Sheridan Le Fanu

Sheridan Le Fanu

Summary

Portrait of Sheridan Le Fanu Sheridan Le Fanu Ghost Stories of Chapelizod (1851)

The village was sunk in the profoundest slumber, not a mortal stirring, not a sound afloat, a soft haze covered it all, and the fairy moonlight hovered over the entire landscape.
In a state between rumination and rapture, Peter continued to lean over the battlements of the old bridge, and as he did so he saw, or fancied he saw, emerging one after another along the river bank in the little gardens and enclosures in the rear of the street of Chapelizod, the queerest little white-washed huts and cabins he had ever seen there before.
Source: Wikisource

Portrait of Sheridan Le Fanu Sheridan Le Fanu Ghost Stories of Chapelizod (1851)

Those who remember Chapelizod a quarter of a century ago, or more, may possibly recollect the parish sexton. Bob Martin was held much in awe by truant boys who sauntered into the churchyard on Sundays, to read the tombstones, or play leap frog over them, or climb the ivy in search of bats or sparrows' nests, or peep into the mysterious aperture under the eastern window, which opened a dim perspective of descending steps losing themselves among profounder darkness, where lidless coffins gaped horribly among tattered velvet, bones, and dust, which time and mortality had strewn there.
Source: Wikisource

Portrait of Sheridan Le Fanu Sheridan Le Fanu Ghost Stories of Chapelizod (1851)

These words, as it seemed, incensed the stranger, for he shook the bottle with violent menace at Bob Martin; but, notwithstanding this gesture of defiance, he suffered the distance between them to increase. Bob, however, beheld him dogging him still in the distance, for his pipe shed a wonderful red glow, which duskily illuminated his entire figure like the lurid atmosphere of a meteor.
"I wish the devil had his own, my boy," muttered the excited sexton, "and I know well enough where you'd be."
Source: Wikisource

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