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The trouble with Harrowby Hall was that it was haunted, and, what
was worse, the ghost did not content itself with merely appearing
at the bedside of the afflicted person who saw it, but persisted in
remaining there for one mortal hour before it would disappear. It
never appeared except on Christmas Eve, and then as the clock was
striking twelve, in which respect alone was it lacking in that
originality which in these days is a sine qua non of success in
spectral life. The owners of Harrowby Hall had done their utmost to
rid themselves of the damp and dewy lady who rose up out of the
best bedroom floor at midnight, but without avail. They had tried
stopping the clock, so that the ghost would not know when it was
midnight; but she made her appearance just the same, with that
fearful miasmatic personality of hers, and there she would stand
until everything about her was thoroughly saturated.
If we could only get used to the idea that ghosts are perfectly
harmless creatures, who are powerless to affect our well-being
unless we assist them by giving way to our fears, we should enjoy
the supernatural exceedingly, it seems to me. Coleridge, I think it
was, was once asked by a lady if he believed in ghosts, and he
replied, "No, madame; I have seen too many of them." Which is my
case exactly. I have seen so many horrid visitants from other
worlds that they hardly affect me at all, so far as the mere
inspiration of terror is concerned. On the other hand, they
interest me hugely; and while I must admit that I do experience all
the purely physical sensations that come from horrific encounters
of this nature, I can truly add in my own behalf that mentally I
can rise above the physical impulse to run away, and, invariably
standing my ground, I have gained much useful information
concerning them.
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