Horror Stories

Afternoon Tea

Ever since I was a small girl, I remember my grandmother drinking afternoon tea. Everyday she would sit at her table, dressed in one of her many expensive gowns, and sip on a cup of hot tea. She had never offered me any, until my mother died.

I arrived at Grandma's estate, three days after my mother's funeral. It had been twenty years since I had seen her last, but her home was still as extraordinary as ever. Nestled on 50 acres of classic English countryside, was her enormous British manor. Located deep in Suffolk County, amidst rolling green hills, is a grand iron gate, whose bars hide the place where childhood dreams are made. Behind its guard, runs a long cobblestone driveway that gently meanders through perfectly shaped maple trees. It is nearly three miles before you reach the clearing where the manor lay, rising above intricately designed flower gardens that cascade downward to the driveway. At the base of these colorful gardens, guarding the entrance, is a hand carved marble water fountain. Inside the crystal blue water is a 20-foot statue of Aphrodite, standing nude with long flowing hair draped over her breasts, stationed in a seductive pose. Her stone eyes glare out at all who approach.

On the east side of the property are the stable grounds. I would spend countless hours there learning to ride the most beautiful horses money could buy.

I stepped from the black Rolls Royce, which had shuttled me from the gate and stood, taking in the exquisite home. It was three stories of classic British architecture, modeled from Kensington Palace. It rose from the ground like a historic, stone wonder. For two weeks every summer it became my personal playground. And my God did I love it here.

I walked up the granite stairs, pictures of my mother's funeral under my arm, to the massive oak door. I rang the bell and took a deep breath, repressing my anger deep inside. Mr. Jeffery, my grandma's head servant, greeted me at the door.

"Hello Madam, it's a pleasure to see you again," Jeffrey said, bowing his head as I stepped inside.

"Hello, Jeffery. It has been a very long time."

"Far too long I must say. I have missed you dearly. You are a woman grown."

"My grandmother sent for me. I was told it was urgent," I replied coldly. I was in no mood for idle chatter.

"You will find her in the Tea room. Does my lady need to be refreshed of its location?"

"I know where it is," I said and turned away.

"Miss? Where are you bags? I've made up your old room, just the way you like it."

"I will not be staying long Jeffery," I snapped back and walked from the foyer.

"I am sorry to hear that. I hope you reconsider."

I entered the grand hallway, where hundreds of exquisite pieces of artwork adorned the walls. My grandma obsessively collected them over her lifetime. Many were hundreds of years old, and she often bragged how some were painted by the Renaissance masters. It was mind boggling how much money this old woman had. I never thought much about it as a child, but now, it seemed obscene that one person should have this kind of wealth.

My heels clicked rapidly inside the grand corridor, reverberating off the 20-foot ceilings. With each step, I become even angrier. Oil paintings, sculptures, and stained glass littered the walls, each piece worth thousands of dollars. The place reeked of opulence. How could a person, so filthy rich, leave her child completely defenseless? Just one of these paintings could have provided my mother the care she so desperately needed.

I stormed through the French doors and found my grandma sitting at her tea table, sipping from the same weathered tea cup she had always used. Compared to the rest of her things it was odd that she used such a simple cup.