The following episode contains descriptions of partner violence, we advised extreme caution for children under 13. The following is from the Graven Image by William Sharp. Yes, I replied, Mr. Gygax is still alive, though he lives as a recluse, fashion as you do, childless and lifeless. The old man is very lonely.

He has never been himself since since. Here I stopped embarrassed, but Mr. Jagannathan quietly finished my sentence since the death of his daughter, Catherine. You were going to say. I bounced slightly information. Will you tell me the actual wording of the inscription on the memorial tablet, which he has raised in the family burial ground behind the little private chapel on Malfeasant Heath? Well, to see the truth, I don't know, that is to say, I have forgotten, I muttered.

Does it run thus went on Mr. Jagoff and quietly, though with a suggestion of irony in his voice first the date of the year and then. Catherine Trevaskis, age 25, not yet avenged. Hi, everyone, I'm Alastair Murden, and this is Haunted Places Ghost Stories, a Spotify original from podcast. Ghost stories have arisen from every century and every corner of the world, from the streets of Victorian Whitechapel to the swamps of Bangladesh, where the seated around the campfire or curled up with a pair of headphones.

We returned to them time and again to feel our skin crawl and our hearts race. Each week, Ghost Stories reimagines a chilling paranormal tale from history's most sinister storytellers told like you've never heard them before. You can find episodes of Ghost Stories and to all other Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify or wherever you listen to podcasts. Today's story comes from 19th century Scottish novelist William Sharp. Sharp worked closely with William Butler Yeats in the Celtic Mystical Order, an occult group devoted to ancient Celtic myth.

I will be telling this story as James Trinary, a young man from Cornwall who chooses to save a little money when he visits London by staying with his father's old friend, John Triggerfish. But the gardens are not what they seem, and no one seems to be more invested in demonstrating that fact than John Trevathan. Short story draws not just from the Gothic tropes of haunted houses and family secrets, but also from the world of the unseen. They are filled with magic, spirits and visions beyond time and space.

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There is a house in Kensington known as the mulberries, and it is for sale. It is a little home set back and a walled garden that looks out onto Holland Park. The residence has an unnerving way of sliding past your attention, as if cloaked in some face. Spell it. I take comfort as the ad in the post can only mean one thing. John Chafin is dead. Society dictates that I should mourn the man, but I cannot find it within myself.

My memories will always be shaped by my experience. At his old little home, John was my father's friend. He was 20 years older than I, and my father's death had been 10 years hence. As such, I had not seen him for ages when I ran into him one night near Camden, held the skies, had just opened up with one of London's far too frequent October deluges.

I was searching for an artist friend of mine, the houses in Camden Hill have the most difficult to relax, and their gates was so overgrown with dying vines that to my mind, they appeared to be swallowed up by nature and time. This wildness that consumes the properties outer walls kept me from realizing I had entered someone's back garden until I stumbled into a family burial plot. I waitz my hand against a wet gravestone and made out the name Katherine Trevaskis below, it was a curious inscription.

Age 25, not yet avenged. I worked my way to the edge of the cemetery and out through the gates, my imagination was buzzing with what strange highwaymen must have carried off. Poor Katherine. As I stepped back onto the street, I found a man looking at me. His coat was soaked through with water, large bags hung around his eyes and his lips were hardened into a thin line, I recognized him at once as my father's friend, John Triggerfish, whom I had seen once or twice at parties.

Once I'd left my youth.

John's hair cropped in the Roman style and his frame was more bone than skin. You could always spot him due to his subdued disposition and excellent tailoring. I drew myself up to my full height, feeling silly as I tried to look like the proper gentleman I now was, I greeted him with a smile and explained my situation. His voice was as warm as I remembered, and he spoke to me as an uncle might. You can't stay out in this weather, James.

Your winter plans will be ruined by ill health. He was right. I was expected in Italy and couldn't afford to be sick. Stay with me tonight, John commanded. I can point you in the right direction in the morning and you'll be in better shape than I dare say you are now. I look down at my sodden clothes. He had a point and I was in need of rest. A night spent with a family friend meant more money to spend abroad.

In Italy, I was planning to buy a few rare first editions for my fiercely literate friend Sophia, and the extra funds would bring us even more books to pour over together. Of course, this wasn't just about my own joy.

I was also excited to spend more time with a man who had been close with my late father. His death had been sudden and I took any chance I had to learn of him. John sent his carriage driver to the hotel to retrieve my things. Then we stepped through his bramble covered garden and into the small building at the back. The house was darker than I expected. Not a single lamp was lit despite the gray sky outside the Tiergarten family had never been in need of funds.

So I told myself he must have had a good reason for keeping things dim. John handed me a candle and led me into a room he called his sanctum. Our candles reveal leather bound books set in long bookshelves. We settled in front of the hearth as his housemate wordlessly started a fire. I made sure to thank the tired looking woman and was rather surprised that John barely paid her any mind, as if she was just another piece of furniture. I hope the dancing flames would provide some comfort, but the shadows only seemed to make the room darker and more sinister.

We talked for an hour about London society and my travel plans, but I could see there was something deeper on John's mind. He sat with his brow furrowed, lips opening and then pausing before the words came out. Eventually, the conversation died. We sat staring into those pale flames as they struggled against the cold and the darkness. When John spoke, I nearly jumped out of my skin. Were you ever acquainted with my late brother? He asked.

Fire danced in his pupils, but I couldn't figure out why he was thinking so seriously on the subject. I'm afraid I never had the chance, I replied. From what I could remember, John's brother was serving in the military. I assumed he died at war. Terrible circumstances, but it couldn't be helped. I expected some fond family anecdote, but the silence stretched between us. As John mulled my answer. Almost ten minutes later, he spoke again.

Did I see you stumbling out of the Gasca cemetery? I tried to turn my wince into a laugh. Indeed, London is surprisingly wooded and disorienting in places, is it not? John smiled. It is. It is. Chigasaki doesn't care for the property much either. Did you see his daughter Catherine's grave? She was a classical beauty, truly.

He gave me a strange look before he continued casually Tombstone's inscription fascinates me, not yet avenged. What was the old man thinking? There was an edge here that I didn't quite grasp. John spoke of the dead girl and her reclusive father with an almost frighteningly thunder rumbled in the darkness as I ventured. What happened to her? John laughed. Justice, I think, has already been served. His words chilled my blood. John no longer looks like the sad, soft spoken man I had seen on the edges of parties.

He sat somewhere between rage and euphoria. I think that's best left for her father to decide, I asserted with finality the loss of family was personal to me and I could not mock Mr. Trevaskis pain when I had to struggle daily to not wallow in my own. All these years later, John laughed louder this time and said, Aha. But there's the rub, James. He let her go before she was well trained and thus there is no one to blame but himself.

I was greatly unnerved. There was a dismissiveness to John's tone, as if he was talking about a domestic animal who had been let out the garden gate. I wondered if it might be better to return to the hotel. My eyes darted to the window as if in answer, rain and hail poured down on the little houses roof as you retire, my boy. Devil of a storm, John said, standing up. And so, as if he was my own dearly departed father, I let John Triggerfish send me to bed.

I tossed and turned for hours, but I could not sleep, John's eerie smile and Katherine's mysterious fate haunted me. I finally gave up and moved to the fireplace. I caught a flame on a piece of tallow and used it to light the lamps. Jonathan's love of the written word continued into his guest bedroom. Every wall was filled with books, and dotting the shelves were alcoves containing various trinkets. There was one curious objects that had been pushed as far back into the wall as it could go.

It was a wax bust, unlike any I'd seen before or after, long locks of carved hair skated down her shoulders. Her features were delicate and soft. Yet each curve, an angle of the face had been shaped with mathematical precision. She was a person and a work of art at the same time. It was Catherine Cherkasky, I was sure of it, though, I confess, I didn't know why I was so sure. In the flickering candlelight, she looked alive, her brow was crinkled, her lips ever so slightly parted, a laugh frozen on her face.

Only when I was absolutely certain she could not move and therefore was not laughing at me, did I lower my eyes to the title at the sculpture's base? The graven image. Beneath that was a, quote, low I made unto myself a graven image that unto the end of my days, the eyes of the body should likewise know no peace. The artists had certainly met their goal. I felt no peace as I looked upon her, rather, I felt as though I was staring at a decapitated head that was still moving.

I went to bed again, but as I stared at the ceiling, I heard a soft scraping of wood coming from the alcove that housed my awful new roommate. I held my breath as the sound grew louder and closer. I close my eyes, but then I heard a laugh. There was a woman standing by the fireplace. I knew at once that she was the model for the graven image. She had the same dark hair, the same delicate features.

The flames even made her skin look soft and yellow. Madam, are you all right? I ventured, she didn't answer, but she raised her eyes to look at me no, through me. They were still dull instead of glassy, she extended an elegant hand to the flames, as if to warn them of something awful.

And as she drew close, her long, graceful fingers began to melt suddenly, horribly. I realized this tragic woman was made entirely of wax. Up next, James discovers the source of the wax woman's unease.

You discover their practices, seek their advice, and let yourself become more vulnerable than ever before. They have the ability to heal what the doctors can't, or so they say.

Hi, listeners. It's Vanessa from the podcast series Cults.

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Sportsbook Doug Faneuil dot com four terms and restrictions. Gambling problem call one 800 gambler. Now back to the story. I felt I must be dreaming. The sheets twisted around my frame and holding me tight. The woman made of wax, the living version of that bust on John's bookcase called the graven image, was still melting. As she stood by the fireplace. I yelped and jumped forward, falling out of bed onto the floor before I could help.

Luckily, the woman stepped away from the heat on her own closer to me. There was something alien about her Wax's, but the features around them gave such a profound impression of life.

I was surprised by my yearning to take her in my arms to protect her from all dangers, warm and cold alike. I heard the pounding of footsteps in the hallway. Still, I focused on her inquiring. Madam, are you well? It seemed a pertinent question, she didn't answer me. Instead, her eyes were fixed on the entryway and the footsteps outside that beautiful face was etched with such terror, such pain and anguish that I will not forget it for the rest of my days.

She ran for the large armoire on the other side of the room, ripped the door open and climbed inside. I wasn't sure what she was hiding from. Something told me I didn't want to know. I untangled my feet from the sheets that held me hostage and darted for the armoire. But the door slammed shut before I could reach it. I felt nerves alight across my body, but I told myself that this must only be a very strange dream. I stepped away from the armoire as a man arrived at the door, I wasn't sure who I should expect, but my second visitor certainly wasn't John Trevathan.

This man was healthier in bearing with his hair tied at the nape of his neck. He had a heavy mustache over his upper lip and he looked like a refined gentleman. Still, there was nothing refined about his expression. Hard lines cut across his face. There was a heat to him that reminded me of the fire, but it was his eyes that concerned me the most. I had seen a similar look in John's eyes only hours ago. The man looked like he could be related to John, but John's brother was dead and I had never met him before.

How would I conjure him in a dream? Whoever this man was, he paced the room like a caged lion, his hands clenched and unclenched, sweat poured from his forehead as he muttered to himself. I cleared my throat, unsure what you were meant to say to a dream to make it go away. Hello.

This is my room for the night, and I'd prefer it if you left. Much like the woman, he seemed not to hear me. Instead, the rain seemed to stop and the man circled the room and could come out, little cat. It was a barely controlled menace, in his words, I did not want him to find the woman, but I felt too paralyzed by fear to intervene. My eyes darted to the armoire and I realized I had given away the woman's hiding spot.

The ominous man prowl to the armoire and said, I promise to behave myself this time. Then his right eyebrow rose in a devilish smirk, and he whispered. Until you tell me not to. He grabbed the handle of the armoire door and pulled he swung the door open and dragged the woman out by her hair, his fingers penetrated the soft wax as he pulled whole chunks of her head were falling away. Her mouth hung open in a cry of anguish.

And yet I heard no sound. I overcame my shock and rushed forward to pull him off, but when I grasped his shoulder, all I felt was hot, smoky air surrounding my fingers.

He threw the woman forward and she slid across the floor in her nightgown. Both of them were panting as she slowly rose to her full height. Suddenly, I realized why no sound had left her lips even as he throttled her. Her face was dented from the impact and her cheek had been fully torn open, leaving nothing but an empty hole. She had no teeth or tongue. Whoever made her had decided she didn't need to talk. The man opened his mouth, ready to mock her again, but suddenly the wax woman pulled a knife from an alcove on the shelves, rushed forward and plunged it deep into his shoulder.

What was smoke to me was all too solid for her red blood sprayed across the floor as the man let out a howl of pain, the flames flared in the fireplace as the man tackled her to the ground and got on top of her. He was shaking her, crushing her throat and slamming her waxen head against the floor. The part of her face closest to his began to melt. She let out another silent scream. I reached for him again, knowing it was likely in vain.

But this time my grip held as if the man's wound had somehow made him real. He pushed me backwards before I could act. I stumbled trying to find purchase on the bookcase. My head hit the floor and everything went black. I awoke to the sun streaming through the curtains and the maid humming as she brought in tea, she cried out as she found me. Oh, sir, are you all right? I always told the master there are rooms that are much more hospitable when this home.

I blinked, disoriented and unable to figure out how it ended up on the floor, when I opened my eyes completely, I saw another pair of eyes staring back at me. The wax bust still sat on the bookcase, but her expression was changed now to a horrible, immutable sadness. I scratch the back of my head and felt the crust of dry blood against my scalp. I asked the maid for a bowl of water so I could clean up.

She left and I tugged on my clothes. I wanted out of this house at once, but the graven image was still gazing upon me as much as I feared her. I needed to speak with John. I found him in his sanctum. There was a smile playing on his lips as though he knew what Misfortunate suffered and was delighted by it. I had no time for propriety as I demanded. Who is the model for this bust? He was silent for a long moment.

Then his smile grew as he revealed Catherine Kiss, my late betrothed. I swallowed, unsure of what to say, he was saying that I saw the murder of an already dead woman, one he was to marry, but that couldn't be possible. John stood from his chair, slowly pulling a small vignette portrait from his pocket. He asked me, James, did you see this man by any chance before he'd shown me the picture? I knew who it would be.

Long hair and a mustache, a hard face with harder eyes. My voice trembled. Who is he? He studied the fire and signed my departed brother, Richard. We are a proud family. You know, we do not forgive trespasses, not from brothers and not even from those frail creatures who do not know any better. I understood now that Richard had pursued Catherine, too, and that they were each other's grisly undoing, but I had witnessed his malice and her fear, John couldn't possibly blame Catherine for her fate, could he?

I had to ask. If she betrayed you, then why keep a reminder of her on your shelf? John replied, Thou shalt not make untether any graven image, Devoy, so speak of the Lord, this is the danger of idolatry. One does not see the flaws in time to correct them. I was blind to Katharine's flaws in life. Now I have corrected them. She makes for a pretty decoration. I remember the inscription on the bust which spoke of how the images subject would know no peace, I could not hide my horror and contempt as I spat.

But you have trapped her. Catherine is not an object, Mr. Jagannathan. Oh, he said, chuckling darkly to himself, she is now, is she not? I was overcome then, so sad and so sure that he did possess Catherine forever and that this world of old men, the world of John and Richard and my father, too, had allowed it. I left without another word for Italy and promised myself that I would not allow such thoughts to fester in me or my company.

I had been too passive and too polite for too long. I would ask my friends, Sophia, how best to prevent this horror again, how to make sure that no man could treat a woman as an object to control. Several weeks later, I heard that John had perished. I take solace in that, and I hope his tragic intended. Catherine has found her vengeance in that fact, too. As for the house, I pray the market stays as depressed as it's been.

I fear for any new tenant as they do not know what is lurking inside. But what frightens me more is that upon discovery. They may not care. William Sharp's work is an eclectic mix of biography, poetry and fantastical tales, reflecting an interest in mysticism that was popular in the late 19th century. Many writers and thinkers made claims of visions of the past, present and future in the 80s and 90s. But Sharpes dreams were particularly notable. He described a utopia where there wasn't just equality between genders, but gender as a concept seemed to have eroded entirely.

In 1894, shortly before Sharpe would publish the graven image, the writer began using a new nom de plume, Fiona McLeod. Now it's common for writers to use multiple pen names to reflect different brands or experimentation with form. But Sharp adopted the Fiona McLeod persona for more reasons than just commerce. His wife, Elizabeth, explained. In surveying the dual life as a whole, I have seen how from the early, partially realized Twinship William Sharpe was the first to go adventuring and find himself while his twin, Fiona MacLeod, remained passive or a separate self.

When she awoke to active consciousness, she became the deeper, the more compelling, the more essential factor. Elizabeth continued by reason of this severance and of the acute conflict that at times resulted there from the flaming of the dual life became so fierce that Will Feehan, as I named the inner and third self that lay behind that dual expression, realized the imperative ness of gaining control over his two separated selves and of bringing them into some kind of conscious harmony.

This was what he meant when he wrote to Mrs. Jenova in 1899. I am going through a new birth sharp with publishers both Fiona and William for the rest of his life until he died at age 50. When we examined the death and suffering of Catherine Trask's, one must take this identification with her gender into account. The horror sharp presents in the graven image is not only the double murder James discovers, but the machinations of Victorian society that have transformed Catherine into a supposed false idol, a graven image.

These forces will find sharp suggests linger like spirits. They have no true substance. We are frightened of them all the same. Thanks again for tuning into haunted places, ghost stories, we will be back on Thursday with a new episode. You can find more episodes of Ghost Stories and all other Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify. See you on the other side. Haunted Places Ghost Stories is a Spotify original from podcast. It is executive produced by Max Cutler Sound, designed by Kenny Hobbs with production assistance by Ron Shapiro, Carly Madden and Isabel Away.

This episode of Haunted Places Ghost Stories was written by little Dorita and Jennifer Rachet with writing assistants by Alex Garland, fact checking by Adrianna Romero and research by Mikki Taylor. I'm Alistair Murden.