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- Herausgeber: Zenith Crescent Moon Press
- Kategorie: Abenteuer, Thriller, Horror
- Sprache: Englisch
👻 Immerse yourself in Edith Nesbit's Man-Size in Marble, a haunting short story that masterfully blends Gothic suspense with supernatural terror. This eerie tale follows a newlywed couple who move into a quaint countryside cottage, only to uncover a chilling local legend about two marble effigies of knights that come to life on All Saints' Eve 🌌. ✨ As the story unfolds, Nesbit weaves themes of love, trust, and the consequences of ignoring warnings into a gripping narrative. With its atmospheric setting, vivid characters, and spine-tingling twists, Man-Size in Marble is a timeless classic of supernatural fiction 📖. 🌟 First published in 1887, this story remains a standout in Gothic literature, showcasing Nesbit's talent for creating suspenseful and thought-provoking tales. Perfect for fans of ghost stories, Gothic fiction, and eerie mysteries 🔮. 🎁 Don't miss this chilling masterpiece—experience the haunting world of Man-Size in Marble today! 🕯️
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Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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Man-Size in Marble
Edith Nesbit
About E. Nesbit
Edith Nesbit (1858–1924), known professionally as E. Nesbit, was a British author and poet, best remembered for her imaginative and influential contributions to children's literature. She is considered one of the first modern writers of children's fantasy.
Nesbit's most famous works include The Railway Children, Five Children and It, The Phoenix and the Carpet, and The Story of the Amulet. Her stories are known for blending magical adventures with realistic settings and relatable characters.
A pioneer in her genre, Nesbit introduced a naturalistic style and a sense of humor that greatly influenced later authors, including C.S. Lewis and J.K. Rowling. Her approach to fantasy—placing magical events in everyday life—was groundbreaking for its time.
In addition to her literary work, E. Nesbit was an active socialist and co-founder of the Fabian Society, advocating for social reform and equality. Her legacy endures as one of the most beloved voices in English children's literature.
Although every word of this story is as true as despair, I do not expect people to believe it. Nowadays a "rational explanation" is required before belief is possible. Let me then, at once, offer the "rational explanation" which finds most favour among those who have heard the tale of my life's tragedy. It is held that we were "under a delusion," Laura and I, on that 31st of October; and that this supposition places the whole matter on a satisfactory and believable basis. The reader can judge, when he, too, has heard my story, how far this is an "explanation," and in what sense it is "rational." There were three who took part in this: Laura and I and another man. The other man still lives, and can speak to the truth of the least credible part of my story.
I never in my life knew what it was to have as much money as I required to supply the most ordinary needs—good colours, books, and cab-fares—and when we were married we knew quite well that we should only be able to live at all by "strict punctuality and attention to business." I used to paint in those days, and Laura used to write, and we felt sure we could keep the pot at least simmering. Living in town was out of the question, so we went to look for a cottage in the country, which should be at once sanitary and picturesque. So rarely do these two qualities meet in one cottage that our search was for some time quite fruitless. We tried advertisements, but most of the desirable rural residences which we did look at proved to be lacking in both essentials, and when a cottage chanced to have drains it always had stucco as well and was shaped like a tea-caddy. And if we found a vine or rose-covered porch, corruption invariably lurked within. Our minds got so befogged by the eloquence of house-agents and the rival disadvantages of the fever-traps and outrages to beauty which we had seen and scorned, that I very much doubt whether either of us, on our wedding morning, knew the difference between a house and a haystack. But when we got away from friends and house-agents, on our honeymoon, our wits grew clear again, and we knew a pretty cottage when at last we saw one. It was at Brenzett—a little village set on a hill over against the southern marshes. We had gone there, from the seaside village where we were staying, to see the church, and two fields from the church we found this cottage. It stood quite by itself, about two miles from the village. It was a long, low building, with rooms sticking out in unexpected places. There was a bit of stone-work—ivy-covered and moss-grown, just two old rooms, all that was left of a big house that had once stood there—and round this stone-work the house had grown up. Stripped of its roses and jasmine it would have been hideous. As it stood it was charming, and after a brief examination we took it. It was absurdly cheap. The rest of our honeymoon we spent in grubbing about in second-hand shops in the county town, picking up bits of old oak and Chippendale chairs for our furnishing. We wound up with a run up to town and a visit to Liberty's, and soon the low oak-beamed lattice-windowed rooms began to be home. There was a jolly old-fashioned garden, with grass paths, and no end of hollyhocks and sunflowers, and big lilies. From the window you could see the marsh-pastures, and beyond them the blue, thin line of the sea. We were as happy as the summer was glorious, and settled down into work sooner than we ourselves expected. I was never tired of sketching the view and the wonderful cloud effects from the open lattice, and Laura would sit at the table and write verses about them, in which I mostly played the part of foreground.
