The story features a young electrician wiring an old remote house in Scotland. He sees the wife of the owner sitting still in a darkened room. He thinks that it is a ghost. It's related in the first person, and the narrator keeps implying that the house owner is involved in the motor trade. The denouement is that the owner is a taxidermist.
I can't remember the title or author and wish to reread it.
Whether this is strictly speaking fantasy is debatable, but it is listed on the ISFDB so I guess it counts. Anyhow, the story is The Lovers by John Keir Cross. I read it in his collection The Other Passenger. The story, and the anthology are from the 1940s, but apparently The Other Passenger was reprinted in 2017 so if you read it recently that's possibly where you read it.
The story is related in a Scottish accent by the electrician. He relates the story:
She was a woman about eight or ten years younger than Gemmell - a bonny enough wee body, dressed in black. She sat wi’ her hands folded in her lap - very straight - on a sofa. And she was smiling - but not at me - she didnae even look at me. She had her eyes fixed straight ahead and she didnae move - she didnae budge an inch. I couldn’t see her very clear in the bad light, but I had the impression that she was - och, how can I put it? - no’ quite real. She had a high colour - she looked, if ye know what I mean, ower healthy - a wee thing too fresh.
Gemmell had come into the room behind me - I could feel him fidgeting about at my elbow. He gave a sort of cough and then he says: “This is my wife,” he says.
“How-do-ye-do, ma’am,” says I - but the wee soul never answered - not a word. She sat there just staring ahead, wi’ that smile o’ hers. She never moved - I was a wee thing frightened.
And right at the end of the story he remembers:
Oh wait a minute, wait a minute. I’ve just remembered what Gemmell’s business was before he retired. I knew it had something to do wi’ motor-cars. Hiring them out, it was. Taxis. That’s it. I mind it used to say it on his note-paper when he wrote to MacEwham. He had a fency professional sort of name for it though. What was it?
Aye - I remember. Taxi-dermist. That was it. Aye - taxi-dermist.
