The Western Gate

Hare Street was the main artery of livestock coming from many of the Essex farmlands into Romford Market. It has subsequentlyu been renamed which occurred piecemeal, a bit here then the planners carved the road up there etc, The ‘Hare Stree’t that concerns us in this story is the path between Gallows Corner and the entry into Romford (for those that know the area, and will accordingly know the name of the road as it is now known which I have -purposefully omitted.)

I was to learn many years after this story that my grandfather was actually born and lived in Hare street, it was then under the parish of Navestock and were it not for my continuous digging I would never have found that Hare Street was the road, which I also temporarily lived at with my then girlfriend , her parents and Nan. Her younger brother also lived there and as liberal and free as her parents were I was not at liberty to sleep in my girlfriends room and would therefore share the room of her brother if I stayed over, in the top bed of a bunk bed.

He was not yet a teenager and therefore impressionable and easily scared. I of course was a wind up and a fool.
I would await until the lights were out and then begin throwing bits of screwed up paper in the dark, this would give the impression that there was something in the room, a mouse or suchlike.
The brother would be heard to toss and turn before asking if I were awake and could I hear those noises, of course, I would reply “I could not.”
Stealthily I would position myself away from the pillow end where I rested and scratch somewhat at the wall. Again this would arouse his concern on the bunk bed below, “what’s that noise?” he’d ask.
I would of course reply irritated that I had been awoken, there was no noise. And on it would go until I bored of the little game.
this would oft’ be repeated for my cruel entertainment.
One night there was a thick fog that seemed to roll in from Romford area towards Gallows corner. It was an unnerving sight that recalled scenes of old noire movie scenes, the lampposts would cast a dim hazy glow, the streets would be silent from traffic.
That night as my girlfriends brother began to rest I recalled to him the tale of the Redcap witch who was hanged at Gallows corner, from which it derived its name. Of course this was untrue though Gallows corner was indeed the setting of numerous acts of arbitrary justice using gibbets and gallows as a means to illicit punishment upon those who didn’t pay the crown enough taxes or stole corn from the fields that sprawled across the area etc.
He wondered why I was telling him the story and I recalled that when she was executed she cursed the crossroad upon which she were strung up, a thick fog enveloped the area, and the departing ghouls who’d come to spectacle at the vile hanging were subject to the fog and its equally unmerciful avengement.
Four carriages collided and three of those aboard, including a magistrate were flung under the wheels, horses in panic ran down foot pedestrians, a dog was maddened by the thick grey blanket that removed all sense of being and subsequently ravaged anyone or anything in its hysterical path.
It was said, that perhaps it were the squealing of the wheels on overturned carriages, or the creaking of the taut rope upon the redcaps neck that people heard, whatever it truly were, across the area as mayhem ensued distant laughter from a solitary throat echoed over the carnage.
I stopped the tale at this point, save only to mention that being as it was foggy outside, it reminded me of the ghostly tale.
I knew my story had impact as the brother was deathly still.
I immediately began to feign restlessness and commented in a whisper how I couldn’t ‘sleep’. I believe the brother was scared witless at this point and refused to indulge my conversation.
I jumped off of the bunk bed and looked over the road below at the thick fog, for a while I said nothing and then remarked in the cruellest of lies, ” there’s an old lady there,” I said it almost as a passing remark as if it were not much to be concerned with before I changed my tone of voice, “she’s just standing there under the lamppost”
The brother by now was fidgeting, he pilled his bedcovers up tightly, but was hanging on my words.
“Come over here” I said slowly to him, “look!”

He replied with a shudder in his voice, “I’m not getting out of bed… I’m not..”
I interrupted and with a concerned and slightly raised whispered voice added, “she looking up at the window, she’s looking at us.”
“there’s no-one there!… you’re just trying to scare me…”
“Quick come here then and see, she’s looking at me….” and with a sudden shock in my voice also added, ” what’s wrong with her face?”
With this remark, there was a tangible presence of fear that arose in the room as sure as fear itself manifests a beast from dream to reality.
The silence only lasted a few seconds before the brother leapt from his bed and ran out of the room calling for his mum and in equal measure accusing me of frightening him.
Inside of me arose demonic yet gentle laughter and I looked back to the window to close the curtains, I would have immediately leapt into the bed were it not for the sight under the lamppost across the road of a small frail figure whose fingers seemed to claw for stability upon the post , this, as the mother came in to scold me for the terrible prank, at once she had flicked on the light switch, in that moment of illumination the old woman under the lamppost caught the glare from the room and her watery eyes looked up and into mine, with a mischievous glint of equanimity, delight in the sheer terror she had instilled in my body, just as I had condemned the poor suffering soul previous.