House of Wyndham
Would you like to know about Wyndham House on Sycamore Drive?
It imposes a presence over the neighbourhood, doesn't it? The house is old world architecture, with its stone façade and strong timbers, nestled at the far end of the street. It is tucked back from the asphalt, apart, but the house still looms in the minds of the area residents.
Why you ask? Because everyone knows its history, of course. Death seeps out of each pane, rafter and stone.
It started with the designer and builder of the house, Josiah Wyndham. He was the first to die, shot over his unfaithful wife in 1902. His murderer died next, apparently poisoned by Josiah’s wife, who confessed all in a letter before drowning herself in liquor and the bathtub.
Josiah’s oldest son inherited the house, but he died a year later at the hands of his youngest sibling, who stabbed him during a heated argument. After that, the house passed from relative to relative, all of whom died tragically. Eventually no Wyndham would go near the place and it sat abandoned for years, until it sold in 1922. And the legacy of the house continued for decades, bouncing between owners, deaths and realtors.
I've heard it said the house is cursed, that Josiah condemned it with his dying breath. Perhaps he did, but the real truth of the matter lies with the house itself. Somewhere, somehow the house is alive. Yes, alive. Not breathing, heart-beating alive, but aware nonetheless.
Don’t laugh, it’s true.
And worse, it collects people. All those poor souls that died within the walls of Wyndham House, well they never left. Their ghosts still roam the corridors and rooms, their phantom eyes still peer out the windows.
You may scoff, I wouldn't blame you. I scoffed too, before I bought the house, before I died here. I believe now, as the days turn to years and I keep wandering the house, as my spirit stays trapped and I welcome the newly dead to our ghostly ranks.
So welcome, you poor fool, to Wyndham House.