Here is an excerpt from Short Story, The Library Window by Margaret Oliphant. There was not a soul to be seen up or down from the abbey to the Westport, and the trees stood like ghosts. And the silence was terrible and everything as clear as day. You don't know what silence is till you find it in the lights like that, not morning, but night, no sun rising, no shadow, but everything as clear as the day. Hi, everyone, I'm Alistair 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, whether 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 chilling paranormal tales from history's most sinister storytellers told like you've never heard them before. You can find episodes of this and other Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify or wherever you listen to podcasts.

Today's story comes from the 19th century Scottish born writer Margaret Oliphant. Her short story, The Library Window, is a beguiling yet chilling tale that encapsulates the elusive space that exists between two different worlds. When day becomes night, when fantasy mingles with reality, and when the dead appear among the living. Coming up, we'll gaze into the library window and see the unseen.

It had been years, decades, even since Annie told anyone the story about her summer at her Aunt Mary's home in St Rules. It was a strange time, though some would say that adolescence is always a peculiar period of life. But Annie Summer was far stranger than any she'd experienced since. At first, Annie had paid little mind to the window across the way, she hadn't any idea of the many discussions that had been held about the subject, for it was rather unremarkable.

And she was far more interested in the streets below. Stranger's footsteps and pleasant voices floated on the summer breeze and drifted up to the old fashioned drawing room where she sat in the recessed window, reading yet another romance or adventure novel across from Aunt Mary. Annie had been staying with Aunt Mary for weeks now. She'd been sent there by her parents from London to recover in the fresh Scottish air, though some would consider it lonely to be stuck indoors with an old widow.

Annie didn't mind the quiet, allowed her time to read and think and to do much of nothing at all. Ever since she was small, everyone said she was fanciful and dreamy, or all the other words. People liked to call girls who happened to enjoy poetry, and yet she could be enthralled by the most fantastic of books and pick up every word of a nearby conversation. It was in this way that she first heard of the library window.

Aunt Mary was hosting one of her afternoon teas with her elderly friends. They were the usual characters, old women in rustling gowns who wore too much rouge, their white powdered makeup clinging to their gaunt, wrinkled faces. They sipped from Aunt Mary's chipped service in the dusty old drawing room, sitting stiffly like wax figures. And he thought it was not unlike looking at a museum diorama. The thought amused her, but she paid little attention to their conversation until Mr.

Pitt, merely a shrunken old gentleman, spoke up. Mary, he said, setting down his teacup with trembling hands.

Did you ever decide whether the window across the way is actually a window at all? Aunt Mary hesitated a moment, her own teacup hovering in front of her lips to tell the truth.

After all these years in this house, I've never been certain. The more I look, the less I can see. Lady can be a tool.

Old woman in black Spanish lace stood from her chair and peered across the street at the window in question.

I don't understand. The fuss, she said, is certainly a window, and by the looks of it, it hasn't been cleaned in ages. But that's just the point lady can be, said Mr. Pitt, merely his eyes shining. If the peonies are so dark, who's to say it's a window at all? I believe it's what they call an optical illusion, a phenomenon that occurs when the lover is out of balance and causes all sorts of strange visions.

Lady Quarmby cackled sharply, her frail body shaking with laughter.

Oh, are you suggesting that we are all experiencing a liver imbalance, Mr. Pitt Mellark.

For there is no question that as a window, Annie couldn't help but notice the look on Lady Kambiz face beneath her dark lace veil.

There was a curious expression, as if she perhaps knew more than she chose to say. But as she gestured and his attention was struck by her hands, her fingers were long and pale, almost bloodless, with blue veins popping from her white skin. But most striking of all was a peculiar ring on her left hand.

It was a large diamond held in an ugly old claw setting, but the ring itself was loose on her bony fingers so that it hung upside down, as if she were clutching it in her palm. It lurked in the hollow of her hand, like some dazzling creature that would emerge and take a stinging bite with its metal teeth. And he shuddered. Perhaps there is only one way to know for certain lady be continued. Give a lad a penny to throw a stone, then see if it shatters that.

The old woman and Mr. Pitt merely laughed and concluded that he and Annie, out of polite duty, escorted the old guests downstairs and out the door. When she returned, Mary was still standing at the recessed window, looking out. Those days in June passed slowly for Annie. The sun shone longer and longer into twilight, as if the summer consisted of a single, endless day. The same shadows stretched their dark fingers across the dusty carpet at dusk, and the grandfather clock chimed in the same steady rhythm, keeping the heartbeat of the old house.

It was on one of those strange, infinite evenings when the sun had long since sunk into the Earth. Yet the light continued to glow that Annie noticed the window there. To her surprise, she saw not black, opaque darkness, but a dim kind of grayness, the kind that implied a space between the glass.

A room, it was subtle, but unmistakable, Aunt Mary and her friends must have been too old to see it themselves, she thought. But as Annie stared, the space seemed to deepen. She could make out something darker now and more solid furniture, perhaps it seemed to solidify in front of her eyes as she watched. And then, yes, it was a desk, an old fashioned escritoire, just like her father's back in London. She could see the little drawers and the papers and the.

Honey, will you please fetch my lamp? I'm afraid it's grown too dim for my all days, and his attention snapped with Aunt Mary's words. What did she need with a lamp when it was clearly still daylight? But when Annie looked back outside, she was surprised to see that it was dark and so was the library window. Four days after Annie forgot about the window until one night when her mind was enraptured by the sounds of dusk, that lady can't be interrupted her thoughts.

My Lord, that child is still sitting there. It's as if she's caught in a dream. Tell me, Mary, is the little creature bewitched, cursed to sit at that window for the rest of her days. Lady can't be then turned to Aunt Mary, her voice lowering slightly. You know just as well as I that there are things about uncanny things for women of our blood. And he turned startled to realize that Lady Quarmby was speaking about her.

But as she looked at the old woman, Annie Fros lady can't be looked like a dramatic portrait. Her pale face loomed out from behind her black lace veil, her palm with the large diamond raised toward her. The stone caught the sunlight and sparkled, sending darts of blinding white light into Annie's eyes. She flinched, shielding her face. Lady can't be tackled. Look, I've broken the spell and she's back with the living at that. She said her goodbyes and made her way down the stairs.

Lady can't be is a witch. Annie cried as soon as she'd left. She was only half joking, but Aunt Mary scarcely looked up from her paper.

She replied, Is that so? Perhaps at one time she was. It was that night after dinner while Aunt Mary read her paper that Annie saw the library window again rather than dark, opaque panes. This time there was light. She could see the details of the room now an old desk chair, a gilded portrait frame. She could tell that it was being used. It was in the sprawl of the papers and the haphazard way the books were piled.

And yet no one seemed to be there until she saw it. A stir within the room. It was the slightest disturbance in the air, the flicker of a shadow or movement of light. Somebody was coming and it gasped, accidentally, catching on Mary's attention. Are you all right, honey? Yes, and he said quickly, her eyes not breaking from the room. But Aunt Mary then walked over to the window, placing a soft hand on her shoulder.

The moment she touched her, the room behind the window went dark, and still it was gone. And he turned around and snapped at the old woman. She told her it was nothing. Why didn't she believe her? Why did she have to come over and spoil it? Annie's pulse raced. She could feel tears stinging her eyes, but she regretted the words. As soon as they left her mouth, she watched Aunt Mary's face fall hurt. She gave Annie a little pat and walked away.

Though the days and Senate rules stretched and stretched, time did in fact keep moving forward. And as the end of June came near and she found herself dreading July, that was when she was to return to London, she felt that she should be very unwilling to leave until she had cleared up the mystery of the window. It was about midsummer when the daylight lingered, the longest that she noticed it by that time, and he knew the room well.

She memorized the way the books were placed and how the shadows cloaks the gilded portrait at the far end of the room. But one evening she saw the chair had been placed in front of the desk. It had been moved. Someone had moved it, and he waited, peering into the depths of the room. But there was nothing. After several long moments, she turned her attention to her book. Her thoughts were lost in the jungles of South America.

When she felt something tugged at her attention. She looked out the window and there, in the dim light of the room, she saw. Coming up, the library window continues now back to the story. And his heart rose to her throat, the desk chair in the library window had been moved, someone was there, she was sure of it, and then she saw him. He sat in the chair facing away from the window, and though and he could not see his face, she could tell his hair was light, a shade of fair blonde as she looked.

He sat almost perfectly still reading or writing with his back toward her. And he felt that somehow, though she didn't know it until that moment, she had been waiting for him and no one else. Every flicker of shadow or stir of movement she'd seen before had always been him. She couldn't understand why she felt so moved. Plenty of young men read and studied at the library, but glimpsing this life of which she knew nothing. But the intimate details of his study room gave her a kind of thrill.

Suddenly her face grew hot. How strange he thinks she was if he saw her staring at him. And yet she found she couldn't look away. And he was taken with every subtle movement, the way he turned his head slightly as he read or finishing writing a line. But somehow he never moved his hands to turn a page. It was as if he was writing an endless stream of thoughts. She longed to see him raise his head or drop a finish page to the floor.

But just as she saw the slightest bend of his elbow, Aunt Mary called her away.

Honey, honey, please see lady come to the door, won't you? And he stumbled to her feet, flushed and near tears, and took Lady Carnaby's arm. What's wrong, my dear? She said, looking Annie over it look as if you were in a dream. She then leaned in close and spoke softly. If it is about a man, let me tell you, he's hardly worth the tears, if you're a wise little bastard, you'd forget him.

And he insisted she was thinking of no man. Then, as she helped the old woman into her carriage, she swore she felt that dreadful diamond sting her bare hand, and he winced in pain. As soon as the carriage rode off, she raced back up the stairs, her heart pounding. But as she ran to the window, she found the library window was dark. She held her head in her hands and cried, tears streaming down her face.

But when her sobs stopped and she lifted her head, she was there again. This time, he leans back in his chair as if pausing for a word, and he wondered what he was thinking, what he was writing, she could see now that he had no beard, but he wouldn't move his head so that she might see his whole face. She pressed closer to the glass, captivated. But as rapt as she was with the man in the window, she hardly noticed the street below there.

The baker's son had been skipping stones down the street, but as he held his last rock, he took aim straight at the library window. It hit with a dull sound and fell to the street below, not a shard of glass shattered as the days passed, and he rarely took her eyes from the window. She hardly read any longer. Aunt Mary gently suggested in all her sweetness that Annie come away from the window. She asked her to read the paper to her or join her and her old friends for tea.

But Annie would never stray long. Soon, she found she never wanted her time. Gazing at his window to end, she stopped taking her meals in the dining room, lest she miss an opportunity to see him. Yet when her food was brought to her, she hardly touched a thing on many nights long after Aunt Mary had retired to bed and he would stay in the drawing room watching him until the darkness melted into day. Their Aunt Mary would find her the next morning, pale and sunken eyed, staring into the light of dawn at nothing at all.

Soon, others remarked on how drawn she looked, perhaps they told Aunt Mary she was getting ill again and some time outside with other girls might do her good. But Annie paid no mind. She wasn't interested in tennis or picnics. But one afternoon, while Mr. Pitt merely visited, the little old gentleman has an idea. There's a conversation party at the old college library tonight. What do you say I take you, Madam Mary and Missy at first? And he panicked to think she would miss an evening staring out her window.

But as she cried and pleaded with Aunt Mary to let her stay, a realization suddenly came to mind. Perhaps, just perhaps, he might be there. The idea made Annie both nauseous and giddy. And after dinner, as Annie, Aunt Mary and Mr. Pitt merely strolled across the street and the soft, dusky light to the library, Annie could hardly contain her excitement. As they entered the library, Annie looked around in awe. The space was bright and sparkling.

Flowers rested on every surface and every wall was lined with handsome shelves filled with more books than she'd imagined. Yes, she thought her man in the window would live in such an enchanting place. She looked around the room, searching the crowd for his fair hair. But after some time of looking and looking, she realized he wasn't there. Her heart sank. But before she could dwell on the thought any longer, Mr. Pitt merely approached. Come now, lass, let's take a stroll to look at the curiosity, shall we, defeated, and he took the old man's arm and let him guide her down the hole.

But as they walked, she was struck by a sudden realisation the walls of the library that faced on Mary's were lined with bookcases, but not a single window, and his heart pounded in her chest as Mr. Pitt merely rambled on. Where was her window? She thought. The old man's voice sounded hollow and distant now, and though she could not hear him clearly, she caught the concerned look on his face. But soon she started repeating it out loud.

Where was her window? Her window. Before long, a small crowd of faces gathered around a professor who'd overheard her stepped forward to explain the window of which Annie was speaking. Never was a real window. It was false, a wooden frame added to make the building symmetrical. There was no room on the other side, only a bookshelf, as he pointed at the ordinary shelves of books and he felt the sounds of the party grow distant. Before she knew it, she and Mr.

Pitt merely were back on the street, heading back to Aunt Mary's house, and he threw open the door and marched straight up to the drawing room as old Mr. Pitt merely followed behind. And there at the window was the man as clear as day. But this time his face, his beautiful face, calm and lost in thought, was turned toward them. There. There he is. And he cried, Don't you see him? But as Annie turned to Mr.

Picadilly, she could tell he saw nothing at all. His voice began to tremble. My dear young lady, you poor, poor thing. You wait here and I will bring your Aunt Mary home is just wait here, Annie. Watch the dapper old man disappear down the stairs. As soon as he was gone, she turned back to the window. She held her hands toward the man and screamed. Why couldn't he see her? Why wouldn't he say something?

And he sat pressed to the glass as sobs wracked her body. And then it happened. He rose from his chair and he rose to her feet. Also, she was like his puppet, moving each time he did. When he stepped closer to the window, so did she. And then she was sure of it. He looked at her. Then he opened the window, he leaned out and gazed to where she stood and raised his hand in a small gesture like a wave.

He looked down the street, then back at her. In that moment, the street below and the entire world melted away. It was only the two of them. And then he was gone and he dropped to her knees on the window bench, and in that moment Aunt Mary flew into the room, she came to her pulling her clothes, and he began to solve. That night, as Annie slept, Aunt Mary stayed by her side. But the next day, despite Mary's insistence and he spent hours at the window hoping the man would return.

But as the last of the summer, light faded, he never appeared and the window looked as flat and opaque as the first time she'd ever laid eyes on it. And he implored Aunt Mary to tell her more. Who was he? And he knew that she knew. She knew that she had seen him also. Or honey, it's a dream, a longing all your life looking for what never comes. You see the women of our blood. Well, I cannot see.

Annie wanted to scream. What did she mean? The women of their blood. Mary struggled to meet her eyes. I do not know how, nor when. But we all see him in our time. The women like you and me.

Annie pressed again. Who was he? Aunt Mary paused, lips pursed for a long time before speaking again. They say he was a scholar and professor at his studies over the love of a lady and one of us. A light woman fell madly in love with him. She waved to him each day, pleading that he might come over and youngling was the token. And he looked at Aunt Mary, her eyes wide. He was a scholar, just as she thought.

But what does she mean? Your ring was the token? But though she sat waiting, he never came, but she was very young, you see, and when her brothers learned of it, Aunt Mary paused, suddenly her lips frozen. A long moment passed. But then and he already knew they killed him. She cried, Oh, God, they killed him. And he found she could not speak to Aunt Mary for a long time after, yet the old woman gets close gazing at her with pity, always asking if she was comfortable or hungry.

But to Annie, nothing mattered. After that night, it seemed the clocks ticked for no one. And as evening came, she felt no desire to go to the window the next day, and his mother arrived early to take her home to London on. Mary's eyes were wet the entire morning, as if she was always on the verge of tears. She hugged Annie tightly, assuring her it was the best thing for her. Meanwhile, Lady Kanbe, draped in her black lace, patted Annie on the shoulder.

The diamond ring seemed to sting her each time it touched her flesh, and Annie couldn't help but think back to what Aunt Mary had told her. John Ring was the token. It would be decades until she thought about it again. And he never went back to St. Rules. It was a time that she had hoped to forget. But years later, just as that strange summer had begun fading from her mind and Annie received a letter that brought it all back.

Lady Canby, who was then quite an old woman, had died. And in her will she left Annie her old diamond ring. It was, she said, to stay in the family, just as it had for so very long. Margaret Oliphant's The Library Window, was first published in 1896 in the popular British literary journal Blackwood's Magazine, a publication that Oliphant contributed many stories to. But though Margaret Oliphant was prolific, the library window, which was published the year before her death, became one of her most popular works.

And this, no doubt, is due to its originality. Unlike other works of Gothic fiction, the library window doesn't dwell in the horror of its ghost. Instead, Oliphant's centers the story on a living character who doesn't fear the specter in the window but sympathises with him above all else. She wishes to understand him to the point of obsession, the main character's ability to see the unseen and gaze into a literal window of a different plane leads us to consider what it means to be human when the boundaries we rely on meld together.

As Oliphant blends these worlds night and day, present and past, she instills the story with a sense of ambivalence and unease that carries through the entire tale. In the end, we're left with more questions than answers, ones that force us to reconcile with the unsettling reality that many things must go unexplained. That sense of the unknown is the true horror we live with each and every day. Thanks again for tuning into haunted places, ghost stories. We'll be back on Thursday with a new episode, you can find more episodes of ghost stories and all other originals from podcast for free on Spotify.

See you on the other side. Haunted Places Ghost Stories was created by Max Cutler and is a podcast studio's original. It is executive produced by Max Cutler Sound designed by Russell Nash with production assistance by Ron Shapiro, Carly Madden and Travis Clark. This episode of Haunted Places Ghost Stories was written by Alex Garland with Writing Assistants by Greg Castro. I'm Alice Emergen.