Spectrecide: The True Story of the Hammersmith Ghost Murder

In the early eighteen hundreds a spirit tormented the inhabitants of Hammersmith. Until, one night, the residents fought back.

In 1803, long before the glass towers, tube trains and bumper-to-bumper traffic of the modern metropolis, London was a very different city. It was the tough, dirty and chaotic capital of Europe. A place where hackney coaches clattered across crowded, cobbled streets. Where the smell of soot and open sewers permeated the air. Where bare-knuckle boxing and public executions passed for viable forms of entertainment.

It’s a time and place that many of us have etched into our subconscious. We’ve seen it in films and the monochrome sketches of time-yellowed history books: oil lamps spilling light over narrow, chiaroscuro alleyways; a thick smog clinging heavily to the damp and dirty ground; shadows that hide within shadows. The perfect setting for a ghost story.

It was on the outskirts of this London, a few decades before Spring-Heeled Jack would bound across the rooftops and almost a full century before Jack the Ripper would terrorise the residents of Whitechapel, that a very different evil haunted the borough of Hammersmith.

December, 1803.

For two months the residents of Hammersmith had been living in fear. Sightings of a ghost around the churchyard had caused gossip to spread like wildfire. And if the stories were to be believed, each encounter grew more severe than the last.

Details were hazy: some described the spirit as a tall figure cloaked in white; a burial shroud perhaps. While others claimed it wore a calfskin garment with horns and large glass eyes. One thing everyone agreed on, was that it was far from benign. The mysterious phantom did not just wish to be seen, but instead seemed determined to attack those who saw it.

One such incident took place at ten o’clock one late November evening. That night, a local woman crossed the churchyard on her way home — a routine she carried out most nights, although now less comfortably than before.

As her eyes attempted to adjust to the moonless night, something drew her attention. Not a sight as such, nor a sound, but a feeling; something basic and primal. Instinctual even. Her body sending a warning.

She looked around, her pulse quickening slightly, and at first she saw nothing. Then, in among the hedgerows and headstones, tangled in the evening mist, something moved. Struggling against the weight of superstition, she began to recall stories of the ghost—the stagecoach driver who’d fled as it approached from a field; the pregnant woman who just days before had been attacked on the very path she now stood. Images of burial shrouds, goat horns and dead, glass eyes cycled through her mind as, slowly, she watched a white form begin to rise from the ground.

For a brief moment, she may have dared to imagine that her mind was playing tricks on her. And then she started to run, stumbling over uneven ground in panicked strides. As her heartbeat kept time with her footsteps, she allowed herself a single glance over her shoulder, half expecting to see the apparition gone. But it hadn’t gone.

It was right on top of her.

Hours later, some local residents found the woman unconscious in the churchyard. They took her home and and led her to bed, where in a state of semi-coherence she recounted her story. Leaving her to rest, the neighbours returned to their own homes, speaking in hushed voices about things they barely dare mention. They didn’t know then, that the woman would never recover from her encounter or ever wake from her sleep.

This incident was no doubt playing on the mind of Thomas Groom the night he walked through Hammersmith churchyard, returning from his job at a local brewery.

He knew of the rumours well. Talk among residents had drawn some speculative conclusions. Some said the spirit was that of a man who had taken his own life in the neighbourhood a year before. His body had been buried within the churchyard on consecrated ground; an act that was illegal for suicide victims until 1882. Others claimed it was a poltergeist that had been wreaking havoc on the town for some while. But, if Groom was worried, he wasn’t worried enough to change his route home. Or even keep pace with his co-worker, who had strode on several yards ahead. In fact, his own recounting has him walking with his coat tucked under his arm and his hands in his pockets. Hardly the actions of a man afraid. Perhaps he had dismissed the stories as folklore. If that was the case, his mind would soon be changed.

The churchyard was dark that night, as it would have been most nights; an impenetrable mass of shadows that flickered and twitched as clouds lazily shuffled across a dim moon. As Groom walked the narrow path, straining to see where he placed his feet, something emerged from the blackness behind him, placed both hands around his throat and squeezed.

Groom struggled, letting out a startled cry that attracted the attention of his colleague.

“What is it?” the other brewer asked the darkness. But there was no answer. Before Groom could respond, the spirit spun him around and released his neck. Groom struck out and felt something soft — ‘like a great coat,’ he would later testify — but he saw nothing but night.

By Christmas time, a climate of fear had truly settled upon Hammersmith. Residents were convinced that evil had overtaken their town, and many now refused to go out after dark. With the first police force still two decades ways, the townspeople were left to protect themselves. But how do you defend yourself against something that’s already dead — something not of this world?

Night after night, men would arm themselves and take to the graveyard in search of the spectre. But, a series of overgrown, labyrinthine paths and the impenetrable dark left too many places to hide. And in truth, many came home relieved that their efforts had been fruitless.

There were still sightings, however. On Thursday 29th December, William Girdler, the watchman at Hammersmith, saw the spirit in the churchyard grounds and gave chase. To his surprise, as he closed in, the spectre seemingly disappeared entirely.

Christmas came and went. New Year, too. The sightings continued and the fear escalated, leaving the festive season with a sour note. And so it would remain, until the night of January 3rd, 1804.

That night, one of the men patrolling the neighbourhood was Francis Smith, a 29 year old customs officer described by all that knew him as mild mannered and good natured — not a disposition fitting of a man intending to hunt an evil entity.

Smith was no doubt scared that night as he prowled the cemetery and the alleyways surrounding. But he’d had a drink to calm his nerves, and he would have been reassured by the shotgun he had for protection. Cold steel offering some warmth on a frigid night.

Turning down Beaver Lane he came across William Girdler performing his nightly rounds. The two had a short conversation. Smith explained that he was out searching for the ghost and asked for Girdler’s help. Girdler, perhaps frustrated at letting the phantom escape the week prior, agreed. But first he had to finish his rounds. He promised to return after calling the hour as the clock struck eleven. The night was so dark, that the two devised a system to help them identify one another. When Smith would shout “who comes there?” Girdler would reply “friend”. With that agreed, the two men set off in separate directions.

Walking the outskirts of the churchyard, Smith turned down Black Lion Lane — a narrow passageway with tall, clawing hedgerows that conspired to block out any illumination the moon may have offered. His fingers gripped his shotgun a little more tightly. The hairs on the back of his neck stood alert. Every sound, every movement, every subtle change in light stood out to him as he stepped cautiously through the gloom.

In the distance, he heard Girdler cry the hour — eleven o’clock. He breathed a sigh of relief and let his shoulders fall slightly. Soon he wouldn’t be alone. Thank god. And then, he saw it. Something began to materialise in the doorway of a small cottage several metres ahead. Shadows were replaced by glimpses of white fabric, and a figure began to move towards him.

In a quivering voice, half swallowed by fear, Smith called out: “Who comes there?” If there was an answer, it wasn’t heard. The figure continued to walk towards him.

“Damn you,” Smith continued, raising his gun. “Who are you? And what are you?

Again, nothing.

His finger twitched against the resistance of the trigger. “I will shoot you,” Smith said. And with that, he fired.

The figure stopped, fell to the floor and didn’t move again. For a while, all was silent but for a female voice shouting the name Thomas into the night.

The very human Thomas Millwood lay dead on Black Lion Lane, just yards from his family cottage. He had left the house to collect his wife from work, wearing a white gown, traditional in his trade as a plasterer.

By strange coincidence, this wasn’t the first time Millwood had been mistaken for the spirit. The previous Saturday he had told his wife that he’d accidentally frightened two ladies and a gentleman travelling in a horse-drawn cart.

The gentleman passenger had called out “there goes the ghost.” To which Millwood had replied that he was no more a ghost that he was, and offered to punch him in the head as proof. When hearing of this, Millwood’s wife had begged him to change his dress.

“Thomas,” she said. “There is a piece of work about the ghost, and your clothes look white. Pray, do put on your great coat that you may not run any danger.”

In response, Millwood simply mumbled something about wishing the ghost was caught. He never did put on his coat. And he never got a chance to again.

On January 13th, 1804, Francis Smith was tried for the murder of Thomas Millwood. Twelve character witnesses gave testimony to his good nature and spoke of the fear that had engulfed the Thameside town, but it wasn’t enough. Smith was sentenced to death and dissection the following Monday.

Speaking in his defence, Smith said: “My Lord, I went out with a good intention, and when this unhappy affair took place, I did not know what I did; speaking to the deceased twice, and he not answering, I was so much agitated, I did not know what I did; I solemnly declare my innocence, and that I had no intention to take away the life of the unfortunate deceased, or any other man whatever.”

If Smith had been executed, it would have been the third life taken by a spirit seemingly born of rumour. But, on the 25th January he received a reprieve. His sentence was commuted to a year’s imprisonment.

When Smith set out that night, intent on vanquishing the Hammersmith ghost, he wouldn’t have dared imagine that he would do so by murdering a fellow human being. But, with the death of Thomas Millwood came the death of the spectre. Soon after word of the incident spread, the true culprit behind the haunting came forward.

John Graham, an elderly shoemaker, admitted that in recent weeks he had taken to stalking the Hammersmith cemetery wearing a white sheet. His motive? He wanted to take playful revenge on his apprentice, a young man who had been scaring his children — with ghost stories.