The George Inn, BrixworthWhere History Checks In... and Never Checks Out

In the heart of the quiet Northamptonshire village of Brixworth stands The George Inn—a place where the past refuses to stay buried, and the shadows of history drift as freely as the ale once poured behind its ancient bar. At first glance, The George might seem like any other timeworn English coaching inn: low-slung beams, weathered stone, and a timber-framed facade that leans ever so slightly with the slow exhaustion of centuries. But spend a little time here, especially after nightfall, and you’ll begin to understand why some locals refuse to linger too long after last orders.

For over 600 years, this spot has served weary travellers, hungry villagers... and something else. Something that lingers. Something that watches.

Built when the Wars of the Roses were but a distant rumour on the horizon, The George was once a critical stopping point on the old coach road between London and the North. Horses clattered into its courtyard, their hooves striking sparks on the cobbles, while coachmen hurried to swap tired beasts for fresh ones—so efficient, in fact, that the inn boasted the fastest changeover in the entire country. So many thousands of horses passed through its gates that parts of the stone entryway remain worn smooth—polished not by human hands, but by centuries of brush and sway from sweating horseflesh.

But while this is charming trivia for the guidebooks, The George’s real claim to fame—or infamy—lies not in transport history, but in its restless dead.

The inn’s brush with the supernatural stretches back to the dark days of the English Civil War. In June 1645, as Cromwell’s New Model Army marched toward the decisive Battle of Naseby, the Lord General himself is said to have commandeered The George. According to village lore, Cromwell locked the unfortunate innkeeper in his own cellar—whether for protection or punishment is unclear—while his officers occupied the upper rooms. From a small window, now called Cromwell’s Eye, sentries kept watch on the crossroads and the rolling fields beyond, awaiting the enemy.

But it was what happened in the stables that stained The George with something far darker.

A young messenger boy—only sixteen, barely old enough to carry sword or saddlebag—vanished during the soldiers’ stay. His lifeless body was later discovered in the hay, throat cruelly cut, eyes wide in terror. No culprit was ever found; no motive ever given. Some whispered that he overheard plans best left secret, others that a drunken soldier’s rage was to blame. Whatever the truth, the boy never left. To this day, his shadowy presence is said to linger in the stable yard and old cellar, stirring cold draughts where none should be.

More strangeness followed. In 1698, two visiting widows took rooms at the inn and endured a night they would never forget. Their rest was broken by strange thumps and knockings from within the walls, the scrape of unseen things rooting through the straw beneath their beds—as though a great hog snuffled there. Bedclothes were pulled by invisible hands; cold fingers gripped their shoulders in the dark. So disturbed were they that the local estate manager wrote to his employer in Italy to report the disturbing occurrences, lamenting in breathless prose that the matter “lay as a heavy weight upon them.” That haunted bedchamber remains to this day, directly above the old coach entrance archway—its door still closes with an ominous creak, as if unwilling to let go of the past.

For a time after, the ghostly activity at The George seemed to fade—though perhaps people simply stopped talking about it. But in more recent years, the strange and unexplained have returned.

One former landlord spoke of seeing pale faces at dusk in the walkway that once connected the inn to the neighbouring cottage—a corridor long since demolished, yet somehow not forgotten. Gas cylinders behind the bar would mysteriously turn themselves off overnight, despite the landlord’s certainty he was the last to leave and lock up. Poltergeist-like pranks became commonplace: glasses flung from shelves; doors slamming without warning; objects vanishing only to reappear days later in impossible places. On one memorable occasion, a bowl of birthday candles launched itself across a crowded room—without warning, without cause—drawing shrieks from startled guests.

Skeptics offer the usual explanations: old buildings creak; wood settles; faulty shelves tip. But the landlords knew better. And so did the dog.

One particular Golden Retriever, beloved of staff and locals alike, flatly refused to enter the cellar. No coaxing, no treats—no amount of bribery could persuade the animal down those cold stone steps. If carried inside, the dog would panic, clawing, whining, and bolting the instant it could break free. It was as if something unseen—something dreadful—lurks beneath, guarding the dark corners of the inn’s underbelly where the murdered boy was once hidden.

Theories abound. Many believe the murdered messenger boy remains the chief spirit here, eternally trapped between worlds. Others whisper of older, nameless things, of secrets hidden beneath flagstones worn thin by centuries of human traffic. After all, six hundred years of life, death, and sorrow must leave their mark.

Apparitions have been fleeting—glimpses in mirrors, faces in windows, shadows at the turn of the stair. But the atmosphere—thick, watchful, expectant—never fails to wrap itself around every visitor brave enough to stay the night.

So if your travels take you to Brixworth, and you fancy a pint in one of England’s oldest inns, The George will welcome you—as it always has. But choose your room carefully. Stay clear of the old archway bedroom. And if the dog won’t follow you somewhere... perhaps you shouldn’t go there either.

Some guests check out in the morning. Others, it seems, never leave at all.