Can Such Things Be?

In Short

This volume is a definitive assembly of late-nineteenth-century American weird fiction. Through a series of unsettling short stories, it charts the collision between the pragmatic, skeptical mind and the inexplicable forces that lie in the dark corners of the frontier. Whether addressing the manifestation of ghosts or the chilling sentience of machines, these narratives endure because they refuse to offer the comfort of neat explanations. Instead, they demand that the reader confront the fragility of human perception and the enduring, often hostile, legacy of the past.

The Story

The narrative arc of these tales functions as a descent into the uncanny. It opens with the dissolution of the boundary between the living and the dead, as in the account of Halpin Frayser, whose own consciousness becomes a haunted landscape of ancestral trauma and spectral apparitions. From there, the stories move through a variety of settings—the lonely forest, the abandoned schoolhouse, and the dark, claustrophobic interiors of city apartments. Each piece functions as a self-contained exploration of human frailty, frequently centered on characters who believe they are masters of their own reason, only to be dismantled by forces they cannot name.

A central recurring motif is the "return." Whether it is a murderer drawn back to the grave of his victim, or a ghost returning to reclaim a physical object, the past refuses to stay buried. In the tale of the "damned thing" that stalks a field of wild oats, the horror arises not from a traditional haunting, but from an encounter with an entity that simply defies human categorization. As the collection progresses, the settings become increasingly desolate. The stories often conclude with the protagonist either destroyed by their encounter with the irrational—suffering madness or death—or left in a state of permanent, haunted uncertainty. The final movements of the collection pivot toward the philosophical, where the distinction between a man and his "machine" blurs, or where a shepherd discovers that his divine companions are as fickle as the natural world itself. The journey ends not with a resolution of these mysteries, but with their affirmation, leaving the reader in the same darkness the characters inhabit.

How It Unfolds

The encroachment of the past The collection begins by establishing that death does not always sever the spirit from the physical world. Characters find themselves drawn toward sites of ancient grief or violence, where the environment itself seems to remember the tragedies that transpired there.

The failure of the observer The stories frequently introduce a rational protagonist—a detective, a skeptic, or a hunter—who attempts to apply logic to a perceived anomaly. This approach inevitably fails, as the "anomaly" is revealed to be a far more complex and dangerous force than the character’s limited worldview can accommodate.

The threshold of the uncanny The narrative tension peaks when the characters move from the familiar world of their daily lives into a state of isolation. Whether in a "haunted valley" or a lonely room, the physical world begins to warp, and the characters realize that they have crossed a point of no return.

The final confrontation In the closing sequences, the hauntings shift from psychological projections to tangible, often violent, realities. The characters are forced to admit that they are not the "captains of their souls," but are instead subject to laws of nature that do not prioritize human life or sanity.

The People

Halpin Frayser stands as the archetypal victim of his own subconscious, a man whose life is consumed by a dream-state he cannot control. His descent into the abyss of his family’s history highlights the way individual identity is often crushed by the weight of inherited guilt. Similarly, Moxon is a figure of intellectual hubris; his desire to imbue his machines with "intelligence" leads to a confrontation with a mechanical entity that resents its creator, illustrating the danger of playing with the fundamental forces of matter.

The "stranger" who appears at the campfire in the later tales serves as a catalyst, an observer who forces others to confront their own history of violence. He is the embodiment of the "returned" dead, a man who carries the roll-call of those he left behind as a living indictment of the others' survival. Conversely, Haïta the shepherd represents a different kind of seeker. His pursuit of a divine companion is marked by a naive, almost pastoral sincerity, yet he too is ultimately taught the harsh lesson that the world is not designed to accommodate human desires. Each figure—whether skeptic, creator, or innocent—is ultimately stripped of their defining traits, left either as a shell of their former selves or as a cautionary footnote in the history of the regions they occupy.

In Its Own Voice

"There are persons in this world, millions of persons, and far and away the best persons, who regard that as a very advanced age. They are the children."

The narrator observes the fleeting nature of life while reflecting on the death of Halpin Frayser.

"Ah, children of the sunlight and the gaslight, how little you know of the world in which you live!"

This remark underscores the contrast between the modern, civilized observer and the terrifying reality of the natural world at night.

"There is no such thing as dead, inert matter: it is all alive; all instinct with force, actual and potential."

Moxon articulates his radical philosophy of sentience before his own machine turns against him.

What It's Really About

At its core, this work is an interrogation of the arrogance of the modern age. It argues that the "scientific" or "rational" mindset is a thin veneer, easily punctured by the primal, indifferent forces of the universe. The stories consistently pose the question of whether the human mind is capable of perceiving reality as it actually exists, or if we are merely living in a curated dream, protected from the truth by our own limited senses. It is a meditation on expiation, the inevitability of the past, and the terrifying idea that "dead" matter may possess an agency that is fundamentally alien—and hostile—to the human experience.

Why Read It Today

Readers who appreciate atmospheric, lean prose that avoids the heavy-handed exposition of modern horror will find this collection remarkably effective. It excels at creating a sense of profound unease through precise, evocative descriptions of landscape and internal decay. The book does not rely on cheap scares; instead, it creates a persistent, gnawing dread that lingers long after the final page.

However, a contemporary reader should be aware that the text is firmly rooted in its time. The prose is Victorian in its structure, often demanding a slower, more attentive pace to navigate its dense syntax. Additionally, the portrayals of various groups—particularly the period-specific attitudes toward the Chinese laborers in the American West—reflect the prejudices of the late nineteenth century. These elements are not incidental; they are woven into the fabric of the stories, representing the era’s own anxieties and social blindness. Despite these challenges, the book remains a masterclass in the "weird." It is an ideal companion for a winter evening, meant for those who enjoy literature that dares to look into the darkness and finds that the darkness, quite often, is looking back. It is a work for the curious, the patient, and the brave.