The Haunting Of Hammersmith

It was a rainy autumn midday in the year 1829 when my carriage arrived at the old Pack Horse Inn in Turham Green, located in the western part of Hammersmith that passes to Bradmoor and the junction between the two roads of the district. Hammersmith was a picturesque village outside of London. My name is Aaron Bradford, an aristocrat from London. At the inn, there were heavy waggons of hay and weary horses to be seen, and several intrepid commoners walking in the streets.

Once I descended from the carriage, I immediately entered the inn, umbrella in hand. I was met by the innkeeper and proceeded to register my name as a guest of the inn. After the rain had subsided, I was escorted to the nunnery in the village by his carriage driver. I was extremely anxious to visit the college and the church as well, but this would have to wait until I had reached the nunnery.

Along the way, I descried the ancient manor house of Pallenswick. When the carriage halted, I was drawn by the tall, three-storey Gothic building that was the nunnery. It had sash windows, which were blinded by the tall and narrow trees that stood before the front gate, covered by a broad wall in circumference.

There was a moat nigh the bridge over the Thames, and the manifold acres of land that encompassed the estate.

Once inside, I waited in the large hall until one of the sisters could address me. Instead, an elderly fellow of medium stature greeted me inside. He was the curate of the Church of St Mary and welcomed me afterwards with a cordial salutation. I reciprocated his noble gesture with appreciative propriety.

After the formalities were exchanged, we discussed the matter that had precipitated my visit to Hammersmith. I had previously collaborated with the church as a humble benefactor and had come to purchase an old property owned by the church—a lone mansion on the outskirts of the hamlet.

When he was informed of my initial stay at the inn, he offered me a room in one of the apartments attached to the church. At first, I was reluctant to accept, but I eventually acquiesced, not wishing to offend the curate. Thus, it was agreed that I would be sojourning on the parish estate for the duration of my stay in Hammersmith.

I was given a tour of the nunnery, and then taken to the estate of the church where I was to stay. I caught sight of the Roman Catholic Church as I conversed with the venerable curate. My first impression of the church grounds was eerie, yet serene. There was an unusual veil of secrecy and mystery that had loomed over the church since its construction, but I had not come to the village of Hammersmith to unravel the intricate enigma of the place or its unearthly inhabitants.

I had heard many ghost stories in my life, but the dreadful apparition I was yet to encounter would prove the most terrifying experience ever endured by man. Inside the church, I was shown to my room, where I began to write a letter to Mr Fleming, my accountant, informing him of my generous contribution to the nunnery and college.

The nunnery was an admirable institution, devoted to charitable purposes, and the church was always regarded as a supreme benefactor to such righteous folk. I made mention of my ongoing collaboration, and that I would speak further with Mr Fleming upon my return. Afterwards, I took tea with the curate and parish priest in the main hall, as we conversed about the growth of the village and the obstreperous clamour of London. I was unaware of the recent changes that had begun to transform the village, particularly within the heart of Hammersmith. The once opulent red-brick mansions now stood old and abandoned, supplanted by small tenements and newly established neighbourhoods.

That night, I was in my room reading a fascinating book on the subject of English folklore, when the impetuous rain returned, accompanied by a mercurial tempest. I had left the window of the room ajar at the time, and raindrops began to spatter upon the sill. Fortunately, little water made its way inside, and the shutters proved sturdy enough to withstand the storm. As I reached to close them, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a stranger standing just beyond the window.

At first, I thought nothing of it—perhaps a passing villager or a trick of the light—until I heard a sudden pounding on the front door. It was a man from the village who had come in haste. I hurried at once to witness the cause of the commotion. When I reached the hall, he stood there visibly shaken, as if he had seen an apparition. And indeed, it was a spectre he claimed to have seen, as he told the curate who had answered the door. The curate attempted to calm his hysteria and reason with him, but the man remained adamant. He was convinced that the figure he had seen in the churchyard was no living soul.

He was a diligent bricklayer, labouring within the grounds that evening. When asked to describe the phantom, he provided the following depiction.

‘He was covered in mire, and his gaunt body was as stiff as a dead cadaver. His face was hard as stone, and his eyes were completely white, with no pupils in his sockets, truly. Worse, he was wearing the same clothing, methinks, as when he had perished.’

I found his account unreasonable and scarcely believable, yet he appeared thoroughly convinced by the apparition he claimed to have seen, regardless of its fantastical nature. His adamant asseveration and firm resolve were qualities I found most uncommon in the mind of an ordinary man.

Father Harrigan soon arrived and expressed a clear desire to avoid any scandalous tales of ghosts interfering with my visit, nor did he wish for such talk to unsettle the villagers, many of whom were devoted parishioners of the church.

Instead, he instructed the bricklayer to put the incident from his mind and return home. He advised the man to rest and not return the following day, assuring him that what he had seen was most likely a hallucination—an illusion born of weary eyes after long hours of labour. The man, though reluctant, complied and departed quietly to his house.

The incident at the window outside my room came to mind as I listened to the bricklayer speak. I had previously considered mentioning it to Father Harrigan, yet I was not absolutely certain of what I had seen. Perchance it had merely been a trick of the eye. Thus, I refrained from mentioning the stranger. The occurrence was forgotten for the evening, and I returned to my chamber, where I slept soundly for the remainder of the night, as the rain had subsided.

The following morning, after breakfast, I was introduced to a young governess by the name of Miss Winthrop—a beautiful and intelligent woman who tutored the children at the nearby college. Her assistance was greatly appreciated by the church, and her London background did not hinder her cordial rapport with the villagers.

Miss Winthrop would occasionally join the parish priest and the curate for breakfast at the church, engaging in modest and lively parlour with them. Indeed, I would come to enjoy her charming company during my time in Hammersmith.

On this occasion, Miss Winthrop excused herself, saying she was heading into the centre of the village. As I had an interest in seeing the ample mall and park, I inquired whether I might accompany her.

She agreed most graciously and seemed delighted to offer me a brief tour of the village. Being the dapper gent that I was, I accepted her offer with fond pleasure. My itinerary for the day included viewing the property I sought to purchase and attending a dinner engagement with the nuns later in the evening.

Once in the heart of the hamlet, I observed several charming streets, including the bustling King's Street—the principal thoroughfare leading to the road to Windsor. There were numerous shops, a tavern, and a hospital, along with the village park and the mall. Hammersmith, as I came to learn, served as a main conduit between London and the West of England, and was graced by a flowing river whose waters crossed the London Road opposite the way to Brook Green. From there, the river wound on to the northern side of London Road and spilled into Chelsea Creek at Counter’s Bridge.

It was a fresh breath of air compared to the bustle of London. The dishevelled areas of dereliction were gradually being supplanted by the new tenements, which were being refurbished under the auspices of the church. The narrow streets appeared broader than many of the desolate and drear avenues of the metropolis.

After our visit to the centre of the village, our carriage conveyed us to the college where Miss Winthrop taught. Upon our arrival, we entered the facility—St Mary's Normal College—which comprised both a chapel and adjoining dormitories. From the window of the chapel, I noticed, quite visibly, a clear view of the parish graveyard beyond.

This I found curious and not without interest. I did not realise at the time the irresistible portent I had felt between the nunnery and the adjacent churchyard. Nonetheless, I expressed to Miss Winthrop my eagerness to see the garden of the nunnery and asked if she would kindly accompany me.

She obliged, and we departed from the college to the grounds of the nunnery. There she explained that the currants, cherries, and raspberries which blossomed in the spring were, in truth, a token gesture from the original proprietor of the estate, a certain Lord Gurney. When I enquired further about this noble gentleman, her reply grew noticeably reserved, as though she were reluctant to speak of him. Not wishing to appear meddlesome in her affairs, I refrained from pressing the subject of Lord Gurney any further—for the nonce.

I referred to one of the mansions I had seen upon my arrival in Hammersmith, and Miss Winthrop informed me that it was the Bradenburgh Mansion, the former residence of Lord Harrington. I had heard of Lord Harrington before in London, but I was not familiar with his life here in Hammersmith. He was a fascinating man, and together with Lord Gurney, he had been one of the village's most generous benefactors. Naturally, I became keen to learn more about this gentleman as well.

I would soon be told that the Bradenburgh Estate was up for sale to the highest bidder. For reasons I could not fully explain, the estate, along with the mansion itself, had piqued my interest. Though it had not been part of my original plan to acquire additional properties, the Gothic façade of the mansion had an undeniable allure.

I thought of asking Miss Winthrop whom I might consult regarding the purchase, but it occurred to me that Father Harrigan, as a likely authority on matters concerning the estate, would be the appropriate person to speak with. Though I was enjoying my leisurely time with the young governess, I was eager to discuss the subject of the Bradenburgh Estate with Father Harrigan, confident he could provide me with the information I sought.

As it happened, Miss Winthrop had to return to the college as well. The timing was perfect, giving me a convenient pretext to bring our pleasant walk to a close.

When I arrived at the church, I found Father Harrigan in the parsonage, while the curate was outside conversing with the bricklayers who were working on the plaster and restoration of the rear entrance. I waited patiently for the conversation to conclude before I approached him to request an audience with Father Harrigan. The curate instructed me to wait in the hall, and so I did, anticipating Father Harrigan's arrival. When he finally appeared, I promptly began to enquire about the Bradenburgh Estate.

Father Harrigan seemed to pause for a moment, reflecting before responding with a tone of caution, 'There may be someone, but I would advise caution, Sir Bradford. The estate has long been neglected, and there are certain... histories surrounding it that have made the village wary of it'.

I was intrigued by his words and pressed further, 'Histories, Father? What do you mean by that?'

He glanced briefly towards the window, as if considering how much to reveal. 'The Bradenburgh Estate has always had an air of mystery about it. Some say it is simply due to its age and the misfortune that befell Lord Harrington's family after they moved away. But others, well, they believe there are other forces at work in that house. It has not always been a place of peace'.

I raised an eyebrow, slightly amused at what I perceived to be superstition creeping into the conversation, though I couldn’t deny that it only made the mansion all the more intriguing. 'Superstitions? Could you elaborate, Father?'

Father Harrigan shifted uneasily in his seat, his expression now more guarded. 'I would rather not go into detail, Sir Bradford. I am only suggesting that it may not be the best place to visit, especially considering your interest in acquiring it'.

I could see the hesitation in his eyes, but my curiosity was piqued, and I knew I had to press forth. 'I appreciate your concern, Father, but my mind is set. If you know of someone in the village who could assist me in gaining access, I would be most grateful'.

After a long pause, he nodded slowly. 'There may be an old caretaker, a man by the name of Mr. Carver. He lives in a cottage just beyond the estate's grounds. He was employed by Lord Harrington years ago, and he might be able to help you'.

'Thank you, Father. I shall seek out Mr. Carver'.

With that, our conversation shifted to more casual matters, though the Bradenburgh Estate lingered in my thoughts. I could not shake the feeling that there was more to this mansion than met the eye, and I resolved to learn its secrets, no matter what.

His reply was, 'There is a certain gentleman by the name of Mr. Dodington, who lives on the other side of Hammersmith'.

'Who is this man?' I asked with curiosity.

'The former steward, but it has been years since I last saw him. People here attest that he had gone astray since the mansion was no longer functioning as a home', Father Harrigan revealed to me. His disclosure of the steward and the ironic fact that Lord Harrington was living in London were compelling. Because Lord Harrington was not in Hammersmith, I searched for Mr. Dodington in the village. I was told by Father Harrigan that I could locate him at the tavern, perhaps.

After finishing our conversation, I headed towards the tavern. There, I used discretion when I finally found him. I did not want to alarm his suspicion of me. Therefore, I was affable in my comportment towards him. I introduced myself and told him that I was interested in seeing the interior of the old Bradenburgh Mansion.

He was apprehensive and intrigued with my desire to purchase the house. He did not appear to be receptive to the idea. After further deliberation, and the fact that I would pay him for his service, he agreed. It was an ideal situation for both. He would be handsomely paid, whilst I could enter the house.

When he finished his drink, he went with me to see the house and estate. We arrived by carriage at the Bradenburgh Estate, where he opened the mansion with his keys, allowing me to enter and see the interior of the mansion. If the mansion from outside was forlorn and gloomy, once I stepped inside, I was confronted with a very worn and untidy place. It was a terrible sight to witness.

The passing of time and dissipation were evident in the chambers, halls, and especially in the cellar. The dusty stairway was absolutely rickety, and the pillars of the first storey were unsteady, threatening to collapse at any moment. The idyllic setting of the Bradenburgh Mansion, once a symbol of opulence, had been reduced to the obsolete memories of the local aristocracy. I reflected on the mansion's prior history, when the tincture of its pristine luxury exuded the former precedence and prestige of its noble inhabitants.

It had once been the place of toils and drudgeries of the footmen, housemaids, valets, and all underlings of Lord Harrington. All that remained of the furnishings were torn, shabby, and rumpled curtains that had once been silk, along with expensive silverware now covered in rust and mold.

The walls of the decorative gallery and the ceiling once adorned with luminous chandeliers had left only a token of their irredeemable vestige. If I were daring enough to purchase this property, I would have to refurbish the house entirely, beginning with the furniture. This would imply a huge economic investment on my part.

It was a difficult decision to make, for the condition of the estate was discouraging. Mr. Dodington had mentioned that his brother had served the mansion as a loyal footman. He spoke of Lord Harrington with the utmost reverence. However, when he spoke of the mansion, his demeanor changed suddenly.

There was a sombre murk in his eyes. When I had asked Mr. Dodington if he knew about Lord Gurney's death, his behaviour quickly shifted from being talkative to one of unease. Although I wanted to understand the reason for his discomfort, I refrained from enquiring about the grim details of Lord Gurney's death out of respect. Instead, I told him that I had seen enough of the house and estate, and if I were to consider purchasing it, I would inform him of my decision. He stood behind to close the door of the house as I left in the carriage. Mr. Dodington had seemed to be a reliable fellow.

If I were to buy the house, I would have to entrust him with its care. I told him I would likely send an urgent correspondence to Lord Harrington in London—or visit him there. Once I returned to the church, I informed Father Harrigan of my visit to the old Bradenburgh Estate and that I was still contemplating whether or not to purchase it. I spent the remainder of the day pondering the possibility of refurbishing the mansion.

Although I had come to Hammersmith primarily to see a property of the church, my interest had gradually shifted towards the old Bradenburgh Estate. It was not my preference to appear disingenuous with Father Harrigan, but it was important to me that I inform him of my true intentions. Eventually, I chose the right moment to make my admission.

When I did, he was not overtly troubled by my decision. I had eased any concerns he may have had by explaining that I knew of another gentleman who would be interested in purchasing the church property. It seemed a reasonable solution, and I was grateful for his understanding. Afterwards, I told Father Harrigan that I would be departing the next day to return to London. I assured him that I would return to Hammersmith if I was able to purchase the old Bradenburgh Mansion.

That night, as I was reading in my room, a strong wind caused the shutters to sway and rattle to and fro. The wind then pushed the window wide open. I rose to my feet and attempted to close it, but as I did, the wind knocked me to the floor. I stood again and tried once more to close the window. That was when I saw it—the indeterminate image of a wraith, standing with a frightening guise. I was taken aback by the disconcerting figure that had appeared unannounced and so suddenly. I thought of the bricklayer’s description of this spectral being, and it matched exactly what I was now seeing.

The ghost seemed as though it wanted to speak to me, yet all it did was haunt me. I perceived this anomaly before it swiftly disappeared into the nightly gust of wind. The episode had happened so quickly that I barely had time to react. I could only conclude that the apparition was an abominable aberration, though I sensed there must be some reason for its appearance.

Why was it haunting the grounds of the church, and what was it seeking? There had to be a logical explanation for this erratic occurrence. After calming my nerves and thinking the situation through rationally, I decided not to mention the incident to Father Harrigan. What could I possibly tell him? My understanding of the matter was too vague and unfounded.

Simply put, it was too soon to speculate. I knew I had to investigate this mystery with discretion. As I departed from Hammersmith the following morning, I left with a nagging suspicion that something mysterious was unfolding. If I were to unravel this enigma, I would have to go to London and speak to Lord Harrington.

I was fortunate to find Lord Harrington at his address on the upper West Side of the city. I introduced myself and explained my desire to purchase the old Bradenburgh Estate in Hammersmith. He was pleased to hear of my interest in the property and eager to sell.

He invited me inside, and we quickly finalised the transaction. It was a suitable agreement, one that allowed me to begin my project with the Bradenburgh Mansion. My impression of him was that he was genuinely relieved and thankful for the deal. This relief was evident in his expression, and for me, it marked a profitable acquisition.

Within a week, I returned to Hammersmith and visited Father Harrigan to inform him that I had purchased the Bradenburgh Estate. What he wasn’t aware of was the true reason behind my decision to buy the property. I had intended to use the mansion for social gatherings and charitable purposes.

I explained to him that the donations raised at these events would fund future church projects, such as the construction of new apartments and dormitories. He had no objections, as almsgiving was a key principle of the Catholic faith. As a devout Catholic, I felt it was my honorable duty to contribute.

I was eager to share my good news with Miss Winthrop. I wanted to tell her of my plans and see her reaction.

When I arrived at the college, she was busy tutoring a student. I waited until she had finished before speaking with her. After I shared my plans for the Bradenburgh Estate, she expressed great enthusiasm. A bright, cheerful smile spread across her face, and she graciously offered to assist me in my endeavours. I was pleased to accept her kind offer of help.

I was filled with optimism and hope, certain that the grace of nobility would bring great benefits to the village, with exceptional generosity at every social event. I never anticipated that the ominous phantom of Hammersmith would begin to torment me with such nefarious persistence. Nor was I prepared for the macabre outcome that nearly resulted in my death.

I was at the Bradenburgh Estate, accompanied by Miss Winthrop, surveying the interior of the house, when I suddenly heard a distant scream. It came from the main hall, and the voice was unmistakably that of the governess. I rushed to the hall to discover what had happened. She was visibly terrified, and the source of her fear was the familiar phantom from the churchyard, which had now emerged through the darkened corridor. I saw the ghost again, and its appearance was nothing short of shocking. The inanimate spectre was dressed in elegant late 18th-century clothing, yet mired in the earth’s sod. Its eye sockets were empty—there were no eyes to be seen.

The sight was truly sickening. Poor Miss Winthrop could only close her eyes in dread as I held her tightly in my arms. The ghost eventually disappeared, its faint gleam lingering for a moment. I could not understand what had brought the apparition into the mansion, but I sensed that Miss Winthrop might have the answer.

When I mentioned to her that I had encountered this same ghost before, her face turned even paler. She was visibly shaken, and in that moment, I realised it would be unwise to press her with further questions.

I decided to escort her out of the house and drove her back to the college immediately, allowing her the time she needed to regain her composure. There, she could find the peace necessary to recover from the disturbing event.

She began to reveal the true identity of the ghost, and it was a disturbing revelation. There was much about the legend of the Hammersmith ghost that left me bewildered. What was even more daunting was the fact that the villagers were aware of this spectral figure, yet few dared speak of the unnatural being. If the governess knew of the phantom’s existence, then surely Father Harrigan knew more but had chosen to remain silent.

Was the ghostly nature of the estate the true reason Lord Harrington had sold it to me? I realised there was a compelling story behind the Hammersmith ghost, one kept hidden and untold. What could that origin be? Who, indeed, was the ghost? There had to be an answer to the mystery. My answer came in the form of a confession. In her admission, Miss Winthrop acknowledged the identity of the revenant.

‘They say it is the ghost of Lord Gurney. He is the Hammersmith ghost'.

‘Egad, Miss Winthrop, if this is true, then why is he haunting the village? Why has he returned?’

Her reply was succinct. ‘It is the eve of the date of his fateful death'.

‘What else do you know? What does the relentless ghost want?’

She shook her head with uncertainty and said, ‘That I do not know, honestly, sir'.

She hesitated before she responded, ‘They say that Lord Gurney did not die in peace'.

‘Are you implying that he was murdered, Miss Winthrop? Who would kill Lord Gurney?’ I asked with intrigue.

She had no reply, except to confirm that he had been murdered; but it was never proven, nor was it known who the true culprit was. If there was anyone who might solve that riddle, it would be either Mr Dodington or Father Harrigan. I left Miss Winthrop behind at the college and resolved to speak with Mr Dodington. I knew I could find him at the local tavern.

When I reached the tavern, I asked to speak with him in private. He agreed, and we stepped outside into a narrow ginnel to converse about the subject of the Hammersmith ghost. He appeared perplexed about my motive. I then explained my purpose and enquired about the circumstances surrounding the surreptitious death of Lord Gurney. He seemed evasive on the matter and was not inclined to speak about Lord Gurney’s passing. I found his reluctance both odd and unsettling, but I could not force him to comply.

Although I began to feel I was wasting my time with Mr Dodington, he did acknowledge one crucial piece of information. That was: the murderer of Lord Gurney could be found within the Bradenburgh Estate. As for the mystery that bound this story, he claimed the answer lay in the graveyard where Lord Gurney was buried. There grew within me an eerie obsession to unravel this enshrouded mystery that had remained insoluble—a mystery tangled within a conflation of an unparalleled nature.

As I departed the tavern after the intimate conversation with Mr Dodington, I headed towards the Bradenburgh Estate to investigate the allusion the former steward had made. Along the way, I speculated upon what I might discover there. When I arrived, I promptly began to search for any direct clue. I scoured the estate until, behind a knoll of stones past the seath, I discovered a mound of dead bones, incredibly buried without a headstone. I realised this must be what Mr Dodington had alluded to. I had uncovered the bones of an unknown individual—but to whom did this unmarked grave belong?

Suddenly, I thought of Lord Gurney. Could these bones have been his? Good God—what if they were? My instinct compelled me to believe it, and the indication of this likelihood was persuasive. But how could I prove this without any irrefragable evidence? I needed to go to the church.

Yes, Father Harrigan might assist me. If Lord Gurney's body was not interred in the cemetery of the churchyard, then whose remains had I uncovered? Time was of the essence, and the indistinct plausibility of solving this mystery was becoming increasingly irrepressible. Yet nothing could prepare me for what I was to experience and confront at the church.

At the church, I searched for Father Harrigan, but I could not find him. Apparently, he was missing. I stepped into Father Harrigan’s apartment, calling his name—but he was not present. I then stepped outside and looked around, only to behold a ghastly sight: ravens were feasting on the dead body of Mr Dodington.

His listless, dead body was hanging from the tower of the church. The thought of Miss Winthrop’s well-being rapidly entered my mind, as did the proximity of the assassin. I had no reassurance of my own safety, and I was clearly at a disadvantage. Intuitive discretion was imperative in this precarious predicament that had enveloped me in a revolving rigmarole.

Indeed, I had to proceed with extreme caution and vigilance. I knew the killer’s modus operandi was impulsive, yet calculating. As I gingerly began to walk amidst the churchyard, I was suddenly approached from behind—by Lord Harrington. He stood with a pistol in hand, gripping the weapon with such firmness that I could see the veins of his wrist protruding. I knew then that Lord Harrington was somehow involved in this intricate mystery, but what was the extent of his participation?

Was he the murderer—or merely the mastermind behind the murders? He appeared both cognisant and meticulous in his aplomb. His inexplicable posture was also a clear indication of guilt. He instructed me in a steady, chilling tone:

‘Do not flinch. Walk towards the graves'.

There, amongst the rows of headstones, stood the one said to belong to Lord Gurney. At once, the question of the governess’s whereabouts seized my mind. The ordeal was becoming more alarming by the minute, and the anxiety increasingly unbearable. I longed to shout out for help, but there was no soul nearby to provide the reinforcement I so desperately needed.

I noticed Lord Harrington’s eyes darting restlessly—he was fidgety. It became apparent that he was waiting for someone to arrive.

The pressing question was: who was the person Lord Harrington was waiting for? I was soon to discover the identity of that anonymous figure. It was Miss Winthrop—the governess—who appeared in the distance. I was not previously aware of her involvement in this affair.

‘Good God, Miss Winthrop, are you all right?’ I asked, startled.

‘I am in fine fettle—but may I ask the same of you, Sir Bradford?’ She replied, a manipulative grin curling upon her lips.

‘What is going on here? Where is Father Harrigan?’

‘Father Harrigan, you ask? No need to fret, Sir Bradford. He is not dead—if that is your concern'.

‘If that is true, then take me to him now!’

‘In due time, Sir Bradford.’

‘This must be a terrible jest on your part, Miss Winthrop?’

‘I assure you, Sir Bradford, that this is no jest whatsoever'.

‘Enough!’ interjected Lord Harrington brusquely. ‘We shall now proceed with the matter at hand—the deed to the Bradenburgh Estate. Hand it over, Sir Bradford'.

‘Before I relinquish the deed, I must know—why was the steward murdered? And whose body is truly buried in this grave?’ I demanded.

His reply was shocking. ‘Only the poor remains of a wretch. I had no intention of killing the steward, but I had no other choice'.

‘The remains—the bones I found at the Bradenburgh Estate—did they belong to Lord Gurney?’ I pressed on.

‘Yes!’

‘Bloody be—then why was he not buried in this cemetery?’

My intrusive interrogation began to wear down his patience. I sensed then the unthinkable: that the young and delightful Miss Winthrop was wholly complicit in the murders—and that I was soon to perish at the hands of a covetous scoundrel, who stood as her accomplice.

I could not fully grasp the extent of her involvement, nor the depths of this unholy plot. I had never before perceived death’s bracing presence to be so close, so inimical, as I did at that precise moment. The inscrutable horror of the Hammersmith ghost had seemed distant—but it was not.

The ghost was to play an inherent and intrinsic role in resolving this ghastly conundrum. The unsightly phantom rose once more from the hallowed depths of the earth—a praeternatural phenomenon, a lingering malediction. His vindictive wrath would descend with impunity, and his tormentors would at last succumb to the immense and sacrilegious power he wielded.

An unforeseen gust of wind blew from beyond the staid and transient clouds that loomed over the churchyard, gradually sweeping across the area where we stood. Neither Lord Harrington nor Miss Winthrop appeared to notice the strange occurrence, oblivious to the sequence of events that had begun to unfold.

‘It is regretful, Sir Bradford, that I must kill you. This could have been avoided, had you not discovered the tomb at the Bradenburgh Estate. I must commend you for your assiduous persistence and explorative perception', he said with a casual smirk.

‘Surely you realise that you shall not get away with this!’ I reproached, my voice firm despite the dread in my chest.

His irrevocable course of action was driven by a secret his family had long concealed—the preservation of that secret, the tragic death of Lord Gurney. What I did not yet know was that Miss Winthrop was not her true name. In truth, she was Ellen Harrington—the devoted daughter of Lord Harrington.

The Harrington family had conspired to erase all vestiges of Lord Gurney’s legacy. For decades, the tragic and improbable circumstances surrounding his death remained buried, hidden from public knowledge—until I had uncovered the improbable truth behind this engrossing drama.

When all pointed to my imminent death, the invisible ghost reappeared.

A sound—a deep, echoic voice—resounded throughout the churchyard. The direful cry rang out, a cogent reverberation of vociferation, unmistakable and haunting. What then materialised was a crystalline mist, the very vapour of devious retribution.

It was the Hammersmith ghost once more.

The fearless being emerged from the nebulous moisture, bearing an intimidating pallor and a countenance of unshakable conviction. His semblance was the vivid embodiment of sheer terror. It was enough to affright every soul present. The attire he wore was that of the late 18th century—the very clothing in which Lord Gurney had been buried.

The ghost wore a cutaway tailored coat over a waist-length satin waistcoat, dark breeches, and buckled shoes. His hair was long and powdered, brushed back from the forehead in the fashion of a bygone era. His tattered garments were thick with soil, the residue of the grave clinging to every thread. As before, his eye sockets were hollow—no orbs of sight, only voids where life had once dwelt. The presence he exuded was one of lasting and impregnable impression, a terror etched in spectral majesty.

Upon beholding the apparition, Lord Harrington, now pale with dread, raised his pistol and began to fire wildly at the figure before him. The bullets, however, were of no consequence to this unearthly spectre. The lead passed through the phantasm without resistance, as if shot into smoke.

Suddenly, a swift bolt of energy—unnatural and forceful—pierced Lord Harrington’s chest. He collapsed instantly, lifeless, struck down by the vengeance of the dead.

The daughter, Ellen Harrington, shrieked and turned to flee. Yet her escape was in vain. The ghost, stirred by righteous ire, caught her within his spectral grasp. She perished through suffocation—her final breaths drawn in terror and futility. It was a ghastly death to witness—not a proper end for a lady, no matter her true identity. Yet the tragedy that befell the former governess was the cost of complicity, and the justice of the grave was absolute.

The unspeakable tragedy that had occurred decades ago to Lord Gurney was all the more detestable to accept. I now stood alone before the Hammersmith Ghost—Lord Gurney himself, risen from the grave. Despite the apprehension that stirred within me, I remained composed; my resolve unshaken. A cautious distrust lingered in my heart, and my reaction was understandable. I attempted to retreat slowly as the spectre drifted nearer.

The looming thought of death became ever more real, yet the ghost did not strike. He did not seek to harm me. Instead, he had risen with a purpose—an unfulfilled request, which explained his forbearance. In that moment of dreadful clarity, I understood: the deed. The deed to the Bradenburgh Estate was the key to unlocking the twain mysteries surrounding the ghost’s tormented unrest.

Lord Gurney’s spectre sought the return of his legacy. The estate was not to fall into the hands of the wicked nor the covetous. Only a worthy descendant—one of honour and loyalty—could lay claim to the property. That was the unspoken law I came to accept, and the silent vow I chose to uphold. I gave him the deed.

As our hands met for the briefest instant, I felt a chill colder than death itself. No words were spoken between us. None were needed. He vanished into the sweeping wind of the night, and in his wake, arose a procession of wraiths—long-buried souls of the old cemetery of St. Mary’s. One by one, they passed me, silent and solemn—ageless remnants of time itself.

I stood in awe of them, knowing then that the horrors that had befallen Hammersmith were not the work of mere phantoms, but the damning legacy of human greed—an ancient blasphemy that had cursed the village with its own malediction.

After the departure of the Hammersmith Ghost, I entered the church, calling out for Father Harrigan. I found him in the tower, his hands tightly bound with rope and a cloth stuffed into his mouth to muffle any cries for help. Once released and brought down into the nave of the church, Father Harrigan began to recount the horrid truth that, until then, I had only suspected—an origin shrouded in silence and shame.

He revealed that Lord Gurney had been murdered by none other than the father of Lord Harrington. After a failed duel and overcome with disgrace, Harrington’s father had cowardly shot Lord Gurney in the back. To hide the deed, the body was buried in an unmarked tomb at the Bradenburgh Estate. Though Father Harrigan had not known the exact location of the burial, he surmised—upon my discovery—that the bones I found were indeed those of Lord Gurney.

When I asked why such a grave injustice had been kept secret by the villagers for so long, his answer was both solemn and revealing: no one dared defy the will of fate. The date of Lord Gurney’s murder, it turned out, was the very anniversary of the night I had uncovered the truth—a chilling coincidence, or perhaps, a destined reckoning.

'It would seem the sins of the village and its past are now expiated and gone, with the Hammersmith Ghost', I said quietly.

'I hope so, Sir Bradford. I truly hope so', He replied with a weary, sanguine sigh.

I departed Hammersmith the next morning and returned to the safer, more tenable confines of my home in London. Yet, as the years passed, I could not easily cast aside the infamous events that had transpired—the phantom, the secrets buried in time, and the tragic ends of Lord Harrington, his daughter, and the others, including poor Mr. Dodington.

Father Harrigan believed it was unnecessary to dwell on such grim matters, and in time, I came to agree with his sentiment. But even now, in the stillness of night, the memory of Hammersmith lingers in my thoughts like a shadow from beyond.

Though their deaths were officially regarded as random, they were never forgotten by me. I had always known better. I never doubted the veracity of the Hammersmith Ghost, and I had come to accept the correlative nature of the phenomenon that had long haunted the village. It was no mere legend—it was retribution shaped by truth and secrecy.

I continued, for some time, to donate as a benefactor to the church in Hammersmith, yet I rarely returned to the hamlet thereafter.

My final visit was a solemn one—to honour the memory of Lord Gurney. I attended the private funeral held in his name, where his remains were finally laid to rest in the churchyard of St Mary, as he had long wished, according to the terms outlined in his will. It was a burial befitting the man and the truth that had at last come to light.

As for the Hammersmith Ghost—I never saw the phantom again.

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