Haunted Book Club with Gav Cross & John Reppion

About Haunted Book Club with Gav Cross & John Reppion

Haunted Book Club: for enjoyers of eerie tales, curious to know more about the stories that make their skin crawl. Award-winning storyteller Gav Cross and author John Reppion delve into the stories behind some of your favourite spine-tingling tales. Whether you’re a seasoned ghost story expert or a newcomer to the realm of creepy fiction, Haunted Book Club welcomes all new members with open (and possibly skeletal) arms. gavcross.substack.com (https://gavcross.substack.com/s/haunted-book-club?utm_medium=podcast)

Publisher

Ghostly, Spooky, Eerie & Supernatural Classic Tales. Chatted Out!

Category

arts · arts

Language

en

Explicit

No

First episode

25 Jan 2026

Latest episode

6 Oct 2026

Latest episodes

23 episodes in the feed.

1. 

   6 Oct 2026

   Haunted Book Club 011 The Story: A Journey by Edith Wharton Read by Gav Cross

   Another re-post from earlier this year from a time before Haunted Book Club (https://gavcross.substack.com/s/haunted-book-club). And Another great story. A return to Edith Wharton. Edith’s can write ‘em… A Journey by Edith Wharton Text Version Here (https://www.gutenberg.org/files/9190/9190-h/9190-h.htm#link2H_4_0002) or embedded in this post below! Listen or Read and join us for the natter: Haunted Bookclub: The Chat (https://open.substack.com/live-stream/392153) Tuesday 13th 9pm (https://open.substack.com/live-stream/392153) Or Live on Youtube HERE (https://youtube.com/live/WkJ0IjWrQLQ?feature=share). Subscribe for a reminder! PLUS: What you doing Halloween? Join us for a live Special! A Reading & The Bookclub chat - all in one! BYOB… Listen or Read and join us for the natter: Haunted Bookclub: The Halloween Special (https://open.substack.com/live-stream/392175) Saturday 31st 9pm (https://open.substack.com/live-stream/392175) Or Live on Youtube HERE (https://youtube.com/live/rz1Nty7VZA4?feature=share). Subscribe for a reminder! https://gavcross.substack.com/s/haunted-book-club (https://gavcross.substack.com/s/haunted-book-club) A JOURNEY As she lay in her berth, staring at the shadows overhead, the rush of the wheels was in her brain, driving her deeper and deeper into circles of wakeful lucidity. The sleeping-car had sunk into its night-silence. Through the wet window-pane she watched the sudden lights, the long stretches of hurrying blackness. Now and then she turned her head and looked through the opening in the hangings at her husband’s curtains across the aisle.... She wondered restlessly if he wanted anything and if she could hear him if he called. His voice had grown very weak within the last months and it irritated him when she did not hear. This irritability, this increasing childish petulance seemed to give expression to their imperceptible estrangement. Like two faces looking at one another through a sheet of glass they were close together, almost touching, but they could not hear or feel each other: the conductivity between them was broken. She, at least, had this sense of separation, and she fancied sometimes that she saw it reflected in the look with which he supplemented his failing words. Doubtless the fault was hers. She was too impenetrably healthy to be touched by the irrelevancies of disease. Her self-reproachful tenderness was tinged with the sense of his irrationality: she had a vague feeling that there was a purpose in his helpless tyrannies. The suddenness of the change had found her so unprepared. A year ago their pulses had beat to one robust measure; both had the same prodigal confidence in an exhaustless future. Now their energies no longer kept step: hers still bounded ahead of life, preëmpting unclaimed regions of hope and activity, while his lagged behind, vainly struggling to overtake her. When they married, she had such arrears of living to make up: her days had been as bare as the whitewashed school-room where she forced innutritious facts upon reluctant children. His coming had broken in on the slumber of circumstance, widening the present till it became the encloser of remotest chances. But imperceptibly the horizon narrowed. Life had a grudge against her: she was never to be allowed to spread her wings. At first the doctors had said that six weeks of mild air would set him right; but when he came back this assurance was explained as having of course included a winter in a dry climate. They gave up their pretty house, storing the wedding presents and new furniture, and went to Colorado. She had hated it there from the first. Nobody knew her or cared about her; there was no one to wonder at the good match she had made, or to envy her the new dresses and the visiting-cards which were still a surprise to her. And he kept growing worse. She felt herself beset with difficulties too evasive to be fought by so direct a temperament. She still loved him, of course; but he was gradually, undefinably ceasing to be himself. The man she had married had been strong, active, gently masterful: the male whose pleasure it is to clear a way through the material obstructions of life; but now it was she who was the protector, he who must be shielded from importunities and given his drops or his beef-juice though the skies were falling. The routine of the sick-room bewildered her; this punctual administering of medicine seemed as idle as some uncomprehended religious mummery. There were moments, indeed, when warm gushes of pity swept away her instinctive resentment of his condition, when she still found his old self in his eyes as they groped for each other through the dense medium of his weakness. But these moments had grown rare. Sometimes he frightened her: his sunken expressionless face seemed that of a stranger; his voice was weak and hoarse; his thin-lipped smile a mere muscular contraction. Her hand avoided his damp soft skin, which had lost the familiar roughness of health: she caught herself furtively watching him as she might have watched a strange animal. It frightened her to feel that this was the man she loved; there were hours when to tell him what she suffered seemed the one escape from her fears. But in general she judged herself more leniently, reflecting that she had perhaps been too long alone with him, and that she would feel differently when they were at home again, surrounded by her robust and buoyant family. How she had rejoiced when the doctors at last gave their consent to his going home! She knew, of course, what the decision meant; they both knew. It meant that he was to die; but they dressed the truth in hopeful euphuisms, and at times, in the joy of preparation, she really forgot the purpose of their journey, and slipped into an eager allusion to next year’s plans. At last the day of leaving came. She had a dreadful fear that they would never get away; that somehow at the last moment he would fail her; that the doctors held one of their accustomed treacheries in reserve; but nothing happened. They drove to the station, he was installed in a seat with a rug over his knees and a cushion at his back, and she hung out of the window waving unregretful farewells to the acquaintances she had really never liked till then. The first twenty-four hours had passed off well. He revived a little and it amused him to look out of the window and to observe the humours of the car. The second day he began to grow weary and to chafe under the dispassionate stare of the freckled child with the lump of chewing-gum. She had to explain to the child’s mother that her husband was too ill to be disturbed: a statement received by that lady with a resentment visibly supported by the maternal sentiment of the whole car.... That night he slept badly and the next morning his temperature frightened her: she was sure he was growing worse. The day passed slowly, punctuated by the small irritations of travel. Watching his tired face, she traced in its contractions every rattle and jolt of the tram, till her own body vibrated with sympathetic fatigue. She felt the others observing him too, and hovered restlessly between him and the line of interrogative eyes. The freckled child hung about him like a fly; offers of candy and picture-books failed to dislodge her: she twisted one leg around the other and watched him imperturbably. The porter, as he passed, lingered with vague proffers of help, probably inspired by philanthropic passengers swelling with the sense that “something ought to be done;” and one nervous man in a skull-cap was audibly concerned as to the possible effect on his wife’s health. The hours dragged on in a dreary inoccupation. Towards dusk she sat down beside him and he laid his hand on hers. The touch startled her. He seemed to be calling her from far off. She looked at him helplessly and his smile went through her like a physical pang. “Are you very tired?” she asked. “No, not very.” “We’ll be there soon now.” “Yes, very soon.” “This time to-morrow—” He nodded and they sat silent. When she had put him to bed and crawled into her own berth she tried to cheer herself with the thought that in less than twenty-four hours they would be in New York. Her people would all be at the station to meet her—she pictured their round unanxious faces pressing through the crowd. She only hoped they would not tell him too loudly that he was looking splendidly and would be all right in no time: the subtler sympathies developed by long contact with suffering were making her aware of a certain coarseness of texture in the family sensibilities. Suddenly she thought she heard him call. She parted the curtains and listened. No, it was only a man snoring at the other end of the car. His snores had a greasy sound, as though they passed through tallow. She lay down and tried to sleep... Had she not heard him move? She started up trembling... The silence frightened her more than any sound. He might not be able to make her hear—he might be calling her now... What made her think of such things? It was merely the familiar tendency of an over-tired mind to fasten itself on the most intolerable chance within the range of its forebodings.... Putting her head out, she listened; but she could not distinguish his breathing from that of the other pairs of lungs about her. She longed to get up and look at him, but she knew the impulse was a mere vent for her restlessness, and the fear of disturbing him restrained her.... The regular movement of his curtain reassured her, she knew not why; she remembered that he had wished her a cheerful good-night; and the sheer inability to endure her fears a moment longer made her put them from her with an effort of her whole sound tired body. She turned on her side and slept. She sat up stiffly, staring out at the dawn. The train was rushing through a region of bare hillocks huddled against a lifeless sky. It looked like the first day of creation. The air of the car was close, and she pushed up her window to let in the keen wind. Then she looked at her watch: it was seven o’clock, and soon the people about her would be stirring. She slipped into her clothes, smoothed her dishevelled hair and crept to the dressing-room. When she had washed her face and adjusted her dress she felt more hopeful. It was always a struggle for her not to be cheerful in the morning. Her cheeks burned deliciously under the coarse towel and the wet hair about her temples broke into strong upward tendrils. Every inch of her was full of life and elasticity. And in ten hours they would be at home! She stepped to her husband’s berth: it was time for him to take his early glass of milk. The window-shade was down, and in the dusk of the curtained enclosure she could just see that he lay sideways, with his face away from her. She leaned over him and drew up the shade. As she did so she touched one of his hands. It felt cold.... She bent closer, laying her hand on his arm and calling him by name. He did not move. She spoke again more loudly; she grasped his shoulder and gently shook it. He lay motionless. She caught hold of his hand again: it slipped from her limply, like a dead thing. A dead thing? ... Her breath caught. She must see his face. She leaned forward, and hurriedly, shrinkingly, with a sickening reluctance of the flesh, laid her hands on his shoulders and turned him over. His head fell back; his face looked small and smooth; he gazed at her with steady eyes. She remained motionless for a long time, holding him thus; and they looked at each other. Suddenly she shrank back: the longing to scream, to call out, to fly from him, had almost overpowered her. But a strong hand arrested her. Good God! If it were known that he was dead they would be put off the train at the next station— In a terrifying flash of remembrance there arose before her a scene she had once witnessed in travelling, when a husband and wife, whose child had died in the train, had been thrust out at some chance station. She saw them standing on the platform with the child’s body between them; she had never forgotten the dazed look with which they followed the receding train. And this was what would happen to her. Within the next hour she might find herself on the platform of some strange station, alone with her husband’s body.... Anything but that! It was too horrible—She quivered like a creature at bay. As she cowered there, she felt the train moving more slowly. It was coming then—they were approaching a station! She saw again the husband and wife standing on the lonely platform; and with a violent gesture she drew down the shade to hide her husband’s face. Feeling dizzy, she sank down on the edge of the berth, keeping away from his outstretched body, and pulling the curtains close, so that he and she were shut into a kind of sepulchral twilight. She tried to think. At all costs she must conceal the fact that he was dead. But how? Her mind refused to act: she could not plan, combine. She could think of no way but to sit there, clutching the curtains, all day long.... She heard the porter making up her bed; people were beginning to move about the car; the dressing-room door was being opened and shut. She tried to rouse herself. At length with a supreme effort she rose to her feet, stepping into the aisle of the car and drawing the curtains tight behind her. She noticed that they still parted slightly with the motion of the car, and finding a pin in her dress she fastened them together. Now she was safe. She looked round and saw the porter. She fancied he was watching her. “Ain’t he awake yet?” he enquired. “No,” she faltered. “I got his milk all ready when he wants it. You know you told me to have it for him by seven.” She nodded silently and crept into her seat. At half-past eight the train reached Buffalo. By this time the other passengers were dressed and the berths had been folded back for the day. The porter, moving to and fro under his burden of sheets and pillows, glanced at her as he passed. At length he said: “Ain’t he going to get up? You know we’re ordered to make up the berths as early as we can.” She turned cold with fear. They were just entering the station. “Oh, not yet,” she stammered. “Not till he’s had his milk. Won’t you get it, please?” “All right. Soon as we start again.” When the train moved on he reappeared with the milk. She took it from him and sat vaguely looking at it: her brain moved slowly from one idea to another, as though they were stepping-stones set far apart across a whirling flood. At length she became aware that the porter still hovered expectantly. “Will I give it to him?” he suggested. “Oh, no,” she cried, rising. “He—he’s asleep yet, I think—” She waited till the porter had passed on; then she unpinned the curtains and slipped behind them. In the semi-obscurity her husband’s face stared up at her like a marble mask with agate eyes. The eyes were dreadful. She put out her hand and drew down the lids. Then she remembered the glass of milk in her other hand: what was she to do with it? She thought of raising the window and throwing it out; but to do so she would have to lean across his body and bring her face close to his. She decided to drink the milk. She returned to her seat with the empty glass and after a while the porter came back to get it. “When’ll I fold up his bed?” he asked. “Oh, not now—not yet; he’s ill—he’s very ill. Can’t you let him stay as he is? The doctor wants him to lie down as much as possible.” He scratched his head. “Well, if he’s really sick—” He took the empty glass and walked away, explaining to the passengers that the party behind the curtains was too sick to get up just yet. She found herself the centre of sympathetic eyes. A motherly woman with an intimate smile sat down beside her. “I’m real sorry to hear your husband’s sick. I’ve had a remarkable amount of sickness in my family and maybe I could assist you. Can I take a look at him?” “Oh, no—no, please! He mustn’t be disturbed.” The lady accepted the rebuff indulgently. “Well, it’s just as you say, of course, but you don’t look to me as if you’d had much experience in sickness and I’d have been glad to assist you. What do you generally do when your husband’s taken this way?” “I—I let him sleep.” “Too much sleep ain’t any too healthful either. Don’t you give him any medicine?” “Y—yes.” “Don’t you wake him to take it?” “Yes.” “When does he take the next dose?” “Not for—two hours—” The lady looked disappointed. “Well, if I was you I’d try giving it oftener. That’s what I do with my folks.” After that many faces seemed to press upon her. The passengers were on their way to the dining-car, and she was conscious that as they passed down the aisle they glanced curiously at the closed curtains. One lantern-jawed man with prominent eyes stood still and tried to shoot his projecting glance through the division between the folds. The freckled child, returning from breakfast, waylaid the passers with a buttery clutch, saying in a loud whisper, “He’s sick;” and once the conductor came by, asking for tickets. She shrank into her corner and looked out of the window at the flying trees and houses, meaningless hieroglyphs of an endlessly unrolled papyrus. Now and then the train stopped, and the newcomers on entering the car stared in turn at the closed curtains. More and more people seemed to pass—their faces began to blend fantastically with the images surging in her brain.... Later in the day a fat man detached himself from the mist of faces. He had a creased stomach and soft pale lips. As he pressed himself into the seat facing her she noticed that he was dressed in black broadcloth, with a soiled white tie. “Husband’s pretty bad this morning, is he?” “Yes.” “Dear, dear! Now that’s terribly distressing, ain’t it?” An apostolic smile revealed his gold-filled teeth. “Of course you know there’s no sech thing as sickness. Ain’t that a lovely thought? Death itself is but a deloosion of our grosser senses. On’y lay yourself open to the influx of the sperrit, submit yourself passively to the action of the divine force, and disease and dissolution will cease to exist for you. If you could indooce your husband to read this little pamphlet—” The faces about her again grew indistinct. She had a vague recollection of hearing the motherly lady and the parent of the freckled child ardently disputing the relative advantages of trying several medicines at once, or of taking each in turn; the motherly lady maintaining that the competitive system saved time; the other objecting that you couldn’t tell which remedy had effected the cure; their voices went on and on, like bell-buoys droning through a fog.... The porter came up now and then with questions that she did not understand, but that somehow she must have answered since he went away again without repeating them; every two hours the motherly lady reminded her that her husband ought to have his drops; people left the car and others replaced them... Her head was spinning and she tried to steady herself by clutching at her thoughts as they swept by, but they slipped away from her like bushes on the side of a sheer precipice down which she seemed to be falling. Suddenly her mind grew clear again and she found herself vividly picturing what would happen when the train reached New York. She shuddered as it occurred to her that he would be quite cold and that some one might perceive he had been dead since morning. She thought hurriedly:—“If they see I am not surprised they will suspect something. They will ask questions, and if I tell them the truth they won’t believe me—no one would believe me! It will be terrible”—and she kept repeating to herself:—“I must pretend I don’t know. I must pretend I don’t know. When they open the curtains I must go up to him quite naturally—and then I must scream.” ... She had an idea that the scream would be very hard to do. Gradually new thoughts crowded upon her, vivid and urgent: she tried to separate and restrain them, but they beset her clamorously, like her school-children at the end of a hot day, when she was too tired to silence them. Her head grew confused, and she felt a sick fear of forgetting her part, of betraying herself by some unguarded word or look. “I must pretend I don’t know,” she went on murmuring. The words had lost their significance, but she repeated them mechanically, as though they had been a magic formula, until suddenly she heard herself saying: “I can’t remember, I can’t remember!” Her voice sounded very loud, and she looked about her in terror; but no one seemed to notice that she had spoken. As she glanced down the car her eye caught the curtains of her husband’s berth, and she began to examine the monotonous arabesques woven through their heavy folds. The pattern was intricate and difficult to trace; she gazed fixedly at the curtains and as she did so the thick stuff grew transparent and through it she saw her husband’s face—his dead face. She struggled to avert her look, but her eyes refused to move and her head seemed to be held in a vice. At last, with an effort that left her weak and shaking, she turned away; but it was of no use; close in front of her, small and smooth, was her husband’s face. It seemed to be suspended in the air between her and the false braids of the woman who sat in front of her. With an uncontrollable gesture she stretched out her hand to push the face away, and suddenly she felt the touch of his smooth skin. She repressed a cry and half started from her seat. The woman with the false braids looked around, and feeling that she must justify her movement in some way she rose and lifted her travelling-bag from the opposite seat. She unlocked the bag and looked into it; but the first object her hand met was a small flask of her husband’s, thrust there at the last moment, in the haste of departure. She locked the bag and closed her eyes ... his face was there again, hanging between her eye-balls and lids like a waxen mask against a red curtain.... She roused herself with a shiver. Had she fainted or slept? Hours seemed to have elapsed; but it was still broad day, and the people about her were sitting in the same attitudes as before. A sudden sense of hunger made her aware that she had eaten nothing since morning. The thought of food filled her with disgust, but she dreaded a return of faintness, and remembering that she had some biscuits in her bag she took one out and ate it. The dry crumbs choked her, and she hastily swallowed a little brandy from her husband’s flask. The burning sensation in her throat acted as a counter-irritant, momentarily relieving the dull ache of her nerves. Then she felt a gently-stealing warmth, as though a soft air fanned her, and the swarming fears relaxed their clutch, receding through the stillness that enclosed her, a stillness soothing as the spacious quietude of a summer day. She slept. Through her sleep she felt the impetuous rush of the train. It seemed to be life itself that was sweeping her on with headlong inexorable force—sweeping her into darkness and terror, and the awe of unknown days.—Now all at once everything was still—not a sound, not a pulsation... She was dead in her turn, and lay beside him with smooth upstaring face. How quiet it was!—and yet she heard feet coming, the feet of the men who were to carry them away... She could feel too—she felt a sudden prolonged vibration, a series of hard shocks, and then another plunge into darkness: the darkness of death this time—a black whirlwind on which they were both spinning like leaves, in wild uncoiling spirals, with millions and millions of the dead.... She sprang up in terror. Her sleep must have lasted a long time, for the winter day had paled and the lights had been lit. The car was in confusion, and as she regained her self-possession she saw that the passengers were gathering up their wraps and bags. The woman with the false braids had brought from the dressing-room a sickly ivy-plant in a bottle, and the Christian Scientist was reversing his cuffs. The porter passed down the aisle with his impartial brush. An impersonal figure with a gold-banded cap asked for her husband’s ticket. A voice shouted “Baig-gage express!” and she heard the clicking of metal as the passengers handed over their checks. Presently her window was blocked by an expanse of sooty wall, and the train passed into the Harlem tunnel. The journey was over; in a few minutes she would see her family pushing their joyous way through the throng at the station. Her heart dilated. The worst terror was past.... “We’d better get him up now, hadn’t we?” asked the porter, touching her arm. He had her husband’s hat in his hand and was meditatively revolving it under his brush. She looked at the hat and tried to speak; but suddenly the car grew dark. She flung up her arms, struggling to catch at something, and fell face downward, striking her head against the dead man’s berth. Used under licence from Project Gutenberg: This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org (https://www.gutenberg.org/). If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit gavcross.substack.com (https://gavcross.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

2. 

   1 Oct 2026

   Haunted Bookclub 10: The Chat The Well by WW Jacobs

   Another lovely natter with the Haunted Book Clubbers, this time themed around The Well By WW Jacobs But as usual, company and nonsense meant we rambled all over the place. We also discussed: Skalli (https://www.instagram.com/theskallisociety/#) Some notes upon an Estuary Entity. A wonderful collaboration between our own John Reppion (https://www.instagram.com/johnreppion/), Camille Smithwick (https://www.instagram.com/cammysmithwick/) & Patric Rogers (https://www.instagram.com/patricrogers_art/). We are back on the 13th of October with: A Journey (https://youtu.be/5sNrJnoJF1M) by Edith Wharton (https://youtu.be/5sNrJnoJF1M) Live Link (https://youtube.com/live/WkJ0IjWrQLQ?feature=share) Gav has read that previously so you could dive in! But it will be re posted on this feed, as usual, next week. PLUS! A HALLOWEEN SPECIAL… The Tell Tale Heart by Edgar Allen Poe Read Live and then a Haunted Bookclub to follow. Oct 31st 9pm Live on Substack & YouTube. Always free! Gav & John are proper busy with their real jobs coming up too! John his writing partner Leah Moore have Thought Bubble (https://www.thoughtbubblefestival.com/) coming up in Harrogate in November and a signing at the Liverpool Forbidden Planet on Sat 17th of Oct (https://www.moorereppion.com/albion-signing/)! Gav is about to Tour ‘The War of the Worlds’ & ‘Ghastly Stories for Gruesome Gremlins’ (https://gavcross.co.uk/contact--gigs) all over the place! Let us know what you think! John Reppion (https://www.moorereppion.com/) & Gav Cross (https://linktr.ee/gavcross) September 2026 Find all the places we haunt here: https://linktr.ee/haunted_bookclub (https://linktr.ee/haunted_bookclub) John: https://www.moorereppion.com/ (https://www.moorereppion.com/) Gav: https://gavcross.co.uk/ (https://gavcross.co.uk/) Thank you Rachael Prime (https://substack.com/profile/106115707-rachael-prime), Annie (https://substack.com/profile/13668610-annie), and many others for tuning into our live video! Join me for my next live video in the app. This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit gavcross.substack.com (https://gavcross.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

3. 

   22 Sept 2026

   Haunted Book Club 010: The Well by W.W. Jacobs Read by Gav Cross

   A re-post from earlier this year from a time before Haunted Book Club (https://gavcross.substack.com/s/haunted-book-club). Can you believe that time existed? The Well by W.W. Jacobs Text Version Here (https://www.gutenberg.org/cache/epub/12124/pg12124-images.html) or embedded in this post below! Listen or Read and join us for the natter: Haunted Bookclub: The Chat (https://open.substack.com/live-stream/368290) Tuesday 29th 9pm (https://open.substack.com/live-stream/368290) https://gavcross.substack.com/s/haunted-book-club (https://gavcross.substack.com/s/haunted-book-club) William Wymark Jacobs - W.W. himself, will pop up here a lot… He holds a facination for me. Short story writer. Playwright. Fan of the supernatural. Writer of humour. East Ender. And the author of my very favourite Phantastic Story… And I like this one too. It has that great visual quality that means you could imagine Mark Gatis getting his hands on it and making a superb Christmas TV version. I hope you enjoy it - let me know what you think. It’s from this collection. Haunting Ghost Stories. Plainly aimed at what I suppose is now named as the YA market. (Is that a useful term? I don’t know…) Very exciting that Moore & Reppion’s collection of MR James adaptations have been collected are is being republished soon! Ghost Stories of an Antiquary: The Compendium (https://selfmadehero.com/books/ghost-stories-of-an-antiquary-the-compendium) Let us know what you think! John Reppion (https://www.moorereppion.com/) & Gav Cross (https://linktr.ee/gavcross) September 2026 Find all the places we haunt here: https://linktr.ee/haunted_bookclub (https://linktr.ee/haunted_bookclub) John: https://www.moorereppion.com/ (https://www.moorereppion.com/) Gav: https://gavcross.co.uk/ (https://gavcross.co.uk/) THE WELL By W. W. Jacobs Two men stood in the billiard-room of an old country house, talking. Play, which had been of a half-hearted nature, was over, and they sat at the open window, looking out over the park stretching away beneath them, conversing idly. “Your time’s nearly up, Jem,” said one at length, “this time six weeks you’ll be yawning out the honeymoon and cursing the man—woman I mean— who invented them.” Jem Benson stretched his long limbs in the chair and grunted in dissent. “I’ve never understood it,” continued Wilfred Carr, yawning. “It’s not in my line at all; I never had enough money for my own wants, let alone for two. Perhaps if I were as rich as you or Croesus I might regard it differently.” There was just sufficient meaning in the latter part of the remark for his cousin to forbear to reply to it. He continued to gaze out of the window and to smoke slowly. “Not being as rich as Croesus—or you,” resumed Carr, regarding him from beneath lowered lids, “I paddle my own canoe down the stream of Time, and, tying it to my friends’ door-posts, go in to eat their dinners.” “Quite Venetian,” said Jem Benson, still looking out of the window. “It’s not a bad thing for you, Wilfred, that you have the doorposts and dinners—and friends.” Carr grunted in his turn. “Seriously though, Jem,” he said, slowly, “you’re a lucky fellow, a very lucky fellow. If there is a better girl above ground than Olive, I should like to see her.” “Yes,” said the other, quietly. “She’s such an exceptional girl,” continued Carr, staring out of the window. “She’s so good and gentle. She thinks you are a bundle of all the virtues.” He laughed frankly and joyously, but the other man did not join him. “Strong sense—of right and wrong, though,” continued Carr, musingly. “Do you know, I believe that if she found out that you were not—-” “Not what?” demanded Benson, turning upon him fiercely, “Not what?” “Everything that you are,” returned his cousin, with a grin that belied his words, “I believe she’d drop you.” “Talk about something else,” said Benson, slowly; “your pleasantries are not always in the best taste.” Wilfred Carr rose and taking a cue from the rack, bent over the board and practiced one or two favourite shots. “The only other subject I can talk about just at present is my own financial affairs,” he said slowly, as he walked round the table. “Talk about something else,” said Benson again, bluntly. “And the two things are connected,” said Carr, and dropping his cue he half sat on the table and eyed his cousin. There was a long silence. Benson pitched the end of his cigar out of the window, and leaning back closed his eyes. “Do you follow me?” inquired Carr at length. Benson opened his eyes and nodded at the window. “Do you want to follow my cigar?” he demanded. “I should prefer to depart by the usual way for your sake,” returned the other, unabashed. “If I left by the window all sorts of questions would be asked, and you know what a talkative chap I am.” “So long as you don’t talk about my affairs,” returned the other, restraining himself by an obvious effort, “you can talk yourself hoarse.” “I’m in a mess,” said Carr, slowly, “a devil of a mess. If I don’t raise fifteen hundred by this day fortnight, I may be getting my board and lodging free.” “Would that be any change?” questioned Benson. “The quality would,” retorted the other. “The address also would not be good. Seriously, Jem, will you let me have the fifteen hundred?” “No,” said the other, simply. Carr went white. “It’s to save me from ruin,” he said, thickly. “I’ve helped you till I’m tired,” said Benson, turning and regarding him, “and it is all to no good. If you’ve got into a mess, get out of it. You should not be so fond of giving autographs away.” “It’s foolish, I admit,” said Carr, deliberately. “I won’t do so any more. By the way, I’ve got some to sell. You needn’t sneer. They’re not my own.” “Whose are they?” inquired the other. “Yours.” Benson got up from his chair and crossed over to him. “What is this?” he asked, quietly. “Blackmail?” “Call it what you like,” said Carr. “I’ve got some letters for sale, price fifteen hundred. And I know a man who would buy them at that price for the mere chance of getting Olive from you. I’ll give you first offer.” “If you have got any letters bearing my signature, you will be good enough to give them to me,” said Benson, very slowly. “They’re mine,” said Carr, lightly; “given to me by the lady you wrote them to. I must say that they are not all in the best possible taste.” His cousin reached forward suddenly, and catching him by the collar of his coat pinned him down on the table. “Give me those letters,” he breathed, sticking his face close to Carr’s. “They’re not here,” said Carr, struggling. “I’m not a fool. Let me go, or I’ll raise the price.” The other man raised him from the table in his powerful hands, apparently with the intention of dashing his head against it. Then suddenly his hold relaxed as an astonished-looking maid-servant entered the room with letters. Carr sat up hastily. “That’s how it was done,” said Benson, for the girl’s benefit as he took the letters. “I don’t wonder at the other man making him pay for it, then,” said Carr, blandly. “You will give me those letters?” said Benson, suggestively, as the girl left the room. “At the price I mentioned, yes,” said Carr; “but so sure as I am a living man, if you lay your clumsy hands on me again, I’ll double it. Now, I’ll leave you for a time while you think it over.” He took a cigar from the box and lighting it carefully quitted the room. His cousin waited until the door had closed behind him, and then turning to the window sat there in a fit of fury as silent as it was terrible. The air was fresh and sweet from the park, heavy with the scent of new-mown grass. The fragrance of a cigar was now added to it, and glancing out he saw his cousin pacing slowly by. He rose and went to the door, and then, apparently altering his mind, he returned to the window and watched the figure of his cousin as it moved slowly away into the moonlight. Then he rose again, and, for a long time, the room was empty. It was empty when Mrs. Benson came in some time later to say good-night to her son on her way to bed. She walked slowly round the table, and pausing at the window gazed from it in idle thought, until she saw the figure of her son advancing with rapid strides toward the house. He looked up at the window. “Good-night,” said she. “Good-night,” said Benson, in a deep voice. “Where is Wilfred?” “Oh, he has gone,” said Benson. “Gone?” “We had a few words; he was wanting money again, and I gave him a piece of my mind. I don’t think we shall see him again.” “Poor Wilfred!” sighed Mrs. Benson. “He is always in trouble of some sort. I hope that you were not too hard upon him.” “No more than he deserved,” said her son, sternly. “Good night.” II. The well, which had long ago fallen into disuse, was almost hidden by the thick tangle of undergrowth which ran riot at that corner of the old park. It was partly covered by the shrunken half of a lid, above which a rusty windlass creaked in company with the music of the pines when the wind blew strongly. The full light of the sun never reached it, and the ground surrounding it was moist and green when other parts of the park were gaping with the heat. Two people walking slowly round the park in the fragrant stillness of a summer evening strayed in the direction of the well. “No use going through this wilderness, Olive,” said Benson, pausing on the outskirts of the pines and eyeing with some disfavour the gloom beyond. “Best part of the park,” said the girl briskly; “you know it’s my favourite spot.” “I know you’re very fond of sitting on the coping,” said the man slowly, “and I wish you wouldn’t. One day you will lean back too far and fall in.” “And make the acquaintance of Truth,” said Olive lightly. “Come along.” She ran from him and was lost in the shadow of the pines, the bracken crackling beneath her feet as she ran. Her companion followed slowly, and emerging from the gloom saw her poised daintily on the edge of the well with her feet hidden in the rank grass and nettles which surrounded it. She motioned her companion to take a seat by her side, and smiled softly as she felt a strong arm passed about her waist. “I like this place,” said she, breaking a long silence, “it is so dismal —so uncanny. Do you know I wouldn’t dare to sit here alone, Jem. I should imagine that all sorts of dreadful things were hidden behind the bushes and trees, waiting to spring out on me. Ugh!” “You’d better let me take you in,” said her companion tenderly; “the well isn’t always wholesome, especially in the hot weather. “Let’s make a move.” The girl gave an obstinate little shake, and settled herself more securely on her seat. “Smoke your cigar in peace,” she said quietly. “I am settled here for a quiet talk. Has anything been heard of Wilfred yet?” “Nothing.” “Quite a dramatic disappearance, isn’t it?” she continued. “Another scrape, I suppose, and another letter for you in the same old strain; ‘Dear Jem, help me out.’” Jem Benson blew a cloud of fragrant smoke into the air, and holding his cigar between his teeth brushed away the ash from his coat sleeves. “I wonder what he would have done without you,” said the girl, pressing his arm affectionately. “Gone under long ago, I suppose. When we are married, Jem, I shall presume upon the relationship to lecture him. He is very wild, but he has his good points, poor fellow.” “I never saw them,” said Benson, with startling bitterness. “God knows I never saw them.” “He is nobody’s enemy but his own,” said the girl, startled by this outburst. “You don’t know much about him,” said the other, sharply. “He was not above blackmail; not above ruining the life of a friend to do himself a benefit. A loafer, a cur, and a liar!” The girl looked up at him soberly but timidly and took his arm without a word, and they both sat silent while evening deepened into night and the beams of the moon, filtering through the branches, surrounded them with a silver network. Her head sank upon his shoulder, till suddenly with a sharp cry she sprang to her feet. “What was that?” she cried breathlessly. “What was what?” demanded Benson, springing up and clutching her fast by the arm. She caught her breath and tried to laugh. “You’re hurting me, Jem.” His hold relaxed. “What is the matter?” he asked gently. “What was it startled you?” “I was startled,” she said, slowly, putting her hands on his shoulder. “I suppose the words I used just now are ringing in my ears, but I fancied that somebody behind us whispered ‘Jem, help me out.’” “Fancy,” repeated Benson, and his voice shook; “but these fancies are not good for you. You—are frightened—at the dark and the gloom of these trees. Let me take you back to the house.” “No, I’m not frightened,” said the girl, reseating herself. “I should never be really frightened of anything when you were with me, Jem. I’m surprised at myself for being so silly.” The man made no reply but stood, a strong, dark figure, a yard or two from the well, as though waiting for her to join him. “Come and sit down, sir,” cried Olive, patting the brickwork with her small, white hand, “one would think that you did not like your company.” He obeyed slowly and took a seat by her side, drawing so hard at his cigar that the light of it shone upon his fare at every breath. He passed his arm, firm and rigid as steel, behind her, with his hand resting on the brickwork beyond. “Are you warm enough?” he asked tenderly, as she made a little movement. “Pretty fair,” she shivered; “one oughtn’t to be cold at this time of the year, but there’s a cold, damp air comes up from the well.” As she spoke a faint splash sounded from the depths below, and for the second time that evening, she sprang from the well with a little cry of dismay. “What is it now?” he asked in a fearful voice. He stood by her side and gazed at the well, as though half expecting to see the cause of her alarm emerge from it. “Oh, my bracelet,” she cried in distress, “my poor mother’s bracelet. I’ve dropped it down the well.” “Your bracelet!” repeated Benson, dully. “Your bracelet? The diamond one?” “The one that was my mother’s,” said Olive. “Oh, we can get it back surely. We must have the water drained off.” “Your bracelet!” repeated Benson, stupidly. “Jem,” said the girl in terrified tones, “dear Jem, what is the matter?” For the man she loved was standing regarding her with horror. The moon which touched it was not responsible for all the whiteness of the distorted face, and she shrank back in fear to the edge of the well. He saw her fear and by a mighty effort regained his composure and took her hand. “Poor little girl,” he murmured, “you frightened me. I was not looking when you cried, and I thought that you were slipping from my arms, down—down—” His voice broke, and the girl throwing herself into his arms clung to him convulsively. “There, there,” said Benson, fondly, “don’t cry, don’t cry.” “To-morrow,” said Olive, half-laughing, half-crying, “we will all come round the well with hook and line and fish for it. It will be quite a new sport.” “No, we must try some other way,” said Benson. “You shall have it back.” “How?” asked the girl. “You shall see,” said Benson. “To-morrow morning at latest you shall have it back. Till then promise me that you will not mention your loss to anyone. Promise.” “I promise,” said Olive, wonderingly. “But why not?” “It is of great value, for one thing, and—But there—there are many reasons. For one thing it is my duty to get it for you.” “Wouldn’t you like to jump down for it?” she asked mischievously. “Listen.” She stooped for a stone and dropped it down. “Fancy being where that is now,” she said, peering into the blackness; “fancy going round and round like a mouse in a pail, clutching at the slimy sides, with the water filling your mouth, and looking up to the little patch of sky above.” “You had better come in,” said Benson, very quietly. “You are developing a taste for the morbid and horrible.” The girl turned, and taking his arm walked slowly in the direction of the house; Mrs. Benson, who was sitting in the porch, rose to receive them. “You shouldn’t have kept her out so long,” she said chidingly. “Where have you been?” “Sitting on the well,” said Olive, smiling, “discussing our future.” “I don’t believe that place is healthy,” said Mrs. Benson, emphatically. “I really think it might be filled in, Jem.” “All right,” said her son, slowly. “Pity it wasn’t filled in long ago.” He took the chair vacated by his mother as she entered the house with Olive, and with his hands hanging limply over the sides sat in deep thought. After a time he rose, and going upstairs to a room which was set apart for sporting requisites selected a sea fishing line and some hooks and stole softly downstairs again. He walked swiftly across the park in the direction of the well, turning before he entered the shadow of the trees to look back at the lighted windows of the house. Then having arranged his line he sat on the edge of the well and cautiously lowered it. He sat with his lips compressed, occasionally looking about him in a startled fashion, as though he half expected to see something peering at him from the belt of trees. Time after time he lowered his line until at length in pulling it up he heard a little metallic tinkle against the side of the well. He held his breath then, and forgetting his fears drew the line in inch by inch, so as not to lose its precious burden. His pulse beat rapidly, and his eyes were bright. As the line came slowly in he saw the catch hanging to the hook, and with a steady hand drew the last few feet in. Then he saw that instead of the bracelet he had hooked a bunch of keys. With a faint cry he shook them from the hook into the water below, and stood breathing heavily. Not a sound broke the stillness of the night. He walked up and down a bit and stretched his great muscles; then he came back to the well and resumed his task. For an hour or more the line was lowered without result. In his eagerness he forgot his fears, and with eyes bent down the well fished slowly and carefully. Twice the hook became entangled in something, and was with difficulty released. It caught a third time, and all his efforts failed’ to free it. Then he dropped the line down the well, and with head bent walked toward the house. He went first to the stables at the rear, and then retiring to his room for some time paced restlessly up and down. Then without removing his clothes he flung himself upon the bed and fell into a troubled sleep. III. Long before anybody else was astir he arose and stole softly downstairs. The sunlight was stealing in at every crevice, and flashing in long streaks across the darkened rooms. The dining-room into which he looked struck chill and cheerless in the dark yellow light which came through the lowered blinds. He remembered that it had the same appearance when his father lay dead in the house; now, as then, everything seemed ghastly and unreal; the very chairs standing as their occupants had left them the night before seemed to be indulging in some dark communication of ideas. Slowly and noiselessly he opened the hall door and passed into the fragrant air beyond. The sun was shining on the drenched grass and trees, and a slowly vanishing white mist rolled like smoke about the grounds. For a moment he stood, breathing deeply the sweet air of the morning, and then walked slowly in the direction of the stables. The rusty creaking of a pump-handle and a spatter of water upon the red-tiled courtyard showed that somebody else was astir, and a few steps farther he beheld a brawny, sandy-haired man gasping wildly under severe self-infliction at the pump. “Everything ready, George?” he asked quietly. “Yes, sir,” said the man, straightening up suddenly and touching his forehead. “Bob’s just finishing the arrangements inside. It’s a lovely morning for a dip. The water in that well must be just icy.” “Be as quick as you can,” said Benson, impatiently. “Very good, sir,” said George, burnishing his face harshly with a very small towel which had been hanging over the top of the pump. “Hurry up, Bob.” In answer to his summons a man appeared at the door of the stable with a coil of stout rope over his arm and a large metal candlestick in his hand. “Just to try the air, sir,” said George, following his master’s glance, “a well gets rather foul sometimes, but if a candle can live down it, a man can.” His master nodded, and the man, hastily pulling up the neck of his shirt and thrusting his arms into his coat, followed him as he led the way slowly to the well. “Beg pardon, sir,” said George, drawing up to his side, “but you are not looking over and above well this morning. If you’ll let me go down I’d enjoy the bath.” “No, no,” said Benson, peremptorily. “You ain’t fit to go down, sir,” persisted his follower. “I’ve never seen you look so before. Now if—” “Mind your business,” said his master curtly. George became silent and the three walked with swinging strides through the long wet grass to the well. Bob flung the rope on the ground and at a sign from his master handed him the candlestick. “Here’s the line for it, sir,” said Bob, fumbling in his pockets. Benson took it from him and slowly tied it to the candlestick. Then he placed it on the edge of the well, and striking a match, lit the candle and began slowly to lower it. “Hold hard, sir,” said George, quickly, laying his hand on his arm, “you must tilt it or the string’ll burn through.” Even as he spoke the string parted and the candlestick fell into the water below. Benson swore quietly. “I’ll soon get another,” said George, starting up. “Never mind, the well’s all right,” said Benson. “It won’t take a moment, sir,” said the other over his shoulder. “Are you master here, or am I?” said Benson hoarsely. George came back slowly, a glance at his master’s face stopping the protest upon his tongue, and he stood by watching him sulkily as he sat on the well and removed his outer garments. Both men watched him curiously, as having completed his preparations he stood grim and silent with his hands by his sides. “I wish you’d let me go, sir,” said George, plucking up courage to address him. “You ain’t fit to go, you’ve got a chill or something. I shouldn’t wonder it’s the typhoid. They’ve got it in the village bad.” For a moment Benson looked at him angrily, then his gaze softened. “Not this time, George,” he said, quietly. He took the looped end of the rope and placed it under his arms, and sitting down threw one leg over the side of the well. “How are you going about it, sir?” queried George, laying hold of the rope and signing to Bob to do the same. “I’ll call out when I reach the water,” said Benson; “then pay out three yards more quickly so that I can get to the bottom.” “Very good, sir,” answered both. Their master threw the other leg over the coping and sat motionless. His back was turned toward the men as he sat with head bent, looking down the shaft. He sat for so long that George became uneasy. “All right, sir?” he inquired. “Yes,” said Benson, slowly. “If I tug at the rope, George, pull up at once. Lower away.” The rope passed steadily through their hands until a hollow cry from the darkness below and a faint splashing warned them that he had reached the water. They gave him three yards more and stood with relaxed grasp and strained ears, waiting. “He’s gone under,” said Bob in a low voice. The other nodded, and moistening his huge palms took a firmer grip of the rope. Fully a minute passed, and the men began to exchange uneasy glances. Then a sudden tremendous jerk followed by a series of feebler ones nearly tore the rope from their grasp. “Pull!” shouted George, placing one foot on the side and hauling desperately. “Pull! pull! He’s stuck fast; he’s not coming; PULL!” In response to their terrific exertions the rope came slowly in, inch by inch, until at length a violent splashing was heard, and at the same moment a scream of unutterable horror came echoing up the shaft. “What a weight he is !” panted Bob. “He’s stuck fast or something. Keep still, sir; for heaven’s sake, keep still.” For the taut rope was being jerked violently by the struggles of the weight at the end of it. Both men with grunts and sighs hauled it in foot by foot. “All right, sir,” cried George, cheerfully. He had one foot against the well, and was pulling manfully; the burden was nearing the top. A long pull and a strong pull, and the face of a dead man with mud in the eyes and nostrils came peering over the edge. Behind it was the ghastly face of his master; but this he saw too late, for with a great cry he let go his hold of the rope and stepped back. The suddenness overthrew his assistant, and the rope tore through his hands. There was a frightful splash. “You fool!” stammered Bob, and ran to the well helplessly. “Run!” cried George. “Run for another line.” He bent over the coping and called eagerly down as his assistant sped back to the stables shouting wildly. His voice re-echoed down the shaft, but all else was silence. Used under licence from Project Gutenberg: This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg™ License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org (https://www.gutenberg.org/). If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. The Trailer for the Book Club is in all the places. John Reppion (https://substack.com/profile/20436514-john-reppion) and I would love it if you joined us. We will dust off a seat in the circle. Light a candle. And listen intently to what you think. https://linktr.ee/haunted_bookclub (https://linktr.ee/haunted_bookclub) This is a public episode. If you would like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit gavcross.substack.com (https://gavcross.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_1)

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