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The Choking Ghost Of House Near Sandyford Place Glasgow
The last time I was passing through Glasgow, I put up...

The Pool In The Graveyard
By this corner of the graveyard the red dawn disco...

The Visions Of Emanuel Swedenborg
In mid April of the memorable year 1745, two men, has...

The Goodwood Ghost Story
My wife's sister, Mrs M----, was left a widow at t...

The Laughing Ghost
Siu Long-mountain was one of the most celebrated stud...

No 252 Rue M Le Prince
When in May, 1886, I found myself at last in Paris, I...

A School Story
Two men in a smoking-room were talking of their private...

The Dead Shopman
Swooning, or slight mental mistiness, is not very unusu...

A Word About Dogs
We always loved a dog; and it almost broke our little h...

The Inextinguishable Candle Of The Old White House
There was once a house, known as The Old White House, t...





Black Spirits And White






No 252 Rue M Le Prince
When in May, 1886, I found myself at last in Paris, I naturally determined to throw myself on the charity of an old chum of mine, Eugene Marie d'Ardeche, who had forsaken Boston a year or more ago on receiving word of the ...

In Kropfsberg Keep
To the traveller from Innsbrueck to Munich, up the lovely valley of the silver Inn, many castles appear, one after another, each on its beetling cliff or gentle hill,--appear and disappear, melting into the dark fir trees ...

The White Villa
When we left Naples on the 8.10 train for Paestum, Tom and I, we fully intended returning by the 2.46. Not because two hours time seemed enough wherein to exhaust the interests of those deathless ruins of a dead civilizati...

Sister Maddelena
Across the valley of the Oreto from Monreale, on the slopes of the mountains just above the little village of Parco, lies the old convent of Sta. Catarina. From the cloister terrace at Monreale you can see its pale walls a...

Notre Dame Des Eaux
West of St. Pol de Leon, on the sea-cliffs of Finisterre, stands the ancient church of Notre Dame des Eaux. Five centuries of beating winds and sweeping rains have moulded its angles, and worn its carvings and sculpture do...

The Dead Valley
I have a friend, Olof Ehrensvaerd, a Swede by birth, who yet, by reason of a strange and melancholy mischance of his early boyhood, has thrown his lot with that of the New World. It is a curious story of a headstrong boy a...