{"id":923,"date":"2024-05-28T00:27:10","date_gmt":"2024-05-28T00:27:10","guid":{"rendered":"http:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/?p=923"},"modified":"2024-05-29T00:46:11","modified_gmt":"2024-05-29T00:46:11","slug":"my-own-true-ghost-story-by-rudyard-kipling","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/my-own-true-ghost-story-by-rudyard-kipling\/","title":{"rendered":"My Own True Ghost Story by Rudyard Kipling"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"My<\/h2>\n

My Own True Ghost Story<\/h2>\n

by Rudyard Kipling<\/h2>\n
  As I came through the Desert thus it was\u2014\r\n  As I came through the Desert.\r\n  \u2014The City of Dreadful Night.<\/i>\r\n<\/pre>\n
Somewhere in the Other World, where there are books and pictures and plays and shop windows to look at, and thousands of men who spend their lives in building up all four, lives a gentleman who writes real stories about the real insides of people; and his name is Mr. Walter Besant. But he will insist upon treating his ghosts\u2014he has published half a workshopful of them\u2014with levity. He makes his ghost-seers talk familiarly, and, in some cases, flirt outrageously, with the phantoms. You may treat anything, from a Viceroy to a Vernacular Paper, with levity; but you must behave reverently toward a ghost, and particularly an Indian one.<\/p>\n
There are, in this land, ghosts who take the form of fat, cold, pobby corpses, and hide in trees near the roadside till a traveler passes. Then they drop upon his neck and remain. There are also terrible ghosts of women who have died in child-bed. These wander along the pathways at dusk, or hide in the crops near a village, and call seductively. But to answer their call is death in this world and the next. Their feet are turned backward that all sober men may recognize them. There are ghosts of little children who have been thrown into wells. These haunt well curbs and the fringes of jungles, and wail under the stars, or catch women by the wrist and beg to be taken up and carried. These and the corpse ghosts, however, are only vernacular articles and do not attack Sahibs. No native ghost has yet been authentically reported to have frightened an Englishman; but many English ghosts have scared the life out of both white and black.<\/p>\n
Nearly every other Station owns a ghost. There are said to be two at Simla, not counting the woman who blows the bellows at Syree d\u00e2k-bungalow on the Old Road; Mussoorie has a house haunted of a very lively Thing; a White Lady is supposed to do night-watchman round a house in Lahore; Dalhousie says that one of her houses \u201crepeats\u201d on autumn evenings all the incidents of a horrible horse-and-precipice accident; Murree has a merry ghost, and, now that she has been swept by cholera, will have room for a sorrowful one; there are Officers\u2019 Quarters in Mian Mir whose doors open without reason, and whose furniture is guaranteed to creak, not with the heat of June but with the weight of Invisibles who come to lounge in the chairs; Peshawur possesses houses that none will willingly rent; and there is something\u2014not fever\u2014wrong with a big bungalow in Allahabad. The older Provinces simply bristle with haunted houses, and march phantom armies along their main thoroughfares.<\/p>\n
Some of the d\u00e2k-bungalows on the Grand Trunk Road have handy little cemeteries in their compound\u2014witnesses to the \u201cchanges and chances of this mortal life\u201d in the days when men drove from Calcutta to the Northwest. These bungalows are objectionable places to put up in. They are generally very old, always dirty, while the\u00a0khansamah<\/i>\u00a0is as ancient as the bungalow. He either chatters senilely, or falls into the long trances of age. In both moods he is useless. If you get angry with him, he refers to some Sahib dead and buried these thirty years, and says that when he was in that Sahib\u2019s service not a\u00a0khansamah<\/i>\u00a0in the Province could touch him. Then he jabbers and mows and trembles and fidgets among the dishes, and you repent of your irritation.<\/p>\n
In these d\u00e2k-bungalows, ghosts are most likely to be found, and when found, they should be made a note of. Not long ago it was my business to live in d\u00e2k-bungalows. I never inhabited the same house for three nights running, and grew to be learned in the breed. I lived in Government-built ones with red brick walls and rail ceilings, an inventory of the furniture posted in every room, and an excited snake at the threshold to give welcome. I lived in \u201cconverted\u201d ones\u2014old houses officiating as d\u00e2k-bungalows\u2014where nothing was in its proper place and there wasn\u2019t even a fowl for dinner. I lived in second-hand palaces where the wind blew through open-work marble tracery just as uncomfortably as through a broken pane. I lived in d\u00e2k-bungalows where the last entry in the visitors\u2019 book was fifteen months old, and where they slashed off the curry-kid\u2019s head with a sword. It was my good luck to meet all sorts of men, from sober traveling missionaries and deserters flying from British Regiments, to drunken loafers who threw whisky bottles at all who passed; and my still greater good fortune just to escape a maternity case. Seeing that a fair proportion of the tragedy of our lives out here acted itself in d\u00e2k-bungalows, I wondered that I had met no ghosts. A ghost that would voluntarily hang about a d\u00e2k-bungalow would be mad of course; but so many men have died mad in d\u00e2k-bungalows that there must be a fair percentage of lunatic ghosts.<\/p>\n
In due time I found my ghost, or ghosts rather, for there were two of them. Up till that hour I had sympathized with Mr. Besant\u2019s method of handling them, as shown in \u201cThe Strange Case of Mr. Lucraft and Other Stories.\u201d I am now in the Opposition.<\/p>\n
We will call the bungalow Katmal d\u00e2k-bungalow. But THAT was the smallest part of the horror. A man with a sensitive hide has no right to sleep in d\u00e2k-bungalows. He should marry. Katmal d\u00e2k-bungalow was old and rotten and unrepaired. The floor was of worn brick, the walls were filthy, and the windows were nearly black with grime. It stood on a bypath largely used by native Sub-Deputy Assistants of all kinds, from Finance to Forests; but real Sahibs were rare. The\u00a0khansamah<\/i>, who was nearly bent double with old age, said so.<\/p>\n
When I arrived, there was a fitful, undecided rain on the face of the land, accompanied by a restless wind, and every gust made a noise like the rattling of dry bones in the stiff toddy palms outside. The\u00a0khansamah<\/i>\u00a0completely lost his head on my arrival. He had served a Sahib once. Did I know that Sahib? He gave me the name of a well-known man who has been buried for more than a quarter of a century, and showed me an ancient daguerreotype of that man in his prehistoric youth. I had seen a steel engraving of him at the head of a double volume of Memoirs a month before, and I felt ancient beyond telling.<\/p>\n
The day shut in and the\u00a0khansamah<\/i>\u00a0went to get me food. He did not go through the pretense of calling it \u201ckhana<\/i>\u201d\u2014man\u2019s victuals. He said \u201cratub<\/i>,\u201d and that means, among other things, \u201cgrub\u201d\u2014dog\u2019s rations. There was no insult in his choice of the term. He had forgotten the other word, I suppose.<\/p>\n
While he was cutting up the dead bodies of animals, I settled myself down, after exploring the d\u00e2k-bungalow. There were three rooms, beside my own, which was a corner kennel, each giving into the other through dingy white doors fastened with long iron bars. The bungalow was a very solid one, but the partition walls of the rooms were almost jerry-built in their flimsiness. Every step or bang of a trunk echoed from my room down the other three, and every footfall came back tremulously from the far walls. For this reason I shut the door. There were no lamps\u2014only candles in long glass shades. An oil wick was set in the bathroom.<\/p>\n
For bleak, unadulterated misery that d\u00e2k-bungalow was the worst of the many that I had ever set foot in. There was no fireplace, and the windows would not open; so a brazier of charcoal would have been useless. The rain and the wind splashed and gurgled and moaned round the house, and the toddy palms rattled and roared. Half a dozen jackals went through the compound singing, and a hyena stood afar off and mocked them. A hyena would convince a Sadducee of the Resurrection of the Dead\u2014the worst sort of Dead. Then came the\u00a0ratub<\/i>\u2014a curious meal, half native and half English in composition\u2014with the old\u00a0khansamah<\/i>\u00a0babbling behind my chair about dead and gone English people, and the wind-blown candles playing shadow-bo-peep with the bed and the mosquito-curtains. It was just the sort of dinner and evening to make a man think of every single one of his past sins, and of all the others that he intended to commit if he lived.<\/p>\n
Sleep, for several hundred reasons, was not easy. The lamp in the bath-room threw the most absurd shadows into the room, and the wind was beginning to talk nonsense.<\/p>\n
Just when the reasons were drowsy with blood-sucking I heard the regular\u2014\u201cLet-us-take-and-heave-him-over\u201d grunt of doolie-bearers in the compound. First one doolie came in, then a second, and then a third. I heard the doolies dumped on the ground, and the shutter in front of my door shook. \u201cThat\u2019s some one trying to come in,\u201d I said. But no one spoke, and I persuaded myself that it was the gusty wind. The shutter of the room next to mine was attacked, flung back, and the inner door opened. \u201cThat\u2019s some Sub-Deputy Assistant,\u201d I said, \u201cand he has brought his friends with him. Now they\u2019ll talk and spit and smoke for an hour.\u201d<\/p>\n
But there were no voices and no footsteps. No one was putting his luggage into the next room. The door shut, and I thanked Providence that I was to be left in peace. But I was curious to know where the doolies had gone. I got out of bed and looked into the darkness. There was never a sign of a doolie. Just as I was getting into bed again, I heard, in the next room, the sound that no man in his senses can possibly mistake\u2014the whir of a billiard ball down the length of the slates when the striker is stringing for break. No other sound is like it. A minute afterwards there was another whir, and I got into bed. I was not frightened\u2014indeed I was not. I was very curious to know what had become of the doolies. I jumped into bed for that reason.<\/p>\n
Next minute I heard the double click of a cannon and my hair sat up. It is a mistake to say that hair stands up. The skin of the head tightens and you can feel a faint, prickly, bristling all over the scalp. That is the hair sitting up.<\/p>\n
There was a whir and a click, and both sounds could only have been made by one thing\u2014a billiard ball. I argued the matter out at great length with myself; and the more I argued the less probable it seemed that one bed, one table, and two chairs\u2014all the furniture of the room next to mine\u2014could so exactly duplicate the sounds of a game of billiards. After another cannon, a three-cushion one to judge by the whir, I argued no more. I had found my ghost and would have given worlds to have escaped from that d\u00e2k-bungalow. I listened, and with each listen the game grew clearer. There was whir on whir and click on click. Sometimes there was a double click and a whir and another click. Beyond any sort of doubt, people were playing billiards in the next room. And the next room was not big enough to hold a billiard table!<\/p>\n
Between the pauses of the wind I heard the game go forward\u2014stroke after stroke. I tried to believe that I could not hear voices; but that attempt was a failure.<\/p>\n
Do you know what fear is? Not ordinary fear of insult, injury or death, but abject, quivering dread of something that you cannot see\u2014fear that dries the inside of the mouth and half of the throat\u2014fear that makes you sweat on the palms of the hands, and gulp in order to keep the uvula at work? This is a fine Fear\u2014a great cowardice, and must be felt to be appreciated. The very improbability of billiards in a d\u00e2k-bungalow proved the reality of the thing. No man\u2014drunk or sober\u2014could imagine a game at billiards, or invent the spitting crack of a \u201cscrew-cannon.\u201d<\/p>\n
A severe course of d\u00e2k-bungalows has this disadvantage\u2014it breeds infinite credulity. If a man said to a confirmed d\u00e2k-bungalow-haunter:\u2014\u201cThere is a corpse in the next room, and there\u2019s a mad girl in the next but one, and the woman and man on that camel have just eloped from a place sixty miles away,\u201d the hearer would not disbelieve because he would know that nothing is too wild, grotesque, or horrible to happen in a d\u00e2k-bungalow.<\/p>\n
This credulity, unfortunately, extends to ghosts. A rational person fresh from his own house would have turned on his side and slept. I did not. So surely as I was given up as a bad carcass by the scores of things in the bed because the bulk of my blood was in my heart, so surely did I hear every stroke of a long game at billiards played in the echoing room behind the iron-barred door. My dominant fear was that the players might want a marker. It was an absurd fear; because creatures who could play in the dark would be above such superfluities. I only know that that was my terror; and it was real.<\/p>\n
After a long, long while the game stopped, and the door banged. I slept because I was dead tired. Otherwise I should have preferred to have kept awake. Not for everything in Asia would I have dropped the door-bar and peered into the dark of the next room.<\/p>\n
When the morning came, I considered that I had done well and wisely, and inquired for the means of departure.<\/p>\n
\u201cBy the way,\u00a0khansamah<\/i>,\u201d I said, \u201cwhat were those three doolies doing in my compound in the night?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cThere were no doolies,\u201d said the\u00a0khansamah<\/i>.<\/p>\n
I went into the next room and the daylight streamed through the open door. I was immensely brave. I would, at that hour, have played Black Pool with the owner of the big Black Pool down below.<\/p>\n
\u201cHas this place always been a d\u00e2k-bungalow?\u201d I asked.<\/p>\n
\u201cNo,\u201d said the\u00a0khansamah<\/i>. \u201cTen or twenty years ago, I have forgotten how long, it was a billiard room.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cA how much?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cA billiard room for the Sahibs who built the Railway. I was\u00a0khansamah<\/i>\u00a0then in the big house where all the Railway-Sahibs lived, and I used to come across with brandy-shrab<\/i>. These three rooms were all one, and they held a big table on which the Sahibs played every evening. But the Sahibs are all dead now, and the Railway runs, you say, nearly to Kabul.\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cDo you remember anything about the Sahibs?\u201d<\/p>\n
\u201cIt is long ago, but I remember that one Sahib, a fat man and always angry, was playing here one night, and he said to me:\u2014\u2018Mangal Khan, brandy-pani do<\/i>,\u2019 and I filled the glass, and he bent over the table to strike, and his head fell lower and lower till it hit the table, and his spectacles came off, and when we\u2014the Sahibs and I myself\u2014ran to lift him. He was dead. I helped to carry him out. Aha, he was a strong Sahib! But he is dead and I, old Mangal Khan, am still living, by your favor.\u201d<\/p>\n
That was more than enough! I had my ghost\u2014a firsthand, authenticated article. I would write to the Society for Psychical Research\u2014I would paralyze the Empire with the news! But I would, first of all, put eighty miles of assessed crop land between myself and that d\u00e2k-bungalow before nightfall. The Society might send their regular agent to investigate later on.<\/p>\n
I went into my own room and prepared to pack after noting down the facts of the case. As I smoked I heard the game begin again,\u2014with a miss in balk this time, for the whir was a short one.<\/p>\n
The door was open and I could see into the room.\u00a0Click\u2014click!<\/i>\u00a0That was a cannon. I entered the room without fear, for there was sunlight within and a fresh breeze without. The unseen game was going on at a tremendous rate. And well it might, when a restless little rat was running to and fro inside the dingy ceiling-cloth, and a piece of loose window-sash was making fifty breaks off the window-bolt as it shook in the breeze!<\/p>\n
Impossible to mistake the sound of billiard balls! Impossible to mistake the whir of a ball over the slate! But I was to be excused. Even when I shut my enlightened eyes the sound was marvelously like that of a fast game.<\/p>\n
Entered angrily the faithful partner of my sorrows, Kadir Baksh.<\/p>\n
\u201cThis bungalow is very bad and low-caste! No wonder the Presence was disturbed and is speckled. Three sets of doolie-bearers came to the bungalow late last night when I was sleeping outside, and said that it was their custom to rest in the rooms set apart for the English people! What honor has the\u00a0khansamah<\/i>? They tried to enter, but I told them to go. No wonder, if these\u00a0Oorias<\/i>\u00a0have been here, that the Presence is sorely spotted. It is shame, and the work of a dirty man!\u201d<\/p>\n
Kadir Baksh did not say that he had taken from each gang two annas for rent in advance, and then, beyond my earshot, had beaten them with the big green umbrella whose use I could never before divine. But Kadir Baksh has no notions of morality.<\/p>\n
There was an interview with the\u00a0khansamah<\/i>, but as he promptly lost his head, wrath gave place to pity, and pity led to a long conversation, in the course of which he put the fat Engineer-Sahib\u2019s tragic death in three separate stations\u2014two of them fifty miles away. The third shift was to Calcutta, and there the Sahib died while driving a dogcart.<\/p>\n
If I had encouraged him the\u00a0khansamah<\/i>\u00a0would have wandered all through Bengal with his corpse.<\/p>\n
I did not go away as soon as I intended. I stayed for the night, while the wind and the rat and the sash and the window-bolt played a ding-dong \u201chundred and fifty up.\u201d Then the wind ran out and the billiards stopped, and I felt that I had ruined my one genuine, hall-marked ghost story.<\/p>\n
Had I only stopped at the proper time, I could have made\u00a0anything<\/i>\u00a0out of it.<\/p>\n
That was the bitterest thought of all!<\/p>\n
Analysis<\/h3>\n
“My Own True Ghost Story” is a short story by Rudyard Kipling that blends elements of humor, suspense, and the supernatural. The story is narrated by an unnamed British colonial official who is traveling through India and staying in various dak-bungalows (rest houses) along the way.<\/p>\n
The narrator begins by discussing the prevalence of ghost stories in India and the various types of ghosts that are said to haunt the country. He then recounts his own experience at a particular dak-bungalow, which he calls Katmal.<\/p>\n
Upon arriving at the bungalow, the narrator is greeted by a decrepit old khansamah (caretaker) and settles in for the night. However, he is soon disturbed by strange noises coming from the adjoining room, which sound like a game of billiards being played. The narrator becomes increasingly frightened as the game continues, convinced that he has encountered a genuine ghost.<\/p>\n
In the morning, the narrator questions the khansamah and learns that the bungalow was once a billiard room where a group of British railway officials used to play. One of the officials died suddenly during a game, and the narrator becomes convinced that he has witnessed the ghost of this man playing billiards.<\/p>\n
However, the story takes a humorous turn when the narrator discovers that the sounds he heard were actually caused by a rat running inside the ceiling cloth and a loose window sash rattling in the wind. The narrator is disappointed that his “genuine, hall-marked ghost story” has been ruined by these mundane explanations.<\/p>\n
Kipling’s story is a playful subversion of the traditional ghost story, poking fun at the narrator’s eagerness to believe in the supernatural and his disappointment when a rational explanation is revealed. The story also serves as a commentary on the British colonial presence in India, with the narrator’s experiences in the dak-bungalow highlighting the isolation and cultural disconnect experienced by many British officials stationed in the country.<\/p>\n
The story is characterized by Kipling’s vivid descriptive prose and his ability to create a sense of atmosphere and suspense. The humor of the story arises from the contrast between the narrator’s growing terror and the ultimately mundane explanations for the strange occurrences he experiences.<\/p>\n
Overall, “My Own True Ghost Story” is a clever and entertaining tale that showcases Kipling’s skill as a storyteller and his ability to subvert genre conventions while also offering a subtle critique of British colonial attitudes.<\/p>\n
10 guided questions for “My Own True Ghost Story” by Rudyard Kipling<\/h3>\n
    \n
  1. How does the narrator’s description of the various types of ghosts in India set the stage for his own ghost story?<\/li>\n
  2. What is the significance of the dak-bungalow setting in the story, and how does it contribute to the atmosphere of the narrative?<\/li>\n
  3. How does the character of the old khansamah add to the story’s mood and the narrator’s experience at the bungalow?<\/li>\n
  4. Describe the narrator’s initial reaction to the strange noises coming from the adjoining room. How does his fear escalate throughout the night?<\/li>\n
  5. What role does the narrator’s belief in the supernatural play in his interpretation of the events at the dak-bungalow?<\/li>\n
  6. How does Kipling build suspense and tension throughout the story, particularly during the narrator’s sleepless night?<\/li>\n
  7. What is the significance of the revelation that the bungalow was once a billiard room where a British official died suddenly during a game?<\/li>\n
  8. Analyze the humorous turn the story takes when the narrator discovers the mundane explanations for the noises he heard. How does this subvert the traditional ghost story narrative?<\/li>\n
  9. In what ways does the story serve as a commentary on the British colonial presence in India and the attitudes of British officials stationed there?<\/li>\n
  10. Discuss Kipling’s use of descriptive prose and how it contributes to the story’s atmosphere, suspense, and humor.<\/li>\n<\/ol>\n
    Lesson Plan: “My Own True Ghost Story” by Rudyard Kipling<\/h3>\n
    Objectives:<\/p>\n
      \n
    • Students will read and analyze “My Own True Ghost Story” by Rudyard Kipling<\/li>\n
    • Students will discuss the elements of a ghost story and how Kipling subverts these conventions<\/li>\n
    • Students will explore the themes of British colonialism and cultural disconnect in the story<\/li>\n
    • Students will engage in creative writing exercises to demonstrate their understanding of the story’s themes and techniques<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n
      Duration: 2-3 class periods<\/p>\n
      Materials:<\/p>\n
        \n
      • Copies of “My Own True Ghost Story” by Rudyard Kipling<\/li>\n
      • Handouts with discussion questions and writing prompts<\/li>\n
      • Whiteboard or digital projector for class discussion<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n
        Lesson Sequence:<\/p>\n
        Day 1:<\/p>\n
          \n
        1. Introduction (10 minutes)\n
            \n
          • Begin by asking students about their familiarity with ghost stories and the common elements they expect to find in such stories.<\/li>\n
          • Briefly introduce Rudyard Kipling and provide historical context for British colonialism in India.<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n
          • Reading (30-40 minutes)\n
              \n
            • Assign students to read “My Own True Ghost Story” silently in class or as homework.<\/li>\n
            • Encourage students to annotate the text as they read, noting key themes, narrative techniques, and any questions they may have.<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n
            • Initial Discussion (10-15 minutes)\n
                \n
              • Open the floor for students to share their initial reactions to the story.<\/li>\n
              • Ask students to identify the elements of a traditional ghost story that they noticed in the text.<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n<\/ol>\n
                Day 2:<\/p>\n
                  \n
                1. Review (5-10 minutes)\n
                    \n
                  • Begin by briefly summarizing the key points from the previous day’s discussion.<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n
                  • Guided Discussion (30-40 minutes)\n
                      \n
                    • Divide the class into small groups and distribute handouts with discussion questions.<\/li>\n
                    • Have each group discuss the questions and record their responses.<\/li>\n
                    • Bring the class back together and have each group share their insights, facilitating a class-wide discussion on the story’s themes, narrative techniques, and subversion of ghost story conventions.<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n
                    • Creative Writing Exercise (20-30 minutes)\n
                        \n
                      • Assign students a creative writing prompt related to the story, such as:\n
                          \n
                        • Write an alternative ending to the story that maintains the traditional ghost story structure.<\/li>\n
                        • Write a short story from the perspective of the old khansamah, exploring his thoughts on the British colonial presence and the strange occurrences in the dak-bungalow.<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n
                        • Allow students time to brainstorm and begin drafting their responses.<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n<\/ol>\n
                          Day 3:<\/p>\n
                            \n
                          1. Sharing and Feedback (20-30 minutes)\n
                              \n
                            • Have students share their creative writing pieces with a partner or small group.<\/li>\n
                            • Encourage students to provide constructive feedback on each other’s work, focusing on how effectively they incorporated the story’s themes and techniques.<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n
                            • Closing Discussion (10-15 minutes)\n
                                \n
                              • Bring the class back together and discuss how their creative writing exercises helped deepen their understanding of the story.<\/li>\n
                              • Encourage students to reflect on the larger themes of British colonialism and cultural disconnect present in the story and how these themes relate to their own experiences or understanding of history.<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n<\/li>\n<\/ol>\n
                                Assessment:<\/p>\n
                                  \n
                                • Participation in class discussions and small group work<\/li>\n
                                • Creative writing exercise<\/li>\n
                                • Optional: A short essay analyzing the story’s themes, narrative techniques, and subversion of ghost story conventions<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n
                                  Extension Activities:<\/p>\n
                                    \n
                                  • Research the historical context of British colonialism in India and present findings to the class<\/li>\n
                                  • Compare and contrast “My Own True Ghost Story” with other ghost stories or works by Rudyard Kipling<\/li>\n
                                  • Create a visual representation (e.g., a storyboard or comic strip) of the key events in the story, emphasizing the humorous subversion of ghost story tropes<\/li>\n<\/ul>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
                                    “My Own True Ghost Story” is a short story by Rudyard Kipling that blends elements of humor, suspense, and the supernatural. The story is narrated<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":1,"featured_media":65809,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_bbp_topic_count":0,"_bbp_reply_count":0,"_bbp_total_topic_count":0,"_bbp_total_reply_count":0,"_bbp_voice_count":0,"_bbp_anonymous_reply_count":0,"_bbp_topic_count_hidden":0,"_bbp_reply_count_hidden":0,"_bbp_forum_subforum_count":0,"om_disable_all_campaigns":false,"_monsterinsights_skip_tracking":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_active":false,"_monsterinsights_sitenote_note":"","_monsterinsights_sitenote_category":0,"_uf_show_specific_survey":0,"_uf_disable_surveys":false,"footnotes":"","_links_to":"","_links_to_target":""},"categories":[86,88,514],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-923","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-featured","category-horror","category-rudyard-kipling"],"aioseo_notices":[],"amp_enabled":true,"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/923","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/1"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=923"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/923\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":65810,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/923\/revisions\/65810"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/65809"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=923"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=923"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.everywritersresource.com\/shortstories\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=923"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}