| > Valerie Allgrove > Writing for fun > Haunted Tower
Haunted Tower
The Haunted Tower
Throughout the British Isles, most of the great castles and manor houses have either fallen into ruin, or been taken over by The National Trust, ousting their former inhabitants, and opening the gates to tourists.
Not all, however, and for one family, there is a most interesting story about why they appear so prosperous, and how they have never fallen on especially bad times, regardless of overall economics.
At dinner, the old lady of the house responds to questions by stating that the Norman Great Tower had been witched in such a way that prosperity had been ensured as long as the lord of the manse and his spouse kept the anniversary of the witching night every ten years.
The spirits were of a sort that if the lord and his lady were pure of heart and faithful to one another, they might spend the night in the suite without harm. In return, the spirits would drive all evil spirits from the land around the Tower and also look after the family business in the world at large. The spirits could not harm anyone pure of heart, but anyone not of such nature would be torn to pieces.
An enemy of the family in the late 16th century, seeking to spy on them, had taken refuge in the Tower during a party and fallen asleep. He had been discovered, his flesh in ribbons, by the family retainers, patrolling on the next morning.
When the Lord had spent the night as required, he and his Lady would find evidence of the visitation of the spirits in the morning after. A fresh breakfast would be laid for them which the household had not prepared. Often, it included out of season fruits and other delicacies that could not be had. In addition to this, small presents and often, gifts for a new baby or other special household member would be arrayed nearby.
But the Tower is no longer haunted, although the good fortune of the family was not broken. The old lady recounts the story of what had happened.
Back when she was quite small, perhaps ten or so, her oldest sister had married a wealthy industrialist. Her two middle sisters were closer in age to that sister, but this lady, whose name is Eleanor, was still very small, the surprise child of two parents who had not expected to have any further children. No brothers existed, so the properties and titles had passed to the eldest sister, Victoria.
While not a great beauty, Victoria was kind and thoughtful, with a happy air to her. The marriage had been touted a great success, bringing great financial gains to the family and granting the young man the lordly titles and position that he had craved.
Things went along smoothly for over 17 years. Victoria's parents died and she was invested in the titles by the Queen. Finally, after inheriting all such responsibilities, the time of the anniversary came up.
Despite his enjoyment of the titles and the new prestige they brought him, Victoria's husband showed little interest in the family estate. He dwelt mostly in the big city of London, commuting between there and Paris, with occasional weekends in New York. He rarely came back with his wife to visit the land they owned. Victoria spent most of her time at the ancestral home, preferring the running of that estate and her responsibilities to her crofters to the parties and social scene of the big city.
However, for the anniversary, Victoria insisted that her husband return to the estates so that this requirement of the marriage be fulfilled. While he grumbled, he did arrive before dusk of the appointed night, but made it clear that he would only be staying for that one evening. The next morning he had a very important meeting with the Lord Chamberlain in the great Palace itself.
Victoria's husband was aware of the requirement of his marriage to stay in the Tower on that one evening every ten years, but he had not been interested in the story behind the requirement. Being a man of science, he would probably have scoffed at the tale, dismissing it as the ramblings of uneducated peasants. The anniversary festivities completed, the couple settled into their lodging for the night.
A heavy storm blew up towards midnight. Thunder and lightnings cracked across the countryside, rolling balls of static electricity across the fields like eerie blue sheep. Wind whistled around the manse lifting its fingers into any crevice, setting loose objects to banging as if crying for freedom.
Most of the servants were unable to sleep, and even the family members, including Eleanor, eventually made their way down into the kitchen where a comfortable glow of candles, hot tea, and quiet conversation with familiar faces let a kind of peace return.
No-one ventured down from the Tower and Victoria and her husband were assumed to be keeping each other company amidst the stormy spectacle.
Towards dawn the storm abated and people began to return to their rooms to sleep or go about their daily duties. A check on the Tower suits brought those sleepers forth from their chambers once again. The first servant to timidly open the door to the Lord's suite after receive no response to inquiries had fainted, but shrieked as he fell to the floor. Others had quickly gathered then called for the rest of the household to witness the ghastly sight.
Victoria, Lady of the Manse, lay in a huddle on the floor. In her arms was the bloodied remains of her beloved husband. While he was cut to shreds, blood forming a puddle around the pair, she seemed unharmed at first. Both were dead.
In the next few days, the story emerged as Veronica, the next eldest sister investigated the family funds and personal situation of the late Lordling. She terminated regular payment of rent and merchant accounts for three young women that the Lord had been keeping, obviously as his mistresses, in the various cities that he had made more his home that the lands he had married into.
Veronica also divested the family from the industrial holdings that that been the source of his great wealth. When the stock market crashed only months later, all that money had already been preserved, and the ensuing depression was easily ridden out.
The Tower was left abandoned after it had been cleaned and no one dared step within its walls. Veronica had nearly to beat the servants when the next anniversary approached to get them to make the suites habitable, and wound up with mostly bare rooms that she deemed adequate but not comfortable.
Her stalwart husband and she approached that evening with some nerves, but once abed, fell into an easy sleep that segued into morning without a trouble. No morning repast met their eyes, nor special gift for their baby son, however. Just bright sunlight filtering in through the window. And on subsequent anniversaries, there had never been so much as a scrap of paper left to indicate that the Tower had ever been the center of any special meaning.
So now the Tower was being re-decorated and set up as the great suites that it had been intended for. Once again, guests would sleep there in peace, and the family would enjoy its fine holding.
For the witching of the Tower had allowed for the death of any evildoer, but not the pure of heart. And while there was no mark on Lady Victoria, the spirits had done her in as surely as they had torn her husband limb to limb. She had died of a broken heart, you see.
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