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| Papillon Hall, via Lost Heritage |
Any old English manor house worth its salt has acquired numerous colorful legends. However, there are few who can boast such a weird and varied lot as Leicestershire's Papillon Hall. Of all the stories told about the Hall, it is often difficult to say which are hard fact and which are quaint mythology--likely an evenly-balanced mix of the two--but it all makes for a truly Strange Company-worthy heritage. It's not every day you encounter a home boasting mystery skeletons, warlocks, ghosts, haunted paintings, and cursed shoes.
Papillon Hall was built by one David Papillon in 1624. It was an octagonal building, standing on raised ground. The roof was in the shape of a cross, with a top story consisting of four attics. Its early years were, so far as is recorded, uneventful. The Hall did not make its first foray into The Weird until it was inherited by the original owner's great-great-grandson, also named David Papillon.
This David (who was publicly called "Pamp," "Old Pamp," or "Lord Pamp" by his contemporaries, who privately probably called him much less printable names,) was said to be in league with the Devil. Supposedly, he boasted an "evil eye" which could "fix" those who displeased him. And I mean that quite literally. On one occasion, he came across some men who were ploughing a field in a way he did not favor, so he simply "fixed" them for the rest of the day. The men could not move a muscle until dusk, when Pamp chose to release them from his spell. Another time, a thief was unwise enough to try to rob Pamp as he was riding along carrying a bag of money. Pamp "fixed" the miscreant, left the bag of money at the footpad's feet--nice touch, that--and rode home. He then stabled his horse and calmly sent a groom to fetch the bag. Once the money was retrieved, the would-be robber was released and set on his way, presumably a sadder but wiser wretch. Pamp's reputation was such a evil one, that everyone in the area habitually made the sign of the cross when preparing food and drink, in an effort to avoid his baleful glance.
Before his marriage in 1717, Pamp did not live a solitary existence at the Hall. He kept a mistress, whose name is now lost to history. What little is known of her is as sinister as everything else connected with her Lord. The woman--who was believed to be Spanish--never left the Hall, but neighbors occasionally saw her walking along the leads of the roof. She died in 1715, but there is no record of her burial. However, it should be noted that Pamp subsequently bricked up one of the Hall's attic rooms. In 1903, when Papillon Hall was being renovated, a woman's skeleton was found in this particular attic...
It is said that before Pamp's Spanish lady died, she vowed that disaster would strike if her shoes ever left the Hall. These shoes--a pair of silver and green slippers--still exist, arguably unfortunately. Ever since her death, these shoes have been, quite literally, a damned nuisance. So strong was the belief in the curse, that ever since the home was sold by the Papillons in 1764, all new owners signed deeds requiring them to keep the shoes at the Hall.
Whenever buyers chose to ignore this promise, they always regretted it. In 1866, the Hall's then-owner, George Bosworth, died. In his will, he left the shoes to a daughter who lived in Leicester. The next owner, Lord Hopetoun, found that he and his family were to be given no peace in their now-shoeless home. The household was disturbed by numerous angry crashes, bangs, and other vehement spectral noises until Hopetoun wised up and persuaded Bosworth's daughter to sell him the shoes. As soon as they were returned to the Hall, all was quiet.
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| The Fateful Footwear, via Harborough Museum |
A later owner, Thomas Halford, was rationalist enough--or, perhaps, stupid enough--to loan the shoes to an exhibition in Paris. Immediately, the same uncanny racket that had so plagued Lord Hopetoun broke out. When Halford tried retrieving the shoes, he was reminded that he had signed a contract allowing them to remain in Paris for a full year. Sorry. The indignant spirit of Pamp's Spanish lady made life such a hell for the Halfords that the family was forced to live elsewhere until the shoes could be returned.
When a Captain Frank Bellville bought the Hall, he did extensive alterations to the house. Four extra wings were added to the Hall, as well as an extra story. (This was when the skeleton was discovered.) During the construction, Bellville, in the interests of protecting the shoes, sent them to his solicitors.
He meant well, but, nevertheless, he received the usual punishment. Everything that could go wrong with the renovations instantly went wrong. Worse still, numerous workers began to be seriously injured, one of them fatally. After Bellville himself was badly hurt in a coach accident, he had the solicitors send back the shoes.
Some people never get the message. In 1908, for reasons known only to him and his God, Bellville donated the shoes to Leicester Museum. This time, the Spanish lady was obviously determined to teach him a lesson he would never forget. Soon afterward, Bellville fractured his skull in a hunting accident. Two of his servants died. Three polo ponies were killed by lightning. The Hall caught fire.
The shoes were returned to the Hall, securely locked away in a cupboard above the main fireplace, and, just to make double-sure, the key was thrown in a pond.
During WWII, the Hall was occupied by American servicemen. Showing the talent for doubling-down on Stupid which characterizes our human species, some of them smashed open the cupboard holding the famous shoes. On two occasions, two different soldiers took one of the shoes as a souvenir. Both these men soon died, and thus the shoes were returned to Papillon Hall.
When the Hall was demolished in 1950, the shoes became the property of one of Pamp's descendants, and they were brought to her home, Crowhurst Park. They are now in Market Harborough Museum.
The other supernatural-themed object connected with Papillon Hall is, fittingly, a portrait of its most diabolical owner, Old Pamp. According to one story, in 1800 a servant girl was awakened one night by a strange cry. When she sat up, she was confronted by the figure of David Papillon standing by the foot of her bed. He was wearing the same red coat and gold waistcoat he donned for his portrait. The girl insisted that he had literally stepped out of his picture.
So many unwanted sightings of Pamp became associated with his portrait that in 1840, the Hall's then-resident, a Mr. Marriot, begged one of Papillon's descendents to remove the picture. He complained that he was unable to keep servants because of Old Pamp's unnerving habit of emerging from the painting and stalking about the house. Accordingly, the portrait was brought to Crowhurst Park.
After that, Pamp haunted Papillon Hall
and Crowhurst Park, thus proving how difficult it is to outwit a ghost. Even after the Hall was demolished, Pamp was often seen in the stables built on the property, and visitors to Crowhurst, even those who knew nothing about the painting's history, often found themselves confronted by his imposing presence. In 1908, Crowhurst Park was let to a Colonel Tufnell and his wife. The couple were left blissfully ignorant about the fact that they were getting a haunted painting in the bargain.
Well, they were not ignorant for long. Crowhurst's owner soon received a letter from the Tufnells, begging him to take the picture out of the house. They sensed something evil about it.
Pamp's portrait was brought to a Papillon who lived in Hastings. Fortunately, Pamp's ghost, like the shade of his mistress, seem pleased with the current location of their earthly relics. In recent years, both their spirits have finally remained quiet.
