Beyond the Veil: A Haunted Walk through Offerton

Offerton today is a residential corner of Stockport—quiet roads, schools, and post-war estates. But step back a century or two, and this place was something very different: a scattered township in the ancient parish of Stockport, part of the Macclesfield Hundred of Cheshire. For most of its history, it was farmland and trackways, smallholdings and lonely cottages. Not until the twentieth century did development begin in earnest, transforming the old parish into part of Greater Manchester’s suburban spread.

The name Offerton likely comes from the Old English personal name Offa, combined with tūn, meaning a farm or enclosure. What remains is a landscape shaped by change—by new roads laid over old paths, and buildings that quietly took the place of others. Here and there, the traces of the past still show themselves. And if local tradition is to be believed, not everything that passed through Offerton has entirely passed on.

This short route will take roughly an hour to traverse and takes in eight locations, some still standing, others lost to time. Along the way, we’ll encounter tales of footsteps, apparitions, and old griefs that refused to rest—all drawn from the area’s recorded folklore. We begin with a minor but curious story, tucked inside a popular pub.

The Victoria

Tucked along Hall Street, not far from where the old military barracks once stood, sits The Victoria. For much of the twentieth century, it served as a local pub, and before that, it went by a different name: The Military Arms—so called for the soldiers who regularly drank there.

After a significant refurbishment in 1989, the pub reopened with modern fittings and a more contemporary feel. But not everything was new. Locals once spoke quietly of a presence in the cellars—a woman in a shawl, glimpsed more than seen, said to walk below the bar.

The story never became a central feature of the pub’s identity—no grand declarations or themed nights—but the tale lingered. Staff would mention it offhand, and some regulars recalled odd noises after hours. Whether the spirit belonged to a past resident, a visitor, or was simply a piece of local invention, no one could say.

We follow the road as Hall Street becomes Offerton Lane, and it’s there, just a short walk along, that we come to our second stop—a pub with a reputation far more openly embraced.

The Strawberry Gardens

A familiar sight on Offerton Lane, The Strawberry Gardens was known not only for its beer but for its strange, sporadic disturbances—often after closing time.

In 1978, landlord Alf Crise shared his thoughts with the Stockport Advertiser. He spoke candidly of pints that moved on their own, doors that slammed without a breath of wind, and an occasional sensation that something unseen had walked through the bar. “Sometimes,” he said, “something odd occurs, then everything goes back to normal. It’s intangible, invisible—it seems to come and go.”

Crise wasn’t trying to sell a ghost story. He was pragmatic, almost amused. But he wasn’t the first to notice the activity, and he knew that others before him had heard footsteps, seen shadows, or caught glimpses of something where nothing should have been.

The Strawberry Gardens became a kind of local legend—not dramatic, but persistent. It remains one of the few Offerton pubs where the regulars, when prompted, might swap a story or two about a presence that seemed to enjoy the atmosphere as much as they did.

The White Houses

Continuing along Offerton Lane, we pass the site where the White Houses once stood. Now vanished, these cottages sat unusually low—below the raised level of the newer road—and had to be reached by descending steps. Their removal erased a small piece of Offerton’s earlier structure, but one particular story associated with them endures.

Local historian Ann Cross recorded the recollections of a woman whose grandmother had lived in one of the houses. She often remarked that it was “too haunted for her liking,” and spoke of a night when she and the other residents were woken by an almighty racket outside—as if a mob of people were trying to break down the front door.

“One night when the household lay abed there arose a great noise from outside – a noise as of a mob of angry people and there were sounds of breaking in and of the front door being forced open. This was followed by sounds on the stairs as if people were mounting them, together with the distinct rustle of something brushing against the walls. Then — silence! No-one came, no one was there, and in the cold light of morning the door bore no signs of the weapons that had seemingly been used to prise it open.”

Another story from the same cottage tells of a young girl who saw a boy’s face at the kitchen window, peering in from what was—unusually—a walled-in shed, not open air. She described him as dressed like a Puritan child, a curious detail that had no ready explanation.

These were stories passed down quietly, not shouted from the rooftops. Yet they formed part of the fabric of the place—small accounts, tied to particular houses, carried forward by those who remembered.

We now follow a side path behind the old site, heading downhill to the original road level towards Offerton Hall.

Offerton Hall and the Haunted Gates

Tucked behind modern housing off Marple Road, Offerton Hall still stands—a handsome former manor house that once belonged to the Wright family. Though the surrounding outbuildings have disappeared over time, including the nearby barn, the Hall itself survives today as a private residence.

Just outside the property, a pair of distinctive old gates still mark the boundary. Locals once called them “the haunted gates,” though the origin of that name has been lost. Perhaps it is their shape, their placement, or simply the sense that something older lingers behind them.

During the Civil War, Parliamentarian soldiers were said to have been quartered in the estate’s barns. One of them—known well into the 20th century as Cromwell’s Barn—was believed to be haunted by the spirit of a Roundhead soldier. It was eventually demolished in the 1970s.

The Hall itself has a long history of stories. A chamber known as the Monk’s Room was said to be haunted by a Franciscan priest. Residents once spoke of unexplained footsteps and of hearing movement in upstairs rooms while the house stood empty. Other rumours told of underground passages, one supposedly running to Marple Hall, another to St Peter’s Church in Stockport. No trace of these has ever been found.

Though it is now a private home, the Hall retains its atmosphere—quiet, secluded, and steeped in history. The gates remain as a visible marker of what once stood here, and the stories that still cling to it.

Holliday Lane – The Gnat Hole

At the foot of Holliday Lane, once known locally as the Gnat Hole, the land dips toward the river, and the feeling changes. This part of Offerton, once home to Dodge family cottages and early weavers, still retains an enclosed, slightly older atmosphere.

According to Ann Cross, a figure known as the Offerton Boggart was once said to live in a barn here. Unlike the more malevolent boggarts of Lancashire tradition, this one was thought to be mischievous, even helpful—tidying rooms or assisting with chores if food was left out in return. These stories are older than most realise, surviving through small retellings and quiet local lore.

More recently, in 1981, a young woman named Dawn experienced something on this very lane. Driving home after a night out, she slowed as she approached the end of the road. It was a clear, dry spring night. Her headlights caught something ahead—an unusual shape, hovering a few feet above the ground.

As she drew nearer, she saw it was a white, swirling mist, oddly luminescent. It didn’t move or drift, nor did it rise. It simply hovered, suspended. Then, in a sudden moment, it vanished—revealing the lamppost behind it. Dawn braked hard, just in time.

She never claimed to know what it was, only that it stayed with her. And as with many such experiences, it seemed to mark a point after which the stories she once dismissed no longer seemed quite so distant.

The Wright’s Arms

Back on Marple Road, just a little further on, we come to the site of the Wright’s Arms—one of the oldest public houses in the area, dating back to the 1700’s and now converted into a restaurant. For many years, it was known for its reputation as one of Offerton’s most persistently haunted buildings.

In 1970, landlord Robert Higginbotham and his wife Mary spoke of unexplained activity they had encountered since moving in. Footsteps on empty floors. Doors that swung open and shut. Floorboards that creaked with no one there. “I like to keep my own views,” Robert said, “but I do think there’s something here.”

He sometimes slept downstairs on a camp bed, woken by the sound of footsteps overhead. But as soon as he moved to check, the noises stopped. He never saw anything directly—just felt the constant sense of something nearby.

Their dog, Meg, added weight to the account. Once an assertive Alsatian, she began to behave strangely—refusing to go upstairs, cowering during the noises, visibly distressed. She had once wandered the whole building freely. Now she wouldn’t leave the ground floor.

Other residents and regulars told of similar disturbances. One morning, the landlords heard footsteps along the corridor and down the stairs. Thinking it was their son, Steve ran to check, but the room was empty, and the boy still asleep.

A clairvoyant, who had never visited the pub, is said to have told a friend of the landlady:

“Old May says she wants to be her friend.”*

Some connected the activity to a poltergeist. When a couple with an adolescent son lived at the pub, the noises grew louder, more aggressive—heavy banging from the upper floors. Meg refused to go upstairs. The change was sudden, and it lingered.

The Wright’s Arms eventually closed, but the stories never entirely left. The building remains, its past still quietly remembered.

*The original article misprinted this as “Old Meg,” likely confusing the name with that of the dog

Mount Pleasant

We now ascend to Mount Pleasant, a ridge offering views over the Goyt Valley. Our next story originates from the brick cottage dated 1806..

The experience belongs to Mildred Smith, a long-time resident whose house sat beside a row of cottages believed to be more than 300 years old. Beneath her own home, workmen once uncovered a stretch of old trackway—stone laid over stone—which may have connected to the Roman road near the A6. Nearby, a deep brick-lined well was discovered, thought to be Tudor in origin, though some speculated it might have replaced an older Roman one.

Mildred’s account dates back to 1973, when she witnessed what she later described as a Roman Centurion, appearing faintly in her living room doorway. She first saw him as a shimmer—particles gathering into human form—and dismissed it as imagination. But six weeks later, he returned. This time, she saw him clearly.

“I was sitting reading a book when I had the feeling someone was in the room. I looked up and saw a man standing by the door. He was quite solid and, for a moment, I thought he was one of my brother’s friends. He was looking straight at me and then he smiled and went transparent until he completely vanished.”

Mildred described him as about forty-five, clean-shaven, dark-haired, with a Celtic-type brooch at the shoulder. He wore a cloak—not a toga, precisely, but something suggesting Romano-British dress. She said he seemed peaceful, always smiling, and never once felt threatened.

She saw him four times over two decades—once in the company of her young son, and once again after a long absence. “He always appears in daylight,” she noted. “There is absolutely no malice in him at all.”

Her neighbour, living in the same row, later asked if she had ever seen anything unusual in the house. She too had seen a dark stranger passing silently through her own rooms.

After that conversation, Mildred said, she stopped doubting what she had seen. “I had had an open mind about this sort of thing before,” she said, “but after that I was certain.”

Whether a figment, a memory, or something older still, the figure left an impression. And Mildred’s quiet account—shared without exaggeration—remains one of Offerton’s most distinctive glimpses into the past.

Brandy Row

Our final stop is a walk along Bean Leach Road to where Brandy Row once stood. Now a playground and open space, the cottages that once lined this part of the road have vanished. But one story remains, tied to a woman and her lost child.

One evening, a young man returned home in a state of visible distress. He was pale, shaking. His mother, startled, asked what had happened.

“You look as if you’ve seen a ghost,” she said.

“I have,” he replied.

He explained that while walking home under a clear moonlit sky, he had seen a woman approaching. But something was wrong. She made no sound. She glided above the ground. Then, without slowing, she passed through a hedge.

She wore a long dark gown, a shawl drawn over her head, and in her hand, she carried a lantern.

Later, the tale was linked to an older story of a woman whose child had drowned in Poise Brook. The child’s body was never found, and the mother, consumed by grief, took to searching the brook by lantern light—night after night, year after year.

Some say she never stopped looking.

There is no verifiable record of the woman or her child, and like many ghost stories, its details may have shifted over time. But true or not, it remains a compelling part of the area’s folklore.

In Tribute: Ann Cross and The Story of a Road

Many of the stories along this route were preserved by Ann Cross, a local resident and author of the 1977 self-published book The Story of a Road. Though it never saw wide circulation, her work remains among the most detailed records of Offerton’s oral history, buildings, and remembered tales.

Cross gathered her material from neighbours, elderly residents, and long-established families. She wove together the historical and the anecdotal—not to prove anything, but to document what had been said. In doing so, she saved many stories from fading away.

I first came across her book after reading a piece in the Manchester Evening News, dated 23 February 1977, titled “You Can’t Miss the Ghosts in Spooky Corner.” I spent months trying to track down a copy. Eventually, I found one by chance in a second-hand bookshop.

Walking Offerton today, you’d be forgiven for thinking it unremarkable. But layers remain—old routes, quiet memories, and small stories. Thanks to Cross’s work, and the care of those who shared their recollections with her, those stories remain part of the path we follow today.

Sources & Further Reading

• Stockport Times – Thursday 28 December, 1989
• Stockport Advertiser – Thursday 17 August, 1978
• Stockport Express – Thursday April 30, 1970
• It’s time for a round of spirits – Stockport Express Advertiser – Thursday 22 December 1988
• Vanishing ‘Lodger’ – Stockport Express Advertiser – Wednesday 13 January 1993
• Works Cited
• Anne, Cross. The Story of a Road. Self Published, 1977.
• Earwaker, John Parsons. East Cheshire: Past and Present. 1877.
• Mills, M. G. Supernatural Stockport. Wilmslow, Sigma Press, 1991.
• “Offerton Hall Farmhouse (IOE01/04074/15) Archive Item – Images of England Collection | Historic England.” Historicengland.org.uk, 2025, historicengland.org.uk/images-books/photos/item/IOE01/04074/15. Accessed 22 Apr. 2025.
• “The History of Stockport in 100 Halls Part 39: Offerton Hall.” The History of Stockport in 100 Halls, 2 May 2020, thehistoryofstockportin100halls.wordpress.com/2020/05/02/the-history-of-stockport-in-100-halls-part-39-offerton-hall/. Accessed 22 Apr. 2025.
• Pearson, Jeffrey. Haunted Places of Cheshire. Countryside Books (GB), 1 Oct. 2006.
• Underwood, Peter. Ghosts of North-West England. Peter Underwood, 1978.