Ghosts · London
Scratching Fanny of Cock Lane
Cock Lane, Smithfield, in the City of London
Spooky: for older readers
In January 1762 the London newspapers were full of nothing but the Cock Lane ghost.
It had begun a few years before, in the house of Mr Parsons, clerk of St Sepulchre's church, in Cock Lane near Smithfield. He had let rooms to a gentleman, whom the papers called only Mr K., and to a young woman called Fanny, who kept house for him. Once, when Mr K. went away to a wedding in the country, Fanny asked the landlord's little daughter, Elizabeth Parsons, to share her bed for company. That night both of them were woken by strange scratchings and rappings.
Mrs Parsons blamed a cobbler next door, hard at work. But the noises came on a Sunday too, when no cobbler would work. Fanny feared they were a warning of her own death.
Fanny and Mr K. quarrelled with Parsons over money and moved away to Clerkenwell, and there, early in 1760, Fanny died. Her doctor said it was smallpox. For a year and a half Cock Lane was quiet. Then the knocking came back, louder than ever, and always around little Elizabeth's bed. Parsons tore down the wall panelling to look for a joker next door, and found nothing. The child trembled and shivered whenever the ghost came and went. She said she had seen a figure in a shroud, with no hands. Two other people saw a shining figure that lit up the face of a clock.
Then someone thought of asking the ghost questions: one knock for yes, two for no. And so the knocks spelled out a dreadful tale. The ghost was Fanny. Mr K. had poisoned her with red arsenic in her favourite drink, and she wished to see him hanged.
All London came. Crowds followed the child wherever she went, with clergy, nobles and princes among them. Horace Walpole came with the Duke of York and three ladies, five of them crammed into one coach. Scratching Fanny, people called her.
At last a party of gentlemen, among them the great Dr Johnson, put the child to bed in a clergyman's house and sat up to listen. For more than an hour there was nothing. The ghost had promised to knock on her own coffin in the vault of St John's church, so they went down to the vault and waited. Not a sound. They decided the child must have some trick of making the noises, and that “there is no agency of any higher cause.”