A few days ago I finished reading 'The Woman In Black.' As I've
probably said before, one of the regrets of my miss-spent youth is
that I never dove into a lot of the classics that make up the
foundation of my preferred genre. Rest assured, I'm slowly chipping
away at that deficiency.
I saw the recent movie first, and I deliberately avoided reading
anything about it or the book, to avoid comparing the two until I had
finished both. I'm not going to get into spoilers. Go read the one
and see the other, in that order.
What got me thinking, and now writing, is a minor bit at the
beginning, a tiny little piece of the setting. The image of a large,
proper Victorian family sitting in what we would call the living
room, staying warm by the fire while winter gusts and blows outside,
telling ghost stories.
This is going to be another stroll down the trail of 'maybe,' like I
strolled not to long ago when I pondered what might have sparked the
first belief in vampires. We're going to meander along this twisted
path where ever we may, not minding the destination as much as
enjoying the journey. It's not going to be the last word, the first
word, or even necessarily a coherent word. This is my word, one of
many.
I really wonder what the average person's views on family was, back
then. I like having my own house, and I like choosing who comes and
goes. Some days it's nice to just sit in the middle of the house and
listen to silence.
Things were different, way back when. You might have three
generations living under one roof, and everyone sharing bedrooms.
Add to that cozy scenario folks coming in from across town or a
different town, and you're going to have company no matter where you
are in the house. It's a happy time, and even if it doesn't really
feel like a happy time, you've got little choice but to act happy.
There's whatever version of a feast your life can afford, and
probably a bit of wine or gin. You get the renewed love of seeing
your whole family together again, and all the petty old quarrels that
are part of the same package. Since we're talking about Victorian
England here, there's the added stress of it being colder than a
witch's pointy hat. Everyone wants that perfect spot by the fire.
At the end of the day, people are going to be tired, maybe a bit
grouchy, and groping through the house by lamp or candle-light.
Christmas Eve is the traditional time for the stories, though I doubt
they were all kept until then. So when the big night comes not only
have we had a few day's buildup, but there's the anticipation of
wondering just what's in that sock you nailed up by the chimney. The
perfect setting to provide a bit of escape.
Why ghost stories? Again, it's dark, which is always scary, and it's
cold. The caveman part of our head tells us there won't be as much
food running around for us to hunt, and that the days themselves will
be shorter. Because of the time period, our family unit has probably
seen one or two of its previous members pass on during this season of
coughs and chills. If they haven't, they've seen or heard stories of
the 'unfortunates' who die from cold and starvation this time of
year. Merry Christmas.
The connection is subtle to us, but in those days the relevant themes
were more prevalent. The story from the handy family Bible is about
death, resurrection, and hope. Father Christmas wasn't so fat and
cuddly back then, so in each person's head, he would have that
nebulous quality that people associate with a universal father
figure: loving, but stern. If that grouchy old man in the big house
came back as a ghost when he died, then that means that death isn't
the end, no matter how much we fear that it is. It also means we
better bite our tongue when Aunt Bertha steals the last bit of
pudding, no matter how much we want to call her out on it. We don't
want to end up a ghost and miss out on Heaven.
I'll close with that, but I think we can talk about ghosts again, and
discuss their emotional well-being or lack thereof.
Still writing.
