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.
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