Ghouls of the Undercity. Edmund Glasby
hurry it up, Stanley. Pay the man.”
With something of a pathetic, long-suffering look at Richardson, Stanley counted out the required money and paid up.
It was now only two minutes to eight o’clock and Richardson was preparing to start when a group of young men, four in total, turned up. At first, he was concerned, having dealt with brash and offensive types before, who either deliberately sought to ridicule his tours or else proved downright difficult with their disruptive antics. However this group of lads seemed to be relatively well-behaved. Besides, it was slim pickings this evening and he didn’t want to turn away four paying customers. News like that would soon get around and the last thing he needed was negative advertising.
“Well, if we’re all ready, let us begin. Please, follow me. I’m a fast walker and we’ve got much to see so do try to keep up.” With those words, Richardson set out, his group of nine close on his heels.
Striding purposefully to the side-street at the rear of the cathedral, Richardson led his party away from the main thoroughfares of the city which were now beginning to throng with crowds of weekend evening revellers. Their shouts and laughs faded altogether after a few minutes, the only sounds now audible that of the clatter of shoes on the pavement and the occasional snippet of hushed conversation. Even the group of young men were surprisingly quiet.
They were now entering an area devoid of street lighting and the crumbling houses that loomed high on either side were dark and foreboding, partially decaying structures that no doubt housed countless undesirables. The street before them narrowed further and now Richardson had to use his torch to light the way, informing everyone to stay close and to mind their step. About halfway along, he stopped, shone his torch down a downward sloping passageway that branched off from the street they were on. It was terribly dark along that cobbled lane and, even he had to admit, it was spooky.
“We now stand at the turning to Hobbs Alley—one of the oldest, and some would say, most haunted parts of the Old City. For those of you who don’t know, the city you see today has been occupied for well over a thousand years. Now obviously there are only a few small traces of occupation going back as far as that, however much of the present-day buildings are in fact built atop much older structures, some dating back two, three and even four hundred years. The oldest building in the city that still stands is probably the Three Goats Heads public house which dates back to the early Twelfth Century.”
“Can we go there and visit the spirits behind the bar?” quipped one of the young men, his comment winning a few laughs from his mates.
Richardson took it all in his stride. “Not on this tour, although that is one of the tours I run and there are some very interesting and unnerving tales to be told about that place. Its name, for instance, comes from a certain Black Magic rite, which utilised said goats’ heads, but I digress. Hobbs Alley is infamous for many things but perhaps its greatest notoriety derives from the fact that it was down there, on the twenty-seventh of February 1886 that the mutilated body of a young serving girl, Jayne Wheatley, was discovered. Three days later, a second victim, Rosie Travis, was also found. Then a third, Margaret Brent, again three days later, was found; brutally murdered, torn almost to pieces in an act of unspeakable violence.”
“Was that like Jack the Ripper?” asked Mary.
“Hell, Mary, that was in London. Remember we went on that tour last year,” replied Lester.
“Although there was some resemblance to the Ripper murders, this was the handiwork of a despicable being some would consider far worse, despite the fact that not so many have heard of him. I’m talking about Charles Butterworth—The Laughing Ghoul. I see by the looks on your faces that none of you are familiar with the name—a name that history has, to a large extent, chosen to forget, so wicked were his crimes.”
“Either that or you’ve just made him up,” remarked Stanley’s wife.
“Why, not at all.” Richardson enjoyed it when others challenged his knowledge of the details. “At the end of our little expedition I have certain pamphlets which I will distribute that provide all the information regarding this evening’s tour. You’ll be able to do some research of your own if you doubt any of what I say.”
“Why was Butterworth called The Laughing Ghoul?” asked the elderly gentleman.
Richardson turned. “A good question but the answer will have to wait until later when all will be made clear. Well, if we are ready, we’ll head down to where young Jayne Wheatley met her terrible, tragic end. Follow me and—”
“We’re not going down there, are we?” asked Mary nervously.
“But of course. I assure you I’ll keep the torch on at all times, however the ground is uneven so please take care.”
As a tightly-huddled group they went down, the alley narrowing the further they went. There was a cloying, unpleasant smell in the air and it was deathly quiet, claustrophobic, the atmosphere and the knowledge of what may have happened here playing on the nerves of all bar Richardson. After all for him this was familiar territory. He came down this alley with groups twice, sometimes three times a week.
Shadows shrank and crept back again as the guide swung his torch around the walls before directing the beam to the ground at his feet. “It was here, in this godforsaken place that the body of Jayne Wheatley was found—well what was left of her at any rate. You see, when they found her she had been partially consumed. The flesh from her legs, torso and arms had been—”
“Hey, steady on. That’s quite enough of that.” Lester shook his head with distaste. “I thought we’d come to hear about some good old-fashioned British ghosts not this kind of stuff.”
“Well I’m sorry if I’ve offended you, but I normally only tone down my commentary if there are any children present. Although, that said, more often than not it is they who want to hear all of the gory details. Bloodthirsty little tykes that they are. However, I’ll take on board what you say.”
A couple of the young men moaned at this, believing it a needless acquiescence on their guide’s part. They weren’t squeamish and wanted to hear it—guts and all.
“As I was saying, it was here that Charles Butterworth claimed his first victim. The other two were found close by. Butterworth’s involvement was only discovered later and indeed only by pure chance, when human remains were found in his house—333 East Street. And it is there that we’re going next. Now before we go I normally just ask everyone to stand still and try to mentally picture the scene as it would have been almost a century ago on that dark, terrible night.” Richardson deliberately covered the torch with his hand, dimming the light and making the alley even more horrifying.
Shadows seemed to seep and press in towards them as though possessed of their own malign intent. A preternatural, unnerving silence fell, descending upon them like a funeral shroud. It was bordering on the unbearable for some—the two women and Stanley in particular. It was a horrible atmosphere, whether one believed in the bloody murders or not. Varying levels of fear crept into the hearts of all but Richardson as the imagination conjured up ghastly images.
Two agonising minutes passed before Richardson raised his torch. “Well…did anyone experience anything? On previous tours I’ve had people tell me that they’ve felt suddenly cold or even heard hideous laughter. On one or two occasions I’ve had people who claimed to have seen the ghost of Jayne Wheatley or even the phantom of Butterworth himself dressed very much in the same manner as I am.”
“I did feel a chill,” spoke up Stanley’s wife. “A creepy kind of shiver. It was most unpleasant.”
“It’s an eerie place, I’ll say that for it,” said the elderly man. “Do people still live in these houses?”
“I don’t know,” Richardson answered. “I’ve never seen any lights on behind any of the windows but I assume they do.”
“Can we be going now?” inquired Stanley’s wife. “I don’t like it here.”
“I think it’s giving her