The Phantom of High Street
Created | Updated Jun 8, 2007
The winter of 1899 had been one of the excessively bad weather, the worst in living memory some were heard to say. Snow had fallen in abundance, many people had died in the cold snap which held this part of East Yorkshire in its grip. Along the River Hull barges were frozen to their moorings, not that they could navigate the course of the river as the numerous bridges that crossed the waterway were also frozen each cog and gear wheel refusing to move.
By the march of 1899 the thaw had past and life in the busy port was returning to some kind of normality. As the sunlight became stronger day by day a new optimism could be felt in the air and even the estimated death toll claimed by the winter wasn’t as bad as first reported.
On one of the cold, but bright spring mornings Harry Grimshaw walked along the old High Street in Kingston upon Hull. the High Street ran adjacent to the River Hull, which gave the city its name. Both sides of the narrow street were lined with tall three story buildings casting long shadows onto the cobbles. On the riverside of the street a constant block of warehouses dominated, only the occasional narrow ally allowing access to the river side.
The opposite side of the narrow road though was made up of a mixture of shops, mews and public houses. Harry always walked this way to his employers, the Lloyds Insurance Bank situated in Low Gate were he spent his days as an accountants clerk. The high street was not in any way on a direct route to his offices, but every day he would divert his path to walk down the oldest part of the town. He loved the architecture of the buildings even though the pungent smells of the mud on the river, decaying fruit and sewage outlet pipes could often make his stomach turn.
One other reason drew him down this street. It was something he could never quite put his finger on, but it was always there. As he reached his favourite pub, ‘Ye Old Black Boy’ a strange feeling started too take hold of him. Something about that piece of cobbled road made him shiver. Sometimes he could swear that he could hear voices inside his head, the words were unfathomable though they were definitely saying something.
Often he wondered to himself what was causing this unsettling feeling.
The most obvious explanation that came to mind was the noxious aroma that breezed down the street trapped in between the buildings. Were they the course of the phantom voices?
He’d heard all the stories of course regarding the various ghosts that were supposed to walk the old that are supposed to walk the old rooms and corridors of then building. It had stood there since the fourteen hundreds and deserved its claim to be the home of a number of ghosts.
As he walked past the public house the sensation started to fade and once past the entrance to the shop next door it had total wained. Ever since he was a child he had mused over what the shop sold. In the window of frosted glass many jars filled the shelves. What was in the jars he never asked, he was of the opinion that the frosted glass was there to obscure something that was not to be seen except by those who wish to enter. Saying that he had never looked above the door or indeed the window at the sign, by this act he would have made him none the wiser.
Three weeks later spring had arrived, the equinox now behind them, the daffodils and tulips were coming into bloom.
At the bank the manager, Mr. Edward Hardyman announced his long waited retirement. The announcement was long overdue, but not unexpected. On occasions such as this never would the management fraternise with the workers, Edward though was a man dedicated to his employees.
An invitation was pinned on the staff notice board inviting his loyal workforce of counters, cashiers and clerks to join him in a celebration of his long career with drinks at Ye Old Black Boy public house.
That night Hardymans staff gathered in the oldest pub in the city. Hardyman, if he had one weakness it was his love of real ale. Never had he mixed business with pleasure, but today, his last day he would. The one and only time he would drink with his staff would be today.
As he gave his leaving address to his loyal minions Harry found it difficult to concentration his outgoing managers message.
In his head a cacophony of voices chattered, and it sounded to him as though they were in pain. Could he make out the chattering, yes he could.
“Help us, were here.” they said, followed by one final world, “Forever.”
Hardy shut his eyes and shook his head, this action ruffled the straight black oiled hair, which clung to his scalp. Once the voices had subsided he realised one or two of his colleagues were noticing his state of unrest. He took himself to the rear of the small room were I the toilet he rearranged his appearance.
Two hours later only a hand full of bank staff remained in the pub keeping the regulars company.
Several pints later the clock struck ten o’clock, the regulars, all ex-sailors were telling all manner of nautical tales. Each story of sea monsters and the like became more unbelievable with each passing.
Harry listened and laughed as the storyteller became more and more comical with each passing drink.
It was only after Harry’s sixth pint the he plucked up the courage to tap into the endless local knowledge.
“Tell me,” he laughed, “is this pub haunted?”
“Ah,” said one of the locals as all the other voices fell silent, “you could say that young ‘un.” He too then fell silent. Harry hung on the moment’s silence waiting for someone to speak. Each passing second seemed to him like an age. Finally the old salt spoke again, “Ey lad, I would say it is, yes.”
“Who by?” Harry asked as a shiver ran up his spine, what was the expression, a goose walking over your grave?
“Many lost souls are said to walk this house. In the olden days this was the last building sailors saw before setting out to sea, it was a muster point for many a voyage. Many never made it back, I wonder how many of them walk the rooms?”
the landlord who up to that point had remained quiet listened to the same old stories told not for the first time. “Don’t forget Charlie?” he said from behind the bar.
“Charlie?” Harry asked. If anyone should know it should be the landlord, he surmised.
“Charlie was a Cavalier, during the civil war. We don’t know what happened to him, but I’ll tell ‘ya something, I hear him in the cellar and when I do,” his eyes narrowed and caught Harries own gaze, “I don’t go in there, not for all the beer in the pub.”
“Do any of them speak?” the question was an open one. No one answered, in fact all now seemed reluctant to carry on the conversation.
He knew it was time to take his leave, not only had the conversation gone cold, but his head was starting to become disorientated.
Quietly he put on his over coat and stepped into the corridor which lead to the door onto the high street.
The night was dark, no moon shone. As he stepped out into the street his breath condensed into a cloud of mist. Buttoning the coat up he set off along the street, at least he tried to. His legs seemed to be suffering form some kind of paralysis. He stood and looked down at his trouser legs. Standing up straight again he was aware of the voices.
“Help us.” the whispered, “Help us, were here”
Harry put his hands over his ears, “No” he shouted, at least, he thought he had shouted.
The memory of falling entered his mind, of sitting on the flag stones pavement, hands clamped over his ears, he knew that had happened. Where was he now? Was he indoors?
“Forever.” The voice repeated.
With a jolt he came too. It took a moment for his eyes to focus, where was he?
Four glass lamps illuminated the dark room. Brown, the room was a definite shade of brown.
When focus eventually returned to his eyes he found himself in a, well what looked like a dispensary. No, not that, a shop. He was in a shop, but what kind of shop was this?
All around him jars filled the shelves, old dark shelves. A strange smell brought him back to full consciousness, it was an acidic smell, wine, no vinegar.
He looked at the jars, they contained pieces of meat, vegetables, fruit and, oh my God, small animals. All the contents were suspended in liquid.
“Ah, you are back with us I see.” Said a strange voice, an accent attached Harry could not place.
“Where am I?” he asked rubbing his eyes.
“You collapsed outside in the street. I brought you in before you froze to death.”
Harry looked up at the man who had spoken to him. He had dragged me into this place, he must be stronger then he looked. Harry saw before him a small, weak looking man. His first impression was that the little man looked rather like a mole, his head slightly leaning forward and his eyes squinting a little as though he suffered form short sight.
“Who are you?”
“I am Ivan.” He replied.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude.” Harry apologised.
“I do not hold it on you.”
Strange words thought Harry to himself. The little man though continued to talk, “I am from Iceland, my English is still not perfect, it is I who am sorry.”
“No please. Your English is fine really.” Harry realised that this man was not from these shores. Iceland, where was that? He decided that it was probably better if he didn’t ask.
“Where am I?” he asked standing up for the first time. Up to that point he had been seated on a wooden chair.
“This is my shop.” Ivan told him, “I pickle things” a smile came on his face. He was obviously very proud of his small shop. The gaslight flickered off his white teeth and pale skin.
“Pickle?”
“Yes pickle. You see in Iceland we live a little differently to you here. You are used to day following night. In my country things happen differently.”
Harry was still feeling a little light headed and the last statement didn’t seem to make any sense. What did he mean night didn’t follow day, what did then?
“in Iceland we have the ‘long dark’. Because the island is situated were it is we go without sunlight for six months of the year. Nothing grows. So we harvest all we can during the summer months and then pickle it so we have a food supply all through the dark months.”
“And that’s what this shop is, you sell picked,” he looked around and could see a dead mouse suspended in a jar, “Things?”
“Please do not alarm yourself. I supply medical students with animals to dissect.” He told Harry as he pointed out a shelf of pickled rodents.
This was a subject that Harry knew something of, his brother was a medical student in the city of Leeds. This would make an interesting conversation on there next meeting.
Ivan seemed to be alive to the interest shown. “would you like to, it’s not normally, well I should say it’s for medical doctors only. This is not my only stock, there is another room. Through that door I have all sorts of specimens.” He pointed to a door positioned behind the counter.
Harry eyed the door eager to discover what lay behind the door. Once again he stood up and took one step toward the inner door. An instant smile came onto the shop keepers face. As Harry approached the door he once again heard the voices, “forever” or did he?
The door creaked open, the interim was a dimly lit room of incomprehensible dimensions. Lines of wooden shelves crossed the room obscuring the view to only the immediate proximity. The small of some kind of clinical substance filled his nostrils as he entered.
Ivan closed the door behind them once they were both inside. The crack of the three pin lock echoed through the room. Harry looked on the scene with amazement. The collection of jars in the shop paled into insignificance when compared to the stock room. The racks reached high up into what he could only imagine was the roof of the house. The two upper floors had been taken out. High above them Harry could see the roof beams pointing upward. As he looked high into the eves a feeling of disorientation came over him and momentary the voices returned, “Can you hear that?”
“Hear what?” the guide asked.
“Voices, I keep hearing voices.”
“What do they say?” did this strange little man believe him?
“I’m not sure, it something about been here forever>”
Ivan smiled, “It’s probably the pub next door you can hear, I no longer hear the noise coming from that direction.”
On one of the many shelves Harry spotted something he recognised. “Is that a cat?”
“Yes it is.” Said the little man struggling to take the heavy jar off the shelf. “this is not for sale you understand, but is part of my own collection.
Harry didn’t know what to say, what do you say to someone who pickles domestic animals.
“Come this way, I’ve something to show you.” Harry followed the native of Iceland through the maze of racks until they came to a wooden staircase. The host was still carrying the jar containing the cat, “Go on, up you go.”
Harry climbed the staircase. He knew something odd was about to be reviled though he couldn’t dream what the revelation was going to be.
As he came to the top he found himself on a wooden platform overlooking a huge jar, its diameter must be at least twelve feet, as for how deep, he could not tell.
“Here, were here.” The voice sad a little clearer now. He looked down, not knowing way, but in the huge vat of vinegar he could just make out what looked like an arm.
Stooping down to take a closer look he squinted his eyes trying to get a clear look in the dim light. It was indeed an arm, not only that, but he could see several bodies in the liquid. A pair of dead eyes stared up at him as he heard the voice again, now he knew. The voices were coming from the tank.
He took a sharp intake of breath, feeling sick he struggled for breath, he had to get out of this mad house, what was going on here?
Thoughts now had turned to the basic instinct of survival.
He tried to turn and run, but his legs were suffering form a paralysing fear. He could easily overcome the little man if need be, he’d have to for the shopkeeper was coming up the stairs. Again he tried to move, he could not take his eyes off of the face staring back at him. The rolling dead eyes held him in a kind of hypnotic grip.
A sharp sudden pain suddenly manifested itself in the back of his head.
Slowly he felt himself fall forward.
The body of the young man splashed as it broke the surface of the brownish liquid.
Standing on the platform the little Icelandic man wiped the blood off the jar containing the cat. He smiled as he looked down into the vat of pickled people.
The summer in Hull was as hot as the previous winter had been cold. For several weeks the clientele of Ye Old Black Boy had noticed an unpleasant smell emanating from the pickle shop next door.
The local constabulary was called in. on investigation no reason for the armour was forthcoming so the door was broken down.
In the back room a macabre sight was witnessed. Due to the excessive heat several of the jars had exploded. The owner of the shop was lying dead on the floor. The only explanation forthcoming was that a piece of flying glass had inbeded itself in his neck. Next to the body of the owner lay a dead cat lying in an unnatural pose.
A week later when the gruesome job of emptying the various jars was complete, several human bodies were found. The one later identified as Harry Grimshaw held a piece of broken glass tightly in his hand, the tip of which was covered in blood.
By the march of 1899 the thaw had past and life in the busy port was returning to some kind of normality. As the sunlight became stronger day by day a new optimism could be felt in the air and even the estimated death toll claimed by the winter wasn’t as bad as first reported.
On one of the cold, but bright spring mornings Harry Grimshaw walked along the old High Street in Kingston upon Hull. the High Street ran adjacent to the River Hull, which gave the city its name. Both sides of the narrow street were lined with tall three story buildings casting long shadows onto the cobbles. On the riverside of the street a constant block of warehouses dominated, only the occasional narrow ally allowing access to the river side.
The opposite side of the narrow road though was made up of a mixture of shops, mews and public houses. Harry always walked this way to his employers, the Lloyds Insurance Bank situated in Low Gate were he spent his days as an accountants clerk. The high street was not in any way on a direct route to his offices, but every day he would divert his path to walk down the oldest part of the town. He loved the architecture of the buildings even though the pungent smells of the mud on the river, decaying fruit and sewage outlet pipes could often make his stomach turn.
One other reason drew him down this street. It was something he could never quite put his finger on, but it was always there. As he reached his favourite pub, ‘Ye Old Black Boy’ a strange feeling started too take hold of him. Something about that piece of cobbled road made him shiver. Sometimes he could swear that he could hear voices inside his head, the words were unfathomable though they were definitely saying something.
Often he wondered to himself what was causing this unsettling feeling.
The most obvious explanation that came to mind was the noxious aroma that breezed down the street trapped in between the buildings. Were they the course of the phantom voices?
He’d heard all the stories of course regarding the various ghosts that were supposed to walk the old that are supposed to walk the old rooms and corridors of then building. It had stood there since the fourteen hundreds and deserved its claim to be the home of a number of ghosts.
As he walked past the public house the sensation started to fade and once past the entrance to the shop next door it had total wained. Ever since he was a child he had mused over what the shop sold. In the window of frosted glass many jars filled the shelves. What was in the jars he never asked, he was of the opinion that the frosted glass was there to obscure something that was not to be seen except by those who wish to enter. Saying that he had never looked above the door or indeed the window at the sign, by this act he would have made him none the wiser.
Three weeks later spring had arrived, the equinox now behind them, the daffodils and tulips were coming into bloom.
At the bank the manager, Mr. Edward Hardyman announced his long waited retirement. The announcement was long overdue, but not unexpected. On occasions such as this never would the management fraternise with the workers, Edward though was a man dedicated to his employees.
An invitation was pinned on the staff notice board inviting his loyal workforce of counters, cashiers and clerks to join him in a celebration of his long career with drinks at Ye Old Black Boy public house.
That night Hardymans staff gathered in the oldest pub in the city. Hardyman, if he had one weakness it was his love of real ale. Never had he mixed business with pleasure, but today, his last day he would. The one and only time he would drink with his staff would be today.
As he gave his leaving address to his loyal minions Harry found it difficult to concentration his outgoing managers message.
In his head a cacophony of voices chattered, and it sounded to him as though they were in pain. Could he make out the chattering, yes he could.
“Help us, were here.” they said, followed by one final world, “Forever.”
Hardy shut his eyes and shook his head, this action ruffled the straight black oiled hair, which clung to his scalp. Once the voices had subsided he realised one or two of his colleagues were noticing his state of unrest. He took himself to the rear of the small room were I the toilet he rearranged his appearance.
Two hours later only a hand full of bank staff remained in the pub keeping the regulars company.
Several pints later the clock struck ten o’clock, the regulars, all ex-sailors were telling all manner of nautical tales. Each story of sea monsters and the like became more unbelievable with each passing.
Harry listened and laughed as the storyteller became more and more comical with each passing drink.
It was only after Harry’s sixth pint the he plucked up the courage to tap into the endless local knowledge.
“Tell me,” he laughed, “is this pub haunted?”
“Ah,” said one of the locals as all the other voices fell silent, “you could say that young ‘un.” He too then fell silent. Harry hung on the moment’s silence waiting for someone to speak. Each passing second seemed to him like an age. Finally the old salt spoke again, “Ey lad, I would say it is, yes.”
“Who by?” Harry asked as a shiver ran up his spine, what was the expression, a goose walking over your grave?
“Many lost souls are said to walk this house. In the olden days this was the last building sailors saw before setting out to sea, it was a muster point for many a voyage. Many never made it back, I wonder how many of them walk the rooms?”
the landlord who up to that point had remained quiet listened to the same old stories told not for the first time. “Don’t forget Charlie?” he said from behind the bar.
“Charlie?” Harry asked. If anyone should know it should be the landlord, he surmised.
“Charlie was a Cavalier, during the civil war. We don’t know what happened to him, but I’ll tell ‘ya something, I hear him in the cellar and when I do,” his eyes narrowed and caught Harries own gaze, “I don’t go in there, not for all the beer in the pub.”
“Do any of them speak?” the question was an open one. No one answered, in fact all now seemed reluctant to carry on the conversation.
He knew it was time to take his leave, not only had the conversation gone cold, but his head was starting to become disorientated.
Quietly he put on his over coat and stepped into the corridor which lead to the door onto the high street.
The night was dark, no moon shone. As he stepped out into the street his breath condensed into a cloud of mist. Buttoning the coat up he set off along the street, at least he tried to. His legs seemed to be suffering form some kind of paralysis. He stood and looked down at his trouser legs. Standing up straight again he was aware of the voices.
“Help us.” the whispered, “Help us, were here”
Harry put his hands over his ears, “No” he shouted, at least, he thought he had shouted.
The memory of falling entered his mind, of sitting on the flag stones pavement, hands clamped over his ears, he knew that had happened. Where was he now? Was he indoors?
“Forever.” The voice repeated.
With a jolt he came too. It took a moment for his eyes to focus, where was he?
Four glass lamps illuminated the dark room. Brown, the room was a definite shade of brown.
When focus eventually returned to his eyes he found himself in a, well what looked like a dispensary. No, not that, a shop. He was in a shop, but what kind of shop was this?
All around him jars filled the shelves, old dark shelves. A strange smell brought him back to full consciousness, it was an acidic smell, wine, no vinegar.
He looked at the jars, they contained pieces of meat, vegetables, fruit and, oh my God, small animals. All the contents were suspended in liquid.
“Ah, you are back with us I see.” Said a strange voice, an accent attached Harry could not place.
“Where am I?” he asked rubbing his eyes.
“You collapsed outside in the street. I brought you in before you froze to death.”
Harry looked up at the man who had spoken to him. He had dragged me into this place, he must be stronger then he looked. Harry saw before him a small, weak looking man. His first impression was that the little man looked rather like a mole, his head slightly leaning forward and his eyes squinting a little as though he suffered form short sight.
“Who are you?”
“I am Ivan.” He replied.
“Sorry, I don’t mean to sound rude.” Harry apologised.
“I do not hold it on you.”
Strange words thought Harry to himself. The little man though continued to talk, “I am from Iceland, my English is still not perfect, it is I who am sorry.”
“No please. Your English is fine really.” Harry realised that this man was not from these shores. Iceland, where was that? He decided that it was probably better if he didn’t ask.
“Where am I?” he asked standing up for the first time. Up to that point he had been seated on a wooden chair.
“This is my shop.” Ivan told him, “I pickle things” a smile came on his face. He was obviously very proud of his small shop. The gaslight flickered off his white teeth and pale skin.
“Pickle?”
“Yes pickle. You see in Iceland we live a little differently to you here. You are used to day following night. In my country things happen differently.”
Harry was still feeling a little light headed and the last statement didn’t seem to make any sense. What did he mean night didn’t follow day, what did then?
“in Iceland we have the ‘long dark’. Because the island is situated were it is we go without sunlight for six months of the year. Nothing grows. So we harvest all we can during the summer months and then pickle it so we have a food supply all through the dark months.”
“And that’s what this shop is, you sell picked,” he looked around and could see a dead mouse suspended in a jar, “Things?”
“Please do not alarm yourself. I supply medical students with animals to dissect.” He told Harry as he pointed out a shelf of pickled rodents.
This was a subject that Harry knew something of, his brother was a medical student in the city of Leeds. This would make an interesting conversation on there next meeting.
Ivan seemed to be alive to the interest shown. “would you like to, it’s not normally, well I should say it’s for medical doctors only. This is not my only stock, there is another room. Through that door I have all sorts of specimens.” He pointed to a door positioned behind the counter.
Harry eyed the door eager to discover what lay behind the door. Once again he stood up and took one step toward the inner door. An instant smile came onto the shop keepers face. As Harry approached the door he once again heard the voices, “forever” or did he?
The door creaked open, the interim was a dimly lit room of incomprehensible dimensions. Lines of wooden shelves crossed the room obscuring the view to only the immediate proximity. The small of some kind of clinical substance filled his nostrils as he entered.
Ivan closed the door behind them once they were both inside. The crack of the three pin lock echoed through the room. Harry looked on the scene with amazement. The collection of jars in the shop paled into insignificance when compared to the stock room. The racks reached high up into what he could only imagine was the roof of the house. The two upper floors had been taken out. High above them Harry could see the roof beams pointing upward. As he looked high into the eves a feeling of disorientation came over him and momentary the voices returned, “Can you hear that?”
“Hear what?” the guide asked.
“Voices, I keep hearing voices.”
“What do they say?” did this strange little man believe him?
“I’m not sure, it something about been here forever>”
Ivan smiled, “It’s probably the pub next door you can hear, I no longer hear the noise coming from that direction.”
On one of the many shelves Harry spotted something he recognised. “Is that a cat?”
“Yes it is.” Said the little man struggling to take the heavy jar off the shelf. “this is not for sale you understand, but is part of my own collection.
Harry didn’t know what to say, what do you say to someone who pickles domestic animals.
“Come this way, I’ve something to show you.” Harry followed the native of Iceland through the maze of racks until they came to a wooden staircase. The host was still carrying the jar containing the cat, “Go on, up you go.”
Harry climbed the staircase. He knew something odd was about to be reviled though he couldn’t dream what the revelation was going to be.
As he came to the top he found himself on a wooden platform overlooking a huge jar, its diameter must be at least twelve feet, as for how deep, he could not tell.
“Here, were here.” The voice sad a little clearer now. He looked down, not knowing way, but in the huge vat of vinegar he could just make out what looked like an arm.
Stooping down to take a closer look he squinted his eyes trying to get a clear look in the dim light. It was indeed an arm, not only that, but he could see several bodies in the liquid. A pair of dead eyes stared up at him as he heard the voice again, now he knew. The voices were coming from the tank.
He took a sharp intake of breath, feeling sick he struggled for breath, he had to get out of this mad house, what was going on here?
Thoughts now had turned to the basic instinct of survival.
He tried to turn and run, but his legs were suffering form a paralysing fear. He could easily overcome the little man if need be, he’d have to for the shopkeeper was coming up the stairs. Again he tried to move, he could not take his eyes off of the face staring back at him. The rolling dead eyes held him in a kind of hypnotic grip.
A sharp sudden pain suddenly manifested itself in the back of his head.
Slowly he felt himself fall forward.
The body of the young man splashed as it broke the surface of the brownish liquid.
Standing on the platform the little Icelandic man wiped the blood off the jar containing the cat. He smiled as he looked down into the vat of pickled people.
The summer in Hull was as hot as the previous winter had been cold. For several weeks the clientele of Ye Old Black Boy had noticed an unpleasant smell emanating from the pickle shop next door.
The local constabulary was called in. on investigation no reason for the armour was forthcoming so the door was broken down.
In the back room a macabre sight was witnessed. Due to the excessive heat several of the jars had exploded. The owner of the shop was lying dead on the floor. The only explanation forthcoming was that a piece of flying glass had inbeded itself in his neck. Next to the body of the owner lay a dead cat lying in an unnatural pose.
A week later when the gruesome job of emptying the various jars was complete, several human bodies were found. The one later identified as Harry Grimshaw held a piece of broken glass tightly in his hand, the tip of which was covered in blood.
