Storyteller: Childhood encounters with Brixham’s ghostly residents

The Last Breath in Paradise Alley

I was five years old when I first held the hand of a dying man. It happened on a misty autumn night in Brixham, the small fishing town I called home. My mother worked as an undertaker’s assistant, and that evening she took me with her down to Paradise Alley—a narrow lane ironically named, for it had seen more than its share of death and sorrow. The old quarters of Brixham were a maze of cobbled passages and cramped cottages: places like Paradise Alley and Captains Row, with quaint names that hid their dark histories. As we walked, I clutched Mother’s hand and smelled the salt of the harbour on the cold air. A thin fog draped the gaslights, and our footsteps echoed off stone walls slick with algae and age. In the distance, I could hear the creak of boats rocking in the tide and the faint clang of metal rings against masts. Night in Brixham was eerily quiet, as if the town held its breath along with us.

Locals whispered that ghosts wandered these back lanes. Brixham, they said, was one of the most haunted places in Devon, its legends fed by centuries of seafarers and smugglers. As we passed shuttered homes, I recalled overhearing fishermen talk about shadowy figures on moonless nights and tapping sounds in empty attics. Mother usually dismissed such tales as tricks of wind and weather, yet even she walked a little faster through the gloom of Paradise Alley. I imagined spectres peering from the crooked doorways we passed. Don’tbe silly I told myself, but my heart thumped with a mix of fear and strange excitement. The sea fog curled like ghostly fingers around the flickering lantern Mother carried, and I huddled closer to her side.

At last, we arrived at a tiny cottage near the end of Paradise Alley. It was a rickety two-story house with peeling paint and a sagging roof, one of those old fishermen’s homes that had seen better days. Mother pushed open the heavy wooden door, which was ajar as if expecting us. “Stay close and be respectful,” she whispered. Inside, the air smelled of paraffin, damp wood, and something else—an underlying sweetness of fading life. A single oil lamp burned on a table, casting long shadows that danced on the low plaster ceiling. In the corner of the front room lay the dear old man we had come to tend, stretched  out on a narrow bed by the hearth.

Old Mr. Carver had already been ill for some time. In our small community everyone knew each other, and he was well-loved—a retired fisherman who used to carve little wooden toys for the village children. I spotted one of those carvings on the mantel: a tiny boat he had given me once, its mast now broken. Seeing it, my throat tightened. The old man’s chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. He had not quite passed yet. Mother knelt by his side and motioned for me to come forward. “He’s almost gone, love,” she murmured softly. “Come hold his hand and let him know he’s not alone.”

Trembling, I crept to the bedside. The room was dim, lit only by the amber glow of the lamp and a tallow candle that guttered on the nightstand. Mr. Carver’s eyes were half-open, cloudy with the faraway look of someone between worlds. I slipped my small hand into his big, calloused one. His skin felt papery thin and cool, but he responded with the faintest squeeze. “We’re here with you,” Mother said gently to him. Outside, a sudden gust rattled the windowpane, and the flame of the candle shivered. The old man’s lips moved as if trying to speak, so I leaned in. A barely audible whisper escaped — perhaps my name, or perhaps a word I couldn’t catch. He seemed to be seeing someone just over my shoulder. Instinctively, I glanced behind me at the empty corner of the room, seeing nothing but shadows. A chill crawled up my spine.

Mr. Carver drew a last, rattling breath. I felt the gentle pressure of his fingers go slack, and his chest fell still. For a moment, the whole cottage seemed to pause. The clock on his wall ticked, the wind hushed, and in that silence, I swore I sensed something depart. It was as if an invisible presence had been hovering, waiting for his final exhale. The candle flame suddenly surged, flared tall and blue, then flickered out, plunging the room into deeper gloom. I gasped in surprise. An instant later, the flame mysteriously rekindled itself, shrinking back to its prior meek glow. Mother squeezed my shoulder. “It’s alright,” she whispered, though her voice quivered. “Just a draft.” But every window was shut tight, and a feeling of weight pressed on the air, as though someone unseen had brushed past us and slipped out into the night.

Mother closed the old man’s eyes with gentle fingertips, giving him the semblance of peaceful sleep. “Fetch me the basin, will you?” she asked. Glad to have a task, I hurried to pick up the enamel washbasin and pitcher from a side table. My feet felt like they moved through water; the atmosphere in the cottage was heavy and strange. I kept glancing at Mr. Carver’s face, expecting his milky eyes to flick open again. They did not. He lay motionless, mouth slightly ajar. I had seen death before, but never so intimately, never holding its hand as it arrived. My heart pounded, yet I fought the urge to run. I wanted to help Mother; I wanted to be brave.

We began the somber work of laying him out. Mother draped a clean white sheet over a chair and dampened a cloth to wash his face. “Hold the light for me, darling,” she said, handing me the oil lamp. I stood at the head of the bed, lamp in one hand, trying not to tremble. In the glow, Mr. Carver’s features looked waxen and sunk. Mother wiped the last earthly tears from his cheeks and folded his arms across his chest. “Goodnight, old friend,” she whispered to him, closing his mouth gently as was the custom. I noticed she had tears in her eyes.

As I watched her work, a faint creak sounded from the corner of the room. I tore my gaze from the body and peered toward the source. There, by the dark hearth, an empty wooden rocking chair had begun to move ever so slightly, rocking back and forth on its worn runners. It was Mr. Carver’s favourite chair — I remembered seeing him sitting in it on warm afternoons, waving at passersby in the alley. Now it swayed on its own, just a lazy push as if someone had lightly sat down or risen from it. The hairs on my arms prickled. The chair rocked again, a bit more vigorously, protesting with a drawn-out groan of timber. “Mum…?” I whispered, my voice shaky. She looked up from folding the sheet over the old man’s body. Following my wide-eyed stare, she saw the rocking chair gently moving with nobody there.

For a long moment, neither of us breathed. The only sound was the rhythmic tap of the rocker on the floorboards and the faint whistle of wind in the chimney. Mother broke the spell: she stepped over and laid a firm hand on the chair’s back, stilling it. The motion stopped, but an uneasy chill lingered in the room. Mother forced a small smile. “These old houses are draft,” she said quietly, though we both knew no breeze could have rocked that heavy oak chair so steadily. I could see the uncertainty in her eyes. We were both thinking the same thing, even if neither of us dared speak it aloud: Mr. Carver hadn’t quite left us just yet.

We finished our duties in silence. Mother lit another candle and placed it at the foot of the bed, an old token to light the way for the departed spirit. She guided me in saying a short prayer for the soul of the deceased. I mumbled the words, but my attention was on the dim corners of the room and the shadows that seemed to loom there. In the stillness, my ears were straining for every sound. At one point, I thought I heard a faint sigh or whisper from the direction of the bed, and I darted a glance at Mr. Carver’s lifeless form. His lips were slightly parted, and a shadow trembled across them as the candlelight wavered. Did I just see them move? My skin prickled. I edged closer to Mother.

At last, she placed the folded sheet gently over Mr. Carver’s face, covering the stark reality of death with cotton peace. “Rest now,” Mother said softly. She gathered her tools, and I realised it was time to leave the cottage to its silence. Relief and reluctance mingled in me — I was desperate to be out in the open air, away from the oppressive mystery inside those walls, yet I felt strangely sad to say goodbye. I had been the last living person with Mr. Carver in his final moments; a part of me didn’t want to abandon him entirely to the darkness.

We stepped out into the night, closing the wooden door behind us. The narrow alley felt suddenly more spacious after that cramped room. I drew in a lungful of cold, salty air. The fog had lifted slightly, revealing a sky of low clouds through which a few stars peeped. Mother took a deep breath too, shaking off the solemn weight of her profession. She gave me a proud, tender look. “You did well,” she said, squeezing my hand. I nodded, but my mind was still inside that cottage, replaying every strange occurrence: the flickering candle, the rocking chair, the sense of an unseen watcher.

Paradise Alley was silent now apart from the distant hush of waves against the breakwater. We began to walk back the way we came, our footsteps disturbing the quiet. As we neared the corner by Captains Row, an urge made me pause and glance over my shoulder. I looked back to Mr. Carver’s little house, which was now dark except for a faint orange glow in the downstairs window. Mother had left the lamp on the table to keep vigil over the body. In that glow, I suddenly discerned a figure standing at the window, looking out at us.

For a heartbeat I assumed it must be a neighbour or villager who had come to sit with the departed—a common enough custom. But then I realised the truth. The figure was unmistakably Mr. Carver. Though lit only by the feeble lamplight, I knew his face, his stooped shoulders, the outline of his old, peaked cap perched on his head. He was standing at the very window of the front room where his body lay motionless on the bed. My heart jolted in my chest. He seemed to be gazing right at me. The distance and glass between us could not veil the gentle smile I thought I saw on his lined, ghostly face.

I blinked hard, unbelieving. In that split second, the orange lamplight flickered—as if someone had passed in front of it—and the figure behind the glass vanished. The window showed only the feeble glow of the lamp and the edge of the white sheet we had draped over the bed. I stopped in my tracks, cold from head to toe. “What is it?” Mother asked, noticing I was lagging. She followed my gaze to the lonely house. The window was empty now, innocent-looking but for the candle’s halo and our own faint reflections. I opened my mouth to tell her, but the words caught in my throat. Some instinct told me this moment was meant for me alone.

Mother gave a little shiver and drew her shawl tighter. “Come along, darling. It’s late,” she urged softly. I turned away from the cottage and hurried to her side. Together we left Paradise Alley behind, our figures dissolving into the night fog beyond its mouth. I did not look back again.

I never told my mother what I saw in that window. In truth, for years I half-convinced myself I had imagined it—the product of an overtired child’s mind on a spooky night. But deep down I know what I witnessed was real. I had felt Mr. Carver’s spirit in the room with us as clearly as the chill in the air. I had sensed him linger to say a final goodbye. And when I close my eyes, I can still picture him there in the lamplight of that tiny house on Paradise Alley, watching us depart with a grateful smile as he finally turned and followed the light out of this world.

 The Last Breath in Captains Row

A Ghost Tale from Brixham

I was no stranger to death by the time I stepped inside the old house at Number 7 Captains Row. I’d been helping Mother with her work as an undertaker’s assistant since I was five years old—holding hands of the dying, fetching cloths, lighting candles, laying out the bodies of fishermen, widows, and old sailors whose time had quietly come. But this place… this house was different. Even before we stepped through the door, I felt it—that deep chill that prickles your skin without a wind to cause it. The house sat halfway up the row, hunched between two others like a skulking figure in the fog. The front door bore deep scratches in its old green paint, and the glass in the transom above was warped, casting the gaslight outside into strange, twisting shapes. As Mother knocked, I could hear nothing from within. No voices. No footsteps. Just silence, heavy and still. We were let in by an elderly neighbour, a pale woman with shaking hands and a whisper of a voice. She’d found the man—Mr. Elver—dead in his bed earlier that afternoon. No family. No visitors. Just the cat, who still prowled the lower floor, yowling in the corners as if expecting someone to return.

The moment we crossed the threshold, I knew I didn’t want to be there. The air was thick with the smell of gas, damp wallpaper, and age. The walls leaned in as though the house itself had been holding its breath for too long. And the gas lamps, flickering and low, threw shadows that didn’t seem to match the furniture. I swear, I saw one move when I wasn’tlooking directly at it.

Mother was unfazed. She always was. She tightened her scarf and took the stairs first, gesturing for me to follow with the basin and cloths. As I stepped onto the narrow wooden staircase, a sharp creak rang out beneath my foot—long and drawn-out, like a voice protesting from the boards. I froze. The entire stairway seemed to groan beneath my weight, and when I looked up, the landing above was bathed in golden gaslight, but the hallway beyond was black as pitch.

“Come along,” Mother called back. “He won’t wait forever.”

I followed, but every step up felt like walking into a place where the air had forgotten how to breathe.

Mr. Elver had died in the front bedroom, a cold square room at the top of the stairs with low beams and a single bed crammed under the window. The curtains were drawn, and the only light came from the gas sconce on the wall—its yellow flame fluttering inside the etched glass globe, casting ghostly shapes across the walls.

The old man was still in his bed, the sheet drawn up to his chest. His eyes were closed, mouth slightly open, like he’d simply drifted off. But the room didn’t feel empty. Not even close. It felt… watched. As though something lingered just out of view, hovering by the ceiling or in the corners behind the wardrobe.

I took my place by the bedside as Mother prepared to begin. “Hold his hand, love, just like before,” she said.

I hesitated. His hand was pale, waxy, and slightly curled inward. I’d done this dozens of times before. But in that moment, with the creaking stairs still fresh in my ears and the gaslight flickering in an unnatural rhythm, I didn’t want to touch him.

Still, I did. Because I had to.

The moment I took his hand; the room grew colder. Not just a chill—but a biting cold, as though someone had opened a cellar door deep beneath the house. Then—a sound.

A whisper. Just behind me.

I spun. Nothing there.

I looked at Mother, but she hadn’t noticed. She was humming quietly, dipping a cloth into the warm water. Her back was turned. The whisper came again. Low. Wet. Words I couldn’tquite understand, like someone muttering through waterlogged lungs. And then—his hand twitched.

My breath caught in my throat. His eyes stayed shut, his body still—but his fingers curled around mine, gently but unmistakably. As if he were trying to hold on. Or pull me closer.

Then he breathed.

Just once.

A soft, rattling gasp, followed by a gurgling exhale. His chest didn’t move, and his lips stayed parted. The breath had come from somewhere else—from the room itself, not the man. And with it came a smell that didn’t belong to any part of this world. Earthy. Mouldering. Like something buried, unearthed too soon.

Mother didn’t seem to notice. She gently wiped his face and murmured a prayer. I let go of his hand and took a step back. The whispering had stopped. The cold had not.

As Mother drew the sheet up over his face, a final, loud creak echoed from the hallway. The floorboards groaned as though someone unseen had walked down the corridor just outside the room.

We both froze.

“Did you hear that?” I asked.

Mother paused. She had. But she didn’t speak. She walked to the door, peered down the corridor, and then shut it quietly.

“These old houses,” she whispered. “They remember things.”

We left the basin by the hearth and made our way downstairs. The staircase moaned again, but this time the creak didn’t come from us. We both turned in time to see the shadow of someone descending behind us. But there was no one there.

Outside, the street was still. The gaslights hissed softly in the fog. I looked up at the bedroom window.

And in the glow of the gas sconce, through the distorted glass, I saw the silhouette of Mr. Elver standing at the foot of the bed—his head turned, as if watching us leave.

The Last Light on Church Street

A Ghost Tale from Brixham

Some say spirits linger when there’s unfinished business. Others claim it’s love—or loneliness—that keeps them close. But down on Church Street, just below the chapel’s stone tower, I came to believe that some souls simply refuse to go alone. The house was small, hunched low beneath a slate roof, its windows tucked under ivy and soot-stained from decades of coal smoke. I’d walked past it many times, nodding to the kindly old woman who lived there—Mrs. Bray, her name was. Always sat by the fire with her shawl wrapped tight and her feathered companion perched behind her chair: an old green parrot named Jasper.

Jasper was a legend among the neighbours. He whistled sea shanties, greeted passers-by by name, and once told off a delivery boy with language I hadn’t yet dared use aloud. His voice echoed out through the open sash windows in summer, a constant stream of chatter and cheek. For the children of Church Street, it was as if the house itself was alive.

But then one rainy Thursday, Mother and I were called. Mrs. Bray had died in her chair by the hearth—just as she’d always said she would. No struggle. No sound. Just a quiet slip from one world into the next. A neighbour found her there, still holding her knitting needles, with the fire down to embers and Jasper silent on his perch.

The moment we entered the house, the air felt strangely warm, like the fireplace had been roaring minutes ago—but the coals were grey, the fire long gone. Everything was still. Too still. As though the house itself were holding its breath. I remember the scent most of all. Not death, but lavender and burnt feathers. And something old. Ancient, even. A memory hanging in the air.

The bird was watching us.

Jasper didn’t squawk or sing. He didn’t say hello or greet us with his usual sailor’s curse. He just sat there, eyes half-lidded, wings drooping. Silent. As if he already knew.

Mother approached Mrs. Bray gently, whispering her name, though we both knew it was only ritual. She had gone. Her hands were folded in her lap; the knitting needles tangled in wool. A peaceful look on her face, as though she’d merely dozed off in the glow of the fire. I was told to fetch the cloths and basin, but I couldn’t move—not at first. I was watching Jasper.

Because he was watching something else.

He wasn’t looking at Mother or me. His head was tilted slightly; eyes locked on the far corner of the room—near the fire grate. And then he whispered:

“She’s not gone.”

The voice was unmistakably Mrs. Bray’s. Not a mimic. Not a trick of memory. It was her voice. The pitch, the tone, the gentle rasp she always had after a cup of tea.

Mother and I both turned.

There was nothing there. Just the old kettle on the hook, a row of iron fire tools, and the dim orange glow of a dying coal. But I felt it. A presence. Watching us. Still sitting in the chair. We worked quickly after that. Mother laid the old woman out with care. I stayed near the wall, avoiding the chair. Jasper didn’t move, but every so often he made soft, breathy sounds—like sighs, or soft murmurs in the shape of words. Not quite speech. But not natural either.

And then we heard it.

From the bedroom upstairs—a footstep. Just one. Sharp on the bare floorboards. We froze. Mother glanced at the ceiling. “Old houses,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Timber settles.” But I could see she didn’t believe it. We left quietly, leaving Jasper alone with her for the night.

The next morning, the neighbour who’d called us in knocked on our door, tears in her eyes. “The bird’s gone,” she said. “Passed sometime in the night. Just fell off his perch. Dead.”

Mother and I returned to help remove Jasper. The chair was empty. The fire was cold. But on the wall behind the hearth, a single black feather had been pressed into the brick—as if scorched there. We couldn’t scrape it off. It stayed, charred into the stone, like a mark of passage. That night, long after we’d gone home, a neighbour swore she heard singing from the house. A voice like Mrs. Bray’s humming by the fire. And over it, a bird’s whistle—clear, soft, and strange.

No one lives there now. The house still stands, quiet and sunken with age. But sometimes, ifyou walk past, it after dark, the gas lamp flickers oddly. And if you listen hard enough, from the chimney there comes a whisper:

“She’s not gone.”

The Last Watch of Mr. Jones

A Ghost Tale from Brixham Harbour

Back in the days when Brixham’s quays were alive with shouting men and swinging lanterns, you’d find old Mr. Jones moored at the far end of the harbour, tucked beneath the arms of the quay wall in the shelter of the breakwater. His trawler—a stubby, weather-beaten thing called The Elsie-May—was his home, his cradle, and, in the end, his coffin.

Fishermen like Mr. Jones didn’t bother with cottages or gas bills. He lived aboard year-round, rolled in old netting, warming his tea on a blackened stove and whittling bits of driftwood into little creatures that never quite looked like animals. You’d see him most nights in the corner of the King’s Arms, sipping a single stout, listening to the football on the wireless, and talking to no one in particular. Then, like clockwork, he’d hobble back down to the harbour, lamp in hand, and disappear into the mist toward his boat. He always slept aboard. Said the sea kept him dreaming straight. Said the land made his bones ache. And no one questioned it—he was one of the old ones, with eyes like cracked slate and fingers stiff from gutting fish in the February wind.

It was a bitter March when Mother and I were called to him.

Word came in from a dockworker. Mr. Jones hadn’t shown at the pub for three nights. His lamp hadn’t been seen swinging down the quay. His boat still bobbed in its berth, ropes slack, sail furled tight. But no smoke from the stove, no clink of kettle or muttered swearing. Just silence.

Mother agreed to go aboard. She’d known him when she was a girl. Said he deserved better than being left to rot in his bunk.

We went down just as dusk was painting the harbour in bruised purples. The tide was in, the boats rocking gently, their rigging ticking against masts like distant clocks. As we stepped onto the quay, I caught the faint tang of salt, diesel, and decay. The Elsie-May looked empty. Her wheelhouse door was ajar, swinging slowly as if unsure whether to let us in. We clambered aboard, our boots thudding dully on the sodden deck. The cabin below was still. The air stank of pipe smoke, damp rope, and something else oldness, like books that had been shut too long. Mr. Jones was in his bunk, curled on his side, one hand still holding a wooden carving. A gull, perhaps, or a fish. His eyes were closed, his mouth half-open, as if in the middle of telling one last story. Mother placed her hand on his shoulder. Cold. Rigid. He’d been gone a few days at least. I stood near the galley stove, watching the kettle—still resting on its iron ring. There was dust on the handle. But it rattled.

Just once.

Clink.

I looked up. The cabin was tight, cramped with nets, mugs, books, ropes. There was nowhere for wind to get in. The portholes were sealed. But the kettle rattled again, and the air shifted—thicker suddenly. Heavy with unseen breath.

Then, from the back of the cabin, near his coat hooks, I heard a low groan of timbers, like someone rising from a chair. A dragging sound. Something heavy. Slow. Familiar.

Footsteps.

Mother hadn’t heard it—or pretended not to. She was whispering a blessing, laying a clean cloth over his chest, fingers trembling slightly.

I turned toward the wheelhouse. The lamp he always carried was hanging on its hook.

But it was lit.

It hadn’t been when we arrived.

Its flame burned low and blue, casting ghostly circles across the boat’s wooden ceiling. And then I saw the shadow. Not mine. Not Mother’s. It moved across the bulkhead, slow and swaying. Back and forth. The shape of a man pacing the deck—keeping watch. One hand on the rail. One hand holding that flickering lamp.

I backed away, bumping into the stove. The kettle let out a soft wheeze—like a sigh.

Mother looked up, and I saw she’d noticed it now too. The temperature dropped so sharply my breath came out white. She moved quickly, finishing her task. She whispered:

“He’s still on watch, that’s all. Give him peace.”

As we stepped off the boat, the tide lapped gently at the hull. But behind us, as we crossed back onto the stone quay, we both turned one last time.

And there he was.

Clear as day.

Mr. Jones, standing in the wheelhouse door. His eyes glowing with the last of the lamp’s blue light, the carved gull still in his hand. Watching the harbour.

Still keeping the night watch.

Still aboard the Elsie-May.

Some say his boat creaks more than any other on still nights. Some say they hear the kettle boil at two in the morning, though no one’s there. And when the fog rolls in, locals walking home past the harbour wall have reported seeing a single light bobbing gently just offshore—moving slowly, steadily.

As if someone aboard is still pacing his deck.

Waiting for the tide to turn.