spooky Archives - Victorian Secrets

Halloween is almost upon us, and what better way to spend it than indulging in some nineteenth-century ghastliness? As we all know, nobody writes a ghost story quite like the Victorians, and the three writers we’re showcasing below were experts in unsettling their readers.

Twilight Stories by Rhoda Broughton

Rhoda Broughton’s Twilight Stories was first published as Tales for Christmas Eve in 1873. The tales had also appeared in the literary magazine Temple Bar, and have since been reproduced in ghost story anthologies throughout the decades. Readers have been impressed with Broughton’s ability to make the apparently mundane appear mysterious and, in some cases, terrifying. Herbert Van Thal wrote of them: “Twilight Stories should excite the most blasé follower of the tale that should be read ‘last thing at night’…Miss Broughton was clearly a forerunner of M R James.” Find out more…

Weird Stories by Charlotte Riddell

Charlotte Riddell’s Weird Stories have been popular with ghost story aficionados ever since they were first published in 1882. The Times reviewer wrote of them: “Weird Stories are sensational enough in all conscience, seeing that the main action is directed by supernatural agencies, and that disagreeably obtrusive ghosts haunt the scenes of their earthly troubles. But these mysteries are adroitly realized, and the stories are so probable as to be pleasantly thrilling; nervous people, indeed, might prefer to read the book on a railway journey by daylight rather than in a lonely apartment towards the small hours.” Find out more…

The Blood of the Vampire by Florence Marryat

The Blood of the Vampire (1897) was rather overshadowed by a certain Transylvanian Count who made his debut in the same year. Although there are similarities with Dracula, Marryat’s vampire is female and drains her victims’ life force, rather than their blood. Men find her impossible to resist, and she leaves a trail of destruction throughout Europe. Marryat’s “psychic vampire” represents both the racial “other” and the New Woman of the period, both of whom were perceived as a threat to fin-de-siècle society. This curious novel engages with key debates, such as race, women’s rights, heredity, syphilophobia and the occult. Find out more…

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Richard Morris’ biography is an investigation into an investigator. There must be a clever Latin phrase for that sort of caper, but I know not what it is. I saw an excellent exhibition of Price’s ghost investigations at The Photographers’ Gallery a few years ago and came away with the impression that he was a serious scientist, although something of a show-off. Morris’ research, however, unearths evidence to prove that he was often responsible for the phenomena he was trying to debunk. Indeed, in an early piece of writing, he admitted that many people prefer the “bunk” to the “debunk”. He was essentially an accomplished showman who was desperate for recognition. Although greatly admired in some quarters, he was never sufficiently successful to give up his day job as, of all things, a paper bag salesman.

I can’t help thinking he undermined his authority by his unwise selection of cases. Only the terminally credulous could believe in Margery the Ecotplasmic Vesuvius, from whose vagina “teleplasmic hands, like misshapen Danish pastries” emerged. Surely they’d be muffins? Price also travelled to the Isle of Man to visit Gef, a mongoose with a penchant for gossip and cream buns. Surprisingly, Gef had nipped out when Price arrived, but thoughtfully sent him a hoof print afterwards. To be fair to Price, he wasn’t the only one to be duped – an American film director was desperate to buy the film rights for $50,000, but Gef refused to appear for the screen test. He hated make-up, apparently.
Price is never less than interesting and entertaining, but he also had a thoroughly unpleasant side. He seems to have largely ignored his wife Connie, and instead focused all his energies on paranormal hoaxes and a succession of mistresses. Until the end of the book, I kept reminding myself that he’d at least made a valid contribution to posterity by bequeathing his considerable library to Senate House. However, one is not so impressed after discovering that he’d originally tried to sell his collection to the Nazis. As if being a love rat and charlatan weren’t sufficient, he was also a great admirer of Herr Hitler, even after the horrors of Kristallnacht left nobody in any doubt as to the regime’s real agenda.

I wonder whether he’ll read my blog in impotent rage from the Other Side?

Harry Price – The Psychic Detective by Richard Morris