Huey’s Foreword: This particular shorty was written more than twenty years ago. It’s an old-school ghost story inspired, in part, by M. R. James, in my opinion the greatest ever author of ghost stories.
12A Lancaster Road‘s other inspiration was the first floor flat I was living in at the time, in a well-heeled town in southeast England. I lived there alone for a short while following the separation from my then long-term girlfriend. The property was midway along a narrow, pretty Victorian street. Buildings with sash and bay windows, some with steps to the front door. Others with upper storey balconies with beautiful wrought iron railings, painted black, dressed with wisteria and other creeping plants.
On a number of evenings, alone with a lap supper and the TV on quietly, I was spooked by odd noises. Loud ‘bumps’ or the sound of doorlatches. Even an old tap being turned. These were never consistent in characteristic, or time, and so I dismissed them.
One evening, a jacket fell from the wall hook by the front door…
It’s 2,000 words, a ten-minute read.
I hope you enjoy. Don’t forget to like and share. Thank you.
Huey Hawke, 2025
12A Lancaster Road – A Ghost Story
12A is as familiar in my mind today as the birth of my now grownup son. Upon entering, you saw the short flight of stairs, going up to the left. A narrow corridor, with several removal boxes piled upon each other, led to the kitchen on the right. Climbing the staircase you could regard the paintings hanging on the wall. If you looked below these works, you might have seen the hole; half-way up the stairs, knee-high, in the plaster. It wasn’t big. Nobody ever noticed it. I was aware of it all the time that July. It troubled me.
There had always been a hole, or rather a deep, shapeless cavity, about the size of a two-pence piece. It was marked out by the pale smudges surrounding it. In truth, it was a barely discernible feature of an otherwise unspoiled drab wall. I never bothered to do anything about it, despite working from home and having the opportunity. It was mum who drew my attention to it one day, just as she was leaving.
‘Why don’t you plaster it, I’ll get you some?’
‘Plaster what?’
‘The crack. Here, in the wall.’
I joined mum to look at it.
‘Did you do that?’ I asked.
‘What?’
‘Did you pick at it, it seems bigger? It’s rounder.’
‘No, of course I didn’t; where’s the mess? You need to get rid of that horrid smell too.’
I hadn’t consciously studied it, nonetheless, the hole appeared larger. I measured it, proving nothing, and forgot all about it. That was the last of it, until one afternoon a week or so later.
The Bakers, a young, professional couple, duly arrived to view the flat at 3.30 pm. They made appreciative comments as they looked around.
All three of us were standing on the stairs when Mrs Baker, appraising the pictures on the wall, said, ‘Are they originals?’
‘Yes. Do you know the view?’
She was examining my favourite. ‘Skye, isn’t it?’
‘It’s Mull actually, from near Oban. About 1914.’
‘How lovely. I know Wester Ross. I don’t know Argyllshire.’
Mr Baker interrupted, pointing to the hole, ‘We would have to get this checked-out.’ Mrs Baker knelt down next to her husband and jabbed a finger into the hole.
‘There’s always been a hole there,’ I said. ‘There aren’t any cracks.’ It was obvious the hole was larger, but, naturally, I didn’t point it out. The discovery was accompanied by a strange, mouldy smell and a draft which had developed from nowhere, although the Bakers were kind enough not to mention either.
‘It’s into the brickwork. We’d need to be sure.’ Mr Baker said.
I found the tape measure once they’d gone. 4.5 cm. How on earth was it one centimetre bigger? Mum was right. No dust. I was certain it hadn’t been tampered with. No-one had visited, apart from Simon and Joe, and they were more interested in going straight to the pub.
The Bakers made an offer three days later. I called Susie straight away.
‘What do you want?’ I could imagine her shoulders sinking.
‘The flat. 272.’
‘Is that the first offer?’
‘Yes. John says they’ll go to 280. May be 285.’
‘285 then.’
‘What about 280? It’s three months since the last viewing. I don’t want to push it.’
‘285.’
‘Okay, but I’m not convinced. By the way, I haven’t heard from your solicitor. I need the signed –’ She hung-up. I sat down on the stairs to think for a moment, annoyed at Susie’s attitude, and sensed the odour again. The hole caught my eye. Surely it was wider? I felt a chill, despite it being another warm afternoon. On impulse, I ran downstairs to get the tape measure. The hole measured 5.7 cm. Perhaps I’d miscalculated? Again and again I measured it. For several minutes I felt, tapped and listened to the hole and surrounding wall. My examination found nothing. It was regular, solid, sound; the same bricks and mortar it had always been.
I didn’t want surprises if the flat was to be sold, so I called Paul the following day and arranged for him to come and look at it that evening. He arrived late, and surveyed the wall using whatever devices and techniques he thought necessary. It was all beyond me.
‘The wall’s fine,’ said Paul, sitting in the kitchen with me a little later.
‘Did you check the entire wall?’
‘And the walls upstairs; the bedrooms, office and living room. Nothing.’
‘So what’s making the hole bigger?’
‘Dunno. Could be a problem with the plaster. Are there any other cracks or holes?’
‘No.’
‘Well, I shouldn’t worry. Any survey will be fine.’
There were more questions I wanted to ask Paul, however he had to get home. I measured the hole again before bed. It was still 5.7 cm.
I was relieved to be away with work for the next few days and returned late on the Friday night. Exhausted, I didn’t even notice the hole when I went up to bed, although my sleep was disturbed again by a cold draught and a slightly unpleasant smell.
The estate agent called the following afternoon. The Bakers’ were offering £279,000. I called Susie again. 282 and we would accept. I sat on the stairs and called John back. As we spoke I noticed the hole. It was the width of a tennis ball, the plaster cleanly removed in an almost perfect circle. There was no dust.
‘Phil? Phil, are you there?’ Said John.
I barely noticed his enquiry. ‘Yes,’ I replied, after a long pause.
‘Okay, leave it with me. 282. Does that include anything? Curtains, carpets… Phil? Phil, are you okay?’
‘Yes, that’s fine.’
‘So curtains and carpets are included? Phil? Phil!’
‘What? No.’
‘No carpets or curtains?’
‘No.’ I put the phone down.
I called Susie. ‘Have you been in the flat recently?’ I asked, nervously fiddling with the flex.
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘You haven’t been playing any practical jokes?’
‘What jokes? No. I don’t have any keys, remember?’ She sounded offended and surprised.
‘It doesn’t matter.’
I phoned mum and asked if anyone had borrowed the spare keys. No-one had requested them and she hadn’t visited. The hole now measured 8.1 cm.
Although I never revealed my unease to anyone, lest I should be thought mad, Mum later said I appeared preoccupied with that hole; I couldn’t walk passed it without glancing. In reality I felt a silly, irrational sense of menace. The fact is it did get bigger, usually when I wasn’t present. Sometimes I couldn’t bear to look at the hole, preferring not to know if it had altered. Tiny changes freaked me out. I even tried covering it up. I spent as much time away as possible and when I couldn’t, I stayed in the office. I felt uncomfortable in my own flat.
Eventually, one Saturday afternoon, I bought some wall plaster. I filled in the hole without any difficulty and used some spare paint to finish it. I felt much happier.
I joined Simon and Joe in the Duke of York that evening. It proved a very pleasant distraction. I had more than several pints and returned home just after 11.30 pm and went straight to bed, but not before I had checked my handiwork. All was as it should be, apart from a weak, mouldy smell and the peculiar draught.
When I awoke, my watch read 1.30 am. I felt as though I had been asleep for hours. I lay there for what seemed an age before my ears became accustomed to a very faint noise. I didn’t open my eyes, still hoping to fall asleep again. Scratch. Silence for a moment or two. Scratch, scratch. I was soon able to predict when the sound would occur and sat up in bed to listen. It sounded like bricks being scraped with a metal implement. There was definitely a metallic quality to it. The cold soon forced me back under the duvet, but the odd sound continued, becoming louder and more regular.
That did it. I got out of bed to investigate. Creak! The scratching stopped the instant my foot pressed the floor. I stopped too and listened, remaining stock-still. For several minutes there was nothing, and then it began again; very slowly, very quietly. The room was pitch-black; I didn’t want to stumble over my clothes and shoes, which I’d discarded on the floor, so I plotted my course to the door, slowly and deliberately. The scratching continued. I could tell the source of the noise was inside the flat. Initially, I had thought it was coming from a neighbour. It had a strange, eerie quality, as though it originated underground, or deep in a well, and it gave me the impression of a presence in the flat. For the first time I felt scared rather than concern.
The scratching stopped. I felt sure whatever it was could hear my heart beating; the pounding was deafening in my ears. Wanting to put my mind at peace, I took a deep breath and threw the door open, shouting obscenities. I took a few steps into the darkness, to the top of the stairs. There was nothing, just a faint light from the front door window and an unpleasantly sweet smell, like that of dead vermin behind a radiator.
My senses were acutely alert. Something appeared to move by the coat rack. My eyes slowly adjusted to the scene in the darkness. Was it a coat I was looking at? ‘Who’s there?’ I said, with as much confidence as I could muster. Silence. ‘Who is there?’ I said again, this time with more insistence. No response. However, something uncanny caught my attention. All the coats cast a very dim shadow on the wall. All except one. The one nearest the door. I darted to the right to put the light on. Something stirred! I turned quickly and saw for an instant the unmistakeable sight of a dark, featureless shadow moving swiftly along the corridor towards the kitchen. Except it wasn’t a shadow; it was silent and moved with peculiar intelligence between the cardboard boxes. I put the light on and shouted, ‘Who are you? I’m calling the Police! Stop!’ I was so gripped by fear, I was unable to move. For a few moments there was silence in the flat. Terror nearly drove me out of my wits. I had no desire to go downstairs, and no wish to see whatever it was.
I don’t know how long I stood there, it could have been moments, it felt like many terrible hours.
By force of will I regained my reason and ventured downstairs, hurriedly switching on every light and issuing stern threats.
The kitchen was empty and undisturbed.
The hole was the final straw. Minutes after the episode, I found it reopened and nearly twice the size. There was also dust.
Mum put me up until the flat sold two months later.
One year later, a national news story grabbed my attention. A certain Mrs Baker, ‘…accidentally killed her husband with a brick trowel as he apprehended an intruder’. The invader was never found. It seems the Bakers were plagued by repeated disturbances in their flat, despite taking every conceivable security measure. All doors were locked from the inside. Mrs Baker was later charged with her husband’s murder, although this was commuted to manslaughter on the grounds of insanity.
Years afterwards, I confided to my wife. She researched the flat’s history without my knowledge, revealing to me later an interesting detail which sent a shiver down my spine.
In the 1870s, Sidney Huxley, a bricklayer, was employed by the company building houses in the street and later rented part of 12A, until his death. He was executed for the murder of Lady Anne Julius in 1886, exactly 100 years after my own experiences. Lady Julius’s body had been found with a priceless diamond ring missing. The piece of jewellery was never found.
The site was redeveloped in 2000.
The End