The Unseen and Unnamed

In the world of Edith Wharton's "Ghosts," the supernatural is not confined to crumbling castles or stormy nights, but seeps into the fabric of everyday life. Wharton's characters—practical, modern, and often skeptical—find themselves confronted by presences that defy explanation. The question is not whether ghosts exist, but whether we are attuned to their subtle signals: a silence that thickens, a letter that arrives without a sender, a room that no one enters. The stories begin with the ordinary—an autumn walk, a family home, a letter on a table—and slowly, inexorably, the uncanny seeps in. Wharton's ghosts are not always seen, but always felt, their presence a chill in the air, a shadow at the edge of vision, a memory that refuses to fade.

Haunted Houses, Haunted Hearts

The houses in Wharton's tales are more than settings; they are living entities, repositories of secrets and sorrow. Whitegates, Bells, and other ancestral homes are haunted not just by spirits, but by the weight of family history, regret, and longing. The living and the dead coexist uneasily, their boundaries blurred by grief and guilt. The architecture of these homes—locked rooms, bricked-up doors, echoing halls—mirrors the psychological labyrinths of their inhabitants. The past is never truly past; it lingers in the wallpaper, the furniture, the very air. To enter these houses is to risk being claimed by what they contain, to become another ghost among many.

The Silence at Whitegates

Sara Clayburn, practical and unafraid, finds herself alone in her ancestral home after an accident. As a snowstorm cuts her off from the world, she discovers the house empty, her servants vanished, the utilities dead. The silence is not peaceful but oppressive, a living thing that presses in on her. She searches room after room, finding only order and absence, until a voice from a wireless—speaking in a foreign tongue—breaks the spell. When the world returns, her experience is dismissed as fever or confusion, but the memory of that silence, and the sense of being watched by something unseen, never leaves her. The house, and the date—All Souls' Eve—suggest that the boundary between worlds is thinner than we think.

Eyes in the Darkness

In "The Eyes," Andrew Culwin, a man of intellect and skepticism, recounts his lifelong haunting by a pair of malevolent eyes. These eyes, appearing at moments of moral crisis, seem to judge him for his failures of courage and kindness. They are not attached to any body, but to his own conscience, manifesting whenever he betrays or abandons someone who depends on him. The haunting is psychological as much as supernatural; the eyes are the embodiment of self-knowledge, the inescapable witness to one's own failings. The story suggests that the worst ghosts are those we create ourselves, and that the past cannot be escaped by reason or denial.

Letters from the Past

In "Pomegranate Seed," Charlotte Ashby is tormented by a series of mysterious letters addressed to her husband. The letters, written in a faint, feminine hand, arrive without explanation and plunge Kenneth Ashby into despair. Charlotte's jealousy and fear grow as she tries to uncover the sender's identity, only to discover that the writing matches that of her husband's dead first wife. The letters are blank to everyone but Kenneth, who alone can read their message. The past, it seems, can reach out and claim the living, binding them with guilt, longing, or unfinished business. The story explores the limits of love, trust, and the power of the dead to shape the lives of those left behind.

The Weight of Absence

Again and again, Wharton's characters are marked by absence: a dead spouse, a vanished friend, a lost child. This absence is not empty, but charged with meaning and menace. In "Afterward," Mary Boyne's husband disappears without a trace, leaving her to piece together the clues of his fate. The house they inhabit is said to be haunted by a ghost that is only recognized "afterward," when it is too late. The story unfolds as a slow revelation, as Mary realizes that the stranger who came for her husband was the ghost of a man he had wronged. The past, unacknowledged and unresolved, returns to claim its due.

The Spell of the Dead

In "Bewitched," Saul Rutledge is drawn, against his will, to nightly meetings with the ghost of his former lover, Ora Brand. His wife, desperate and practical, calls on the community to intervene, but the spell is unbreakable. The living are powerless against the claims of the dead, and the only remedy—driving a stake through the heart of the corpse—is too terrible to contemplate. The story is steeped in rural superstition, but its power lies in its psychological truth: the past, especially the past of love and betrayal, can possess us utterly, making us strangers to ourselves and those we love.

The Keeper of Bells

In "Mr. Jones," Lady Jane Lynke inherits the ancient house of Bells, only to find herself thwarted at every turn by the unseen authority of Mr. Jones, the caretaker. Though he is said to be old and ill, no one has seen him in years, and his rules are enforced by a network of loyal servants. As Lady Jane investigates, she discovers that Mr. Jones has been dead for generations, yet his will still governs the house. The story is a meditation on tradition, authority, and the ways in which the past can imprison the present. The living are compelled to obey the dead, even when the reasons for doing so have been forgotten.

The Ghosts We Carry

In "Miss Mary Pask," the narrator visits the home of a woman he believes to be dead, only to find her alive—or so it seems. Their conversation is filled with loneliness, longing, and the sense of having missed life's opportunities. Later, he learns that she did, in fact, die before his visit, and he is left to wonder whether he spoke with a ghost or merely hallucinated in a fever. The story blurs the line between reality and imagination, suggesting that the most persistent ghosts are those of our own regrets and missed connections.

The Unopened Door

In "Kerfol," a visitor to a deserted Breton manor is greeted not by people, but by a pack of silent, watchful dogs. The story of the house, pieced together from old records, reveals a history of cruelty, jealousy, and murder. The dogs are the ghosts of animals killed by a jealous husband, and their presence is a silent accusation against the living. The past is not dead, but waiting, and the doors we open in search of answers may lead only to more questions, or to horrors we would rather not face.

The Price of Secrets

Again and again, Wharton's characters are confronted with secrets—about themselves, their loved ones, or their homes—that threaten to destroy them. In "The Triumph of Night," a young man is haunted by a vision that reveals a hidden crime; in "A Bottle of Perrier," a guest in a desert fortress uncovers a murder and the madness that follows. The pursuit of truth is dangerous, and the knowledge gained is often unbearable. The stories suggest that some mysteries are insoluble, and that the price of knowing may be too high to pay.

The Circle Closes

In the end, Wharton's ghost stories are about the persistence of memory, the inescapability of guilt, and the ways in which the dead shape the lives of the living. The circle closes as the characters realize that they are not alone, that the world is full of presences—seen and unseen, named and unnamed—that demand recognition. The stories end not with resolution, but with a sense of ongoing haunting, as if the ghosts will continue to walk as long as there are houses to contain them and hearts to remember.

Characters

Sara Clayburn

Sara is the mistress of Whitegates, a strong-willed, sensible widow who prides herself on her independence and rationality. When an accident leaves her stranded and alone in her home, she is forced to confront a silence and emptiness that feels alive and hostile. Her experience is both physical and psychological: she is isolated by snow, pain, and the inexplicable absence of her servants, but also by the sense that something in the house is watching her. Sara's ordeal reveals the limits of self-sufficiency and the vulnerability that lies beneath her confidence. Her refusal to return to Whitegates after her experience suggests a deep, unspoken trauma.

Andrew Culwin

Culwin is an urbane, intellectual man who prides himself on his rationality and detachment. Yet he is pursued throughout his life by a pair of spectral eyes that appear at moments of moral failure. The eyes are not attached to any ghost, but to his own sense of guilt and self-judgment. Culwin's relationships—with Alice Nowell, Gilbert Noyes, and others—are marked by his inability to act decisively or compassionately, and the eyes serve as a constant reminder of his shortcomings. His story is a study in self-deception, the persistence of conscience, and the impossibility of escaping one's own past.

Charlotte Ashby

Charlotte is a modern, intelligent woman who marries a widower and finds herself haunted not by her predecessor's ghost, but by the memory and influence that predecessor still exerts. The arrival of mysterious letters addressed to her husband plunges her into a spiral of suspicion, fear, and self-doubt. Charlotte's struggle is both with her husband's secrets and with her own need for reassurance and control. Her determination to uncover the truth leads her to a confrontation with the supernatural, as she realizes that the dead can still communicate—and that some bonds are not broken by death.

Kenneth Ashby

Kenneth is a successful lawyer, a widower remarried to Charlotte, but unable to free himself from the hold of his first wife. The mysterious letters he receives are a symbol of his unresolved grief, guilt, or longing. Kenneth is loving but evasive, desperate to protect Charlotte from the truth but unable to break free from the past. His suffering is palpable, and his inability to confide in his wife ultimately drives a wedge between them. Kenneth embodies the theme of the inescapable past and the destructive power of secrets.

Saul Rutledge

Saul is a farmer whose life is destroyed by his nightly encounters with the ghost of his former lover, Ora Brand. He is passive, drained, and unable to resist the compulsion that draws him to the haunted meeting place. Saul's experience is both supernatural and psychological: he is possessed by guilt, longing, and the sense of unfinished business. His wife's attempts to save him are futile, and the community's intervention only underscores the powerlessness of the living against the claims of the dead.

Lady Jane Lynke

Lady Jane inherits Bells, an ancient family estate, and finds herself at odds with the invisible authority of Mr. Jones, the caretaker. Jane is independent, rational, and determined to make the house her own, but she is repeatedly thwarted by rules and traditions she cannot understand or challenge. Her investigation reveals that Mr. Jones has been dead for generations, yet his will still governs the house. Jane's struggle is a metaphor for the difficulty of escaping the past and the ways in which tradition can imprison the present.

Mr. Jones

Mr. Jones is never seen, but his presence is felt in every corner of Bells. He is the enforcer of rules, the guardian of secrets, the voice of the past. Though he is said to be old and ill, it is revealed that he has been dead for generations, yet his authority persists. Mr. Jones represents the power of tradition, the weight of history, and the ways in which the dead can continue to rule the living.

Agnes

Agnes is Sara Clayburn's maid, a woman of Scottish descent with a background steeped in superstition. She is practical and loyal, but also serves as a conduit for the uncanny. Her actions—leaving food and drink for Sara, refusing to explain her own absence—suggest that she is both aware of and complicit in the supernatural events at Whitegates. Agnes embodies the idea that some people are more attuned to the unseen, and that the boundaries between worlds are maintained or breached by those who serve.

Mary Boyne

In "Afterward," Mary is a woman whose husband disappears under mysterious circumstances. Her search for answers leads her to confront the possibility that he was claimed by a ghost—specifically, the ghost of a man he had wronged. Mary's journey is one of gradual revelation, as she pieces together the clues left behind and comes to understand the true nature of the haunting. Her story is a meditation on grief, guilt, and the impossibility of escaping the consequences of one's actions.

Gosling

In "A Bottle of Perrier," Gosling is the long-serving manservant of Henry Almodham, a scholar living in a desert fortress. Gosling is loyal, patient, and increasingly desperate for a holiday he is never granted. His relationship with his master is one of dependence and resentment, and when Almodham disappears, Gosling's actions reveal a mind unhinged by isolation and frustration. He is both victim and perpetrator, a man driven to madness by the very traditions he upholds.

Plot Devices

The Haunted House

Wharton uses houses not just as settings, but as characters in their own right. The architecture of these homes—locked doors, bricked-up passages, echoing halls—mirrors the psychological states of their inhabitants. The haunted house is a symbol of the inescapable past, the weight of tradition, and the secrets that bind the living to the dead. The house is both sanctuary and prison, a place where the boundaries between worlds are thin and permeable.

The Unseen Presence

In many stories, the supernatural is never fully seen or explained. The haunting is felt as a chill, a silence, a sense of being watched. This ambiguity allows Wharton to explore the psychological dimensions of haunting: guilt, regret, longing, and the fear of the unknown. The ghosts are as much internal as external, manifestations of the characters' own unresolved emotions.

Letters and Communication

The arrival of mysterious letters—often in a distinctive hand or on unusual paper—serves as a plot device to unsettle the characters and drive the narrative forward. These letters are both literal and symbolic: they represent the intrusion of the past into the present, the persistence of secrets, and the power of the dead to communicate with the living. The act of reading or refusing to read these messages becomes a test of courage and a turning point in the story.

Foreshadowing and Retrospective Realization

Wharton frequently uses foreshadowing to create a sense of unease, but the true significance of events is often only revealed in retrospect. Characters are haunted by things they do not recognize as ghosts until it is too late. This narrative structure reinforces the theme that the past is never truly past, and that understanding comes only at a cost.

The Unopened Door

The motif of the unopened or forbidden door recurs throughout the stories. Characters are drawn to investigate mysteries, to open doors that have been closed for generations, to seek answers to questions that may be better left unasked. The act of opening the door is both an assertion of agency and an invitation to disaster. The stories suggest that some secrets are best left undisturbed, but that the compulsion to know is irresistible.

Analysis

Edith Wharton's "Ghosts" is a masterful exploration of the ways in which the past haunts the present, both literally and metaphorically. Her stories are not simply tales of the supernatural, but meditations on memory, guilt, loss, and the inescapable influence of tradition. The ghosts in these stories are as often psychological as spectral, manifestations of conscience, regret, and longing. Wharton's use of setting—the haunted house, the empty room, the bricked-up door—serves as a powerful metaphor for the mind's own labyrinths. Her characters are modern, rational, and often skeptical, yet they are undone by forces they cannot name or control. The stories suggest that the boundaries between worlds—living and dead, past and present, known and unknown—are porous, and that the most dangerous ghosts are those we carry within us. Wharton's prose is elegant, restrained, and deeply evocative, creating an atmosphere of unease that lingers long after the stories end. The lessons are clear: the past is never truly past, secrets have a price, and the dead are never as far away as we think. In a world obsessed with progress and novelty, Wharton reminds us that we are all, in some sense, haunted.

Last updated: August 17, 2025