Cover image for One dark night : 13 masterpieces of the macabre
Title:
One dark night : 13 masterpieces of the macabre
Author:
Blease, Kathleen.
Edition:
First edition.
Publication Information:
New York : Ballentine Books, [2000]

©2000
Physical Description:
xiii, 206 pages ; 21 cm
Language:
English
Contents:
The face/ Lennox Robinson -- The dead smile/ F. Marion Crawford -- A ghost story/ Mark Twain -- The judge's house / Bram Stoker -- The tell-tale heart / Edgar Allan Poe -- The cold embrace / Mary Elizabeth Braddon -- The cedar closet / Lafcadio Hearn -- The adventure of the German student / Washington Irving -- The lost room / Fitz-James O'Brien -- An occurance at Owl Creek Bridge (Excerpt) / Ambrose Bierce -- The dead girl / Guy de Maupassant -- The story of the inexperienced ghost / H.G. Wells -- The return / R. Murray Gilchrist.
Added Author:
ISBN:
9780345440440
Format :
Book

Available:*

Library
Call Number
Material Type
Home Location
Status
Central Library PN6120.95.H727 O54 2000 Adult Non-Fiction Non-Fiction Area
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Dudley Branch Library PN6120.95.H727 O54 2000 Adult Non-Fiction Open Shelf
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Orchard Park Library PN6120.95.H727 O54 2000 Adult Non-Fiction Open Shelf
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Audubon Library PN6120.95.H727 O54 2000 Adult Non-Fiction Open Shelf
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Summary

Summary

A collection of classic creepy tales includes contributions by Bram Stoker, Edgar Allan Poe, H. G. Wells, Washington Irving, Guy de Maupassant, and Ambrose Bierce. Original.


Excerpts

Excerpts

Lennox Robinson (1886-1948) Long associated with the Abbey Theatre in Dublin, Lennox Robinson was best known as one of Ireland's finest playwrights. He also wrote novels, biographies, dramatic criticisms, and tales of the supernatural. "The Face" is an experiment that explores what the mind can conjure, develop, make real. The reader and young Jerry Sullivan alike are pulled into this place where the mysterious becomes tangible. This is my favorite story in One Dark Night. Never in the daytime or in bright sunlight could you see it, but sometimes just before sunset when some sinking ray of the sun was reflected from the rock to the lake's dark surface, and always in moonlight and on clear starry nights then, lying flat on the top of the cliff and peering over you could see the face quite clearly. It lay in the deep pool at the foot of the cliff, a few yards from the shore and apparently a foot or two deep in the water. First it appeared as a piece of white rock with a film of lakeweed floating across it, then gradually your vision cleared and you saw the pale features distinctly, the closed eyes and the long dark lashes, the curved eyebrows, the gentle mouth and the fair hair which half hid the white neck and which sometimes drifted like a veil across the face; below the neck the pool lay in deeper shadow, and no one had ever been able to tell the shape of the beautiful creature that lay there. It was a precipitous climb down the face of the cliff and no one but Jerry Sullivan had ventured it, but as he touched with his fingers the water of the pool the face shivered away, and stretching his arm deep into the water it met nothing except a tendril of lake-weed. Only once had he climbed down because he was afraid that if he probed too deeply the face would disappear forever--for it was days after he touched the water before he saw it again; for the future he was content to gaze at it from above. He had known it all his life. He could not have been more than six years old when his father had led him to the cliff's edge and shown him the sleeping face in the water. He had never been afraid of it as were some of the other boys, on the contrary when he was sent to drive the sheep from one hill to another he would contrive to pass the lake either coming or going, he would loiter there until the sun sank and risk a scolding when he got home; but hardly a week passed without his seeing the face. Up among those lonely mountains he saw few women. There was only his mother, old now and grey, and a mile or two to the west the MacCarthy's cottage with the two girls Peg and Ellen, coarsely featured both with thick black hair, and the few other women he saw from time to time were either coarsely dark or foxy red. Was it any wonder that he turned from them to the fair face floating in the water? any wonder that as he grew older he judged every woman's face by that hard standard and found them all wanting. His father died when he was eighteen years old and Jerry lived on with his mother, tilling the little bit of land, cutting turf on the side of the mountain, driving the sheep. It was a lonely, silent life--for he was an only child--and his mother often urged him to take a wife, but he made the excuse that while she was there he wanted no other woman in the house, and though she remonstrated with him she was well content to remain sole mistress of the cottage to the day of her death. He never told her of those hours he spent by the lake; hidden in a fold of the hills no one saw him go there, the neighbors shunned the place as haunted, and as the years crept by the face grew to be more and more particularly his own. Fifteen years after his father's death his mother died, and when the funeral was over he climbed the mountain and stared for a long time into the water. It was a stormy winter evening and as the sun went down a pale young moon appeared. Never had the face been so clear, never had it looked more lovely. He had felt very lonely when the earth was thrown on his mother's coffin, now he felt quietly content. He had nothing left in the world to love except this face. It had no rival now, he could pour out all the love of his heart in adoration of it. And so for three years it went on like this: more and more he shunned the neighbors, more and more time he spent by the lake. He began to neglect the farm, for what pleasure was there in working only for himself? And to the overtures of the match-makers he was either morosely silent or roughly violent. He spent now whole nights on the cliff; sometimes he thought he saw a stirring of the eyelids and the fancy grew in him that after sufficient concentration of devotion on his part the eyes would open; already the cheeks seemed less pale, the mouth had parted slightly, he thought he saw a gleam of white teeth. He grew worn with watching. The woman in the water seemed to draw her vitality from him, and as her cheeks grew fuller his own grew thin, and as her face flushed his paled until one evening gazing down at those closed eyes he saw the lids stir and stir again and at last very slowly they opened. The eyes behind them were dazzlingly blue and they met his grey ones with a long comprehending look. Everything he had ever hoped to see in a woman's eyes was there, and half in terror, half in joy, he gave a cry and drew back from the cliff; when he looked again a second later the face had vanished. Excerpted from One Dark Night: 13 Masterpieces of the Macabre by Kathleen Blease All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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