The Ghost of Crouch End – Creepypasta

Estimated reading time — 3 minutes

There is a worrying truth about those who get what they want. There is nothing more dangerous than thinking life is perfect. Even just for one second. A yo-yo at the top only has one place left to go. This was the case of John Bush. In one fleeting moment in May, he let his mind wander and be content with his life, to the point where he realised there is nothing that he would change about it. This is the worst thing anyone could ever do. 

Realizing you’re in the good old days. It leaves you only one place left to go. He was in Love. He loved where he lived. Every day he would walk the roads of Crouch End and the surrounding neighbourhoods with his love Hazel. Hand in hand. Arm in arm. Souls together. 

Heartbreak is mankind’s biggest export. Months after this dangerous thought was allowed to brew in John’s mind, love faded. He was condemned to now walk the streets he once walked with a lover, alone. There has never and will never be a greater form of torture on this earth. 

John loved Crouch End with all his heart. But the independent coffee shops, record stores and nature walks were now shrouded in loneliness. He found himself confined to his room, drinking, smoking, and gambling online. He has found a huge sense of comfort in online gambling, which is accessible on platforms like SlotsLV. Gambling gave him the rush he needed, taking risks on so much of his life on love, and now doing it with money felt like no risk at all. 

The Parkland Walk 

The North London area has a hidden gem. The Parkland walk that connected Finsbury Park to Highgate. A narrow strip of land that spreads for a few miles. When in love he would walk this path with her nearly every day.  

This walk was home to the Fallen Tree. A tree with a low-hanging branch covered with small medallions all containing a note. A note to those who had passed away. Whenever he went this way he stopped to read the names and their stories and pay his respect. Children who had died at birth. Lovers who had perished in accidents. It was designed as a way to let their memory live on. So John found an empty medallion and wrote the name of his former love on this tree. In the hope that the memory of their love would not have died in vain. In hope that in some way it could live on. Heartbreak is the same as death. It’s grief. The feelings are the same, as are the methods to move on. 

He turned to continue the walk further. He now walked in the same manner wherever he went. His hands in his pocket. Headphones on. Detached from the world and did anything he could to distract himself from his own thoughts. 

“Hello,” he heard whispering in his ear. He turned around. No one was there. But the familiar voice was certainly heard. A tender, close whisper that doubled his heart rate. “Hello my love”, it whispered again. “It’s good to see you”. Once again turned and could not see another. Erratically he switched between panic and an urge to submit to the pleasantness of the comforting voice. “It’s ok. It’s me. I’m here for you”, his former love whispered in his ears. 

He immediately succumbed to it, he was already at hope’s end. His walk changed and he now walked with a hand stretched out to his right imagining holding hers. His headphones were off and he did the one thing he missed most about his relationship with her, he just told her about his day. Mundane and pointless talk that would have been interesting to no one but her. He let her know the thoughts he was having, the film he had recently watched and the people he had met. 

The invisible hand he held began to drag him forward and he let it. Like The Pied Piper of Hamlin, he blindly followed it, not knowing where it would take him, but knowing that he trusted it completely. As he talked and listened, the hand brought him to the side as the approached the bridge. Slowly pulling him to the side before stopping, overlooking the side of the bridge and to the road below. “I’m down here” his lover’s voice whispered. “Come to me. Come home to me”

He looked over the edge and down at the road below the bridge. For a moment he wondered whether it was best for him to return to The Sinister Slot Machine. To the comfort of loneliness. But love and its illusions would also win. He moved with more confidence and certainty than he had in months, and he vaulted the wall of the bridge and down far onto the road below. 

The Ghost of Crouch End. Love. Heartbreak. Had claimed another victim. A young girl walked along the path moments after John’s jump. She had tears in her eyes and looked down at an old photograph of her and a man, holding each other in a tender embrace. She stood dead and looked around as if searching for a voice calling her name.