There are few who know the full story of the grim spectre which for long haunted the site of a lane which once ran from Leeds through Gipton Wood to Shadwell; but the circumstances which led – and maybe, still lead – that wretched spirit to revisit this world have been discovered in an old publication.

There once lived at Shadwell a decent, upright farmer named Turner. In contra-distinction, his son, John, was a dissolute scoundrel. The young rake had the audacity to-pay court to a virtuous girl, but she sent him to the rightabout. Unless the youth reformed and produced evidence of means upon which to marry she announced; he need not come again.

Young Turner was in despair. Every cent he had ever possessed had been dissipated. His father refused to advance another penny. In addition, the dour, old man upbraided the son for wasting his substance.

John Turner was mad with thwarted desire. Money he must have; and he laid his plans for obtaining it with devilish resolution. Every, Saturday evening his father returned from Leeds market along the lane through Gipton Wood. Invariably the old man carried a well-filled purse.

The following day was Saturday. Old Turner left tor Leeds with some cattle in the morning. His- son followed in the afternoon – and beneath his coat was a hatchet. Throughout the early evening young Turner lurked in the wood by the lane.

Passers-by were few, but, just after dusk, he spied the figure of his old father trudging along. The  youth crouched down and, just as the old man reached the hiding-place, sprang forth and felled him with a blow. The farmer’s purse was taken, and then the madman mangled his fathers corpse and fled to Shadwell.

But, like many a murderer before and since, John Turner made a mistake which led him to the scaffold.

On reaching home he lit the lamp. Then he turned to draw the curtain before he hid the hatchet and his blood-spotted clothes.

Next morning news came that the Shadwell farmer had been slain by footpads. John hugged himself with glee, for suspicion was already being diverted. He went to fetch the body, and was weeping over it when a woman came hurrying along from Shadwell. She, too, had heard of the murder. Straight up to young Turner she went, and denounced him as the slayer of his aged father.

When Turner had lighted his lamp before drawing the window-curtain the young woman had been passing the farm. She had seen the blood-stained hatchet and the purse in the murderer’s hands.

A search disclosed the weapon, and Turner confessed. He suffered death at York, but his ghost, is said to haunt the site of that old lane to Shadwell. The gruesome figure, so the story goes, has been seen stealing silently in the shadows carrying a gory hatchet, and, when addressed, it vanishes with a moan.