The Haunted Grave of Robin Hood

Barnsdale Forest, West Yorkshire

There is a place in West Yorkshire that few speak of and even fewer dare to visit. Hidden beneath the dense, tangled branches of Barnsdale Forest, shrouded in centuries of silence, lies a grave—a stone ruin, broken and half-swallowed by the earth. Forgotten by many, feared by more.

This is the alleged final resting place of Robin Hood.

But whatever rests there, if anything rests at all, does not sleep peacefully.

A Tomb in the Shadows

The grave is not easy to find. Set deep within the private grounds of the Kirklees estate, it lies far from roads or tourist trails. What remains is a weathered, lichen-covered tomb surrounded by crooked iron railings and crumbling pillars that lean like drunkards in the mist. The area is choked by undergrowth, the trees pressing close, blotting out the sky. The silence is absolute, oppressive—broken only by the occasional creak of branches or the fluttering of unseen wings overhead.

Some say the grave looks like a wrecked ship run aground in the forest. Others say it’s more like a warning—an ancient marker laid down to keep something in.

According to legend, it was here in 1347 that Robin Hood, the legendary outlaw of Sherwood Forest, met his tragic and mysterious end. Sick and weakened, he sought the help of the Prioress of Kirklees—his cousin by some accounts—believing she could heal him. Instead, she bled him until his life drained away. Some claim it was intentional. Others suggest she was merely following the misguided medical practices of the day. But darker theories persist: that she was engaged in pagan rites, that Robin was sacrificed on ley lines of ancient power, or that something older and darker demanded blood.

He was buried without the Last Rites of the Church. And worse still, his grave was placed on unconsecrated ground—right at the junction of those ley lines, lines said to pulse with energy, both sacred and profane.

The land, they say, has never been the same since.

Whispers in the Woods

Over the decades, strange happenings have been reported in and around Barnsdale Forest. The earliest stories tell of ghost lights—floating orbs that flicker among the trees like will-o'-the-wisps, vanishing when approached. Others have heard voices whispering names in the dark, or felt sudden drops in temperature without explanation.

One of the first documented modern accounts came from an elderly woman who remembered visiting her aunt in Hartshead, a village near Kirklees. As a teenager, she and a friend had wandered close to the grave. The forest, she said, seemed “too quiet,” as though holding its breath. Suddenly, they heard a man’s voice cry out from the woods—clear and desperate—calling the name Marian. They fled. The next day, in a field not far from the tomb, they discovered a single silver arrow embedded in the earth. It was clean, untarnished, and heavy in the hand. They threw it back where they found it.

They never returned.

The Woman in White

In 1963, and again in 1972, a local man named Roger Williams visited the grave late at night. Both visits ended the same way—with a terrifying encounter. As he approached the site, he saw her: a woman dressed in white, gliding across the overgrown grass, silent and slow. She made no sound, but her presence was overwhelming, filling the air with dread. Roger described her as translucent, glowing faintly like mist under moonlight. She vanished before his eyes.

He swore it was the same apparition both times. And whatever she was, she didn’t want him there. He told friends, “Wild horses couldn’t drag me back.”

He meant it.

Red Roger and the Prioress

Years later, another visitor—a paranormal enthusiast with a long-standing interest in the site—reported an experience he would never forget. Alone at twilight, he stood at the edge of the grave. The forest was dead still. Then, movement—two figures emerging from the gloom. One was tall and broad, wearing what appeared to be medieval garb, his face twisted and indistinct. The other was smaller, robed, her features hidden beneath a hood.

The man identified the figures as Red Roger of Doncaster and the prioress of Kirklees—the very people said to be responsible for Robin Hood’s death. He felt a wave of nausea and dread, as if the very air had turned against him. “There was something evil there,” he later wrote. “Something that didn’t want to be seen, but wanted me to see it.”

Things That Should Not Be

More reports trickled in over the years.

Paranormal researcher Mark Gibbons visited in the early 1990s. Deep in the woods near the grave, he saw a pale figure watching from the trees. When he stepped closer, it moved without sound and disappeared behind a tree. But when he reached the spot—nothing. No footprints. No breeze. Just the overwhelming feeling that he’d been marked.

“I don’t scare easily,” he later said. “But that place… that place isn’t just haunted. It’s alive with something ancient.”

In 1995, two reporters—Judith Broadbent and Sue Ellis—went to document the legend. As they stood near the grave, both experienced an intense, inexplicable sense of dread. Moments later, Sue collapsed without warning. She was rushed to hospital, but doctors found no physical cause. She later claimed to have heard whispering in her ear and saw something moving in the shadows behind Judith just before she blacked out.

A gamekeeper on the estate once reported that his shotgun discharged on its own while he stood watch near the grave. The recoil shattered two of his teeth and sent him to the ground. He later admitted he’d seen a man in green step into the priory gatehouse moments before the accident—then vanish into thin air.

He believed it was Robin Hood himself.

Exorcism and Silence

As the reports grew in number, a psychic named Evelyn Friend attempted to cleanse the area. She believed the intersecting ley lines had been corrupted—tainted by violence, ritual, and centuries of restless spirits. She performed a spiritual cleansing at four points: Hartshead Church, Castle Hill, the Three Nuns Inn, and Alegar Holy Well. But whatever force lingered at the grave did not leave.

She reached out to the local vicar to bless the grave itself, but the landowner refused permission. Days later, the church was broken into and vandalised with occult symbols. Two bishops were contacted, both of whom refused involvement. One issued a single sentence in reply: “This matter is best left alone.”

And so, it was.

The grave continues to crumble. The woods slowly swallow it year by year, but the disturbances never stop. Strange lights still appear in the sky. Disembodied voices still call out in the dead of night. And those who trespass near the old gatehouse sometimes see a man in green, standing beneath the arch, staring without eyes.

Visitors are strictly forbidden. Signs warn of prosecution. Locals warn of something worse.

And through it all, Robin Hood’s grave remains—silent, broken, and watched.

Whatever lies beneath those stones is more than just legend.

It is waiting.