I do enjoy how often in Victorian stories an uncanny experience is put down to a bad meal, or over stimulation, or green tea, or unhealthy vapours.

Perhaps the earlier unfortunates were actually rushing to relieve themelves, fell overboard while balancing precariously on the railing?

‘It was the Welsh Rarebit!’

One of the greatest and maddest exponents of the Victorian love of diligence and domination was Edward Booth – who set himself the demented goal of shooting one of every single species of bird in Britain.

Had he accomplished this feat he would most likely have next turned his attention to shooting insects. Or microscopic organisms. Or atoms.

Brisbane clearly possessed neither nerves nor bowels of steel!

This reminds me of what I took from the Swiss Family Robinson. The bizarre tale of a family running round an island, shooting at things. What is it? I don’t know! Shoot it!!

Except for the bit when the giant anaconda crawls out of the swamp and eats their donkey whole, and they all stand round watching.

Odd.

Excuse the tangent there.

I think it’s more anti scientist. It’s true, about the need to poke, classify and control all that we don’t understand.

Brisbane was resolute in his determination – to what? Prove the superstitious wrong? Why was he so insistent, so set on keeping the window closed, on staying in the room?

Something parallel to his walnut cracking, a Small Head Complex, perchance?

Ha! Indeed. Small-headed men are always angry rationalists.

His determination is rather bizarre alright. If it’s intentionally so (i.e. intended by Crawford) then it could be read as a sly critique of “masculine” labelling, classification and control. If accidental then it might just be sloppy writing. I’m willing to give F. Marion the benefit of the doubt.

Brisbane definitely seems challenged and unmanned by the “thing’s” supernatural persistence. As I said, he wants to break its doomed routine. To what end? To put an end to this inexplicable cycle perhaps, so small-headed men the world over can sleep soundly in their bunks.

I’m still frustrated by the lack of back story. WHY that cabin? Does it come in the window? Who was the returning corpse? Where does it run to?

Sounds like you’re being afflicted by a touch of small-headed Brisbane-ness yourself!

Something parallel to his walnut cracking, a Small Head Complex, perchance?

I’m still frustrated by the lack of back story. WHY that cabin? Does it come in the window? Who was the returning corpse? Where does it run to?

Brisbane should have done more research!

Because otherwise it’s just an animated, drowned corpse?

Just an animated drowned corpse?? Just?? You’re obviously made of sterner stuff than me if animated drowned corpses don’t scare ya!

But seriously, while Sinéad is right I still think the description was just sketchy enough to keep the “fill in the gaps” imagination fear centres ticking over.

Agree that the crumpled linen face in “Oh Whistle” is one of the most unnerving images in the whole of uncanny literature (or as much of it as I’ve read). Blank like a mask. Dead like a doll’s face. Shapeless and abstract. It ticks so many boxes.

I do enjoy how abruptly the story ends:

That is how I saw a ghost — if it was a ghost. It was dead, anyhow.

The thing wasn’t alive yet was alive. It was dead but animated and physical – not really a ghost. A ghoul? A zombie? Its malevolence seemed motivated by great torment and sadness. No self-possessed, gleefully evil creature this. It’s wretched and doomed (like a ghost) to repeat its actions over and over again.

You can’t blame it for lashing out at Brisbane. He was trying to interrupt/break the cycle – not to help it, but to contain, explain or destroy it.

I have to say, the scariest one for me was a similar tale, ‘I’ll Whistle For You, My Lad’?, with the ghost made of sheet. Again, because of the lack of substance and description, I spose.

That works for me, as does something a little bit off – like the idea of waking up to see your partner staring at you coldly, themself but malevolent.

“It was something ghostly, horrible beyond words, and it moved in my grip. It was like the body of a man long drowned, and yet it moved, (It)had the strength of ten men living; but I gripped it with all my might — the slippery, oozy, horrible thing – the dead white eyes seemed to stare at me out of the dusk; the putrid odour of rank sea-water was about it, and its shiny hair hung in foul wet curls over its dead face.