‘The oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is the fear of the unknown.’ H.P. Lovecraft
I always looked forward to my annual visit with my good friend James. Apart from his warmth and hospitality, he entertained his guests with an impeccable taste for fine foods and the very best of wines.
After dinner we would settle in the parlour with a large brandy and there, he had a superb way of spinning a yarn. Often leaving the listener in complete wonderment and with difficulty of comprehension as to whether the tales were true or not.
The one I found quite disturbing is the one I am about to relay to you. I will leave it up to you to decide…
It was a cut through, a path that the locals had named Murder lane. A winding footpath that led from Manby Road, Gorton. Gore brook, a shallow stream meandered to the left, while brambles and an extremley high wall of red brick towered to the right. A wall that had been constructed and built by a local firm many years earlier. It was a fair walk through this trail, which would lead you eventually to Pink Bank Lane, Longsight.
I will return to the why and wherefore the title Murder Lane had been given to this walkway.
It was on May 13th 1909 when a labourer Mark Shawcross was last seen stepping out and through this path with Emily Ramsbottom, of Ellesmere Street. This woman had been married previously and separated from her husband, she had started a relationship with Mark Shawcross, cohabiting with him for the last four years or so.
Early in the morning, a couple of young ladies were on their way to work. A local tarpaulin company off Pink Bank Lane. When they stumbled and came across Emily’s strangled and lifeless body somewhere along this path.
The police were called and Mark Shawcross was arrested. His story was that he had left her not far from there the night before. He and her estranged husband were the prime suspects, however, Mark Shawcross later wrote his confession and admitted to strangling Emily Ramsbottom with his neckerchief. He was later convicted and sentenced to his execution at Strangeways prison, Manchester on 3rd September 1909.
James Chisnall my good friend for many years had been a much younger man in those days, albeit this was a good few years after that event had taken place. He and three of his chums had been drinking and playing card games for most of the night. Tipsy and merry James left his friend’s house a little after midnight and a little worse for wear. He had decided to take a short cut home.
He needed to get to Stockport Road and had not ridden his bicycle that night, so this was going to be a bit of a treck back home. He had two choices; he could walk the long way round but this would take him a good hour to get to his destination or he could go along the track that would take him around fifteen minutes if he walked quickly. The later appealed to him more as he was drunk and just wanted to get himself home for the night. Plus, the brisk, cool air would do him good he thought.
Pulling his overcoat collar up around his scarf and pulling down his cap, he ventured into the cold, autumn evening. Someone had swept and brushed the brown wet leaves into piles around the entrance to the short cut. Ready for clearing tomorrow he thought.
There was no gate, nor a sign to warn anyone to ‘keep out’ just an entrance to the ginnel. The warmth of the brandy and the Dutch courage it gave him spurred James on to venture into the darkness and dense quiet silence of the black path.
Becoming accustomed to the gloom, his eyes strained towards the unlit high brick wall to the right of him. He could make out the brambles climbing randomly, spikily, and erratically to the top which must have been 15 feet high if not more.
As darkness beckoned, the sound of the brook rippled over the shallow stones. Water that during the day would help the allotment keepers to feed their plants. In the evening nocturnal animals would happily play there, with no humans to bother or to hurt them.
The lightless grey of the floor increased his feeling of unease as the warmth of the Cognac had quickly began to wear off. Reality started to kick in as now, halfway into the unknown blackness of the pathway, he now wondered if this was such a good idea after all. Unnerving as he wondered if he would meet anyone or anything as he dubiously carried on.
He was even more reluctant to look behind himself. Not wanting to see. A feeling of panic rose in his throat as he knew he was in limbo, nearly half way through no man’s land. How he wished he had brought a torch at least. Even more, how he wished he was tucked up warm and safe in his bed.
‘It’s the living you should be afraid of son, not the dead…’ His fathers voice boomed in his ear. That is exactly what he was afraid of he answered silently in his mind. Murder Lane. What a stupid idea to think this would be a good plan.
With immense strength and the thought of poor Emily’s body lying lifeless somewhere along here a good few years before. His feet started to feel like lead as he moved himself further along the path. No going back now.
His eyes carrying on, straining into the dark and his breathing becoming more rapid as he tried to reassure himself that these feelings were irrational. Soberness and fear had started to take over him.
Uneasy, his gut feeling was very strong that he was being watched remotely, this was not pleasant at all. Dread as he realised, he was quite helpless in this totally remote and deadly place.
Again, he pushed the thought of the labourer Shawcross, strangling the life from his poor lover Emily.
Eyes that were watching him made his hairs on his neck stand on end.
I ask you have you ever been in a situation where you felt that something terrible was about to happen? Have you ever walked home at night and wished you had not chosen that route? I am sure we all have at some point.
James knew he had to get out of this place rapidly. With a deep breath and a brave stance, flee he must. Who was hiding safe within the shelter of the darkness? As James did not have that luxury.
His fists clenched outside of his pockets, just in case he had to use them, not that he was a fighter but he would certainly have a good go if needs be. As his fist clenched even tighter and his boots crunched forward quickly on the gravelly path, just behind him, a twig snapped, not too far behind in the distance.
Faster he went, scarcely daring to breath, he called on his faith and prayed to the Almighty to please get him safely and quickly to the exit and away from this godforsaken place.
The watchers’ eyes, bored into the back of his head and on hearing another sharp snap, adrenaline kicked in and that is when he started to run.
Shallow panting and rapid breathing he urged forward, his pulse pounding in his head he could barely see six feet in front of himself. He stumbled and his hand reached out to steady himself as the sharp pain from the blackberry bushes shot through his hand and arm. The ground was damp as he climbed to his feet. His instinct, urging him forward with the fear that someone or something at any moment would put a hand on his shoulder, or much worse.
Finally with a gasp, he spotted the metal turnstile at the exit and towards the lane. He squeezed his way desperately through the gap, not once lingering nor looking for a second, for what he felt was pursuing him. Not before time. At least he was out in the open now.
The chill of the wind made his damp clothes even more icy on his back as James fists were still clenched, and his knuckles were pure white. James hurried on quickly up the deserted Pink Bank Lane. Past the high walls of the factories, all locked up and closed for the night. Safer but not yet out of the woods as there was not a soul in sight…apart from a torch flickering and casting a light beyond the heavy, large, locked, iron gates.
Safe to say James arrived home in one piece to tell the tale.
As if that was not disturbing enough, the eery adventure the narrator had experienced that night. Even more was the shock when James Chisnall, bought his local paper on his way to work a few weeks later. He was horrified to discover that the body of a young man named Gareth O’Neil aged 23. A local factory worker, who had been missing for a couple of weeks, had been found face down in the chilling water of Gore brook. The body must have been there in the very same place when James had cut through, that night on Murder Lane.
The autopsy report had stated his corpse had been in the brook for at least ten days. The cause of death was strangulation. The hunt was on for Gareth’s killer and anyone with any information should contact Lancashire Police.
Had the watcher gone back to the scene of the crime? Had James really had such a very lucky escape? Only the watcher could relay that part of the tale to you…
As James came to the end of his story and much to his audience’s dismay. He folded his hands together and looked at his timepiece.
A message to his guests that the evening had now come to an end.
He bid each one of them farewell and urged them to take the utmost care on their journey back home.
Julie Modla
The human experience. 