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The Bridge by Marina Zrnic©

Foto de Bob Jansen en Unsplash It was given to us, the gift of one year time of peace and calm mornings, blackbirds singing. It was given to us at last, a small snug flat in the same street where honey and birds are sold where we read books and work and make love. When you have walked through the valley of hell, only then it is when you find the ultimate happiness in everyday rituals, you need nothing else than to live and drink coffee. I am walking on the edge of a tall stone bridge. I am aware that water can take me away any moment, any time. I just want us to be alive and old side by side. I just want the water to take us away together.  

The Mysterious Mansion by Honoré de Balzac (1831)

Foto de cottonbro studio: https://www.pexels.com/es-es/foto/neblinoso-estilizacion-vestido-blanco-influencia-6752191/ About a hundred yards from the town of Vendôme, on the borders of the Loire, there is an old gray house, surmounted by very high gables, and so completely isolated that neither tanyard nor shabby hostelry, such as you may find at the entrance to all small towns, exists in its immediate neighborhood. In front of this building, overlooking the river, is a garden, where the once well-trimmed box borders that used to define the walks now grow wild as they list. Several willows that spring from the Loire have grown as rapidly as the hedge that encloses it, and half conceal the house. The rich vegetation of those weeds that we call foul adorns the sloping shore. Fruit trees, neglected for the last ten years, no longer yield their harvest, and their shoots form coppices. The wall-fruit grows like hedges against the walls. Paths once graveled are overgrown with moss, but, to te

Ash-tree by M.R.James (1904)

https://unsplash.com/photos/yellow-pillar-candle-in-black-lantern-S7mAngnWV1A?utm_content=creditShareLink&utm_medium=referral&utm_source=unsplash Everyone who has travelled over Eastern England knows the smaller country-houses with which it is studded—the rather dank little buildings, usually in the Italian style, surrounded with parks of some eighty to a hundred acres. For me they have always had a very strong attraction: with the grey paling of split oak, the noble trees, the meres with their reed-beds, and the line of distant woods. Then, I like the pillared portico—perhaps stuck on to a red-brick Queen Anne house which has been faced with stucco to bring it into line with the “Grecian” taste of the end of the eighteenth century; the hall inside, going up to the roof, which hall ought always to be provided with a gallery and a small organ. I like the library, too, where you may find anything from a Psalter of the thirteenth century to a Shakespeare quarto. I like the picture

Ghosts by Marina Zrnic ©

  Foto de Henry Han: https://www.pexels.com/es-es/foto/ventanas-ventana-habitacion-atico-19542895/ After changing a tenth diaper today, while all alone in a flat with our son on our damaged bedroom wall I saw a piece of universe that looks over  to the other side. Nothing is more important  than having the ghosts well fed. When you open the window  on our damaged wall   to dive into the pool there will be no need to talk to them.

Flaxman Low, Occult Psychologist, Collected Stories by E. and H.Heron (1899)

*Photo by  cottonbro studio Table of Contents The Story of Saddler's Croft The Story of Baelbrow The Story of Yand Manor House The Story of Konnor Old House The Story of the Spaniards, Hammersmith The Story of Sevens Hall The Story of Saddler's Croft Although Flaxman Low has devoted his life to the study of psychical phenomena, he has always been most earnest in warning persons who feel inclined to dabble in spiritualism, without any serious motive for doing so, of the mischief and danger accruing to the rash experimenter. Extremely few persons are sufficiently masters of themselves to permit of their calling in the vast unknown forces outside ordinary human knowledge for mere purposes of amusement. In support of this warning the following extraordinary story is laid before our readers. Deep in the forest land of Sussex, close by an unfrequented road, stands a low half-timbered house, that is only separated from the roadway by a rough stone wall and a few flower borders. The fr