Boo Tours

In British folklore there are all kinds of things that have been waiting for the chance to either suck the life out of our fertile young men, or bang a bun in the oven of our fecund young women. For young men, one great example is the Lianan Sidhe (often redheaded, always beautiful) who would steal handsome young men away for the awful fate of being playthings for her sexual gratification for centuries, unless they wanted to go home for some reason, in which case… they could.

Yup. Seriously. They got to make love with a supernaturally beautiful redhead all day, every day and if they wanted to go home, that was completely fine. Of course, you’d only be able to visit home on a faerie steed, and if you got off… there was the problem that you might instantly age to death. Probably safer to stay in bed with the hot redhead. It’s the 21st Century. We have Skype now.

As for girls, you can have a hot, sensitive man who swims like Michael Phelps. Possibly better than Michael Phelps, since he actually has flippers, if he needs them. I’m talking about a Shapeshifting Seal, of course. A cousin to the Selkie, Shapeshifting Seals are great partners. The women make great wives (once you’ve kidnapped her, stolen her only way of getting home and held her prisoner long enough for the Stockholm Syndrome to really bed in,) while the men will give you the greatest night of your life. Or afternoon. Or Morning, depending on when you can get near to the seashore. Problem is… they’ll make you pregnant. Very pregnant. After that… it gets Lovecraftian.

London, on the other hand, tends to offer less in the way of romance… and more in the way of… well… perverts. Supernatural perverts. Some of them teleport, others leap tall buildings or scuttle their ways up vertical surfaces like spiderman.

The most famous of these phantom perverts is Spring Heeled Jack. A common misconception is that he is in some way related to Jack the Ripper, whose killings took place in, Whitechappel, 1888. Spring Heeled Jack was much earlier, and to my knowledge he never killed a soul.

Spring Heeled Jack’s appearances were mainly between 1837 and 1845. He is described as an inhuman figure: tall and thin with burning eyes. He was reported to be a tall, thin figure with dark clothes and a top hat. He could leap great distances and impossible heights, as if he had springs in his feet, and was said to have literal flames in his mouth. Perhaps his most menacing attribute was that he had steel tipped claws.

What he used them for was another story: in the September of 1837 the dread figure saw one of its earliest appearances, where it attacked a businessman and three girls, bounding around and laughing insanely. Reports said that ‘Jack’ tore at the girls’ clothes, exposing their breasts, before bounding off in the the darkness, laughing mockingly at his dishevelled prey.

A month later he was seen to attack on Cut-Throat Lane in Clapham Common, where he groped the young Mary Stephens and attempted to kiss her. Not content with perverted supernatural assault in Clapham he made his way to Streatham where he attacked a coach, wounding the footmen and toppling it over. This was also the month that Polly Adams was attacked and described Jack most fully, with lurid detail about how his mouth and eyes spat blue flame. Over the rest of the autumn he was known to have extended his operations as far as Richmond, Kensington and Hampton. By Winter he was ripping bodices and exposing assets in East Dulwich.

His attacks seemed to be the most violent when there were men present. In early January he attacked a couple in Forest Gate, slashing at the man’s face with his iron claws. The Lord Mayor of London even gave a speech at the Mansion house, condemning the monster.

The name ‘Spring Heeled Jack’ was born after an attack in 1838 where the Monster attacked two young women on the way to the home of their brother in Limehouse: it enveloped Lucy Scales, wrapping her in his cloak before jumping away with his recognisable springing gait. Two days later the creature also attacked the Alsop sisters at home, knocking on the door and yelling, “I am a policeman, for God’s sake bring me a light, we have caught Spring-Heeled Jack here in the lane!” When they opened the door Jack immediately began tearing at their garments. Thankfully Jane, the youngest sister, was bold enough to fight back and drove the figure bouncing away into the darkness.

There were a lot of other attacked between 1838 and 1845, mostly in South London, but ranging further and further afield. Some attacks even went as far as Aldershot and Merseyside. Few suspects existed. According to writer Neil Arnold one suspect was the Marquis of Waterford, an Irish nobleman with a taste for pranks and a hatred of women, but the attacks continued after he died in 1859.

And Spring Heeled Jack was not London’s only ghostly pervert. The Peckham Ghost appeared out of nowhere, attacking women and even allegedly killing, in the January of 1838. Before Jack there was the less mysterious Hammersmith Ghost, a white cloaked figure who patrolled Hammersmith and Fulham, jumping out on people and frightening them (in fact he literally frightened one woman to death, she was pregnant and died within two days of the incident.) Perhaps the Hammersmith Ghost’s notoriety failed because he was caught: the phantom turned out to be a local shoe maker.

In fact, Hammersmith seems to be a breeding ground for Phantom attackers: a little while after the shoemaker was caught reports started of a new attacker. This one was much more violent than the last: he left threatening messages on walls and attacked women with a hook-like object. Eventually local men started to guard high risk areas and the attacker was found to be John Benjamin, a farmer from Harrow.

The third in our Hammersmith trilogy was in the late 1830s where Spring Heel Jack started his bouncing reign of terror. This figure had a white cloak, like the first Hammersmith Ghost, and climbed vertical walls with ease. He used long claws to attack his victims and some even suggested that he was armoured against bullets.

Perhaps the earliest phantom attacker is The London Monster: a sadistic, misogynistic figure who terrified London women between 1778 and 1780. He was a violent and truly unpleasant attacker, who seemed more interested in mutilation than any kind of repressed sexual gratification. The London Monster’s tricks were poetic and unpleasant: blades concealed in bouquets that he would use to slash at women’s faces; vile frienzies where he would slash at women’s buttocks with razor-blades attached to his knees. He was sufficiently alarming that London men started a ‘No Monster Club’ which would issue badges to show that men were approachable. In the end the Bow Street Runners got involved, quickly catching a patsy in the form of young Rhyniwck Williams. Despite having an allibi for each of the attacks, Williams was sentenced to six years in prison, which he served.

My favourite London attacker operated in the area between Fleet Street and Holborn in
the 1680s. His modus operandi was to appear behind a woman, lift her skirts and rapidly spank her to within an inch of her life. As the baffling spanking was administered, all the unfortunate woman would hear was Whipping Tom’s cry of “SPANKO!” He caused less hysteria than other phantom attackers, although women decried the ineffectuality of the London authorities, even going as far as carrying pen knives. His speed was legendary: it was said that he could vanish even before a woman could turn around, leading to his appearances being labelled as supernatural.

Of course, there are remarkably few female phantom attackers. In fact, the only one I’m

With massive credit to our Hantu-Tetek substitute, Miss Luci Furr

aware of is a rather sinister Malay spirit called Hantu Tetek, the Breast Phantom. Imagine the scene, gentlemen: you are making your way home through the Malay jungle (or whatever they have there, I’m not great with geography) when you spot a lone figure. Not one of the sweet local girls, but a tall, powerful naked woman with the world’s hugest rack. It might be more respectful to call them bosoms, but it wouldn’t be accurate to use such a paltry term. These things are huge, and gravity-defyingly perky. They laugh in the face of support underwear and mock the need for sports bras. These mighty mammaries, as hypnotic as they are impossible.

Imagine, gentlemen, your reaction as she beckons you forward, opening her pale arms and enfolding you next to her body. Your heart racing as she kisses you, draws your face closer to her bosom… and suffocates you to death! The lightless, airless murder held in those terrible tatas.

Of course, she’s not always hot. In fact, in some versions of the myth she’s a terrible hag with the breasts on her back. Yes, on the back. I can only imagine how she kills: “Are you there? How about now? A little to the left? Dammit, I can’t turn around enough to see without falling over. Stupid giant breasts…” Such is the dream logic of folklore and mythology.

So there you go, ladies and gentlemen: don’t trust any unexpected naked women, never sniff anything a strange man shoves in your face and if someone has glowing flames in their mouth they’re probably up to no good. Oh, and if you’re into a bit of light corporal punishment hang around Chancery Lane’/Fleet Street. Even if Whipping Tom isn’t around those lawyers can be a bit pervy.