Visitations

There are some families that have a reputation for harboring secrets that, if known, would become scandalous in certain social circles, but there are other families who no longer shelter their secrets and have become quite famous for the skeletons they keep in their closets. The Widgett Family is one of the latter. So famous their legendary family quirks that it has been rumored that Charles Dickens himself used some of their stories to model Ebeneezer Scrouge after a long deceased patriarchal member of their family known as a unredeemable curmudgeon. Be that as it may, the Widgett Estate has been labeled as one of the most haunted domiciles in all of England. 

Since I am a realtor, it is part of my business practice to delve into information about the properties I possess to sell and in a rather odd circumstance, I had come into possession of the Widgett House as it became known to me a year ago when the last heir passed away in his sleep. As I attended the auction of the estate, I was able to bid on it and much to my surprise, my low bid won my business the property. What surprised me even more was the fact I could not seem to move it even on a low bid. 

It was then I found Zachary Chelton, an investigator, to find out why the Widgett Estate would not sell.

“Pleasure to meet you Mr. Chelton.” I promptly stood at my desk to greet the famous investigator when he walked through my door. He walked like a gentleman who was quite familiar with proper etiquette. Dressed in a Cardigan with an ascot, he nodded upon entering.

“You must be Henry Rawlings.” He offered me his hand to shake.

“Indeed.” I nodded as I shook his hand.

“Good to meet you, kind sir.” He put his briefcase on the vacant chair next to my desk.  “Now what is it I can do for you?”

“I have come in possession of some property that for some reason I am having quite a stir trying to sell it.” I sat shaking my head.

“Hmmm.” He put his hand to his chin after removing his bowler had.

“Here it is.” I put the deed in front of him. His face went white. “What is it, sir?”

“I am quite familiar with this family and their skeletons they have kept locked up in their closets.” He shook his head and then looked me in the eyes. “You see this estate has a history many are not aware of, but the local gentry is well aware of the rumors and stories.”

“Do tell.” I sat there with my jaw sagging a bit.

“The history is long and jaded, I’m afraid.” He coughed into his gloved hand.

“I have time.” I put my elbows on my desk and leaned forward to listen to what he had to say.

“This goes back quite a while and there is a lot to tell.” His eyes looked at the ceiling. “If you have the time, I shall tell you of the reason why your best option would be to burn this estate to the ground. Problem is it would make many poltergeists out on the streets.”

“Really?” I leaned closer.

**********

Dr. Claudius Widgett bought the estate in 1854 and then brought his new bride, Cellia to scenic estate with deciduous trees covering most of the property and the modest mansion built on top of the rolling hill. There was a stable at the bottom of the hill at the end of a gentle path. 

Claudius and his wife Cellia loved to go riding through the woods after dinner to leave the servants to clean off the table after dinner. It was a domicile of rising reputation as the good doctor adored his wife. She would give birth to a son, Jarred during the winter, but as the icy blanket of the winter melted away, Cellia joined him on his nightly excursions.

As it so happens in a story of tragedy, Cellia was knocked from her mount by a low hanging branch and lay upon the ground in distress. Upon seeing his beloved wife unable to move from where she had fallen, Claudius rode away leaving her behind. As it happens, Cellia did not survive. A heartbroken pair stood at her graveside, Claudius and Jarred set in his pram. Mourners from all over came to Cellia’s service. 

Bernard Widgett, Claudius’ younger brother wondered aloud about the circumstances of his sister-in-law’s demise. His suspicions were answered when Cellia showed up at the door on All Souls Day, questioning why her loving husband abandoned her. Her ghost was even more shaken when Mrs. Widgett answered the door. In the middle of the night, the windows rattled with a ferocious storm. When looking at the stable, Dr. Widgett noticed the ceiling had come down killing the horse she had been riding at the time of her death.

Glenda, Dr. Widgett’s young bride, did not care for any equestrian endeavors and instead gave Jarred two half-brothers and a sister. Glenda would die giving birth to her one and only daughter Gwendolyn. The boys, Richard and William, grew to be hardy oaks.  Gwendolyn struggled with common ailments as she grew.

But all were taken aback when Glenda appeared during the Christmas celebration.

“What are you hiding from me?” Her angry ghost demanded near the fireplace.

“Nothing.” Claudius fell to his knees.

“You treated me like a child.” She huffed.

“You were twenty years my junior.” He clasped his hands together as he knelt in front of her. 

Bernard recorded the happenings as me muttered to himself, “Strange that my brother has seen the deaths of both his wives.”

When Claudius overheard his brother musing to himself, he vowed to end the conversation by putting some poison in Bernard’s spiced apple cider.  Complaining of indigestion, Bernard died on the carriage ride back home.

“My brother, Bernard was a good man.” Claudius spoke his elegy at his brother’s graveside. “I will miss him as he was a gentleman and credit to his social standing.”

Soon Jarred accumulated some outrageous gambling debts. Some of the collectors explained if Jarred did not pay up, he would suffer greatly. He decided he would have his father meet with an unfortunate accident. With the help of his half-brothers, Willam and Richard, Claudius met with an unfortunate fall into the well near the refurbished stables. No one heard his cry for help until it was too late. 

As the family got together for a Christmas feast, Claudius’ ghost appeared at the gabled ceiling above. Most of the terrified guests ran out of the mansion leaving Jarred, William and Richard to face the wrath of their late father’s ghost. William would never recover from the shock and was remanded to an insane asylum and neither Jarred nor Richard ever came to visit him. William would end up dying his own excrement.   

**********

“I am beginning to understand.” I sighed.

“There is more.” Mr. Chelton put his finger up as if he was going to make a point, “The generations to follow would be haunted by the visitations of dead relatives until the parade continued like a marching band.”

“There’s more?” I was delighted because I feasted on stories like these.

“Ah, yes, much more.” He nodded knowingly.

“Please continue.” I put my hands behind my head and gave Mr. Chelton my full attention.

***********

Widgett Family Tradition was simply a matter of which ghost would settle in on Christmas Eve. It wasn’t long before some of the people in the area began to catch the wind over these haunting visitations. It soon became fashionable for people to gather at the estate to witness who or what would come floating around to scare those in the family gatherings. It became so expected that the visitations were no longer considered frightening to anyone. 

Things changed when the Great War ravaged Europe. Many of the Widgetts became officers. When they blew their whistles for their men to go over the top, the slaughter began and the screams of the wounded and dying would haunt them worse than the harmless family ghosts. 

Reginald Widgett won two Victorian Crosses for valiantly but seeing him men struggling to breathe during a mustard gas attack was something he just couldn’t get out of his mind. He came home a broken man. He would sit in the parlor talking to people who were not there. No matter how brilliant his Victorian Crosses looked on his old uniform, he would start shaking as the dead marched into the parlor to keep him company. 

“Dreadful.” He would mutter, “Jergens, you don’t look so good with your skin so yellow and sallow.”

And then he would sob holding his whiskey in his shaking hand.

He had a nightmare one night waking his wife Cybil.  

“Dear what is wrong?” She could not wake him from his nightmare.

“Ahhhh. Keep your heads low lads!” He was trembling, “Oh God, Forsythe, you got blown to bits by that shell. Keep lower lads.”

“Father, are you okay?” Lionel asked as Reginald stared out the window during tea.

“Leave your father be, dear.” Cybil waved her hand in front of her son’s face. 

“But pa-paw has got that strange look in his eyes.” Lionel complained.

“He will be alright.” She glanced over at the statue that was her husband. He did have that far off look in his eyes as he did more and more often. 

Two days later, Reginald pocketed his service revolver and strolled down to the stables when no one was watching. He put the cold barrel of his revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger. 

At his service, some of the survivors from his company came. 

“He was a good man, eh?” One of them mumbled.

“He was all right.” Another chimed in.

“He panicked though.” A third shook his head.

“You hush now. Don’t be speaking ill of the dead, especially at his own funeral.” The first one glared at the one who told about the time Reginald had run from the lines when the Borch began firing from the safety of their trenches.

During the Widgett Family celebration, after the generous feast, Lionel found his father sitting in his chair in the parlor staring out the window.

“Pa-paw.” He exclaimed, but when he reached his father to hug him, his hands just grasped the air. His father, who had been sitting in the chair a moment agon had vanished. Tears rolled down Lionel’s face. Cybil comforted her son. She did not doubt him when he said he had seen his father sitting there.

Lionel would be the last of the last heir of the Widgett Family having survived World War Two as a Prisoner of War in a Japanese camp in Burma. He would pass away in 1954 suffering from ailments he took as souvenirs from the POW camp. He died alone and wasn’t discovered until the mailman noticed the stake of unopened mail that had accumulated in his postbox.

***********

“So, there you have it.” Zachary Cheldon put his hat back on and slid his bowler to the back of his head. 

“So, all those ghosts are still there, hovering over the estate?” I asked before he had the chance to get away.

“Absolutely. Unlike us mortals, ghosts are limited to inhabiting a given area. There are some who haunt the vehicles they died in.” He smiled.

“How long have you researched poltergeists?” I asked.

“Longer than you can guess.” He slapped his hands on the edge of my desk. “What say we get together tomorrow and have a look-see at the Widgett Estate. It should be quite fascinating.”

“I look forward to it.” I stood up after he came to his feet. We shook hands.

“I should be here at ten a.m. sharp.” He nodded.

“Alright, I shall be here waiting.” I winked as he walked out of my office.

True to his word, he came in at ten precisely wearing his bowler and wool jacket. 

“I’ll drive.” I held up my car keys.

“Let us be off.” He declared as we walked to my car which was parked in the street right in front of my office.

“I am giddy. I have heard about this place but have never had the pleasure of seeing it myself.” He nodded. “I cherish the opportunity to finally see it.”

“I was only there once.” I confessed. “When I acquired the property, I did not feel the needs to lay eyes on it.”

“Oh, but you should.” He laughed.

We talked about soccer and the like as I drove for nearly an hour to get to the house on the hill. Zachary Cheldon was silent as I drove up the long winding gravel driveway. His eyes were wide as I parked in front of the double door entrance.

“What a brilliant piece or architecture.” He marveled as he stepped out of my car. “Well made. Sturdy.”

“It will need some renovation…”

“You do not need to sell this estate?” He gasped.

“It’s my business.” I shook my head.

“But certain structures must remain a bookmark to history.” He seemed to walk in a trance as he climbed the marble stairs to the front door. I took out the keys to the house and opened the doors. As if he was still in a trace, he walked in with his head on a swivel. “Oh, that gorgeous chandelier.” 

He pointed at the suspended monstrosity before putting his hands to his face in amazement and awe. He gasped again, “This far exceeds splendid.”

Light drained from the sky as the sun set on the horizon. Shadows appeared in places where they weren’t before. 

In my peripheral, I saw unsettling movement.

“I think we must be going.” I stated as I saw him begin to climb the staircase that wound around to the second floor.

“Just let me have a gander.” He continued to climb the stairs.

A shadow seemed to move right through me. The motion of the stagnant air suddenly put to startled me.

“It seems we are not wanted here.” I coughed.

“Nonsense, I feel right at home.” He was walking in the second story corridor.

“Mr. Cheldon, I feel time has come to depart.” I stated as he began opening bedroom doors.

I saw the shadow of someone sitting in the parlor smoking a pipe.

Pa-paw!

“I am sorry, but I must insist.” I saw him enter a door he had opened.

“It is all I imagined it would be.” He nearly sang as he emerged from one of the rooms.

“I am leaving.” I held up my car keys to show Mr. Cheldon that I was serious.

“Poison me, you scoundrel!”

The voice echoed through the house.

The sun had entered the House of Twilight. Shadows were now in charge of the house.

“You left me in the woods to die!”

I have never left anyone abandoned to fend for themselves, but I was past the point of nearly being frightened to death. I knew if I stayed a moment longer, I’d never be able to flee as I did.

The next morning, when I went to Barry’s Café where I would indulge in my morning tea and scones. I found a discarded Star lying on the counter. I picked it up since I recognized the picture of the man wearing a bowler and a tweed suit jacket. 

It was Zachary Cheldon, but his photograph was blurry as if it had been taken some time ago. As I paid for my morning fare, I nearly fainted. The headline read, “Zachary Cheldon’s Body Found in Shallow Grave After Being Reported Missing Over Fifty Years Ago.”

“Hey mate, you’re lookin’ like ya seen a ghost.” The man behind the counter reacted to my pale face.

“I think you’re right.” I managed to say. “I think I have done just that.”

I was visibly shaking as I left Barry’s Café.

Apparitions I’ve heard from a reliable source like to make occasional visitations upon the world of the living, so it seems.