A Night in Literary Limbo

As an early avid reader who exclusively devoured mindless young adult fiction, Wuthering Heights was the first assigned reading to convinced me there was a humane rationale behind the practice. Since that day, my fascination with British literature has grown into a full-blown addiction. When I began my graduate program in the UK, I planned to explore every location that had the slightest associations with my favorite English writers.

Arriving at the Keighley train station from London in the middle of a thunderstorm, I was unimpressed by the barren décor and grayed façades of the town. However, I remained undeterred in my attempt to experience the Haworth of my imagination and relive Charlotte Bronte’s brooding, mysterious, and tragic landscapes, from howling moors to gothic mansions.

It was late when I arrived at the Old Silent Inn, and upon seeing the creaky stairs leading up to narrow, foreboding hallways, wished I had put more forethought into planning accommodations. As I settled by the crackling fire and warmed up with some scotch, I browsed the Inn pamphlet. An eerie chill came over me as I learned the Inn is known for numerous ghostly sightings, from young children giggling to bells rung by a wandering lady.

I grew extremely perturbed by everything around me. As rain poured outside, my room was as similar to one from a Victorian novel as I could envisage, with flower-patterned blankets, rattling wooden window frames, and antique furniture. If circumstances had been different, I would have been ecstatic. I felt as if I had been transported to the very setting of Wuthering Heights.

That night, however, the room seemed menacing rather than inspiring, and I resigned to sleeping with the lamp on. From old photos along the walls to the brass mirror across my bed, all was a source of anxiety and unease. I drifted in and out of disturbed sleep, awed that I was immersed within such an authentic gem, while also terrified at the thought of seeing frightening phantasms.

As dawn approached, I finally managed the courage to get out of bed –and shrieked at the sight of a figure in the mirror! -only to realize it was my own reflection.

Hiking the moors of Haworth, visiting Top Withens and exploring the Bronte Parsonage, many activities can invoke emotions from the Bronte sisters’ ruminating novels.

However, encountering apparitions of one’s own and being terrorized by howling winds on a stormy night in a haunted Inn, that is a whole other story!