Haunted Wirral – the Clown terror of Flaybrick Cemetery

IN all of my years probing shadowy entities and the baffling forces of the supernatural, I've come to learn that ghosts rarely linger where we expect them.

It’s not the damp earth of a forgotten graveyard that holds them, but the bustling spaces where life continues - modern streets, bright houses; why, ghosts have even been seen in bustling burger joints.

Yet there are exceptions to every rule, and the gothic sprawl of Flaybrick Cemetery is one such exception.

The cemetery is now 160 years old and there, among the tilted headstones and creeping ivy, visitors have heard more than just the whisper of wind.

Sometimes, heavy, plodding footfalls of something echo along the overgrown paths, and a low, guttural growl has been detected by mourners and people walking their dogs in the vast desolation.

Dogs refuse to venture near a certain part of the cemetery and sometimes the canines appear to see something beyond the range of human vision, and they whine and back away from whatever it is.

Some people who have entered the cemetery, even at high noon when bright sunlight gives us the Dutch courage to question ghosts, only to glimpse a hulking figure – a tall, hairy, twisted monstrosity like a creature out of nightmare - slouching between the graves.

A werewolf, they say, though no one can be sure. In the Victorian days, there was a headstone that read: ‘Here lies one who was half man, half beast’.

It disappeared in the 1960s, carted away by unknown hands. What secret did that stone mark? And did it vanish because someone feared what might be uncovered?

But it is not the phantom beast that solely haunts Flaybrick. There is a spinechilling entity known as the "Clown Woman," a grotesque spectre first whispered of in Edwardian times. There’s no record of a clown being buried there - I’ve scoured the archives, combed through burial registers, and sifted through musty cemetery books - but she has been seen, again and again, across the decades.

The earliest report I have dates back to June of 1937. It was the funeral of Charles Fry, a man of Wallasey who met his end in the Isle of Man Air Race, crashing in a fiery ruin that drew the curiosity of many.

As mourners gathered at Flaybrick to lay him to rest, a strange discovery halted the proceedings: at the bottom of the freshly dug grave lay an old coffin bearing the rusted nameplate of Fry’s uncle. This wasn’t the right grave - this was a grave mistake, if you’d pardon the pun.

As the gravediggers were ordered to relocate to another site, an odd woman appeared, garbed in the garish attire of a Pierrot clown.

She laughed and chattered in a sing-song voice, mocking the sombre gathering.

This was in broad daylight with an unbearably hot June sun overhead, and yet the scene turned to nightmare as over fifty witnesses watched the woman cavort among the tombstones, vanishing only to reappear in places impossible to reach – unless she was a ghost, some present thought.

She pulled grotesque faces, hurled flowers and urns at the mourners, and some of the outraged mourners thought she was a prankster with no respect for the dead – but most thought she was something far darker.

One of the gravediggers, an old hand at his trade, was visibly trembling when he muttered to his frightened companion, "I saw her in 1910. She’s a ghost, nothing more." And he made the sign of the cross.

Decades later, in May of 1996, the Clown Woman returned. A reporter and photographer, on their way to cover a water leak near the cemetery, were nearly run off the road when a figure in a purple one-piece suit leapt in front of their car. The reporter swerved, narrowly missing her.

The photographer caught a glimpse of a chalk-white face, a painted grin, eyes burning with mischief.

She bounded back toward the cemetery wall and vaulted it as though gravity meant nothing to her. An old man, shuffling by from the nearby allotments, offered no comfort. “That’s the Clown Woman,” he said simply. “She’s dead. Been dead a long time.”

There are those who claim she carries a tiny guitar, strumming out a jangled tune that drifts through the air on moonless nights.

In 1995, a gang of teenagers broke into the cemetery after dark, their laughter ringing out as they played hide and seek among the tombs. One girl, hiding behind a marble cross, saw a shadow lengthen on the grass.

She turned, heart pounding, to see a woman standing before her, dressed in purple silk with oversized pink buttons down her chest. Her face was smeared with thick white makeup, her eyes, almost of a metallic blue, gazed wild beneath a white cap.

“Get away from my grave,” she snarled, her voice low and furious. Before the girl could run, gloved hands clamped around her throat, squeezing until the world went dim and her head slammed against the ground.

Somehow, she broke free, her terror lending her strength, and she fled, leaving her friends to face the apparition’s fury. Screams echoed in the night as they scrambled over the wall, racing down Tollemache Road, pursued by mocking laughter.

It was a crisp September afternoon in 2003 when Emily and Olivia, both thirteen and eager for something to break the boredom, decided to wander past Flaybrick Hill Cemetery.

The sun hung low, casting long shadows as a figure approached - a local boy named Scott, older by two years and the subject of many a schoolgirl crush.

He rode up on his gleaming new racing bike, the sort a boy treasures like gold. Olivia, ever bold, asked for a ride: “Give me a takey” she said, but Scott shook his head. “Can’t stop,” he replied. “Got footy with me mates soon. But listen - don’t hang around here too long. You might see the clown.”

The girls exchanged confused glances. “The clown?” Olivia asked, half-smiling.

Scott leaned in, his tone dead serious. “Yeah. My dad saw her once. She’s buried in there.” He nodded toward the cemetery, his eyes lingering on the nearby stone pillars of the cemetery entrance.

Emily raised an eyebrow. “The ghost is a woman? Never heard that one before.”

“Honest, it’s true,” Scott replied, before showing off with a quick wheelie and racing away, leaving the girls alone in the cooling air.

They were still processing his words when a voice, soft and lilting - drifted from behind them. “Yes, she is a woman.”

The girls spun around. Standing just a few paces away was a figure out of a nightmare.

Her face was painted a ghastly white, with garish spots of rouge smeared onto her cheeks.

A white cap clung to her head, and she wore a purple satin suit, the kind a circus clown might have worn in another age, adorned with oversized pink buttons. The lace ruffle at her collar fluttered in the breeze, but her eyes - those dead, glassy eyes - were fixed on the girls.

Olivia took a step back, terror widening her eyes, and then she bolted, screaming into the distance. Emily stood frozen, heart hammering in her chest. The woman’s grin widened - a grotesque, painted leer - and before Emily could react, she lunged.

With inhuman speed, the figure closed the gap, wrapping Emily in a bone-chilling embrace, her arms tightening around the girl’s neck.

Emily whimpered as she felt the icy breath of the solid ghost against her ear, muttering something nonsensical about death and “no fun in the grave”. Then the clown’s grip tightened, and she began dragging Emily toward the cemetery gates.

In blind panic, Emily stamped down hard on the woman’s foot, wrenching herself free. She bolted up the road, her breath ragged, the sound of footsteps pounding behind her. But just as suddenly as the chase began, it ended. Emily risked a glance back, and the woman was gone - vanished as if she’d never been there at all.

Neither girl ever went near Flaybrick Hill Cemetery again. The memory of that painted woman still gives the girls nightmares.

The Clown Woman still haunts Flaybrick Cemetery. Who was she in life? Some forgotten performer, perhaps - a tragic figure driven mad by loss or betrayal? Or something far more sinister?

Whatever the truth, she waits, grinning behind her painted mask, ready to mock those who tread too close to her domain in the grim landscape of Flaybrick Cemetery.

• All of Tom Slemen’s books and audiobooks are on Amazon.