The Old Crown, Deritend High Street

A House of Shadows and Spirits

Nestled among the modern clutter of Birmingham’s urban sprawl lies a relic from another age—The Old Crown, standing resolute on Deritend High Street. Few passersby suspect that this charming black-and-white timbered building, now a bustling pub and hotel, conceals a far darker legacy. Its walls do more than hold history; they hold secrets.

It was in 1538 that John Leland, a royal antiquary to Henry VIII, wandered this way, describing his route into “Bermingham” via a “pretty street called Dirtye.” That street, now known as Deritend High Street, ends—or begins—with what Leland called a “proper chappell and mansion house of tymber.” The chapel, long gone, has faded into the city’s tapestry. But the timber house remains: The Old Crown.

Though proudly displaying the date 1368 across its façade, the truth is more complex. The numbers, etched large, were the creation of a Victorian publicist hoping to bestow an even older mystique. Dendrochronology tells a different tale—this house was born sometime in the late 1400s, but it's likely the site was occupied even earlier, perhaps by a building that once echoed with the chapel’s bells.

Throughout the centuries, the Old Crown has worn many masks: guild hall, merchant’s home, carrier’s rest, public house, and finally the lively venue it is today. But beneath the laughter and clink of pint glasses, something else lingers—something that refuses to move on.

Echoes from the Cellar

One of the first reported spectral encounters occurred around 2003. George Healey, connected to the family who now runs the Crown, recounted the experience of his young nephew—just twelve years old at the time. The boy had wandered into the cellar, only to run back out white-faced and trembling. He spoke of a man sitting on a barrel, dressed in a long velvet coat, with leather leggings and a bowler hat. A child stood beside him, silent and still. The boy’s voice shook as he described the man's deep sideburns and strange, fixed gaze. To this day, the now-teenage lad refuses to enter the cellar alone.

The Lady by the Well

In a covered passageway that now links the bar to the restaurant lies one of the building’s most ancient features: a deep stone well believed to be over a thousand years old. Once open to the elements, it is now sealed, though not from those who once drew water—or blood—from it.

In 1997, a chef passing through the corridor noticed a woman standing near the well. Her clothes were archaic: high-necked blouse, long skirt, and heavy boots. She didn’t acknowledge him. When he asked if she needed help, she turned, drifted toward the bar—and vanished.

Months later, a team from local radio station BRMB conducted a “Fright Night” paranormal investigation. A psychic medium joined the team. When she reached the well, she froze, visibly shaken. She was being drawn—she said—to the cellar. There, she "saw" a woman named Mary. Not just any woman, but a “lady of the night,” matching the chef’s earlier sighting. The medium also claimed that the air in the cellar was thick with grief and decay. She believed the space had once served as a temporary mortuary, or a place where the dying were brought. This may not be mere speculation—the Old Crown was at the heart of a violent two-day siege during the English Civil War. Blood may have soaked its floorboards, the dead laid here in silence before being carried away.

The Vanished Doorway

In the 1800s, old photographs show that the front bar had two doors leading directly onto the pavement. One has since vanished—walled over during a later renovation. Yet it seems that someone still uses it.

Several witnesses have reported the same chilling scene: a man walking through the wall where the door once stood. Not stumbling or crashing through, but calmly, deliberately—as though nothing had changed. He vanishes where the wood panelling meets plaster, often passing straight through a cigarette machine without disturbing a single object. He is always alone. Always silent.

The Book of Ghosts

In a dusty corner behind the bar lies an unassuming book. But this is no ordinary guest ledger. Known only as The Ghost Book, it contains handwritten testimonies from staff and visitors who claim to have encountered the supernatural within the Crown’s walls.

One entry, undated, tells of a chef who jumped from his seat after feeling two sharp taps on his shoulder. His face had drained of colour; he was visibly shaking. "There was no one there," he insisted.

Another entry, dated 15th September 1998, recounts a figure—grey and featureless—gliding across the fireplace and into the kitchen. The witness could not tell if it was a man or woman, only that it was there… and then it was not.

On 3rd October 1998, staff escorted two guests to Room 5 when a loud bang echoed through the hallway. Rushing to investigate, they found the door to Room 1 split down the centre. A strange, pale fluid oozed from the crack. It wouldn’t come off, wouldn’t smear. When they checked the other side, the crack was still there—offset and unnatural. No one could explain the noise, the liquid, or the way the door had been damaged.

Then on 2nd November 1998, at lunchtime, a bottle of Martell brandy leapt from the third shelf of the wine rack. It landed upright beside the till with a loud, perfect thud. No one had touched it. The barman stared at the shelf, then at the bottle, wide-eyed. Gravity had been defied.

Room 8: A Terrible Presence

Perhaps the most disturbing account comes from 21st August 1999. A couple spent the night in Room 8, a large chamber overlooking the front of the building. At dawn, the woman awoke to a loud, metallic clang from beneath her pillow. The room grew suddenly dark, a white mist billowed toward her, and she heard a strange, high-pitched shriek interwoven with a female voice. Her breath caught in her throat. She felt herself being drawn toward the window by an unseen force.

She muttered prayers, begged the presence to rest. The pressure eased. But then it returned—again and again.

Her partner, back turned, remained silent. Fearing he was dead, she shook him. He was alive—but unaware of what she’d just endured. To him, there had been no sound, no mist, no pressure. Just sleep.

Yet as they lay in silence, a new sound crept in: a metallic dragging, like chains scraping across floorboards overhead. The attic, perhaps. But the weight of it was palpable. And the fear—undeniable.

What Still Walks the Crown?

The Old Crown is no museum piece. It breathes, it watches. It remembers. Whether they are the echoes of long-forgotten wars, lost children, working girls, or something older still—something elemental—no one can say for certain. But few leave without feeling something… even if they don't yet know what.

So next time you sip a pint at the Old Crown, raise a glass to those who walked there long before you. But mind the cellar steps… and if you feel a tap on your shoulder—turn slowly. Very slowly. Because some spirits don’t like to be ignored.