Uh...NO, Underwear Queen...that is the one thing that I am most certain is definitely
NOT gonna happen...in this lifetime
or the next!
OK, even though the competition is stiff this round...I am bravely posting my story. Enjoy!
AD1
Charmingsworth House of Rye
On the south coast of England, in the county of Sussex, there is a small town by the name of Rye. Once a thriving harbor town, Rye now lays two miles inland due to an ever-changing coastline. It is a
SERENE town with a
BITTERSWEET history. Despite having been burnt down by the French in 1377 and then again in 1448, Rye is now widely regarded as the prettiest town in England, with its winding cobbled streets, windmills, and lovely buildings dating from the 15th through the 18th century.
On the outskirts of town, nestled into the side of a rolling green hill, stands a sprawling 17th century house. The original structure, built in 1694, was a mere 2400 square feet; over the years, however, its various owners added two wings, two floors, the enormous deck off the back of the house, and a huge swimming pool, complete with a well-equipped pool house. These additions brought the structure to a whopping 6300 square feet, and including the once-gorgeous gardens surrounding the house, the last appraisal valued the home at £193,000.
Known as the Charmingsworth House, after the builder and original owner, the building has been empty for the last twenty-five years or more. Some of the windows are broken, the paint is peeling badly, and the grounds have become a
MESMERIZING Savage Garden of weeds, waist-high grass, and wildflowers. Inside, all of the elegantly carved antique furniture and expensively framed artwork, covered in at least five inches of dust and grime, waits as if for its owner’s return. The owner of these fine things, however, swore
never to return; for as he ran screaming from the property (
INVOKING God as his protection all the way), he proclaimed to any within the sound of his voice, “That accursed ‘ouse is ‘aunted, it is!”
His departure, aside from creating a spectacular
KERFUFFLE in the town of Rye, also brought the tragic history of Charmingsworth House to the forefront of its citizen’s minds. The story of that history, by its most popular account, goes something like this:
In the spring of 1839, a family known as Boatswright lived in the house on the hill, which was bequeathed to them by Patricia Boatwright’s uncle, a descendant of the original owner, upon his death. Patricia and her husband, Sean, lived in the house with their three children, Robbie, age 11, Sam, 6, and Emily, 9. They seemed a happy family, content with their lives and each other. Following the example set by those before them of making additions to the house, Sean and Patricia had recently completed construction of the East Wing, which contained two new bedrooms and a large family area, as well as a library.
In mid-summer, Sean received word that the windows he’d ordered for the library, crafted by hand in Switzerland, had finally arrived in Wales. Shortly thereafter, he set out to retrieve his glass with the
KNOWLEDGE that he would have to be quick about making the journey, in order to return home before the cold days of winter set in. Sean kissed his lovely and
DEMURE wife good-bye, put the charge of the household in Robbie’s hands as the “man of the family,” and with a final flurry of hugs all ‘round, set off on the long trip to Wales.
Sean returned, some six and a half weeks later, in the dead of night. Exhausted and road-worn from his long journey, Sean wished for nothing more than to climb into bed with his beloved wife and sleep the sleep of the just for at least ten hours. He entered his magnificent home and climbed the stairs to the second floor where the suite of rooms that he shared with his wife lay. As he turned the corner of the hallway, Sean thought he caught a glimpse of someone at the far end of the hall entering a room; however, he shrugged it off, thinking he was just seeing shadows as a result of his exhaustion. Entering his bedroom at the end of the hall, Sean’s eyes widened in amazement at the sight of Patricia writhing beneath another man. Before his eyes filled with the blood of anger, Sean processed the contrast of the man’s dark hand on his wife’s pale white breast and the whispering moans coming from Patricia, which he took to be his wife’s pleasure in the moment; before he could think beyond any of that, Sean felt himself overcome with a rage like he’d never known.
Sean leapt onto the bed, pulling his hunting knife from its sheath at his side as he did. He landed across the other man’s legs and abruptly drew the knife down across his back. With a scream born more of surprise than hurt, the man atop Sean’s wife tried to flip over to meet his attacker. Sean, still fueled by the most intense anger he’d ever felt, systematically hacked the man’s face away, until there was nothing left there but a bloody pulp. Then, turning his ire to his cowering wife, he said, “How could you? I loved you, you bloody whore! I loved you…and I come home to find you having at it with another man in MY bed! Bloody deceitful woman!” And with that, Sean
MUTILATED the betraying body of the only woman he had ever loved. As her life ebbed away, Patricia feebly tried to speak, “Sean…no, Sean…I didn’t…I wasn’t…” But it was too late. She was dead.
Crazed now, both by the betrayal as well as what he’d done, Sean stumbled toward the door. Flinging it open, he was startled by the sight of his oldest son’s pale face. “What have you done, Father?” The boy asked, voice trembling. Sean was unable to answer. Somewhere in the misfiring synapses of his mind, he knew what he had to do next. There could be no witnesses, no evidence to the deceit he had just been witness to.
As he raised the knife in front of his terrified son, Robbie screamed, “No, Father! That man was raping Mother! I was trying to go for help, but then you got home, and I was afraid you were another bad man! Please don’t hurt me, Father…where is Mother?”<br>
These words snapped Sean back to reality, and with reality came intense sorrow, shame and grief. How could he have misjudged his beloved so badly? Sean had never known that he could be capable of doing what he had done just minutes before. He blocked his son’s view of the bedroom behind him, and led the boy downstairs.
From Robbie, Sean got the full story of the man who had come sneaking in the night into their home. When the would-be burglar realized there was a family in residence, he apparently decided to have his way with the woman before ransacking for valuables. Robbie had seen the stranger go into his mother’s room and was trying to get downstairs to run to a neighboring farm for help when he saw the shadow of another man climbing the stairs. That was the glimpse of movement Sean had noticed on his way to his bedroom, he realized now. Robbie had been scared that it was a partner of the man already in the house, which prevented him from crying out.
Crushed under blinding guilt, Sean could do nothing but sob Patricia’s name over and over again in an anguished plea for a reversal of time to undo his terrible crime.
Within the week, Sean was apprehended and incarcerated for the murder of his wife, and Patricia’s family raised his children, who cut all ties with Sean out of their resentment of him for taking their mother away from them. When Sean was finally released from prison, nearly 30 years later, he returned to Charmingsworth House to live out his remaining days alone. He gained quite a reputation as a loony old man, as he filled his time wandering from room to room pleading with his wife’s shade for her forgiveness. When he finally died of old age, and the proper authorities came to remove his remains, they swore that they could hear a woman’s terrified screams and a man’s pleading sobs even as they went about their work.
To this day, people who enter Charmingsworth House report doors being slammed all over the house, lingering screams and cries, and the pleading of a distraught man saying, “Patricia, I love you…please forgive me, my wife, please……..”<br>
