Here is an excerpt from a spooky story set in a slightly different Regency England.
I sat alone in the entrance hall, on one of the window seats flanking the formidable front door. As I listened to an inordinately large number of creaks and moans, as though the house were settling more than any house ever settled, I felt pressure on my heart, as though someone pressed down on it. I knitted my brow and frowned, as an inexplicable sense of despair overwhelmed me like a hovering cloud.
It was not the first time I had experienced deep melancholy for no apparent reason. Often the spirits of the dead affect my moods, passing their melancholy and despair onto me. This, I knew, was one of those occasions.
The air in this entrance hall dropped considerably in temperature. I opened my mouth and puffed out. My breath appeared in a ball of fog before my eyes. I heard nothing strange, but as I peered about the room, I noticed the wainscoted wall straight across from me appeared to be turning dark red.
With my gaze affixed upon the burnished wall, I rose as quietly as possible. I began to walk across the marble floor toward the wall, and as I watched (and listened to my feet pad softly against the hard floor), I saw the red spreading rapidly. It was covering more and more of the wall, beginning in the center and moving outward.
As I crept closer and closer, it resembled more and more an enormous bloodstain. I reached that side of the room and shuddered as I realized it was quite as though the wall was bleeding.
I had never previously encountered a ghost that could make the walls bleed.
Hearing nothing, I nonetheless sensed the presence of another human being behind me. I knew not whether this was a living being or deceased.
“What is that?” I turned around and espied my friend Percy. I tipped my head as a swift greeting before returning my attention to the bleeding wall.
A bloody hand seemingly missing outer layers of skin tore a hole through the paneling with a great deal of crackling and splintering of wood.
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