The open window case.

He had inherited Broomfield manor from his uncle on his mothers side of the family. Once a prosperous and mighty Vicarage  owned by many of his mothers relations but he did not know the full story until now.

For Jeffrey Wolstenholme this day would mark his future in black ink. He signed the lawyers papers and took charge of the key. A great metal weight in his pocket he set off with no more than a take your leave to the lawyers plea to go home and leave Broom House to its fate and the weeds.

Wolstenholme was not that short of man to take note of a warning. He was today the real master of the estate. His booted foot reached the hollowed worn stone step with gusto. his pocket deep and his mind on repair as the key slowly clicked the door open. Inside he was to find rats and upturned furnishings a ruined wood floor full of rat holes and no more upstairs than filth and grim of many years of deserting owners.

He gazed at the damages but then the great hall fire place in solid Italian marble and higher than his 6 foot frame was in good repair. He kindled what was left of the floor boards and set the fire that soon smoked out the whole lower floors .A crows nest he thought. On the beams of the floor minus boards he tripped back outside for air into the man who stood ready to enter. A big block of man.

Jim Tanner he was a village handy man of ever a man could it was Jim. The two men talked on the subject of living in the mess.Seems the new owner being the only man to try spending on what was really a by gone relic of the past.

Wolstenholme was a man who wanted his inherited home as it was. He had only heard of the ways of it from his mother as a boy. He had not even known the uncle who left it yo him or anything about him other than he was a bishop and old when he was younger.

The price agreed a team of builders and Jim in charge set to on the roof and some inside flooring out the lower rooms. The staircase found under the fallen plaster of the rain soaked ceiling was in good repair built in English oak and with many ornate carved figures to hold the heavy banisters that curved right around both top and bottom of its great magnitude of bearing. On seeing for the first time uncovered gave much hope to the new owner that soon he could move in and live in the manner that suited him.

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Some weeks later that was possible but work still went on in parts of the great house. The bed set up and fires all cleaned it was the first night in the new abode. The builders left for that day and would return next morning as usual.

Silence fell and sleep soon came over him, wrapped so well, and the bedroom fire a glow. He had slept for some hours but suddenly woken by screams he took the loaded pistol off the side table and ran to the bedroom door, but it was firmly locked.

From the window the moon was up and he could hear the lady scream and in the moonlight as the dark clouds shifted like stormy seas, he saw her face looking up at him with blackened unhuman eyes ,like sockets of madness the face came nearer and he backed up in horror for that face he knew well.

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Next morning the builders found Wolstenholme huddled next to the great fireplace in the hall. He was senseless and raving much as a mad man would.  The builders called the doctor and carried on with work.

Doctor Browning was the man who took him at the station to find his way home to where ever that was.  No good would come in owning such a place. Now that same Doctor shook his head as he was told the tale of the previous night. He had made it clear but Wolstenholme had spent so much on the house he would not move. Doctor then administered a draft to make him sleep and rest as otherwise he had recovered much from his malady in the telling of the story.

The Doctor knew much more but Wolstenholme was so adamant he would not leave what good was it warning him of what he knew as pure evil.

The evening alone in his candle lit room he waited with loaded gun over his knee. No ghost of his dead aunt would give him more than he could give out.

The fire flickered in the grate the wind blew hard at the windows the gun trigger clicked back and again came that awful deathly scream. He did not move a muscle his eyes trained on the windows. He sat in the armchair waiting,waiting.  The pistol finger twitching sweat on the brow he waited.

It was 6am the builders ready to make tea and start soon found the owner dead.His eyes open stirring hard at an open window. His face of ashen white his clutched fingers over a discharged pistol and the whole room colder than ice. The police called, announced death by misadventure and case closed the 23 year old Wolstenholme buried in the family crypt some day later but no mourners but builders who worked and had been owed much by him.

 

Years went by the house again taken by Government and sold to one of their own . Six weeks later his funeral caused concern that an historian came to delve into the house history. Seems one lady Carla Bronley had died of mysterious ways in her new husbands vicarage. He died in war with Napoleon soon after .Then her body was never found having been walled up in that said house. She was murdered by poison it was suspected. Then the next owner died and his young wife partied wildly after that. Again murder was suspected but no one then would dare to accuse a land owner in her mansion of such a crime. On checking deeper it was found his Wolstenholmes uncle had spent only one night in the house and died in his Rectory in Kent many years later .It explained the state of the house not  what killed two men. The good Doctor would tell that evil lived inside that house and no more would he say. in 2001 the house burned to the ground by lightening but the spirit of violence may not have gone. According to people  who live near by ,the evil eye is on that place and screams are often heard at night.

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