The Watchman’s Last Beat

The East End remembers its dead—especially those who refused to stop walking.

By gaslight and memory, Bobby still patrols. His helmet, though dulled by time, remains perched perfectly. His buttons gleam as if freshly polished. His truncheon, though now ghostly, swings in quiet rhythm as his boots click against cobbles only he can feel.

He was once the pride of Whitechapel Constable Robert Havers, known to everyone as "Bobby." No matter the hour, the weather, or the threat, Bobby walked his beat. Calm. Fair. Firm. He kept drunks out of fights, children out of harm, and the worst of men just wary enough to behave. People slept easier when Bobby was on watch.

One fog-drenched evening in 1910, Bobby chased a man into the maze of alleys behind Buck's Row. A scream had pierced the quiet. Blood had painted the bricks. By the time his whistle blew, it was already too late. He found the killer—and met his end.

They never found Bobby's body. Just his helmet and baton, neatly placed on the doorstep of the local butcher. Some claimed the killer had vanished into thin air. Others whispered darker things—that Bobby had followed a spirit too far into its own world.

But that wasn’t the end.

Soon after, people began to hear the steady rhythm of footsteps outside their windows. A presence that calmed the frightened and sent shivers through the cruel. Lost children were found at dawn curled near alley walls, whispering about a man with a silver badge and eyes that glowed like lanterns. Thieves reported chills down their spines before the sound of a ghostly whistle made them flee.

Now, more than a century on, Bobby still walks.

He haunts no single building, no cursed relic. He is bound not by revenge, but by duty. On foggy nights, his shape can be glimpsed under a flickering streetlamp. On quiet mornings, his footsteps can be heard fading into the distance just before sunrise.

His beat covers the lost places the alleys swallowed by new builds, the pubs turned to coffee shops, the doorways no longer watched. He finds those who are frightened, confused, or in need. He cannot speak, but he can nod. He can point. And if you're quiet, you might hear the click of his ghostly shoes keeping rhythm beside you until you're home.

But woe to those who would do harm under cover of dark. Bobby may no longer carry iron, but the chill of his justice is worse. Those who cross him wake with bruises shaped like truncheon strikes. Others simply vanish, last seen turning into the fog behind the market square.

Children leave him notes tucked into brick walls. "Thank you, Bobby." "I saw you last night." "Still walking. Still watching."

The East End remembers. And Bobby keeps the watch.

His last beat never ended. It simply... continued.