Oh sad was her fate! In sportive jest, she hid from her Lord in an old oak chest; it closed with a spring, and her bridal bloom lay withering in that living tomb.
It’s an old tale, or at least as old as anyone cares to remember. You can find it locked away in any centuries-old, English estate built before the invention of gothic tales of horror and romance.
Much like the mistletoe bride.
Assuredly, there wasn’t an epidemic of newlywed brides locking themselves in chests on their wedding nights, but the legend did have to start somewhere.
Certainly, there is that one singular manor, yes? Many account Bramshill House in Hampshire as the origin point of this legend, even boldly displaying the claimed chest of where the bride was trapped in. Though, some question the validity of that statement.
What is the true legend of the mistletoe bride?
There are several versions. Some are more dramatic than others, which is to say that they're the best versions.
The mistletoe bride of Bramshill House is a wonderful blend of the fearful woe of Edgar Allan Poe and the festive cheer of Charles Dickens, making it a beautifully dreadful gothic tale.
It’s Christmas Day at Bramshill House. Snow is drifting slowly down from the sky, the last rays of sunlight exploding the air with reds and yellows.
It is a moment that must be cherished immediately, or it will be lost to time forever. But no one is outside to cherish it. A caravan of carriages lines the driveway, leaning up to the entrance. The soft window lights cast shadows on wheels and vacant horses, all of who are warm and fed in the stables.
If you stop and listen, you can hear the sounds of clinking glasses and laughter, followed by muffled roaring applause. While there is a celebration, it’s not for Christmas. A wedding has just taken place. The wedding of Anne Cope.
Around her, the smiling faces of friends and family gather to give their best wishes. The men shake the hand of the groom, the women converse with the bride under hushed whispers and promiscuous looks towards her newly betrothed.
Like lightning, the groom swoops from underneath Anne. She finds herself lifted off of the ground and into the arms of her husband. The room shakes in applause and cheers.
”Apologies, friends one and all, for my act of thievery of this young, fair maiden!” the husband flashes to the crowd with a smile, “Night is upon us, and I wish to spend it with my betrothed.”
More applause and laughter echo throughout the manor. The husband begins his journey from the ballroom to the bed chambers, but Anne was not ready to end the festivities just yet.
”A moment my love,” she says. “I propose a game of sorts before the day meets its end!” This she directs to the guests.
”Very well!” the husband says with enthusiasm, placing Anne on her feet, “A game it shall be!”
”It is a simple one, a game of wits. Allow me five minutes to find a place to conceal myself. Your task is to seek me. The spoils of victory go to the one who finds me!”
The guests were keen, yet no more so than the husband. Anne, too, was keen. She was showing her prowess, after all.
Five minutes to hide, a simple task in a home this grand. You would have trouble finding the entrance. But, where to hide where there was not an ounce of a chance to be found? Somewhere unexpecting. Somewhere unassuming. Somewhere simple.
Anne clammers up the grand stairs of the manor, gliding through corridors and rooms, climbing higher and higher until she finds herself in the attic. It would be sufficient enough to find a darkened corner to hide in and wait to be found.
Anne doesn’t see the fun in that, though. Anne wants to make this a challenge.
She makes her way to a large wooden chest tucked away in the attic, unexpecting, unassuming, and simple. No one would ever think to look in the attic, or in this chest of all places.
She opens the chest to find it empty. With excitement, she carefully lowers herself into the chest, careful to keep her bouquet of mistletoe intact. She fits inside perfectly. With some effort, she reaches for the lid, closing it on top of her with a heavy clunk. The clunk hides the sound of a hiss and a click.
The minutes tick away, perhaps ten, perhaps thirty. Enough time to surely declare herself the victor.
Eager to return to her guests and husband, Anne pushes her hand on the lid to open the chest.
But it remains closed.
Once more with all her strength, she pushes the lid, yet it doesn’t move an inch. She continues her crusade to open the chest, all the while shouting for her husband, for anyone at all.
Panic begins to set in. She pounds her fists on the lid; her palms and knuckles begin to bruise and bleed. Her screams become desperate and primal as her throat opens and closes from the tears streaming down her face.
Any scream she makes is muffled by the screams of her guest calling out to her, making sure that neither ever hears the other.
The night slides into day, but there is still no appearance of the bride. Her husband has not slept, he had been searching throughout the night in an attempt to find his betrothed.
Anne has not slept, either. Her dress is stained with blood from broken skin and broken nails. Her voice little more than a hoarse whisper as her vocal cords tore hours ago.
If she could see at all, she would be staring at jagged and bloody scratch marks.
In a day or two, she will come to realize that this chest is her coffin.
A day does pass. Then a week. Then a month. Then a year. Then a decade.
Friends and family have long dismissed Anne Cope’s disappearance as her fleeing from a life with her husband. As for the husband, he never remarries. And he never stops searching for her. He stays in that house, desperate to find a clue as to where his Anne went.
It is fifty years now since that night. The husband has become grey and old. Lamplight casts a shadow of a bent and broken man. He finds himself in the attic. He is still searching, still hoping for a path that will lead him to his betrothed.
That’s when he spies the chest.
Perhaps inside will provide a clue.
With the strength of a much younger man, he lifts the lid of the chest. Instantaneously, the man’s face contorts to fear and horror. His entire body shakes and shivers as his skin turns white and cold.
Inside, to his silent and shocked horror, is the skeletal remains of a bride clutching a bundle of mistletoe.
A blood-curdling wail echoes through Bramshill House.