In Yorkshire’s lands on autumn’s breath,
A tale unfolds of fear and death.
September tenth, the year ‘eighty-seven,
Brought whispers dark from earthly heaven.
PC Ellis, calm and wise,
Met two guards with haunted eyes.
Steven Brooks and David too,
Were strong of build but pale of hue.
They told a tale so strange, so stark,
Of ghostly chills out in the dark.
On Stocksbridge Bypass, late that night,
They’d seen a man—a ghastly sight.
A bridge half-built loomed cold and still,
No workers there, no hammer’s drill.
Yet on that bridge beneath the stars,
Stood cloaked a man, who watched from far.
They called to him, “You can’t be here!”
But he just stared and showed no fear.
A beam of light they dared to cast—
But through him clean, the flashlight passed.
The figure turned, its gaze like ice,
And in that stare, they paid the price.
The guards, now white, fled fast from sight,
Straight to the cops, in dead of night.
But Ellis scoffed, “You’re just afraid.
Go ask the church for ghostly aid!”
The guards took heed and left the floor,
And went to knock on holy door.
But Ellis’ chief was far from pleased,
“The church? They’re there? These men won’t leave!”
So back he went to calm the fear,
And promised them, “I’ll check it, dear.”
That very night with partner near,
He drove beneath the bridge so clear.
They watched and waited—nothing stirred,
But then a movement, faint and blurred.
Ellis climbed up high to see,
With flashlight lit and curiosity.
And there it stood, cloaked tall and stark—
A figure, gazing through the dark.
But as he neared, the truth did show:
A plastic tarp, with wind aglow.
He laughed aloud, “There’s no such ghost—
Just silly fear, a shadowed host.”
He climbed back down, the case was closed,
The bridge was bare, the winds had dozed.
Yet something strange would come once more,
In chilling breath and unseen lore.
For minutes later, cold did strike,
A blast so sharp it stole his might.
His chest grew tight, he could not speak,
His limbs were locked, his breath was weak.
He felt a gaze upon his skin,
A presence dark that stared within.
And when he turned—oh, what a dread—
A man stood close, just inches head.
No sound was made, no step, no tread—
Just eyes like holes, and face like dead.
Ellis screamed, the figure fled,
But when he leapt—no soul had sped.
His partner, pale as graveyard stone,
Said, “I saw him, I wasn’t alone.
He wore a coat from centuries gone,
And had no face to gaze upon.”
Back at the station, trembling hands,
They wrote their tale in shifting sands.
“Inexplicable,” their final say,
And hoped the ghost would fade away.
But soon the bridge was open wide,
And people came to cross with pride.
Yet deaths began, without a cause—
Too many lost to even pause.
And witnesses—unprompted, clear—
Spoke of a man who would appear.
A cloaked shape dark, with hollow face,
Who lingered near that cursed place.
Some say a grave was torn apart,
And vengeance woke a restless heart.
The guards? They quit and left their post.
Too shaken still to chase a ghost.
And Ellis? To this very day,
Has never claimed it went away.
The truth remains, both sharp and grim—
Something watched that bridge… and him.
Stocksbridge Bypass, calm and wide,
Now hides the fear that walks beside.
So if you cross, tread light and fast,
For ghosts don’t always stay in past.