The Hammersmith Haunting

London, 1804.

Continuing at the same time.

The mist rolled through the narrow streets of Hammersmith, dampening the footsteps of brave or foolish things. Some vows, they saw how they disappeared from the wall. Others claimed that spirits persecuted them and chased them like souls captured between this and the next world.

Then came his first death.

The woman holding her child collapsed directly after the church garden. The child lived there. My mother didn't. The doctor couldn't find a reason - all he had to do was stop in fear. Speak immediately: Hammersmith's spirit was beaten.

Local militias form a spinning night patrol and try desperately to calm the hysteria. One of them was Francis Smith - popular but plagued by the fear of seeing him settle his neighbor. As he joined the patrol on a bitter January evening, he drew his flintlock pistol with trembling hands.

"I will stop this spirit," he muttered, barely convinced.

Hours passed as he went by himself and poured a shadow of convulsions. The air was deadly calm. Something calm and calm that feels like it's waiting for you.

Next - Movement. Along the way,

At Black Lion Lane, Smith discovered his figure. It was large with white lobes and was glued silently onto the fence. He froze. His breath was caught around his neck.

"Who's going there?" He cried.

No answer.

"I say, I'm fire!"

was still in place, and a simple cloth started in the wind. Smith felt how the ice was picked up on his spine. He lifted the pistol. A

shot rang.

The diagram broke on the ground.

Smith approached his mind just to discover - he killed the man. There is no spirit. man.

It was Thomas Millwood of the Brick family on his way back to his house dressed in the white of his trade.

Cities have fallen. Smith turned around, overwhelmed by the horror. He was convicted of manslaughter, but the court showed mercy - his punishment was converted.

But the story didn't end there.

Weeks after the process began, something strange began at Smith's house. The night echoed through the hall. His pistol has been disarmed ever since, but it clicks on itself. The air was dirty and cold, so I ate it for no reason.

Then the knock began.

Always three knocks. Always 3:

One night, Smith woke up to the sound of a sob directly in front of the door. When he opens it, nothing. It only gives a faint impression of the stairs down the carpet in the hallway. He followed them with all his heart until they stopped at the front door. It was open. From the left:

th Street, he whispered, "You saw me... You decided to shoot me."

He knocked on the door and knocked on it. But the voice returned every night.

Smith's health has decreased. He turned pale, sick, and claimed he had searched Millwood's face in every window, and heard his name with every gust of wind.

Smith is gone in the spring - finished. His house was empty.

However, local children said the house moaned at night. They saw the spirit of a white man who went behind the glass. On a cold January night.

The Black Lion Lane is still reflected in the phantom rift of the Flintlock pistol.

You say that Hammersmith's spirit has never left.

And maybe...it never is.