Here is an excerpt from the short story, John Carrington's Wedding by Edith Nesbit. The ringers were ready with their hands on the ropes to ring out the merry peal as the bride and bridegroom should come out. A murmur from the church. Announce them out. They came. Iles was right. John Cherington did not look himself. There was dust on his coat. His hair was disarranged. He seemed to have been in some row, for there was a black mark above his eyebrow.

He was deathly pale, but his pallor was not greater than that of the bride, who might have been carved in ivory dress, veil, orange blossoms face and all. As they passed out, the ringer's stooped. There were six of them. And then on the is expecting the gay wedding peal.

In the slow tolling of the passing bell. Hi, everyone, I'm Alastair Murden, and this is the newest Spotify original from podcast Haunted Places, Ghost Stories.

Ghost stories have arisen from every century and every corner of the world, from the streets of Victoria and Whitechapel to the swamps of Bangladesh, whether seated around the campfire or curled up with a pair of headphones. We return to them time and again to feel our skin crawl and our hearts race. Each week, Ghost Stories reimagines chilling paranormal tales from history's most sinister storytellers told like you've never heard them before. You can find episodes of this and other Spotify originals from podcast for free on Spotify or wherever you listen to podcasts.

Today's story is John Carrington's wedding, written by late 19th century English author Edith Nesbit. I'll be reading from the perspective of the best man Geoffrey. It is a tale about a man who will do anything it takes to marry the woman he loves, giving new meaning to the phrase till death do us part. Coming up, an invite to a wedding that is sure to be unforgettable. We all told John Charrington that he couldn't possibly marry a woman like Mae Forster, but as I had personally known for many years, John wasn't the type of man to listen.

Mae Forster was the belle of the town. We all took a liking to her at the time. It was fashionable to be in love with me like it was to wear heliotrope ties or Inverness capes. But night after night in the boys club, we held in a loft over the town saddlers. John would tell us how he alone would marry Miss Forster. It wasn't that he was worthy, per say, but his laughable insistence only made us want to give him reasons why he shouldn't.

Even though she was beautiful, we would tell him she was no prettier than a farm animal. And even though John was rather well put together, we would tell him she would never marry such an oaf. But these gests only strengthened his resolve. The first time he asked her to marry him was right before he went up to Oxford for school. She laughed and refused him. This made him quite a bit frazzled. But a few months later, he returned from school full of vigor, knowledge and confidence.

So he asked once more. But again, May laughed, rolled her dazzling blue eyes at him and refused for a time. John took it rather hard. He grew quite frail and his hair thinned. When he tried a third time, Mae told him that he had formed a bad habit. John was down on one knee, holding up a bouquet of flowers. May pity John, so she took them. But she pricked her finger on a rose and told him she was rejecting him for good.

So it was much to my surprise when one summer evening, John Cherington walked into our little club, grabbed a pipe out of Sam Elliott's mouth and invited us all to his wedding. Laughter burst from the smoke filled room. I spit out my drink and a couple of the drunken fellows fell from their chairs. A few asked who the young lady was or who would be dumb enough to marry him. But John wasn't fazed by the jokes. In fact, he seemed quite amused, looking brighter, happier and more fit than ever, almost unbelievably so.

He lit his pipe, then replied, I'm sorry to deprive you of your entertainment this evening, gentlemen, but Miss Foster and I are to be married this September. We all thought he'd simply gone mad. Even I didn't believe him and I usually tried to give people the benefit of the doubt. I see. It's true. Then I said John Cherington is to marry the one and only may foresta. John nodded, smiling smugly. Well, lend me a pistol, someone or a first class fare to the end of nowhere.

Cherington has bewitched the only pretty girl in our 20 mile radius. I laughed and patted his back. He was like a younger brother to me and I had to tease him. He rapscallion. Was it mesmerism or a love potion that did it? John remained proud, despite the laughter. Neither sir, but two gifts you will never possess perseverance and the best luck a man ever had.

I smiled, looking into John's eyes. If I stared long enough and deep enough, I knew I could get to the truth of things.

But John just stared back, unnervingly proud and confident. I'd never seen his blue irises so vivid or his pupils so inky black. It was almost like gazing into a madman's eyes, and I couldn't bear to look any longer.

So I turned my gaze to the ground and said, Well, boys, I suppose, will be attending a wedding this September. Nobody knew how John had ensnared me foresta. And I'll admit I was curious myself. A few of us headed over to the church gardens where she liked to walk to ask her if it was true. She didn't deny it. She said she was to be married in the fall to John Charrington. We asked if she had said yes out of pity, but she only laughed and her cheeks flushed.

Or she would say was that she'd realized she loved him. After all, women are strange creatures. We were all invited to the wedding. I, of course, was to be the best man. And my sister Elizabeth, who was a good friend of May's, was to be her bridesmaid. Elizabeth pestered me with useless talk about the bride's trousseau, and she and all of her friends chatted about the floral arrangements over afternoon tea. It was an exciting thing in our small town, but unlike me, she didn't seem interested in questioning the strange union.

None of the women did. Night after night in our little club, everyone continued to suspect that May and John had concocted some sort of elaborate joke. But by the end of August, the wedding was still not cancelled. They were getting married, but still one question remained was may foresta actually in love. I stopped asking that question one night after encountering her and John in the church graveyard. It was dark, warm and the moon full. She and John sat knee to knee on a bench amongst the tombs.

He took her hand, then knelt at her feet and declared, My dear lady, I believe I should come back from the dead if you wanted me. May opened her mouth to respond. But John. He pressed his fingers to her lips, then she smiled, the moonlight dancing on her pale skin, she glowed, which must have meant she was madly in love. But in early September, I saw a much more worrisome sign of the bride to be not long before the wedding, I was at the train station headed out of town on business.

The coach was just pulling into the platform. When I saw John and his fiancee standing at the other end, they were arm in arm looking into each other's eyes. But even from a distance, I could tell she was crying. I didn't want to bother them. One should never interrupt a couple when in the middle of a row. So I climbed into the train and took a seat in the first class carriage. Not long after John Cherington hoisted his luggage onto the same carriage and spotted me in the cabin, he exclaimed, What luck.

I was expecting a rather dull journey.

I asked where he was headed to Bainbridge is a state, he replied. Bainbridge was John's godfather, a particularly wealthy man who lived just a few hours away. John signed and admitted the old man doesn't have many days left.

I'm afraid suddenly there was a tap on the window. It was me.

She was standing just outside the carriage, looking panicked with a sheen of sweat on her brow. John pulled the window pane down and leaned out. Who? John, please don't go, she said, her voice trembling with anxiety. The wedding is only two short days away. What if something happens like an accident or a storm or something?

Nothing will, my dear, he said. I have vowed that I should marry you no matter the circumstances. She begged again for him to stay in a way that would have made me get straight off the train, for she had dark shadows under her eyes and had grown eerily pale. But again, John insisted that he had to go. I must go, my angel. The old man's been awfully good to me, and now he's dying. I must go see him.

The train began to rumble, but I should be home in time for the wedding. Dead or alive? You shall marry me, John shouted. As the train moved forward. He quickly returned his attention to me and asked about my work. But my attention was still fixed on the window. As I watched May's gloomy, desperate figure recede into the distance. I hoped with all my heart that has strange worry was not a bad omen. Coming up, the bride and the groom find a love everlasting.

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Now back to our story. The night before John Charrington was to marry me foresta, we all sat around the club drinking, of course I told the group about how distressed the bride had been upon John's departure to visit his ailing godfather. But they only laughed, commenting that they hoped that the old man was throwing him a stag party. I began to regret even bringing it up later. A few of us were lighting another round of cigars when we heard a knock at the door.

It was dark outside and raining.

Geoffrey opened up a woman's voice, screamed. It was my sister Elizabeth, one of my best friends. The boys told me to pay her no mind, but she continued to knock. Elizabeth was persistent and I knew better than to ignore her. Eventually I got up and opened the door. Whereas John, she said, the boys snickered. How should I know? I asked. This isn't funny, Jeffrey, she said, distressed. He has not returned, and you can be sure that he won't.

He will? I said, reassuring her quietly. He loves her. She crossed her arms. Then he shouldn't have left, not with his wife, to be in such a state of worry. Do you mark my words? There'll be no wedding tomorrow. I told her that she was jumping to conclusions. There'll be plenty of wedding tomorrow. A wedding you'll never forget. But she only stormed off, slamming the door behind her. Something about that conversation had shaken me.

I had to see for myself that John had indeed not returned. Later that night I went to his house and knocked, but there was no response. It was gloomy out. And that night, as the rain pelted against my windows, I slept with much anxiety, feeling like I had failed as a best man. The next morning, however, the sun brought a brilliant blue sky, and soon after I woke a telegraph boy brought a note that entirely relieved me of my worry.

John would indeed be back in time for the wedding, but only just in time. I was to meet him at the train station at three o'clock and bring him straight to the church for his wedding at four. I went at once to Miss Foster's home to bring her the good news. When I arrived, Mae was dressed in an airy blue gown and walking languidly in the gardens. She'd also gotten word of John's imminent return. Her face was pale, but her eyes bright.

She had a tender quiver about her mouth that spoke of renewed happiness or perhaps fear. It was honestly quite difficult to tell. Mr Bainbridge begged him to stay another night, and he had not the heart to refuse. She sighed and went on. He is so, so kind. But I wish he hadn't stayed. I told her not to worry. He has always been so determined to marry you, I said.

That is perhaps my greatest comfort and my deepest fear, she replied, growing nervous. I didn't understand what she meant. Women are strange creatures, but May's behaviour had become downright unsettling. I arrived at the station at half past two, but when the three o'clock train glided in, John didn't get off.

I thought that perhaps he had foolishly missed the first train. So I waited for the second. I passed the time by smoking and reading the timetables and advertisements, but began to grow more annoyed with John Charrington. It seems such a slight to that beautiful girl that he should arrive so late to his own wedding he may have gotten miss forced her to marry him, but even he couldn't cheat time when the 340 arrived. Still, he was nowhere to be found.

I stamped out my pipe and flung myself into the carriage I had brought for John. I told the driver to take me straight to the church. By then I wasn't just annoyed. I was furious. I would have to announce to the congregation that John was missing during the drive. I did worried that perhaps John had taken ill, but if that had been the case, he would have telegraphed. So instead I cleared my head and focused on my next distressing task calling off the wedding.

I arrived at the church at twenty past four and asked the usher outside the chapel to let me into the bride's dressing chambers. I wanted to tell her myself that there was no groom in sight, but the usher shook his head and wouldn't let me up. He is here, sir. Only he did not look himself. I was bewildered. I did not understand how he could have missed John at the station. I was there at two thirty and there was no other way he would have come by.

I tried to run into the church, but the usher pushed me back from the doors. There was a menacing edge to his voice as he insisted the ceremony is nearly over, sir, and we do not want to disturb their holy matrimony.

I waited outside for some time, my panic rising as I wondered how John could have made it to the church when the doors opened and the crowd flooded out.

I asked a group of friends how John had looked drunk and happy was the response as they passed me a flask of whiskey. They didn't seem to mind the strangeness of the day's events, though perhaps they were just too inebriated. But the other guests were quiet, whispering amongst themselves. We were handed rice and slippers to throw at the bride and groom, and the bell ringers stood at the ready with their instruments. It was supposed to be a celebration, but other than the drink, it didn't feel very celebratory at all.

A priest emerged from the church doors and announced the bride and groom. And that's when I finally saw John Cherington. Though his smile was as wide as the doors, the usher had been right. He did not look himself at all. His coat was covered in dust, his hair was a mess, a few patches were even missing. There was a crusty black mark above his eyebrow and he was deathly pale. The bride, meanwhile, looked like a statue with a pale ivory glow.

She was not smiling and there was no clapping, no bells. John motioned to the ringers to begin playing, but they seemed hesitant. It wasn't until he motioned a second time that they began to play.

Slowly, they walked through the path where we all stood with our handfuls of rice, but the handfuls were never thrown. Somehow cheering them on felt wrong. In a hush, the newly married couple passed into their carriage. The door slammed shut behind them. The horses clapped off. John waved through the window, but nobody waved back. Old man Foresta was beside himself, saying, if I'd have seen his condition, I would have stretched him on the floor of the church before I'd have let him marry my daughter.

Abruptly, he grabbed me by the jacket and pulled me into his carriage. He barked at me, I blame you. And now you're going to talk some sense into him. I won't have a ruffian for a son in law. Then he told the coachman to drive like hell the horse's health be damned on the way there we passed the bridegroom's carriage, but I didn't dare look inside of it. Even the thought of doing so made me shudder. It was nearing sundown when we arrived at the Forster estate to wait for their carriage.

We weren't there but a few minutes before wheels crunched on the gravel and it pulled up, stopping in front of the steps. But when the door opened, no one climbed out.

Mr. Forster went down to look in and I reluctantly followed. There was no sign of John Cherington of his wife, only her limp body covered in a heap of white satin.

The coachman turned to the bride's father, his hands shaking with nerves. He clearly had not known what happened. I drove straight here, sir, he said, and I swear no one got out of the carriage. Mr. Forster pulled me out and removed her veil. Her face was pale white, frozen with agony and horror. Her radiant blonde hair had lost all color. Her heart had gone cold.

I stood on the porch with her father. He was half mad with bewilderment and terror at the death of his daughter. And I tried to calm him. But as he spun in circles, a telegraph boy walked up and handed me an orange envelope. I tore it open and as I read it, my heart nearly stopped beating. Mr Charrington was thrown from the dog cart on his way to the station at half past one killed on the spot.

Sincerest apologies. I had been at the station at two thirty and was later told that John Cherington had arrived at the church some time before he then married me for Easter at half past four in the presence of half the parish.

But how we spent that evening discussing what could have happened in that carriage, but we never arrived at a conclusion I didn't want to know, preferring to hold on to the moment of May and John in the graveyard, gazing lovingly into each other's eyes instead of the image of their tombstones. They were buried side by side in the little churchyard over the time covered hill. Not even death could part John Cherington from his beloved. I can only pray that May went willingly because she felt the same way to.

First written in 1891 and published in Edith Nesbitt's 1893 anthology Grim Tales, John Carrington's wedding as one of her most widely circulated ghost stories. Nesbitt was primarily a children's author throughout her lifetime, but her wits and ability to bring the uncanny into the real world made her a prolific ghost story writer as well. John Carrington's wedding may seem on the surface to echo the Wuthering Heights esque Victorian love stories of its era. Two people fall in love so deeply that even death cannot stop their marriage.

But this is far from the entire story. It's John Carrington's sheer will and the objectification of his bride that gives the tale its horror. Charrington is so steadfast in his mission to marry may foresta that it seems as if he's convinced her against her will. It's not love that conquers all. It's lust, pride and desire. John's friend's inability to see this only contributes to the creeping feeling that even if it seems as if May might love him, something about their courtship feels wrong.

Nesbitt also immerses us into a daunting point of view that sees the stories only prominent female character as an object to be consumed at the beginning, May is compared to Heliotrope ties or Inverness Capes, something that can go in and out of fashion. And as the story goes on, May is given very little agency. The line women are strange creatures alludes to the men's inability to understand her or her changing emotional state. And as John becomes more resolute and insistent, the color literally drains from May's face at the wedding.

She is a glowing ivery. By the time her body is removed from the carriage, it is pale white. What actually happened in the carriage is left to our imagination, which only makes the story's ending that much more frightening. We can assume that in his relentless pursuit, John's ghost has killed his bride.

John Harrington's wedding forces us to ask How far should a man go for love? Thanks again for tuning in to haunted places, ghost stories. We will be back on Thursday with a new episode. You can find more episodes of ghost stories and all other originals from podcast for free on Spotify. See you on the other side. Haunted Places Ghost Stories was created by Max Cutler and his Apakan studio's original. It is executive produced by Max Cutler Sound designed by Kerry Murphy with production assistance by Ron Shapiro, Carly Madden and Aaron Larson.

This episode of Haunted Places Ghost Stories was written by Lee Nemec with Writing Assistants by Alex Garland. I'm Alistair Murden. Hang a horseshoe above your door, keep a rabbit's foot in your pocket and follow superstitions free on Spotify, listen every Wednesday for the surprising backstories to our most curious beliefs and thrilling tales that illuminate the mystical eeriness of our favorite superstitions.