The house had long since fallen into disrepair followed by pointless dilapidation and it being very old, but recently arrived there among the tall sea of flax, was most feared by the locals because of many a strange tale concerning it and those that had tried to live there. I came upon the look of this house during a dream of utter torment for such details were very strange to me. While having such a vision of this house,I awoke and got up, made a cup of tea,just in order to break such a dream theme up. Drinking the last sweet brown stuff down I returned to my slumber. However, yes it continued where I had left off.
I guess silly me, I must have left it on pause?
Since then the days passed into weeks and then one day it being an Easter Sunday those details came flooding into my mind again, but not in any dream,but in broad daylight in my wide awake day time activities. Although hazed in shape the wood framed building was easy to mark out,as if I had been doing it in repartition during many an earlier time. As I placed the first dark outline upon the paper card I realised it to be a very large building with a dense roof of thatch and it did seem to have grown there as if a natural reed bed on the nearby fens. For this part of East Anglia, was awash with such floating read beds of friendly waving flax. Of course in reality the house never existed. but now traced out within the outer framework of this story it did,and it along with nameless characters were fitting together piece by little topsy turvy piece. _Soon after starting the writing of this, and the scratch building of that medieval timber framed house I realised this was getting most scary and it was as if I was being compelled to pen and ink it down,and also build this uncommon place up.Uneasiness began to dominate both types of work,and over a few days that which I had dreamed of stood complete upon my small work table. The numerous windows seemed very dark black eyes of this hair-raising place, for truly I knew it as such without really knowing it before at all. Such are uncommon places stemmed from such dreams.
The photo results seem very clear to view,but does the human eye always pick out that which is there? The old solid door now stripped bear clear of wicked rose thorns is locked tight, and some in Nat Village say it is bolted shut tight from inside,and those that did such a locking and a bolting of all those dark Oak doors and windows are still there,if only in dismembered remains. For certain there are no Winkle graves in the nearby village church. No not even a one. So when was it that Sir Edward Charles Winkle, a Knight placed his stamp of authority upon such a blot on this landscape ? As near as I can tell it was during and after the Wars of The Roses ,and oppressed peoples were given over to seek other means of gaining a living other than working of land afforded them.
It was 1537 Easter Day,a Sunday evening when the house servants left for the Church Service in the village, while the family occupants preferred not to hold with any religious house for fear of Henry, and that awesome blunt axe. As Old Mott,with no other name beside it left the house, with the rounded plump dogmatic swearing Cook, trundling on behind him,called Beggs, and the two young serving girls following along behind her whispering girls talk with giggles, all headed towards the sound of that dong, dong bell.
Little did they realise it then that they would soon be free of that overburdened place of regal servitude. As the mist rose from the surrounding Fen land.
Most certainly it was a most solemn silent Meeting in that tiny flinted church,as Mickmead, the Priest had left for safer shores. It seemed although he being a rather short ,but very loud, fat, and double chinned man of the cloth in his mid 40`s, he had no intention of getting a lot shorter in Henry`s ,England. Such was his chin that gave resemblance to that of a chewing Hamster to him that owned it, and it that hung so well was much more the worthwhile a saving. So he took fearful flight to safer shores carrying the golden cross and goblet along with the small finger bowl from the church. Fate decreed rather oddly for him, that it all turned out to be some kind of ornamental shinny brass.
It was indeed Flaggend,,,that had rung the bell since Brother Mickmead`s, timely scarpering! He being the digger of graves when there was such a call of opportunity for it. As it was a Sixpence in his hand for a doing it, "Spand, Spick, Hand Proper," as was his a calling of it. Most certainly Flaggend,,, the dark skinned man with curly hair, will be written of in other tales.
As for the house it had remained long after the Winkle family`s disappearance, some reckoned an evil event had befallen them all, because on that night of the large full Moon they vanished without a trace. The last half eaten meal still settled to cold congealed fattiness upon the dark metal plates, ___indeed the long table was still set out untidy-like in the six odd places around it. All their belongings intact with cloths hanging where they would've been while others were out for the wash,but them gone never to be seen or heard of since.The only living thing left in that house seen above, was the family`s one eyed skinny dog,that answered to Keats! It being a tiny thin dog it could never have been accused of eating them that is for sure. It was Pennwick,the Church recorder of family names, and village Fish Monger that took the dog in,and it played out its life span in pure delight with the village children that nicknamed him little Cyclopes, although very few of the younger kids knew of it or understood such a name. As for the dog, she would only ever answer to Keats,a name put into place long before he ever existed. Another mystery was concerning that one eyed dog,and how certain children in 1537 knew of the Cyclopes?
Such are the ongoing stave's of time changed and passed along without any comprehensive answer. With the rustic sound of the Saxon Church bell come a Sunday, and that place the house left shut tight. That house now silent still has settled well into this wetland and overgrown has become a mystifying part of it.
After I took all those photo shots,something strange occurred upon the viewing of them,
a ghostly figure in the upper window. The hairs on the back of my neck stood up,and each did quite prick a well deserved nerve ending of frightening chill.
Written & Scratch-built by BB
A Few Shots More.