As I bimbled through Bolton, teeth chattering for coffee and inspiration, I immediately felt something strongly. Under the stark blue skies of the recent heatwave, I came to realise just how much history has lined these streets. Arriving from out of town, I pondered over the old town hall and the defining figure of Fred Dibnah.
Under the sunlight and statues, I felt a peculiar undertone. There is something unsettling about this place, beneath the church chimes and laughter of school children.
Later, as I buried myself into a library seat, my hands discovered something at the edge. My eyes fell deep into the page, a Hitchcock zoom overtaking my vision of the sentence below. “Bolton: is one of Lancashire’s most haunted towns.” A quiver went through me – whether from consternation or the mild air-conditioning, I was unsure. I have never been quite so friendly with the macabre yet somehow I had ended up in the heart of a haunted town. The question now was which road do I take: back towards the silky surface of denial or confront the woes which would surely drive my mind tonight. I decided comfort rarely makes for good reading.
The story of the A666 seemed like a good place place as any to start my journey. The Lancashire road has been dubbed ‘the Devils Highway’, given the well known reference to the number in the biblical book Revelations as the mark of the beast, which is thought to be a code for Emperor ‘Nero Caesar’. I wondered whether the drivers in this story were more familiar with the this fact or the highway code, as a sign on the road reads “81 CASUALITIES in 5 years – WATCH YOUR SPEED.” In April 1977, Coronation Street star Bev Callard was almost claimed as a victim of the bridge when she lost control of her Alfa sports car and smashed into the side barrier, despite her medium speed of 40 mph. Luckily she walked away with her life, along with some bruising and whiplash – her car was not so lucky. Perhaps the demonic presence there didn’t like the reference to the almighty, even if the omega wasn’t present.
The mile and a half known as St Peters Way between Farnworth and Bolton has a particularly devastating reputation, with 12 people known to have attempted suicide in the area between 1988-1998, as well as a recording of attempted murder in 1990. The population of problems had become so pronounced that local authorities considered erecting anti-climbing fences along the bridge. Many have also claimed to lose all recollection of driving over the infamous highway, with one market worker claiming him and his colleagues arrived at their destination in dazed distress, lingering from the lost time they experienced between Bolton and Pendlebury. None could explain why it took a full 30 minutes longer than it should have.
Another story I came across is the haunting of Minne Stott, a 17-year-old shop worker who lived in Clarendon Street. One night on a November evening in 1940, she was found dead in a narrow alley opposite after being brutally strangled. No one was ever brought to justice over the death.
A tragedy, which seemingly didn’t sit when with Minne. Many have claimed to see her, with a poignant example coming from 1987 when another 17-year-old saw a misty apparition of a young girl at the top of a flight of stairs at a showroom called Parker’s garage on Bradshawgate. The over 40-year-old crime was only made aware to the girl after the sighting of the spirit.
Bradshaw gate seems to be a place I should avoid, with another hair-raising tale of haunting coming from Wood Street. What is now Bolton Socialist Club was once the birth home of William Hesketh Lever in 1851, the founder of a great soap empire. Perhaps he and his wife’s death was not as clean as they were in life, as there have been phantom sightings of the pair in their Victorian garments in both 1972 and 1980. The latter date was from the recollection of a local councillor was supposedly alone there. The president of the club had also reported a ghostly hand touching his shoulder in 1980. Perhaps Lever had a distaste for their political leanings and wanted the pink-os out of his house in good order, although I doubt he would have used that phraseology.
Tightened by the turmoil, I looked around for comfort, only finding pale surfaces below and blue tinted panes above. The book cases seemed to be closing in around me. “Are you all right luv?” I heard wispy, mellifluous voice say behind me. I realised I was standing up, and used the moment to swivel round. In front of me was a warm smile with a pair of wide glasses framing a face topped with short silver hair, at the head of a petite stature. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” I explained my current pursuit to the distinguished lady, who later identified herself as local author turned library volunteer Dorothy Snelson. Dottie had knowledge of a local legend less of the supernatural nature (thankfully for me), taking me further into the past with story of George Marsh.
Staunchly behind the reforms that Henry VIII brought in, Marsh was appointed as a preaching minister in 1553 when Edward VI exceeded the throne, travelling throughout Lancashire spreading his Christian truth from what he saw as the foundational message of the New Testament he was so devoted to. Yet the protracted life of King Edward brought about a short renaissance of the old Catholic order. As Queen Mary snatched the throne, turning Marsh from priest to pariah in the space of a few days, a retribution of rough words rained down on his family. Fearful of the repercussions of the threats and the safety of his loved ones, he came out of hiding and handed himself in voluntarily. He was tried in the Upper Green Chamber at Smithills Hall for preaching ‘false doctrine’, Refusing repeatedly to disavow his staunch faith despite his family’s pleas, he stamped his foot in stubborn indignation, marking the stone floor outside the hall for eternity. George was given a heathens death of burning at the stake outside the city walls, but became a martyr to Anglicans throughout the country. It’s said that you can still see the print his boot left, his defiance branding the earth and foreshadowing the permanence of the Protestant faith that would soon sprout against the hard Catholic resistance in Bolton and beyond.
“Nothing like a bit of bloody history to lighten the mood” I quipped, to Dottie’s sympathetic laugh. Why does blood make me so light-hearted while ghosts make me pale? I thought as I thanked the kindly lady for her aid. Life filtered through the veins of the library as I made my way to the exit, the eerie portraits of long-dead people in the reception hall glaring down enviously at the flow. A brittle pane of glass marking the only dividing line between us and them. I am rather grateful, I thought as I strode back into the sunlight, that I did not arrive here at the close of October.
My first home was a terraced 2 bedroom home on Buckley Lane Farnworth. It felt sinister from day 1 but it was 1977 and 5k for a home was my best option.
Objects would disappear and reappear. Light bulbs would pop. Shadows were constantly seen. One visitor saw their car keys slide across a table slowly and jerkily and fall to the floor. The neighbours would ask if when I left for work, I could ask the people I left in the house to keep the noise down. While I was working my home was empty. One night I came home to hear what sounded like a decorators table folding up, falling to the floor with a bang in my bedroom. Then several footsteps sounded like People were running off. I rang 999 in a panic and they arrived in 5 minutes. They went upstairs, searched all the rooms including the loft….not a trace of anything or anybody. When I came downstairs the following morning, all my Elvis 45 vinyls had been taken out of my record rack and placed on the rug.
I moved very soon after. I do notice however the home changes hands very often.
I was born in the late 1950s in a set of terraced mill cottages called Bank View in Farnworth .The “Banks” were the sides of several cotton mill lodges, as health and safety wasn’t so strict back then. It had a “ginnel” leading to Long causeway and one more road leading up to Market Street facing the three crowns public house. Bank View was demolished in the late 70s to make way for newer homes. There were 15 homes but only 14 numbers as 11A was a converted stable.
My mother and grandmother lived next door to each other. Despite being cottages they had 2 reception rooms, a kitchen, 3 bedrooms and endless back gardens. Only 2 of the cottages had bathrooms my mother’s being one of them. Outdoor loos at the back. My grandmothers house always felt creepy despite family going in and out on a daily basis and there always being people around. She had a set of keys for the house, greenhouse and shed, hung on a nail in her vestibule. One night myself, Mum and Grandma were watching TV and I looked towards the keys. One key lifted up like unseen fingers held the bottom of it, and it circled the nail it was hung on, slowly and steadily. I just sat staring at it move round but my Mum and Grandma were too busy watching TV and chatting. It stopped on doing a full circle, not even swaying. Just stopped to a still halt. I told them later. My grandma was no nonsense and said old homes were draughty despite us always having coal fires in the rooms that were very hot. My Mum believed me and said she felt my grandma’s house had an “atmosphere”.
One night I was sleeping in my Grandma’s back bedroom. We weren’t overlooked so I never closed the curtains. It was a bright moonlit night and I turned towards the bedroom wall to sleep. I felt a tapping on my shoulder, as though someone was trying to get my attention. It didn’t feel right so I wouldn’t look round. It carried on to the point it was starting to hurt so I turned over in bed.
I know this is going to sound like a ten year old kids bad dream….but I swear I was wide awake.
Kneeling at the side of my bed was an American civil war soldier. He was smiling. His hat was dark blue, had 2 crossed Goldy yellow swords on it, and it was battered and dusty. He had dark curly hair, and a tanned skin. I just stared in terror. Couldn’t shout or scream. I pulled the blankets over my head. I remember being stone cold and shaking but sweating at the same time.
Again my grandma said I’d had a nightmare. But to this day I’ll maintain I saw that soldier and nothing will persuade me otherwise. My Mum complained of hearing bumps and bangs in the house and on investigation found nothing. But the best came when my Dad a definite no nonsense building site worker told me Grandma her radio was blaring away in the kitchen while she was at the shop and he was putting a small fence up for her at the back. He jokingly asked her why so loud on her return and was she going deaf to leave it on at that volume.
She took the radio out to him, and it had no batteries in it, it was completely dead.
Obviously that was a long time ago now, but when things like that happen and they are so strange, they do stay with you.
A MEMORY I HAVE OF VISITING SMITHILLS HALL AS A CHILD IN THE 1960S.
IT WAS HALF TERM AND MY NAN TOOK ME TO SMITHILLS HALL. THEN ( AND IT CAN BE CONFIRMED BY SMITHILLS HALL I WOULD THINK)
THERE WAS A WINDING WOODEN STAIRCASE LEADING UP TO THE GALLERY OF THE CHAPEL.
AT THE TOP I REMEMBER A WOODED DOOR. ( THE LAST VISIT I MADE IN 2025 THE STAIRCASE WAS CORDENED OFF). I OPENED THE WOODEN DOOR AND WENT INSIDE. IT WAS WHAT LOOKED LIKE A ROOM FOR THE VICAR AND CHOIRBOYS TO GET READY IN BEFORE A CHAPEL SERVICE.
I OPENED A LARGE CUPBOARD AND SAW THE GARMENTS THAT CHORISTERS/ ALTER BOYS WEAR FOR A CHAPEL SERVICE. AS I SHUT THE DOOR I FELT I WAS BEING WATCHED I LOOKED BEHIND ME AND A MAN WAS SITTING AT A SMALL DESK IN THE CORNER STARING AT ME. AS AN ELEVEN YEAR OLD, I JUST REMEMBER THINKING HE LOOKED LIKE SHAKESPEARE WITH HIS CLOTHES AND BEARD.
HE DIDN’T SPEAK AND NEITHER DID I.
I THOUGHT HE WAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH THE HALL AND I WAS TRESPASSING, SO I HURRIED OFF BACK TO MY NAN, WHO WAS IN THE GREAT HALL PART BELOW THE STAIRCASE.
NEVER FOUND OUT WHO HE REALLY WAS, BUT ON LOOKING BACK AS A GROWN UP, HE COULD WELL HAVE BEEN A GHOST.
IN ALL FAIRNESS I SHOULD NOT HAVE BEEN SNOOPING WHERE I DIDN’T BELONG.
AND THAT GENTLEMAN’S FACE STARING AT ME SAID IT ALL.
I WONDER WHO OR WHAT HE REALLY WAS.