Whispered Flutterings and Ghosties

Jane Austen's gothic novel, Northanger Abbey

Photo by Annie Spratt on Unsplash

If you’re new here, welcome to Binge, the section of Kindling where I give you my recent bingings (bin-JEENGS), a word just made up and one I plan to use forth hence. Please comment and give me your reading list! I’m always book hopping, shopping, skimming. I never have enough.

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But first, a question.

What is an abbey? I know I have some British folk in my subscriber lists, and to this American mind, they are the absolutely best suited to answer this question. A small castle, perhaps? A quaint, quite quaint, old mansion set in the English woods? Please do inform us at once of your personal definition and experience in various abbeys throughout the countryside, particularly if you found yourself like our dear Catherine, a mere few hours from Bath.

And now, a note: this entire article was written in a British accent. Which one you ask? Well, I don’t know anything about that! So there! I do so hope you can tell (and that you will take the time to mock me mercilessly for this ridiculous letter).

Let me begin by telling you all, confessing really, that I love Jane Austen. My mother (who occasionally reads these posts and most likely will due to the subject matter herein) is as obsessed with Austen as I am with King. On thinking this through, I rather think this might run in the blood so to speak. There was around a five year bout, maybe more, when she refused to watch anything upon being asked except for the BBC version of Pride and Prejudice, all five or six hours of it, on repeat. The fact that I am able to enjoy her novels at all after that experience is a credit to the author, to be sure.

I’ve got flutterings and tremblings all over me!

I do not find myself much preoccupied with the romance, but rather with her ability to make someone like me, who prefers out and out monsters to quiet romances, pay attention and enjoy her stories. This, my dear readers, is the mark of an excellent novelist if there ever was one, even if I do find the hushed tones and excitement over ballroom dances quite tiresome.

It occurred to me a few weeks ago that I had never read her gothic novel, Northanger Abbey, and if I had enjoyed Pride and Prejudice, I would surely enjoy something more to my tastes. It took quite a while to get to the scary stuff. Halfway through and on my way home from the grocery store, I had to call my mother to verify that I had the right book, that I hadn’t mistakenly grabbed some other tale of high society romance.

She assured me that I had the right title, and I pressed on. It wasn’t until our dear Catherine left Bath for the abbey that things started to get really good. And then, really scary. I’m told that this story was hitting all the gothic tropes. An old abbey, the mysterious death of Mrs. Tilney that may not have been natural, howling wind and rain.

In the end the book wasn’t scary at all. Catherine’s imagination and her obsession with gothic novels took her mind to those unnatural ends. It could have been a book about my own life, had I spent some time in an old abbey. After reading so many scary books, I tend to morph the world around me, turning ordinary facts and conversations into plots for horror novels. Only I don’t believe them as our young heroine did. I simply want to write them.

I didn’t want to leave you there, with the promise of something ghostly and gothic. I do have a scary book for you. Only a few years ago I read what I now realize was a gothic novel, The Little Stranger, by Sarah Waters. (I know, it’s on the cover. I didn’t have this cover, so sue me).

I went to bed one night listening to it, and woke up to a terrifying encounter, something in the book that bothered me so much I had to turn on the light. I won’t go into it here so as not to spoil anything, but suffice it to say, it kept me up long after I turned it off. The quiet leadup to paranormal activity in these stories, usually in depth descriptions of ornate architecture and quaint country scenery, is so effective. There is something there to be learned—sometimes the scariest stories are very quiet. Can we whisper a ghost story in someone’s ear and raise their heart rate just a smidge? Do we need blood and guts and gore to make something disturbing?

No. Not if the same woman that penned Mr. Darcy can write scenes that made me run up the stairs a little faster over 200 years after the thing was written. I know, I said it wasn’t scary, but anything that happens by candlelight in an old abbey can be scary. No, say you? Well, read The Little Stranger, and take a stroll to the bathroom at night. Keep the lights off. Keep your thoughts on what is natural. If you can.

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And now to you dear readers, I pose the ever important question, did I sound British?

Have you ever read either of the two stories above, and if so, what did you think? Did they scare you?

Are you an Austen fan? Why or why not?

I hope you head into the weekend with a book in hand, something nice to drink, and some friends and loved ones to spend time with. As always, happy reading!