Everybody dies, don't they?

Everybody come back, isn't that?

You tried to get into the locked room today, didn't you?

How do the dead comeback, mother?

What's the secret? The 415 Express, a Christmas ghost story by Amelia B. Edwards, read by the human Tony Walker who drinks coffee, just saying.

The events which I'm about to relate took place between nine and ten years ago.

Sebastopol had fallen in the early spring.

The peace of Paris had been concluded since March.

Our commercial relations with the Russian Empire were but recently renewed,

and I, returning home after my first

northward journey since the war, was well pleased with the prospect of spending the month of

December under the hospitable and thoroughly English roof of my excellent friend, Jonathan Jelff,

Squire, of Dumbleton Manor, Claibra, East Anglia.

Travelling in the interests of the well-known firm in which it is my lot to be a junior partner,

I had been called upon to visit not only the capitals of Russia and Poland,

but had found it also necessary to pass some weeks among the trading ports of the Baltic.

Whence it came that the year was already far spent before I again set foot on English soil,

and that instead of shooting pheasants with him, as I had hoped in October,

I came to be my friend's guest during the more genial Christmas tide.

My voyage over and a few days given up to business in Liverpool and London, I hastened

down to Claibra with all the delight of a schoolboy whose holidays are at hand.

My way lay by the Great East Anglian Line as far as Claibre Station, where I was to be met by one of

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