glimmered down the side and through the trees. A dog barking in the distance brought the singing to an abrupt end.

“See child, we’re almost home. Tinker will be running up to meet us. Big old Tinker. He’s chased mountain lions before. He’ll see us safely home.”

“Let’s hurry then Mammy. Can’t you hear? It’s closer and I’m scared. Let’s run!”

“All right child, but see, I’m telling you there’s nothing there.”

Ellen made another sweep around with the lantern and as they proceeded she cried out, “Here Tinker! Come on boy!”

The dog raced up the path leading to the track and the two nearly collided with him as they stepped down on the familiar trail to home.

“Ellen, is that you?”

Fannie’s heart filled with joy as her father’s voice rang out of the darkness.

“Yes Lige. I’m sorry we’re so late. I’m afraid I walked a bit fast for this child. She’s worn out.”

Elijah picked up his daughter and carried her the rest of the way home. Once inside of the cabin, Ellen helped Fannie undress and gently tucked her in bed.

The comforting sounds of her parents’ voices drifted from the kitchen. Even the snores of her brothers in the back made her smile and be thankful that she and her mother were safe and sound. Before closing her eyes, her mother’s voice rang in her ears.

“Lige, I heard the steps. I didn’t want to frighten the child. I kept singing and swinging the lantern around and telling her there was nothing to be afraid of. But Lige, just before we got off the tracks, I turned the lantern around one last time. That’s when I saw what was following us. I saw the figure of a man. A man without a head!”

Source : eastoftheweb

source from: yourghoststories

source from: yourghoststories