OLD MR. BOSWORTH

This is a (not so short) piece that I wrote for Bloggy Moms in response to one of its monthly prompts:  “Everybody said the old Bosworth Mansion was hunted.”  Please click the link for the full prompt.

I am quite glad to be able to write a response.  The week had been a busy one for us here leaving me without much time to collect my thoughts for writing posts and visiting blogs.   Generally, I like writing (kind-of) creative pieces because they help me think of something other than worries (I am a worry nut) during my ‘free’ time.   I like doing creative stuff, e.g. crafts or violin practice,  but they require a dedicated time.  Writing, on the other hand, can be done while I am doing menial labor.    I can let my mind wander off while I am doing dishes to compose a piece.  Specifically,  I like writing for Bloggy Moms is special to me because it is where I started my creative writing journey.

Anyway, here is my piece.  Pardon me if you find any crass humor/words in it.  My male consultant told me that it was the way to go. 🙂 

Thank you for coming by.  Enjoy (if you can). 😉 

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Mr. Bosworth stood by the shelf, running his shaking hands through the dust covered volumes and pulling out a leather bound book. As soon he did, it fell off his hands joining those already on the wood floor with a defeaning thud.

“It seems like your hands are bothering you again, Deary,” said a soft voice coming from the center of the mostly bare room.

“They shake a little more these days… must be the weather, Sweet Pea.” The old man replied, but shoved his hand in the pocket of his silk dressing gown in frustration. He grabbed his cane and shuffled towards the window. He leaned against its sash, pulled out his pipe from his breast pocket and put it in his mouth. From behind the curtain, he watched the sun sink beneath the autumn foliage, occasionally flecking an imaginary ash from his shirt.

“You have been a little too restless lately,” said Mrs. Bosworth, concern edging her voice, her white hair and cream house coat catching slivers of light as she turned to look at her husband. Mr. Bosworth pulled himself away from the window towards an empty chair beside her.

“The tree branches have been scratching on the roof so much. And the intruders…they just keep coming. Bothersome folks.” He replied in between sighs as he slumped himself on the chair.

“Everybody said the Old Bosworth House was hunted … ” she said with a raised brow.

“Malarkey! We have lived in this house for ages, and have yet to see any ghost nor hear any of the mysterious sounds that people said come from this house.” Mr. Bosworth protested.

“People believe what they want to believe… those who do not believe, come here to find out if the rumors are true anyway. Ahhh, how bold could some people get! Remember when some young people drunk themselves silly in the backyard…. or the lovers who were caught by the husband or whoever….” She said with a wave of her hand. “We should do something about these trespassers….” She added after a pause.

“Leave them alone. They are mostly harmless folks. Nobody had really dared to come in.”

“I hope it remains that way. ” She said as she tugged at a yarn. “The other day, somebody tried to climb the branches of the tree, maybe to climb in through the window. I would have scolded him but he scrambled down as soon as he saw me.” She resumed her knitting. “If only our children were here….they can take care of this house for us.”

“Sweet Pea, they have their lives. They’ll join us when they join us.  Aren’t you glad to be resting in peace at last?” teased Mr. Bosworth.

“Resting in peace, my foot.  But better our children’s noise  than the outsiders’…” Mrs. Bosworth answered. “It’s been a long time since I hugged them. The last time was when….” She finished her recollection with a sigh and squinted back over her yarn and needles.

Husband and wife fell silent, both retreating   in their memories. Voices from outside the house, however, snapped them out of their reverie. Mr. Bosworth shuffled to the window followed by his wife. Parting the  curtain, they saw three bike-riding  teen-aged boys  passing through the open gates towards the  house. “The first one to run away has a small dick!” yelled a rather crass youth. “Coward Anton!” Shouted another. “I tell you, there’s a white lady in there!” A voice responded from the gates. “That was the boy in the tree,” Mrs Bosworth said.

Squaring his jaws, Mr. Bosworth moved away from the window, towards the stairs, knocking things down on his way, his cane tok-toking on the floor. The steps creaked under his feet. He was panting by the time he got to the door, just when the boys were stepping right up to it. Before anyone could touch the it, however,  Mr. Bosworth turned the knob and pulled it in.  As soon as the door opened,  the boys’  eyes went wild and they  ran as fast as they could screaming “Ghost!” Ghost!” as they scrambled onto  their bicycles.  

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