Wuthering Heights and the ghost at the window
Emily Bronte, Wuthering Heights
The main narrator of the novel, Mr Lockwood, recounts a terrifying incident when bad weather has forced him to stay overnight at the house of Heathcliff, a scowling, ill-tempered man with a mysterious, dark past. A scraping sound awakens Lockwood from a nightmare during the storm...
It was merely the branch of a fir-tree that touched my lattice as the blast wailed by, and rattled its dry cones against the panes! I listened doubtingly an instant; detected the disturber, then turned and dozed, and dreamt again: if possible, still more disagreeably than before.
This time, I remembered I was lying in the oak closet, and I heard distinctly the gusty wind, and the driving of the snow; I heard, also, the fir bough repeat its teasing sound, and ascribed it to the right cause: but it annoyed me so much, that I resolved to silence it, if possible; and, I thought, I rose and endeavoured to unhasp the casement. The hook was soldered into the staple: a circumstance observed by me when awake, but forgotten. “I must stop it, nevertheless!” I muttered, knocking my knuckles through the glass, and stretching an arm out to seize the importunate branch; instead of which, my fingers closed on the fingers of a little, ice-cold hand!
The intense horror of nightmare came over me: I tried to draw back my arm, but the hand clung to it, and a most melancholy voice sobbed,
“Let me in—let me in!”
“Who are you?” I asked, struggling, meanwhile, to disengage myself.
“Catherine Linton,” it replied, shiveringly (why did I think of Linton? I had read Earnshaw twenty times for Linton)—“I’m come home: I’d lost my way on the moor!”
As it spoke, I discerned, obscurely, a child’s face looking through the window. Terror made me cruel; and, finding it useless to attempt shaking the creature off, I pulled its wrist on to the broken pane, and rubbed it to and fro till the blood ran down and soaked the bedclothes: still it wailed, “Let me in!” and maintained its tenacious gripe, almost maddening me with fear.
“How can I!” I said at length. “Let me go, if you want me to let you in!”
The fingers relaxed, I snatched mine through the hole, hurriedly piled the books up in a pyramid against it, and stopped my ears to exclude the lamentable prayer.
I seemed to keep them closed above a quarter of an hour; yet, the instant I listened again, there was the doleful cry moaning on!
“Begone!” I shouted. “I’ll never let you in, not if you beg for twenty years.”
“It is twenty years,” mourned the voice: “twenty years. I’ve been a waif for twenty years!”
Thereat began a feeble scratching outside, and the pile of books moved as if thrust forward.
I tried to jump up; but could not stir a limb; and so yelled aloud, in a frenzy of fright.
To my confusion, I discovered the yell was not ideal: hasty footsteps approached my chamber door; somebody pushed it open, with a vigorous hand, and a light glimmered through the squares at the top of the bed. I sat shuddering, yet, and wiping the perspiration from my forehead: the intruder appeared to hesitate, and muttered to himself.
At last, he said, in a half-whisper, plainly not expecting an answer,
“Is any one here?”
I considered it best to confess my presence; for I knew Heathcliff’s accents, and feared he might search further, if I kept quiet.
With this intention, I turned and opened the panels. I shall not soon forget the effect my action produced.
Heathcliff stood near the entrance, in his shirt and trousers; with a candle dripping over his fingers, and his face as white as the wall behind him. The first creak of the oak startled him like an electric shock: the light leaped from his hold to a distance of some feet, and his agitation was so extreme, that he could hardly pick it up.
“It is only your guest, sir,” I called out, desirous to spare him the humiliation of exposing his cowardice further. “I had the misfortune to scream in my sleep, owing to a frightful nightmare. I’m sorry I disturbed you.”
“Oh, God confound you, Mr. Lockwood! I wish you were at the—” commenced my host, setting the candle on a chair, because he found it impossible to hold it steady. “And who showed you up into this room?” he continued, crushing his nails into his palms, and grinding his teeth to subdue the maxillary convulsions. “Who was it? I’ve a good mind to turn them out of the house this moment!”
“It was your servant Zillah,” I replied, flinging myself on to the floor, and rapidly resuming my garments. “I should not care if you did, Mr. Heathcliff; she richly deserves it. I suppose that she wanted to get another proof that the place was haunted, at my expense. Well, it is—swarming with ghosts and goblins! You have reason in shutting it up, I assure you. No one will thank you for a doze in such a den!”
“What do you mean?” asked Heathcliff, “and what are you doing? Lie down and finish out the night, since you are here; but, for Heaven’s sake! don’t repeat that horrid noise: nothing could excuse it, unless you were having your throat cut!”
“If the little fiend had got in at the window, she probably would have strangled me!” I returned.
About the author
Emily Bronte (1818-48) lived a mere 30 years, her life cut short by illness. She left a collection of poems and one novel, Wuthering Heights, that has become a world classic, beloved of generations of readers and originally published under the name Ellis Bell.
To read alongside...
As near lifelong Emily fans, we have to mention the film Emily -- https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Emily_(2022_film) -- that just came out. It plays a bit hard and loose with the facts, but it’s topical. For a more recent Wuthering Heights film, our money is on Andrea Arnold’s adaptation from 2011.
Elizabeth Gaskell's short story 'The Old Nurse's Tale' is unforgettable for its version of the terrifying 'ghost at the window'. The Victorians were great ghost story tellers, and Charles Dicken's story 'The Signalman' is the perfect Halloween read--so is Washington Irving's 'The Legend of Sleepy Hollow', featuring the gangly schoolteacher Ichabod Crane being pursued by the ghost of a headless horseman. And the apparitions in Henry James’s Turn of the Screw may well haunt you forever! (Notice how these are all short stories? scariness hard to sustain over a long narrative!)
Charles Chesnutt's The Conjure Woman recasts the ghost story genre by setting his tales in the deep, post-Civil War American South and inverting racially-informed tropes, characterizations, and plot lines. Full of ghosts, spirits, and conjuring, the stories play with the wonderfully evocative idea of 'goophering' (haunting). A new edition of these stories was recently published that restores them to the original order and form that Chesnutt himself wanted, rather than as his publishers chose to present them.
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