20/08/2025
The Ghost of the Merchant’s Maid – Canterbury Youth Hostel, New Dover Road
If you ever find yourself staying at the Canterbury Youth Hostel on New Dover Road, you may be unaware that the fine Georgian house you sleep in was once a wealthy merchant’s dwelling. Its brickwork and high windows give little away, but behind the walls lies a tale that chills every visitor who dares to listen.
The story begins in 1846, when the merchant of the house began a secret affair with a young Irish maid who had recently entered service there. For eight months, they met in shadowed corridors and empty chambers while the merchant’s wife lived separately in another wing of the house, oblivious to his betrayal.
It was only when the maid confided in the housekeeper that she was with child that the truth began to stir. The maid declared boldly that her master was the father, and when she confronted him directly, his response was not that of guilt but of cold calculation. Bound by her Catholic faith, she could not consider ending the pregnancy, but the merchant saw only scandal, disgrace, and an unwanted mouth to feed.
On the night of Friday, November 12th, 1846, he resolved the matter in the most brutal of ways. Luring the maid to the steep staircase, he forced her to fall. Her neck broke upon the wooden steps, her unborn child perishing with her. The terrible sound of her body striking the stairs echoed through the house, rousing servants and family alike. Though suspicion lingered, the master of the house was never brought to justice. He lived out his days in comfort and was later buried in St Martin’s Cemetery, the oldest Christian burial ground in England, as though he were a man of honour.
But the dead do not rest so easily.
From that night forward, the house seemed to carry the weight of the maid’s final terror. Every year, on the Friday closest to November 12th, guests and staff have reported the same harrowing phenomenon: the thunderous crash of a body tumbling down the staircase. The entire building shakes as though rocked to its very foundations, and those who hear it say the sound lodges deep in the bones, impossible to forget.
Worse still are the whispers from the attic rooms, now used to house visiting teachers. It is said that when the hour is late, a thin wail can be heard – the disembodied cry of a child that never lived. Some dismiss it as the wind threading through old beams, but others swear they have heard the plaintive sobs as clear as any living infant.
The servants of long ago may be gone, yet staff who lock up the hostel late at night admit they dread the silence that follows. The moment the bolts slide shut, the house seems to hold its breath, waiting for the inevitable. Many rush their duties on November nights, unwilling to linger near the staircase where she died.
The question is always asked in whispers by those who know the tale:
Would you stay there?
For in the darkened halls of the Canterbury Youth Hostel, time seems to fold in on itself, and every November, the broken body of the maid and the sorrow of her unborn child replay their tragedy. A ghostly reminder that justice was never served.
Except from "Haunted Canterbury Revisited" by John Hippisley!
