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san4uzel · Joined: 16 Nov 2006 Posts: 72 Location: British

Haunted locations in London

The Tower of London. London.

The Most Haunted Building in England?

Grim, grey and awe-inspiring, the Tower has dominated the London landscape and the pages of history, since its construction by William the Conqueror in 1078 and today it is, perhaps, the most haunted building in England.

The Wakefield Tower is haunted by that most tragic of English monarchs, Henry V1, whose weak and ineffectual reign ended here with his murder “in the hour before midnight” on 21st May 1471, as he knelt at prayer. Tradition asserts that the knife with which he was “stikk’d full of deadly holes” was wielded by the Duke of Gloucester (later the infamous Richard 111). On the anniversary of his murder, Henry’s mournful wraith is said to appear as the clock ticks towards midnight, and pace fitfully around the interior of the Wakefield Tower until, upon the last stroke of midnight, he fades slowly into the stone and rests peacefully for another year.

The massive White Tower is the oldest and most forbidding of all the Tower of London’s buildings and its winding stone corridors are the eerie haunt of a “White Lady” who once stood at a window waving to a group of children in the building opposite. It may well be her “cheap perfume” that impregnates the air around the entrance to St John’s Chapel, and which has caused many a Guard to retch upon inhaling its pungent aroma. In the gallery where Henry V111’s impressive and exaggerating suit of armour is exhibited, several Guards have spoken of a terrible crushing sensation that suddenly descends upon them as they enter but which lifts, the moment they stagger, shaking from the room. A guard patrolling through here one stormy night got the sudden and unnerving sensation that someone had thrown a heavy cloak over him. As he struggled to free himself, the garment was seized from behind and pulled tight around his throat by his phantom attacker. Managing to break free from its sinister grasp, he rushed back to the guardroom where the marks upon his neck bore vivid testimony to his brush with the unseen assailant.

A memorial on Tower Green remembers all those unfortunate souls who have been executed here over the centuries. Anne Boleyn and Lady Jane Grey are both said to return to the vicinity, whilst the ghost of Margaret Pole, Countess of Salisbury returns here in a dramatic and alarming fashion. At the age of seventy-two she became an unwitting and undeserving target for Henry V111’s petty vengeance. Her son, Cardinal Pole had vilified the King’s claim as head of the Church in England. But he was safely ensconced in France and so Henry had his mother brought to the block on 27th May 1541. When told by the executioner to kneel, the spirited old lady refused. “So should traitors do and I am none” she sneered. The executioner raised his axe, took a swing at her and then chased the screaming Countess around the scaffold where he, literally, hacked her to death. The shameful spectacle has been repeated several times on the anniversary of her death, as her screaming phantom continues to be chased throughout eternity by a ghostly executioner.

The Bloody Tower, the very name of which conjures up all manner of gruesome images, is home to the most poignant shades that drift through this dreadful fortress. When Edward 1V died suddenly in April 1483, his twelve year old son was destined to succeed him as Edward V. However, before his coronation could take place, both he and his younger brother, Richard, had been declared illegitimate by Parliament and it was their uncle, the Duke of Gloucester who ascended the throne as Richard 111. The boys, meanwhile, had been sent to the Tower of London, ostensibly in preparation for Edward’s Coronation, and were often seen playing happily around the grounds. But then, around June 1483, they mysteriously vanished, and were never seen alive again. It was always assumed, that they had been murdered on Richard’s instructions and their bodies buried, somewhere within the grounds of The Tower. When two skeletons were uncovered beneath a staircase of the White Tower in 1674, they were presumed to be the remains of the two little princes and afforded Royal burial in Westminster Abbey. The whimpering wraiths of the two children, dressed in white nightgowns, and clutching each other in terror have frequently been seen in the dimly lit rooms of their imprisonment. Witnesses are moved to pity and long to reach out and console the pathetic spectres. But, should they do so, the trembling revenants back slowly against the wall and fade into the fabric.

Returning to the White Tower, and the fearless Custody Guards who wander its interior in the dead of night, there is the eerie occasion when Mr Arthur Crick, decided to rest as he made his rounds. Sitting on a ledge, he slipped off his right shoe and was in the process of massaging his foot, when a voice behind him whispered, “There’s only you and I here”. This elicited from Arthur the very earthly response “Just let me get this bloody shoe on and there’ll only be you”!

Barnet Road. Enfield.

The Murder Victim Who Can Never Rest.

The sun had sunk beneath the horizon and the autumn night was closing in as Mr Ward and his uncle travelled home along the Enfield to Barnet Road. All was quiet and still, the only sound being the clatter of the horses’ hooves and the low rumbling of the carriage wheels. As the night shadows deepened, a feeling of sudden terror, followed by an intense feeling of hopeless melancholy suddenly descended upon both men. Moments later the horses shied in alarm and, without warning, bolted. The carriage was dragged at breakneck speed as Mr Ward Struggled to control the terrified animals.

Then the moon suddenly burst from behind a bank f cloud and, as its yellow light illuminated the scene, both men saw the cause of the horses’ alarm. Walking on the grass verge alongside them, keeping up easily with the animals’ speed, was a tall man with a deathly pale face. A deep, gaping wound ran along one side of his throat and glimmered in the moonlight.

On they galloped until, as they rounded a bend, the hideous spectre fell behind and stopped by a certain gate. The horses became calmer, their speed slackened, and, when the two men looked back, they saw the figure standing by the gate staring after them. But, as they watched, it began to fade and, moments later had vanished.

The next day Mr Ward was telling a friend about their experience, and was astonished to learn that, in 1832, a Mr Danby had been murdered alongside that particular gate. and that many people had encountered his spectre in the lane where the crime occurred.

Bell Lane. Enfield.

The Enfield Flyer.

On a cold and crisp December evening in 1961, young Robert Bird was cycling along Bell Lane on his way to a Boys Brigade meeting, when he sighted a pair of lights speeding towards him from the opposite direction. As the got closer they suddenly swerved across the road and headed straight at him. Convinced that an out of control vehicle was about to run him over, Robert attempted to get out of its path. But it too late and he braced himself for the inevitable impact. As is often the case at times of crisis, the whole scene suddenly went into slow motion and he was able to take in that the vehicle was infact a black coach, being pulled by four horses that were being spurred on by two shadowy figures’. But strangest of all was the fact that the carriage was actually travelling four or five feet off the ground. But then, just as the coach was about to hit him, it passed straight through him and vanished.

What Robert witnessed was the so-called “Phantom Coach of Enfield”, a ghostly conveyance that races along Bell Lane, its wheels above the ground, although their noise and that of the horses’ hooves are clearly audible. Tradition holds that its origins lie in the 18th century, when the countryside hereabouts was marshland, and the rutted road a good deal higher than it is today. It was quite common for the speeding coaches to veer from the highway and plunge into the swamp, often with tragic results. Is it possible that the spectral coach, which has been seen by many witnesses, is a vestige of one such long ago tragedy that has somehow left an imprint on the surrounding’s, and which is occasionally re-enacted before startled spectators?

The Rose and Crown. Clay Hill. Enfield.

Turpin Keeps On Riding.

The ghost of Dick Turpin must be one of the busiest in England! For that matter, with the number of pubs that claim his living self as a regular, it’s a miracle he was ever able to remain upright in the saddle. Turpin’s grandfather, Mr Mott, once kept the Rose and Crown and local tradition maintains that the highwayman would often hide at the pub to evade capture. His ghost is said to haunt not only the pub, but also the road outside, where astride a jet black mount he gallops hell for leather through the night, no doubt en route to one of the many other pubs he must haunt before daybreak!

Enfield Chace.

The Witch of The Chace.

The 17th Century was a harsh and cruel time for those who lived around the desolate Enfield Chace. Plague was a frequent visitor. Livestock would die suddenly. Crops would fail and seemingly robust children would perish under the onslaught of mysterious ailments. But no matter what the cause of the tragedy, the locals were always convinced that witchcraft must have been responsible and would attempt to flush out and punish a scapegoat. In 1622 a supposed witch who lived in an isolated hovel on the stretch of Chace that is crossed by Hadley Road, was executed for witchcraft. Her spirit, however, has remained earthbound, for many is the person has encountered the figure of a stooped and gnarled old hag, hobbling painfully along Hadley Road in the closing light of day.

Hampstead Ponds and Hampstead Heath. .

The Horseman’s Shadow.

Hampstead Heath is comprised of 800 acres (324ha) of wild and rugged moorland, which as well as being a playground for generations Londoners, also provides a lush habitat for an abundance of wildlife. Yet in parts it is a sinister place, where towering trees cast the rough pathways into ethereal shadow. Numerous ponds dot the heath and hardy swimmers make use of several of them on a more or less daily basis. Some of these swimmers complain of hearing phantom footsteps following them along the piers as they prepare to leap into the cold, murky waters. No explanation has ever been found as to who, or what, might be responsible, although several witnesses believe them to be connected with suicides that, in the past, chose to end their lives in the ponds.

The open spaces of the heath afford little protection from the malevolent forces that lurk hereabouts. From the 17th to the 18th centuries, the rough paths that cross its untamed wilderness, were the haunt of numerous highwaymen, so called “Gentlemen of the Road,” who would stop at nothing to relieve travellers of their possessions, and often their lives. It would seem that one such felon found the lure of the heath so irresistible, that he is loathe to leave. Over the years there have been numerous reports of a dark figure on horseback, that comes riding from the dense thickets and gallops towards astonished witnesses. One lady who encountered him, later reported how was so convinced she was about to be trampled to death, that she flung herself to the ground and prepared for the impact. After a few moments, she looked up to find that the spectral rider and his mount had, apparently, vanished into thin air. Only then did it dawn on her that, despite the fact that they were coming towards her at great speed, the horse’s hooves had not made a sound upon the hard ground.

East Heath Road. Hampstead.

The Phantom Cyclist.

East Heath Road runs alongside the western fringe of Hampstead Heath and has a wild, untamed and delightfully rural quality about it. On cold winter nights, as twilight creeps across the Heath, and the huge sinister trees that line the road, dapple the pavement in sinister shadow, a leering, toothless old man, dressed in a brown Norfolk jacket, has been known to follow unwary pedestrians on this stretch of road. The experience is particularly unnerving, since he appears to be very real. Indeed the first hint that anyone gets that he is anything other than flesh and blood is when they turn round to look at him, and he abruptly vanishes before their eyes!

The Flask Tavern. Flask Walk. Hampstead.

Monty Keeps a Watchful Eye.

The Flask Tavern is very much a locals’ pub, tucked away at the end of a pedestrian thoroughfare that leads from Hampstead High Street. Its name remembers the days in the 18th century, when Hampstead attempted to re-invent itself as a Spa village, and people made the trek up from the City of London, to take the waters at its Chalybeate Wells. Anxious to capitalise on the passing trade, the landlord of the pub began selling Flasks to those who came to take the waters and thus the pub acquired its name. The ghost of a 19th century landlord, whom tradition simply remembers as “Monty,” haunts it. Nobody really knows much about his living self, but in death his revenant is something of a stickler for tradition, and likes to keep an eye on those who are now entrusted with the running of his pub. He finds change particularly irksome and was moved to spectral indignation by the 1997 redevelopment of the Flask’s conservatory. He disrupted work as often as he could by hiding the workmen’s tools and switching the plugs off. Once the building work had been completed, he frequently interrupted customers’ meals by moving tables across the floor in front of them. But in recent years, Monty appears to have bowed to the inevitable and has grown to accept the new addition, and in consequence, has been relatively inactive since then.

The William 1V Pub. Hampstead High Street.

The Tooth Is Out There.

Peering down onto Hampstead High Street, the William 1V pub is a cosy little place that was, so tradition claims, once the house of a local doctor. For reasons long since forgotten this medic one day murdered his wife, and bricked her body up in a recess in the house’s basement, which is now the cellar of the pub. Not best pleased by this, her spirit still makes its displeasure known by rattling windows and slamming doors in the dead of night. Meanwhile, people walking by outside have, from time to time, glimpsed the poignant shade of a young girl who stands on her tip toes and gazes anxiously through the windows of the pub. She is swathed in a white shroud, and her long plaited hair hangs untidily across her shoulder. Few people can fail to have sympathy for the plight that left this poor girls spirit earthbound, for she is said to have been a young girl whose parents, having dropped her off at a dentist that once stood opposite the William 1V -various versions of the tale place the date at some stage in the early 20th century – came over to the pub and left their daughter to endure the ordeal alone. So traumatic did she find the experience that she killed herself rather than keep her next appointment, and ever since her ghost occasionally peeps in at the windows of the William 1V seeking the parents who, not content with leaving her to face the whining terror of the dentists drill alone, have apparently, also abandoned her to face eternity alone as well.

The Holly Bush Inn.

22 Holly Mount. Hampstead.

The Phantom Waitress.

If you come to lunch in the gas lit, 18th century Holly Bush Inn, and find your order being taken by an efficient and polite waitress, who wears a crisp, white linen apron over a long dark skirt, do not be surprised if your meal never turns up! “We don’t offer waitress service” Peter Dures, who ran the pub during the mid 1990’s with his wife Hazel, would wearily explain to irate customers, who had stormed up to the bar demanding to know why their meals were taking so long. “But we gave our order to a waitress,” these patrons invariably insisted. “Then I’m sorry”, would be Peter’s reply, “but you’ve given your order to our ghost!” Nobody knows whom she is, or was, and nobody knows why she has this compunction to come back and wait on tables in death. But come back she does, and no one can fault her, she’s very polite and courteous. But the one thing she doesn’t do is, having taken your order, deliver it to kitchen so that you can get your meal!

In the late 1950’s The Holly Bush, had a resident Jazz Band that used to perform here on Sunday nights. The bandleader would always finish his set by walking of the tiny dais on which he had been performing and, slap the pianist on the back as he walked past him. Peter and Hazel resurrected the Holly Bush’s musical tradition and their piano player would often be rewarded with a phantom slap on his back.

Highgate Cemetery. Swains Lane. Highgate.

The City of The Dead.

Sprawled across twenty grassy, hillside acres, and opened in 1839, Highgate Cemetery quickly became the most sought-after burial spot in London, and fashion-conscious Victorians wouldn’t be seen dead in any other burial ground. By the dawn of the 20th century, tens of thousands of people had been laid to rest in its hallowed ground, amongst them many famous and illustrious names. The monuments to the dead became ever more ambitious as families struggled desperately to outdo one another in providing more and more ostentatious resting places for their loved one’s. But as the dark days of World War 11 descended upon the capital, the cemetery’s fortunes saw a severe downturn and, by the 1960’s, the once proud necropolis had been abandoned. Decay and neglect crept unchecked amongst the tombs as the roots of advancing vegetation split apart the magnificent graves and left their twisted masonry sprawled across toppled columns.

Rumours were soon circulating of sinister cults holding strange ceremonies after dark in the abandoned ruins. The local newspaper, the Hampstead and Highgate Express, began to receive letters from frightened readers telling of ghostly encounters around the cemetery. One man, whose car had broken down, was terrified by a hideous apparition with glowing red eyes, glaring at him through the rusting iron gates. Another man walking along the darkly forbidding Swain’s Lane, found himself suddenly knocked to the ground by a fearsome creature that “seemed to glide” from the wall of the cemetery. He was only saved by the headlights of an approaching car that seemed to cause the “thing” to dissolve into thin air. When it was subsequently suggested that a Vampire might be loose in the old cemetery, a veritable barrage of journalists, camera crews, eager occultists and the just plain curious, swarmed around the decaying and grim mausoleums, garlic and crucifixes at the ready, and the hunt for the un-dead was underway

Meanwhile, more letters telling of frightening encounters in the vicinity of Swain’s Lane continued to grace the pages of the local press. A ghostly cyclist, puffing his way up the steep incline had scared the life out of a young mother, whilst other unfortunate locals had witnessed a tall man in a top hat who would stroll nonchalantly across the road and then disappear into the wall of the cemetery. His nebulous stroll was, they said, always accompanied by a mournful tolling from the bells in the old, disused chapel.

A massive restoration project in the 1980’s by the enthusiastic “Friends of Highgate Cemetery” went some way to reversing the neglect of the previous decades. As they cleared the pathways and uncovered, once more, many of the spectacular tombs the ghostly activity began to recede. Today, spectral sightings are reduced to; the ghost of a mad old woman, whose long grey hair streams behind her as she races amongst the graves, searching for her children, whom she is supposed to have murdered in a fit of insane rage; and a shrouded figure who gazes pensively into space, seemingly oblivious to the presence of witnesses, unless they get too close, whereupon it vanishes, only to re-appear a short distance away, adopting the same meditative pose.

Osterley Park House. Jersey Road.Iselworth.

The White Lady of Osterley.

Although the Elizabethan financial magnate, Sir Thomas Gresham (1519-79), built the original Tudor manor house at Osterley Park in around 1562, it was with the acquisition of the estate in the 18th century by the founders of Child’s Bank, that the building was transformed into the splendid palatial property that today nestles amidst a tranquil landscape of woods, lakes and fields.

The house is haunted by the elegant spectre of a beautiful lady in a flowing white dress. Little is known about either her origins, or her reason for roaming the property, but her favoured time for appearing is around 4.30pm. Over the years she has been seen by workmen employed on the maintenance of the property; and by casual visitors who happen to chance upon her and are most put out by her sudden disappearances. In 1978 three children on a school outing to Osterley Park saw her. They told their teachers how a lady had appeared in an archway by the main stairs and had proceeded to drift out of sight, although there was no doorway in the vicinity where she had, apparently, simply vanished. It was only when the teachers questioned staff at the house that they learnt of the existence of the mysterious White Lady and were then able to explain to their charges how they had been just one of a long line of people whom she had graced with an appearance.

St Paul’s Churchyard. Hammersmith. W6.

The Ghost of Regular Habits.

This late 19th century, Gothic-style church cowers somewhat uneasily alongside the Hammersmith flyover. Although its churchyard was long ago grassed over, a few old tombs, along handful of gravestones, still survive, and it is around these weathered memorials that the Hammersmith ghost is said to appear every fifty years. A report in the West London Observer in July 1955 informing readers that the spectre was due to make an appearance the following Wednesday night, caused something of a local sensation. Four hundred people turned out in the hope of encountering the apparition that as one elderly resident, who had seen it in 1905, promised would be wearing “a white winding sheet, its eyes flaming.”

Despite the fact that the police had sealed off the churchyard, a few hoaxers managed to slip through the cordon and were able to amuse the crowd with ghostly impersonations. But when midnight came and went without so much as a drop in temperature, the crowd grew bored and quickly dispersed. Fortunately, The Observer reporter and a few hardy souls opted to maintain their vigil, and at around 1am their endeavour was rewarded when a legless figure, clad in brilliant white, glided from the church porch and drifted silently towards the tomb where sundry members of the Fenn and Colvill families lay buried. The spectators watched, open mouthed, as the figure floated onto the tomb and promptly melted into it. Other witnesses, who had seen the entire episode from a window overlooking the churchyard, observed how a strange wind had rustled the branches of the trees, shortly before the ghost had appeared. Local residents will soon have a further potential opportunity to witness the Hammersmith Ghost for its next scheduled appearance is due on July 2005.

The Morpeth Arms. 55 Millbank. SW1.

It Lurks in the Cellar.

This grade 11 listed building occupies a pleasant enough location, affords riverside views, and stands close to Tate Britain. It was built by Pub specialist Paul Dangerfield in 1845 and was intended to serve the wardens of the notorious Millbank Penitentiary that stood on the site now occupied by the Tate until its demolition in 1890. Accounts differ as to exactly who haunts the pub, although they all agree that he was a prisoner at the nearby jail and that he died in the pub cellar. One version maintains that he was a convict who, rather than face the prospect of being transported to Australia, hanged himself from a basement beam. Another holds that the ghostly convict was infact attempting to escape from Millbank when he dropped dead in the pubs cellar. Whatever the cause of his death, and whichever of the two he was, his spirit remains at the pub to annoy and bemuse staff by, among other things, snatching bottles from their hands and smashing them on the floor.

Eaton Place. Belgravia. SW1.

The Admiral’s Doppleganger.

On 22nd June 1893, Admiral, Sir George Tryon was on manoeuvres with the Mediterranean Fleet off the coast of Syria. Suddenly he gave orders for his ship the Victoria, and the nearby Camperdown to turn inwards and steam towards each other. It was obvious to all on board that disaster was imminent, but none of his subordinates dared overrule or question Tryon’s extraordinary command. In consequence, the two ships collided and the Victoria sank, taking the Admiral and four hundred mariners to a watery grave. As the ship went down Sir George was heard to say. ‘It is entirely my fault.’

At more or less the exact moment that Sir George Tryon was plummeting to the ocean bed, his wife was holding an, ‘At home’, in their houses in Eaton Place. Suddenly Sir George, resplendent in full naval regalia, appeared before over a hundred guests, strolled across the room, and vanished. Lady Tryon did not see him herself and was mystified when told by her guests that her husband had just walked through the room. She explained to her guests that he was far away at sea. Next day, howver, word reached her of the tragedy and she realised that her guests must have seen her husband’s ghost.

The Grenadier. Wilton Row. Belgravia. SW1.

A Haunting We Will Go.

Wilton mews is a delightful hidden nook, that is tucked away from the rush of modern London, and has a decidedly country village air about it. Colourful cottages line the cobblestones, and nestling within its tranquil serenity is one of London’s most enchanting pubs, The Grenadier. Reputedly, the pub’s upper floors were once used as the officers’ mess of a nearby barracks, whilst its cellar was pressed into service as a drinking a gambling lair for the common soldiers.

Here, a young subaltern is said to have once been caught cheating at cards, and his comrades punished him with such a savage beating that he died from his injuries. Although the year in which this occurred is not known, the month when it happened is thought to have been September, as this is when the pub experiences an onslaught of supernatural activity. A solemn, silent spectre has been seen moving slowly across the low-ceilinged rooms. Objects either disappear or else are mysteriously moved overnight. Unseen hands rattle tables and chairs, and a strange, icy chill has been known to hang in the air, sometimes for days on end. Footsteps have been heard pacing anxiously around empty rooms, whilst every so often a low sighing moan has been heard emanating from the depths of the cellar. On one occasion a Chief Superintendent from New Scotland Yard was enjoying a drink in the pub, when wisps of smoke began to waft around him. His curiosity aroused, he reached towards the apparent source of the smoke, and with a cry of pain, pulled his hand quickly back as an invisible cigarette burnt it.

Lowndes Square. Knightsbridge. SW1.

The Face Pulling Phantom.

Lowndes Square has always been considered a smart address, and at least one former resident has been known to return and gaze upon the smart houses that surround it. There have been several reports of people wandering in the square who have encountered a white haired old lady in an old-fashioned bath chair, who sits by the kerb, and pulls faces at anyone who happens to look at her. She is reputedly the ghost of an old woman who, in the early part of the 20th century, suffered a stroke and was brought to live with her daughter and her family in Lowndes Square. On sunny days, the daughter would place her mother in her bath chair, and wheel her out into the street, so that she could watch the world go by. Since the stroke had deprived her of the power of speech, the old woman communicated by pulling faces, and whenever she wanted to be taken back in, she would grimace at passers-by until one of them rang the bell of her house, so that she could be taken back inside.

Montpelier Square. Knightsbridge. SW7.

She Came Back to Save Her Husband’s Soul.

Montpelier Square was laid out in the mid-19th century on land that had once belonged to the Moreaus, a wealthy Huguenot family. Originally it was not considered a particularly good place to live, and it wasn’t until the 1890’s that its star began to wax, and it became a sought after address.

In 1913 a vicar was leaving a nearby church when an agitated lady approached him and told him that a man living nearby was seriously ill and, concerned for the state of his soul, wished to consult with a man of God. The clergyman went with her to a waiting taxicab, and the two were driven to an imposing house in Montpelier Square. Climbing out the vicar walked up to the door and knocked loudly. When the Butler answered, he confirmed that the man whom the lady had named, did indeed live at the house, but added that his master was in good health and certainly had no need of the priest’s services. Mystified, the vicar looked round for an explanation, but there was no sign of either the woman or the taxicab. At that moment the owner of the house appeared at the door and invited the vicar inside. “It is very strange,” said the man, “that you have been sent on such an errand in such a mysterious way…Though I am perfectly well, I have been troubled lately about the state of my soul, and I have been seriously contemplating calling upon you…” The clergyman stayed for a few hours as the man unburdened his conscience to him, and it was agreed that his new acquaintance would come to church the next morning, and that they would continue their discussion after the service.

However, the man failed to appear at church the next morning, and having ended the service, the vicar came back to the house to see what the matter was. He was met by the Butler, who told him that his master had suddenly dropped dead, just ten minutes after he had left him the previous evening. He was led up to the room where the man’s body lay, where he happened to notice a portrait of the lady who had fetched him to the house the previous evening on the table. “Who is this?” he asked. “That sir,” replied the butler, “is my master’s wife, who died fifteen years ago.”

Kensington Palace. Kensington Gardens.

Why Don’t They Come?

Beginning life as a Jacobean mansion, the house became a Royal Palace in 1689, when William 111 bought it in the hope that its pastoral location would alleviate his chronic asthma. Architects Sir Christopher Wren and Nicholas Hawksmoor subsequently renovated the building and, following William’s death, Queen Anne (who died here from an attack of apoplexy brought on by overeating), George 1st and George 1, all chose Kensington as their favoured London residence. George 11’s last days were spent at Kensington Palace, anxiously awaited long overdue dispatches from Hanover. Hour after hour, he would cast a hopeful glance up at the weather vane that stood over the entrance, hoping to see that the wind had changed direction and speed his messengers to him. His courtiers would often hear his agitated voice sounding from his chamber, as he called out in his broken English “Vy dondt dey com?” His wishes remained unfulfilled for, by the time the wind did change direction, the king had died. But his ghost still returns to the palace, where his fretful face often appears at the window of his chamber, gazing up towards the weather vane. And every so often his voice is heard echoing along the corridors crying “Vy dondt dey com?”

During the reign of George 111, several members of the royal family lived at Kensington Palace, among them George’s fifth daughter, Princess Sophia. She fell deeply in love with a royal equerry, Thomas Garth, and bore him an illegitimate son. No sooner had she given birth, than Garth’s ardour waned and poor Sophia retreated into a reclusive existence in her apartments at Kensington Palace. As the years passed, her eyesight began to fail, and she in her old age her only solace was to sit at her spinning wheel or toil at her embroidery frame. Although she died at nearby York House, her spirit returns to Kensington Palace, where she the sound of a ghostly spinning wheel, cranked by an invisible hand has been heard creaking in the early hours of some mornings.

The Albert Hall. Kensington Gore. SW7.

The Royal Albert Hall stands on the site of Gore House the former home of Marguerite, Countess of Blessingdon (1789-1849), whose extravagant lifestyle led to her bankruptcy causing her to abandon England for Paris, where she died in poverty. Alexis Soyer, then transformed the house into a flamboyant restaurant, but this was forced to close within five months. The Royal Commissioners for the Great Exhibition, then purchased the property, demolished the house and built the Albert Hall, in commemoration of Prince Albert on the site.

Several ghosts are said to haunt the building. The first is that of Henry Willis ‘Father Willis’ who designed the 150-ton organ, that with an impressive 9,000 pipes was the largest ever when built. His ghost, dressed in Victorian clothing has been seen wandering around the Hall at night. The other spectres are more controversial and are based upon a local tradition that Gore House was temporarily used as a brothel prior to its demolition. Each November, two “Ladies of the night,” dressed in Victorian costume, are said to roam along the upper gallery level and are seen walking into one of the toilets. Their arms are linked and they remain oblivious to any comment made by those who encounter them. Indeed, as one employee at the Hall put it, “it is as though they are walking in their time not ours.”

The Georgian House Hotel. St George’s Drive.

Haunted Hospitality.

The building that houses the Georgian House Hotel dates back to the mid 19th century and has a timeless feel about it. It is haunted by several ghosts, including that of an unknown man who has been seen in one the basement staff rooms. Whether or not this is the same ghostly figure that has been seen in the kitchen and one of the top floor bedrooms is unknown. Suffice it to say he, or they, are harmless enough revenants who are more than content to appear for a few fleeting moments and then be gone about their business. The ghosts of two children have also been seen flitting about the upper floors. On one occasion a manageress even held a conversation with them and assured them that, since the Georgian House is a friendly and hospitable place they were more than welcome to visit, but she asked only that they confine themselves to the upper floors since their presence on the lower levels might prove disturbing to their real life peers. As yet the ghostly juveniles have honoured her wishes!

Victoria and Albert Museum. Cromwell Road.

The Great Bed of Ware.

This impressive bed, measuring an incredible 11ft 1inch long by 10ft 8.5inches wide, has the dubious distinction of being the most haunted bed in Britain. Although it actually dates from around 1590, legend has bestowed upon this impressive piece of furniture an older and more illustrious pedigree. It was, so tradition claims, made specially for King Edward 1V in 1463 by carpenter Jonas Fosbrooke and intended for the sole use of the monarch. When Edward’s son, Edward V, became one of the tragic “Prince’s in the Tower”, the bed was sold and passed through the bedrooms of a succession of inns at Ware in Hertfordshire. On one occasion, in the 17th century, twelve married couples are reputed to have shared the bed during a festival when there was, literally, no room at the inn! But the delightfully stuffy spirit of Fosbrooke did not take kindly to the riff raff enjoying the luxury of his creation. He would disturb the sleep of anyone who dared sleep in it by pinching and scratching them in a most malicious and unpleasant manner. Indeed, so well known were his spectral attacks that it was once customary for guests at the various inns to drink a toast to the bed and the ghost before retiring for the night.

Westminster Abbey. SW1.

The Ghostly Monk and the Unknown Soldier.

In the 6th century the area of Westminster was an inhospitable island that rose from the marshy banks of the Thames where the Tyburn Stream joined it. It was the location chosen by Serbert, the newly converted king of the East Saxons, on which to build a church dedicated to St Peter and consecrated by Mellitus, the first Bishop of London. Legend tells how, on the night before the consecration, a fisherman rowing besides the south bank of the Thames was stopped by a cloaked stranger and asked to row him across the river. As the vessel reached the opposites shore, the newly completed church was suddenly illuminated in a celestial brilliance and singing angels filled the blazing night sky. The stranger, then revealed himself to be St Peter, and having anointed the church’s walls with holy water, proceeded to dedicate his won church.

For almost five hundred years afterwards the Benedictine abbey flourished on the site, until Edward the Confessor rebuilt it. A few days after its re-consecration in January 1066, Edward died, and Harold was crowned King of England. He was defeated by William of Normandy at the Battle of Hastings in the October of that year, and on Christmas Day 1066, William the Conqueror was crowned King in the Abbey and the tradition of coronations taking place there had begun.

Over the centuries that followed the Abbey was considerably expanded and altered and, in the process, the floor level was progressively lowered, which may be why the ghostly monk who is known to haunt Westminster Abbey, is reported as floating a little way off the ground. He is known as “Father Benedictus,” and is most often seen bobbing around the cloisters at around five or six in the evening. His spectral figure appears quite solid, and has been known to hold conversations with witnesses, many of who don’t realise that he is anything more than mere flesh and blood. In 1900 he kept a group of visitors entertained for a good twenty-five minutes as he drifted around the cloisters and then backed slowly towards a wall where he melted into the fabric. In 1932 two American visitors even held a long conversation with him and later commented that they had found him to be extremely polite.

The Abbey’s Tomb of the Unknown Warrior is a poignant memorial to the soldiers who died in World War 1. On 11th November 1920, the complete, though unidentified body of a soldier was given a royal funeral and then buried in soil brought specially from the battlefields of France, beneath a marble stone quarried in Belgium. From time to time when the crowds have gone and the Abbey settles into quite stillness, a ghostly soldier materialises alongside the tomb, and stands, head bowed, for a few minutes, before slowly dissolving into thin air.

10 Downing Street. SW1.

The Prime Minister’s Haunted Abode.

Dating from the latter part of the 17th century, 10 Downing Street was given as a gift to the then Prime Minister, First Lord of the Treasury, Sir Robert Walpole, by George 111 in 1732. Since then, it has been considerably extended and altered and has been both home and office to successive British Prime Ministers. Several ghosts are known to haunt the building. There is the man in Regency- style clothing who makes fleeting appearances both inside and outside the house. No-one knows who he is, although there is a suggestion that he may have been “a former Prime Minister.” During extensive alterations made to the building during the late 1950’s and early 1960’s workmen are said to have encountered the ghost several times. On one occasion his, shimmering shade, was even seen in the garden, crossing towards the wall that back onto Horse Guard’s Parade, where he disappeared.

A lady in a long dress who wears a magnificent set of pearls haunts the Pillared Drawing Room, which is used today for official functions and the signing of international agreements. Several messengers as well as people working in the neighbouring offices, have reported both seeing and hearing her phantom. Meanwhile, Policemen on guard duty have heard ghostly footsteps plodding their way around the building, although they can never find anyone in the vicinity when they go to investigate. The basement is the spectral realm of a little girl who has been known to hold the hands those walking along its corridors. It is also where several employees have reported the overpoweringly strong odour of cigar smoke, wafting around the rooms. Some wonder if the ghost of Winston Churchill might still be hanging around and enjoying, the odd smoke from time to time. Finally there is the smartly dressed spectre in a top hat seen striding determinedly across the entrance lobby, which has been known to make a decidedly unconventional exit, straight through the closed front door!

Westminster Cathedral. Francis Street. SW1

The Dissolving Cleric.

On every count Westminster Cathedral is an impressive foundation. Dedicated to the Blood of Our Lord Jesus Christ, it is a soaring red brick Gothic extravaganza, with a spectacular Byzantine interior ablaze with mosaic, and ornamented with over a hundred different types of marble from quarries all over the world. Although the Catholic Church strenuously denies that the Cathedral is haunted, reports have occasionally trickled out of ghostly figure, dressed in black robes, that has been seen in the vicinity of the High Altar. In July 1966, a sacristan on night duty saw and challenged the figure, only to watch it dissolve into nothingness before him!

Admiralty Building. Whitehall. SW1.

Margaret Rae The Politician’s Friend.

The dark brick Admiralty building was built in the 1720’s by Thomas Ripley, and was later extended to become admiralty house, home of the First Lord of the Admiralty. In the latter half of the 18th century, the office was held by the Earl of Sandwich, who brought his mistress, Margaret Reay to live here with him. Having borne him several children, Margaret, embarked upon an affair with a penniless army lieutenant, James Hackman. Although the two fell deeply in love, Hackman lacked the means to support her and, when she refused to leave Sandwich, her heartbroken lover left the army and became an equally impecunious clergyman. Then one night in April 1779, he spotted Miss Reay passing along Whitehall en route to a performance of Love in a Village at the Covent Garden Theatre. Insane with jealousy, he rushed home and fetched a pair of pistols with which, he later claimed, he intended to shoot himself before the eyes of his mistress. But instead, he shot Margaret dead as she emerged from the theatre. Since the crime was witnessed by virtually the entire audience, there was little doubt as to his guilt. But the passion of the crime together the romance of the story, thrilled polite society. The Earl of Sandwich, in a gesture of moving forgiveness, provided Hackman with financial assistance during his imprisonment and trial. Found guilty Hackman was sentenced to death and subsequently executed.

Margaret Reay has haunted Admiralty House ever since and was seen in the early 20th century by both Winston Churchill and Harold Macmillan. In June 1969, several newspapers reported that Denis Healey - who as Secretary for Defence was then occupying quarters in the building – and his family, were being visited by her restless wraith. Healy was reported to have seen her ghost on several occasion and even went as far as to tell reporters that his children, far from being frightened by her, were infact very fond of ‘the lady,’ and had come to accept her as part of the family!

50 Berkeley Square. W1.

The Most Haunted House in London!

The plain Georgian exterior of 50 Berkeley Square belies an interior that still retains much of its 18th century grandeur. Sweeping stairs, high plaster ceilings, over-mantle mirrors, and marble floors and fireplaces, lend the building a decidedly Dickensian air. For over fifty years it has been the premises of Maggs Bros, Antiquarian Booksellers, and the ceiling high rows of heavy mahogany bookcases that line the walls are stacked with shelf after shelf of leather bound tomes by long dead men of letters - some famous, many forgotten. Yet there is nothing in the yellowed pages of the thousands of books on display that comes close to matching the sinister happenings that were once an everyday occurrence within these walls. Happenings so terrifying that, for much of the 19th century, 50 Berkeley Square was known simply as “the most haunted house in London.”

Charles Harper in Haunted Houses, published in 1907 stated that “… It seems that a Something or Other, very terrible indeed, haunts or did haunt a particular room. This unnamed Raw Head and Bloody Bones, or whatever it is, has been sufficiently awful to have caused the death, in convulsions, of at least two foolhardy persons who have dared to sleep in that chamber…” One of them was a nobleman, who scoffing at tales that a hideous entity was residing within the haunted room, vowed to spend the night there. It was agreed, however, that should he require assistance he would ring the servants’ bell to summon his friends. So saying, he retired for the night. A little after midnight there was a faint ring, which was followed by a ferocious peeling of the bell. Rushing upstairs, the friends threw open the door, and found their companion, rigid with terror, his eyes bulging from their sockets. He was unable to tell them what he had seen, and such was the shock to his system, that he died shortly afterwards.

As a result of its dreadful reputation, no tenant could be found who was willing to take on the lease of “the house” in Berkeley Square, and for many years it remained empty. But its otherworldly inhabitants continued to be active. Strange lights that flashed in the windows would startle passers-by; disembodied screams were heard echoing from the depths of the building; and spookier still, the sound of a heavy body was heard being dragged down the staircase. One night, two sailors on shore leave in London, were seeking a place to stay, and chanced upon the obviously empty house. Breaking in they made their way upstairs, and inadvertently settled down to spend the night in the haunted room. They were woken by the sound of heavy, determined footsteps coming up the stairs. Suddenly the door banged open and a hideous, shapeless, oozing mass began to fill the room. One sailor managed to get past it and escape. Returning to the house with a policeman, he found his friend’s corpse, impaled on the railings outside, the twisted face and bulging eyes, grim testimony to the terror that had caused him to jump to his death, rather than confront the evil in the room above.

Many theories have been put forward to account for the haunting of 50 Berkeley Square. Charles Harper reported that the house had once belonged to a Mr Du Pre(ED ACCENT NEEDED OVER THE e AUTH) of Wilton Park who locked his lunatic brother in one of the attics. The captive was so violent that he could only be fed through a hole, and his groans and cries could be heard in the neighbouring houses. When the brother died, his spectre remained behind to chill the blood and turn the mind of anyone unfortunate enough to encounter it. Another hypothesis holds that a Mr Myers, who was engaged to a society beauty, once owned the house. He had set about furnishing the building in preparation for their new life together when, on the day of the wedding, his fiancé jilted him. The disappointment undermined his reason, turning him into a bitter recluse. He locked himself away in the upstairs room and only came out at night to wander the house by flickering candlelight. It was these nocturnal ramblings that, so the theory goes, gave the house its haunted reputation.

Whatever the events, tragic or otherwise, that lie behind the haunting of 50 Berkeley Square, there is no doubt that the building has a definite atmosphere about it. Indeed, it is said that the fabric is so charged with psychic energy that merely touching the external brickwork can give a mild shock to the psychically inclined. Nor are the ghosts, as is often claimed, consigned to the buildings past. Julian Wilson, a bookseller with Maggs Brothers, was working alone in the accounts department, which now occupies the haunted room, one Saturday morning in 2001, when a column of brown mist, moved quickly across the room and vanished. That same year a cleaner preparing the house for a party, felt the overwhelming sensation that someone, or something, was standing behind her. Turning round she found that that the room was empty. A man walking up the stairs was shocked when his glasses were snatched from his hand and flung to the ground. In October 2001 I was asked to appear in a BBC documentary on Haunted London, and we were fortunate enough to film inside 50 Berkeley Square. Part of the programme entailed the soundman and myself having to stand in the dark in the haunted room for about five minutes, waiting for the signal to switch the lights on and off. Although nothing actually happened, I can honestly say that I found it a truly frightening experience, and we were both glad to be able to rejoin the rest of the crew in the street outside.

Handel’s House Museum. 25 Brook Street.

The Female Entity That Came to Stay.

George Frideric Handel was thirty-eight years old when, in the summer of 1723, he moved into the newly built house at what is now 25 Brook Street. He lived there for thirty- six years, and died in the upstairs bedroom in 1759. In 2000, the upper storeys of the building were leased to the Handel House Trust and on 8th November 2001 “Handel’s spirit was brought back…when the Handel House Museum opened to the public.”

However, during the restoration project, it was reported that a spirit of a very ethereal kind was haunting the building, and, in July 2001, the Handel House Trust went as far as to call upon the services of a local priest, to see if he could lay the ghost that had been seen by at least two people. “We weren’t sure whether having a ghost would attract or deter customers,” commented Martin Egglestone, a trust fundraiser, who twice encountered the apparition in the room where Handel died. In June 2001, he was helping measure up for some curtains when “suddenly the got very thick.” The next moment, a shape that resembled “the imprint on the back of your retina when you close your eyes, having been looking at the sun for too long” appeared before him. Mr Egglestone described the apparition as being female and slightly higher than him. He observed how “There was no malevolent feeling. It felt like the pressure you get when you brush past someone in the Tube and they are too close to you.”

Staff also reported the strong, lingering scent of perfume hanging in the air of the bedroom. Although Handel lived alone, sharing his home only with his manservant, he was visited here by two sopranos, Faustina Bordoni and Francesca Cuzzoni, who vied with each other to perform in his operas, and Mr Egglestone raised the possibility that the ghost might be one of them. Interestingly, the upper storeys of 23 next door, which are now part of the museum and used for changing exhibitions, was the home of rock legend Jimi Hendrix, from 1968-9. He also claimed to have seen a ghost on the premises whilst he lived there. Commenting on the most recent haunting a local priest told the Daily Telegraph “This is a soul who is restless and not at home. I don’t see it as evil or horrible and one should help it to be at peace.”