This being the sea­son for ghost stor­ies, I thought I would pass on prob­ably the shortest ghost story I know (and I’ve cut it short). It is from the pen of the mas­terly M.R. James. A clas­sic tale, it even gets its own schol­arly art­icle — “The Rules of Folk­lore” in the Ghost Stor­ies of M. R. James Jac­queline Simpson, Folk­lore, Vol. 108, 1997 (1997), pp. 9–18.

The story comes from The Winter’s Tale. Enjoy.

This, you know, is the begin­ning of the story about sprites and gob­lins which Mamilius, the best child in Shakespeare, was telling to his mother the queen, and the court ladies, when the king came in with his guards and hur­ried her off to prison. There is no more of the story: Mamilius died soon after without hav­ing a chance of fin­ish­ing it. Now what was it going to have been? Shakespeare knew, no doubt, and I will be bold to say that I do. It was not going to be a new story: it was to be one which you most likely have heard, and even told. Every­body may set it in whatever frame he likes best. This is mine:

There was a man dwelt by a church­yard. His house had a lower storey of stone and an upper one of tim­ber. The front win­dows looked out on the street and the back ones on the churchyard.

It had once belonged to the par­ish priest, but (this was in Queen Elizabeth’s days) the priest was a mar­ried man and wanted more room; besides, his wife dis­liked see­ing the church­yard at night out of her bed­room win­dow. She said she saw — but never mind what she said; any­how she gave her hus­band no peace till he agreed to move into a lar­ger house in the vil­lage street, and the old one was taken by John Poole, who was a wid­ower, and lived there alone. He was an eld­erly man who kept him­self very much to him­self, and people said he was some­thing like a miser.

It was very likely true: he was mor­bid in other ways cer­tainly. In those days it was com­mon to bury people at night and by torch­light: and it was noticed that whenever a funeral was toward, John Poole was always at his win­dow, either on the ground floor or upstairs, accord­ing as he could get the bet­ter view from one or the other.

There came a night when an old woman was to be bur­ied. She was fairly well to do, but she was not liked in the place.

The usual thing was said of her, that she was no Chris­tian, and that on such nights as Mid­sum­mer Eve and All Hal­lows, she was not to be found in her house. She was red-eyed and dread­ful to look at, and no beg­gar ever knocked at her door. Yet when she died she left a purse of money to the Church.

There was no storm on the night of her burial; it was fair and calm. But there was some dif­fi­culty about get­ting bear­ers, and men to carry the torches, in spite of the fact that she had left lar­ger fees than com­mon for such as did that work. She was bur­ied in wool­len, without a coffin. No one was there but those who were actu­ally needed — and John Poole, watch­ing from his window.

Just before the grave was filled in, the par­son stooped down and cast some­thing upon the body — some­thing that clinked — and in a low voice he said words that soun­ded like “Thy money per­ish with thee.” Then he walked quickly away, and so did the other men, leav­ing only one torch bearer to light the sex­ton and his boy while they shov­elled the earth in.

They made no very neat job of it, and next day, which was a Sunday, the church-goers were rather sharp with the sex­ton, say­ing it was the unti­di­est grave in the yard. And indeed, when he came to look at it him­self, he thought it was worse than he had left it.

Mean­while John Poole went about with a curi­ous air, half exult­ing, as it were, and half nervous. More than once he spent an even­ing at the inn, which was clean con­trary to his usual habit, and to those who fell into talk with him there he hin­ted that he had come into a little bit of money and was look­ing out for a some­what bet­ter house.

“Well, I don’t won­der,” said the smith one night, “I shouldn’t care for that place of yours. I should be fancy­ing things all night.”

The land­lord asked him what sort of things.

“Well, maybe someone climb­ing up to the cham­ber win­dow, or the like of that,” said the smith. “I don’t know — old mother Wilkins that was bur­ied a week ago today, eh?”

“Come, I think you might con­sider of a person’s feel­ings,” said the land­lord. “It ain’t so pleas­ant for Mas­ter Poole, is it now?”

“Mas­ter Poole don’t mind,” said the smith. “He’s been there long enough to know. I only says it wouldn’t be my choice. What with the passing bell, and the torches when there’s a burial, and all them graves lay­ing so quiet when there’s no one about: only they say there’s lights — don’t you ever see no lights, Mas­ter Poole?”

“No, I don’t never see no lights,” said Mas­ter Poole sulkily, and called for another drink, and went home late.

That night, as he lay in bed upstairs, a moan­ing wind began to play about the house, and he could not go to sleep. He got up and crossed the room to a little cup­board in the wall: he took out of it some­thing that clinked, and put it in the breast of his bedgown. Then he went to the win­dow and looked out into the churchyard.

Have you ever seen an old brass in a church with a fig­ure of a per­son in a shroud? It is bunched together at the top of the head in a curi­ous way. Some­thing like that was stick­ing up out of the earth in a spot of the church­yard which John Poole knew very well. He dar­ted into his bed and lay there very still indeed.

Presently some­thing made a very faint rat­tling at the case­ment. With a dread­ful reluct­ance John Poole turned his eyes that way. Alas! Between him and the moon­light was the black out­line of the curi­ously bunched head … Then there was a fig­ure in the room. Dry earth rattled on the floor.

A low cracked voice said “Where is it?” and steps went hither and thither, fal­ter­ing steps as of one walk­ing with dif­fi­culty. It could be seen now and again, peer­ing into corners, stoop­ing to look under chairs; finally it could be heard fum­bling at the doors of the cup­board in the wall, throw­ing them open.

There was a scratch­ing of long nails on the empty shelves. The fig­ure whipped round, stood for an instant at the side of the bed, raised its arms, and with a hoarse scream of “YOU’VE GOT IT!” -

At this point H.R.H. Prince Mamilius (who would I think, have made the story a good deal shorter than this) flung him­self with a loud yell upon the young­est of the court ladies present, who respon­ded with an equally pier­cing cry…