Bramblewood Hall 10 - It Came From Bramblewood Hall
Book Details
Author(s)
Trisha Miller
Publisher
Essential Art
ISBN / ASIN
B00ES2H4JG
ISBN-13
978B00ES2H4J6
Sales Rank
#1,415,707
Marketplace
United States 🇺🇸
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Description
The respectable villagers of Bramblewood live in mortal terror as a lecherous monster roams the countryside, ravaging their womenfolk.
Book 10 of the Bramblewood Hall series of short stories
It Came From Bramblewood Hall
I woke in the Bramblewood hall on a grey English morning, half afraid of the conclusions of my own heart. The summer sun had not yet burned the mists from the fields and a blackbird’s song, sweet and inconsolable, sang clear and harmonious in the grey stillness before the dawn. Into that primal, wondering silence sounded a woman’s desperate screams. They seemed to emanate from the servant’s quarters where I was sleeping. I first took them to be those of protest. However the screams, although continuing in intensity, soon became less desperate and more… (Dear romantic reader, I hesitate to say it; but more enthusiastic.) The wailing eventually mounted to an embarrassing crescendo of desperate, whimpering sighs and concluded in a long, “That’s it! That’s it! Oowoowoo!†Silence ensued. Then a hissing, scratching sound in the corridor occasioned me to lock my bedroom door. The handle turned. The door was tried with a vigorous rattling. I trembled beneath my double duck-down duvet, but fortunately the stout lock held and the hissing and scratching continued along the corridor and thudded down the servant’s stairs. I stared out of the casement window into the cool, sweet morning air. In the shimmering, pale light of dawn I made out the monstrous figure of what I took to be a man, wading through the mists towards the churchyard, with a strange, lumbering gait.
Of course it was all hushed up, for the sake of decorum you see, and Rachael: the poor, unfortunate scullery maid, was subsequently discovered all undone in her room and then packed off to Brighton in disgrace. Rumors abounded: some even said that the night visitor was none other than the lecherous old Sir Cedrik, but how the venerable old gentleman could have mounted all those stairs to the third floor, I cannot imagine. However, we servants were warned of the dangers of speculation: our betters had matters in hand and that was to be the end of it. Unfortunately our betters had little comprehension of the true horror of the situation, and the rumors continued, despite their prohibitions. Having occasion to collect some items in Bramblewood village, for the housekeeper, I was soon to discover, that idle speculations, concerning the monster of the mists, were not just limited to Bramblewood Hall.
“Eee was so charming and ee just wouldn’t take no for an aaanser. Eee said I ad lovely air,†said the Postmistress, preening herself.
“I eer ee’s done Betsy Trotter an all. She baint bin ‘erself since: just sits there smiling and smiling,†said the lady ahead of me, in the Post Office queue but, becoming aware of the presence of someone from Bramblewood Hall, they both fell silent.
Book 10 of the Bramblewood Hall series of short stories
It Came From Bramblewood Hall
I woke in the Bramblewood hall on a grey English morning, half afraid of the conclusions of my own heart. The summer sun had not yet burned the mists from the fields and a blackbird’s song, sweet and inconsolable, sang clear and harmonious in the grey stillness before the dawn. Into that primal, wondering silence sounded a woman’s desperate screams. They seemed to emanate from the servant’s quarters where I was sleeping. I first took them to be those of protest. However the screams, although continuing in intensity, soon became less desperate and more… (Dear romantic reader, I hesitate to say it; but more enthusiastic.) The wailing eventually mounted to an embarrassing crescendo of desperate, whimpering sighs and concluded in a long, “That’s it! That’s it! Oowoowoo!†Silence ensued. Then a hissing, scratching sound in the corridor occasioned me to lock my bedroom door. The handle turned. The door was tried with a vigorous rattling. I trembled beneath my double duck-down duvet, but fortunately the stout lock held and the hissing and scratching continued along the corridor and thudded down the servant’s stairs. I stared out of the casement window into the cool, sweet morning air. In the shimmering, pale light of dawn I made out the monstrous figure of what I took to be a man, wading through the mists towards the churchyard, with a strange, lumbering gait.
Of course it was all hushed up, for the sake of decorum you see, and Rachael: the poor, unfortunate scullery maid, was subsequently discovered all undone in her room and then packed off to Brighton in disgrace. Rumors abounded: some even said that the night visitor was none other than the lecherous old Sir Cedrik, but how the venerable old gentleman could have mounted all those stairs to the third floor, I cannot imagine. However, we servants were warned of the dangers of speculation: our betters had matters in hand and that was to be the end of it. Unfortunately our betters had little comprehension of the true horror of the situation, and the rumors continued, despite their prohibitions. Having occasion to collect some items in Bramblewood village, for the housekeeper, I was soon to discover, that idle speculations, concerning the monster of the mists, were not just limited to Bramblewood Hall.
“Eee was so charming and ee just wouldn’t take no for an aaanser. Eee said I ad lovely air,†said the Postmistress, preening herself.
“I eer ee’s done Betsy Trotter an all. She baint bin ‘erself since: just sits there smiling and smiling,†said the lady ahead of me, in the Post Office queue but, becoming aware of the presence of someone from Bramblewood Hall, they both fell silent.
