Music Welcome to Snuescast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep. Find us at snoozecast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share us with a friend. This episode is brought to you by Strange Diagrams. Tonight, to continue our six annual Spooky Sleep Story series, we shall read the opening to The Phantom Coach by Amelia B. Edwards. Tune in every Wednesday this month for sleep stories of the darker variety, like classic horror literature and ghost stories. If you prefer to avoid the mildly macabre, we hope you'll enjoy one of our many other stories available wherever you listen to podcasts. Catch up on previous years by finding our free standalone podcast series, snoozecast presents spooky stories, or if you're a premium subscriber, log into your account to find the ad free feed to listen to instead. The Phantom Coach by Amelia B. Edwards, first published in 1864, is a classic Victorian Ghost Story. Edwards, an accomplished novelist, traveler, and Egyptologist, was known for her keen storytelling abilities, especially in weaving the supernatural into everyday occurrences. In this tale, she explores the eerie and unsettling experience of a man lost in a snowstorm who encounters a mysterious coach that may not be of this world. Set against a bleak, wind-tree landscape, the phantom coach delves into themes of isolation, fate, and the unknown. What sets the phantom coach apart from other ghost stories of its time is Edward's use of psychological suspense. Rather than relying on overt scares, she creates a slow-burn tension that lingers long after the tale is finished. The story reflects the Victorian fascination with the unknown and

the afterlife, common themes in the literature of the period, making it a quintessential example of 19th century ghostly fiction. Let's get cozy. Close your eyes. Relax your body into the softness of your bed.

Now, take a few deep breaths.

The circumstances I am about to relate to you have truth to recommend them. They happen to myself and my recollection of them is as vivid as if they had taken place only yesterday. Twenty years, however, have gone by since that night. During those 20 years, I have told the story to about one other person. I tell it now with a reluctance, which I find it difficult to overcome. All I entreat, meanwhile, is that you will abstain from forcing your own conclusions upon me. I want nothing explained away. I desire no arguments. My mind on this subject is quite made up, and having the testimony of my own senses to rely upon, I prefer to abide by it. Well, it was just 20 years ago, and within a day or two of the end of the gross season, I had been out all day and had had no sport to speak of. The wind was due east, the month, December, the place, a bleak wide more in the far north of England, and I had lost my way. It was not a pleasant place in which to lose one's way, with the first feathery flakes of a coming snowstorm just fluttering down upon the heather, and the lead-in evening closing in all around. I shaded my eyes with my hand and stared anxiously into the gathering darkness where the purple morland melted into a range of low hills, some 10 or 12 miles distant. Not the faintest smoke-reeth, not the tiniest cultivated patch, or fence, or sheep-track, met my eyes in any direction. There was nothing for it but to walk on and take my chance of finding what shelter I could, by the way. So I pushed wearily forward, for I'd been on foot since an hour after daybreak and had eaten nothing since breakfast. Meanwhile the snow began to come down with ominous steadiness and the wind fell. For this, the cold became more intense, and the night came rapidly up. As for me, my prospects darkened with the darkening sky, and my heart grew heavy as I thought how my My young wife was already watching for me through the window of our little in-parler and thought of all the suffering in store for her throughout this weary night. We had been married four months and having spent our autumn in the Highlands, we were now lodging in a remote little village situated just on the verge of the great English Morlands. We were very much in love and, of course, very happy. This morning, when we parted, she had implored me to return before dusk, and I had promised her that I would. What would I not have given to have kept my word? Even now, weary as I was, I felt that with a supper, an hour's rest, and a guide, I might still get back to her before midnight if only guide and shelter could be found. And all this time, the snow fell and the night thickened. I stopped and shouted every now and then, but my shout seemed only to make the silence deeper. Then a vague sense of uneasiness came upon me, and I began to remember stories of travelers who had walked on and on in the falling snow until, wearyed out, they were feigned to lie down and sleep their lives away. Would it be possible, I asked myself, to keep on thus through all the long dark night? Would there not come a time when my limbs must fail, and my resolution give way. I shuddered. How hard, when lifely, all so bright before me, How hard for my darling, whose whole loving heart, but that thought was not to be born. To banish it, I shouted again, louder and longer, and then listened eagerly. Was my shout answered? Or did I only fancy that I heard a far off cry. I hallowed again and again the echo followed. Then a wavering speck of light came suddenly out of the dark, shifting, disappearing, growing momentarily nearer and brighter.

Running towards it at full speed, I found myself to my great joy, face to face with an old man and a lantern. Thank God was the exclamation that burst involuntarily from my lips. Blinking and frowning, he lifted his lantern and peered into my face. What for? Grout he, silkely. Well, for you, I began to fear I should be lost in the snow. And then folks do get cast away here about for a time time, and what's to hinder you from being cast away likewise, if the Lord so-minded. If the Lord is so-minded that you and I shall be lost together, friend, we must submit. I replied, but I don't mean to be lost without you. How far am I now from duolting? A good twenty mile more or less. And the nearest village? The nearest village is wake, and that's twelve mile the other side.

Where do you live then?

Out yonder. village is white, and that's twelve mile the other side.

Where do you live then? Out yonder, said he, with a vague jerk of the lantern. You're going home, I presume? Maybe I am. Then I'm going with you. old man shook his head and rubbed his nose reflectively with the handle of the lantern. It ain't no use, growled he. He won't let you in, not he. We'll see about that, I replied briskly. Who was he? The master. Who was the master? That's not to you. Was the unceremonious reply? Well, while you leave the way and I'll engage with the master to see if he'll give me shelter and a supper tonight.

You can try him. Muttered my reluctant guide. And still shaking his head, he hobbled, gnome like a way through the falling snow. A large mass loomed up presently out of the darkness and a huge dog rushed out barking furiously. Is this the house? I asked. I, it's the house, down by, and he fumbled in his pocket for the key. I drew up close behind him, prepared to lose no chance of entrance, and saw in the little circle of light shed by the lantern that the door was heavily studded with iron nails, like the door of a prison. In another minute he had turned the key and I had pushed past him into the house. Once inside, I looked around with curiosity and found myself in a great, raftered hall, which served apparently a variety of uses. One end was piled to the roof with corn like a barn. The other was stored with flower sacks, agricultural implements, casks, and all kinds of miscellaneous lumber, while from the beams overhead hung rows of hams, flitches, and bunches of dried herbs for winter use. In the center of the floor stood some huge object gauntly dressed in a dingy wrapping cloth and reaching halfway to the rafters Lifting a corner of this cloth, I saw to my surprise a telescope a very considerable size Mounted on a rude, movable platform with four small wheels. The tube was made of painted wood, bound round with bands of metal, rudely fashioned. The speculum, so far as I could estimate its size in the dim light, measured at least 15 inches in diameter. While I was yet examining the instrument and asking myself whether it was not the work of some self-taught optician, a bell rang sharply. That's for you, said my guide with a grin.

Yonder's his room. He pointed to a low black door at the opposite side of the hull. I crossed over, wrapped somewhat loudly and went in without waiting for an invitation.

A huge, white-haired old man rose from a table covered with books and papers and confronted me sternly. Who are you?" said he.

How came you here? What do you want?

James Murray, barrister at law, on foot across the moor. How came you here? What do you want?

James Murray, barrister at law, on foot across the moor. Meet drink and sleep. He bent his bushy brows into a portentious frown. is not a house of entertainment?" he said, hotly.

Jacob, how dare you admit this stranger? I didn't admit him. Grumbled the old man. He followed me over the more. And shouldersers weigh in before me. I'm no match for six foot two. And praise, sir, by what right have you forced an entrance into my house? The same by which I should have clung to your boat if I were drowning, the right of self-preservation. Self-preservation? There's an inch of snow on the ground already. I replied briefly and it would be deep enough to cover my body before daybreak. He strode to the window, pulled aside a heavy black curtain and looked out. It is true. He said,

you can stay if you choose till morning.

Jacob served the supper.

With this, he waived me to a seat,

resumed his own,

and became at once absorbed in the studies from which I had disturbed him. I placed my rifle in a corner, drew a chair to the hearth, and examined my quarters at leisure. Smaller and less incongruous in its arrangements than the hull. This room contained, nevertheless, much too awakened my curiosity. The floor was carpetless. The whitewashed walls were in parts scrolled over with strange diagrams, and in others covered with shelves crowded with philosophical instruments, the uses of many of which were unknown to me. On one side of the fireplace stood a bookcase filled with folios. On the other, a small organ fantastically decorated with painted carvings of medieval saints and devils. Through the half open door of a cupboard at the further end of the room, I saw a long array of geological specimens, surgical preparations, crucibles, retorts, and jars of chemicals. While on the mantle shelf beside me, amid a number of small objects, stood a model of the solar system, a small galvanic battery, and a microscope. Every chair had its burden. Every corner was heaped high with books. The very floor was littered over with maps, casts, papers, tracings, and learned lumber of all conceivable kinds. I stared about me with an amazement increased by every fresh object upon which my eyes chanced to rest. So strange a room I had never seen yet seemed it stranger still to find such a room in a lone farmhouse amid those wild and solitary moors. Over and over again, I looked from my host to his surroundings, and from his surroundings back to my host, asking myself who and what he could be. His head was singularly fine, but it was more the head of a poet than of a philosopher, broad in the temples, prominent over the eyes, and clues with a rough profusion of perfectly white hair. It had all the ideality and much of the ruggedness that characterizes the head of Louis von Beethoven. There were the same deep lines about the mouth and the same stern furrows in the brow. There was the same concentration of expression. While I was yet observing him, the door opened, and Jacob brought in the supper. His master then closed his book, Rose, and with more courtesy of manner than he had yet shown, invited me to the table. A dish of ham and eggs, a loaf of brown bread, and a bottle of admirable cherry were placed before me. I have but the homeless farmhouse fare to offer you, sir," said my entertainer. Your appetite, I trust, will make up for the deficiencies of our larder. I had already fallen upon the food, and now protested with the enthusiasm of a starving sportsman that I had never eaten anything so delicious. He bowed stiffly and sat down to his own supper, which consisted, primitively, of a jug of milk and a basin of porridge. We ate in silence and when we had done, Jacob removed the tray. I then drew my chair back to the fire side. My host, somewhat to my surprise, did the same, and turning abruptly towards me said, Sir, I have lived here in strict retirement for three in twenty years. During that time, I have not seen as many strange faces and I have not read a single newspaper. You are the first stranger who has crossed my threshold for more than four years. Will you favor me with a few words of information respecting that outer world from which I have parted company so long? Pray and interrogate me, I replied, I am heartily at your service. He bent his head in acknowledgment, leaned forward with his elbows resting on his knees and his chin supported in the palms of his hands, stared fixably into the fire, and proceeded to question. His inquiries related chiefly to scientific matters with the later progress of which, as applied to the practical purposes of life, he was almost wholly unequainted. No student of science myself, I replied as well as my slight information permitted, but the task was far from easy, and I was much relieved when, passing from interrogation to discussion, he began pouring forth his own conclusions upon the facts which I had been attempting to place before him. He talked, and I listened, spellbound. He talked till I believe he almost forgot my presence, and only thought aloud. I had never heard anything like it then. I have never heard anything like it since. Familiar with all systems of all philosophies? Settle in analysis. Bold in generalization. He poured forth his thoughts in an uninterrupted stream. And still leaning forward in the same moody attitude with his eyes fixed upon the fire, wandered from topic to topic, from speculation to speculation, like an inspired dreamer. From practical science to mental philosophy, from electricity in the wire to electricity in the nerve, from watts to mesmer, from mesmer to Swedenborg Spinoza Kondulac, Descartes, Berkeley, Aristotle, Plato, and the Maggi and Mystics of the East were transitions which, however bewildering in their variety and scope, seemed easy and harmonious upon his lips as sequences in music. Buy and buy. I forget now by what link of conjecture or illustration he passed on to that field which lies beyond the boundary line of even conjectural philosophy and reaches no man knows wither. He spoke of the soul and its aspirations, of the spirit and its powers, of second sight, of prophecy, of those phenomena which, under the names of ghosts, specters, and supernatural appearances, have been denied by the skeptics and attested by the credulous of all ages. The world, he said, grows hourly more and more skeptical of all that lies beyond its own narrow radius, and are men of science foster the fatal tendency. They condemn as fable all that resist experiment They reject as false all that cannot be brought to the test of the laboratory or the dissecting room. Against what superstition have they waged so long and obstinate a war as against the belief in apparitions.

And yet what superstition has maintained its hold upon the minds of men so long and so firmly? Show me any fact in physics, in history, in archaeology, which is supported by testimony so wide and so various. Attested by all races of men, in all ages, and in all climates, by the soberest sages of antiquity, by the rudest savage of today, by the Christian, the pagan, the pantheist, the materialist, this phenomenon is treated as a nursery tale by the philosophers of our century. Circumstantial evidence weighs with them as a feather in the balance. The comparison of causes with effects, however valuable in physical science is put aside as worthless and unreliable. The evidence of competent witnesses, however conclusive and accordive justice, counts for nothing. He who pauses before he pronounces is condemned as a trifler. He who believes is a dreamer or a fool. He spoke with bitterness and, having said thus, relapsed for some minutes into silence. Presently he raised his head from his hands and added with an altered voice and manner. I, sir, paused, investigated, believed, and was not ashamed to state my convictions to the world. I, too, was branded as a visionary, held up to ridicule by my contemporaries and hooted from that field of science

in which I had labored with honor during all the best years of my life. These things happened just three and twenty years ago. Since then, I have lived as you see me living now, and the world has forgotten me, as I have forgot the world. You have my history. It is a very sad one, I murmured, scarcely knowing what to answer. It is a very common one, he replied.

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