In the gentle folds of North Lincolnshire, a landscape better known for its steel, sheep and sedate market towns, one might not expect to find a Victorian drama of flying kettles, bewitching teenagers, and terrified livestock. Yet in the spring of 1879, the village of Bottesford, just outside Scunthorpe, found itself at the eye of a supernatural storm – one that stirred not only the fears of its locals but the ire of metropolitan newspapers and parliamentarians alike.
This peculiar episode, half comedy, half cautionary tale, was widely reported at the time, with the Daily Gazette and the Pall Mall Gazette competing for the most vivid account. But beneath the Victorian ridicule and moralising editorials lies a story that hints at something stranger: a lingering fear of witchcraft in a supposedly enlightened age – and perhaps, just perhaps, a genuine case of poltergeist activity.
The Soulby Haunting
It began quietly enough, in a cottage near the old manor house of Bottesford. Edward Soulby, a man described as being “in easy circumstances,” lived there with his teenage granddaughter Betsy. Edward claimed, quite earnestly, that his home was under supernatural siege. And not by any shy or subtle spectre, either. This spirit, if it was one, had a flair for chaos – and choreography.
One Sunday, a gale broke a window with a branch. Within moments, Soulby reported, the kettle leapt off the fire, clattered across the room, exited the house entirely, crossed the street unaided, then trotted back indoors and resumed its place on the grate, merrily whistling.
It was soon followed by a water can that confronted Mr Soulby on the staircase, engaging him in a step-by-step standoff. A stone of lard (a very Victorian missile) later tumbled down the stairs with such violence it cracked a step. But most astonishing of all: the very floor itself apparently rose up, hurled itself through a window, and collapsed outside in protest.
Betsy, meanwhile, came under intense scrutiny. Her grandfather claimed she was the source of the haunting – a girl in league with the Devil, armed with a familiar spirit. To ward off further demonic interference, she was made to wear a garland of wicker twigs around her neck. Bizarrely, so too were the pigs and chickens in the yard, each adorned like rural festival-goers in a rustic ritual of spiritual defence.
The situation escalated quickly from local oddity to full-blown moral panic.
A Village Bewitched
News spread. Curious crowds descended on the village, including a reported 1,500 onlookers in one weekend – some travelling from as far as Sheffield and Doncaster to see the “haunted” house. Revivalist preachers staged prayer meetings inside the cottage. Bricks were pulled up in the hope of uncovering the spirits’ lair. Reports of other local witches multiplied. One alleged “hereditary witch” even came to observe, prompting the villagers to ward her off with the phallic hand gesture believed to counter the Evil Eye.
Among the more outlandish claims was that a local warlock had taken the form of a black dog and was seen biting cattle. A farmer occupying 300 acres of prime land begged a local newspaper to advertise for a “wise man” who could lift the curse he believed had been placed upon him and his livestock.
Despite the absurdity, violence loomed. Betsy, the teenage granddaughter at the centre of it all, became the focus of suspicion and resentment. Though no mob materialised, accounts suggest the atmosphere was ripe for it. One witness compared the mood to the treatment of Madge Wildfire in The Heart of Midlothian—a woman scapegoated and brutalised by a superstitious community.
Belief and Backlash
Yet not everyone was convinced. The local squire, Mr. E. Peacock of Bottesford Manor, along with the village vicar and constable, dismissed the incidents as the work of human mischief. Evidence, they claimed, pointed clearly to Betsy herself: the flying pans, walking cans and tumbling boxes all occurred only when she was present. Wet boot marks betrayed her involvement in more than one incident. Still, their efforts to rationalise were met with hostility.
A local preacher (not, as later clarified, an ordained Wesleyan minister) reportedly called sceptics “atheists” and even threatened to assault one man for failing to see “the finger of God” in the disturbances. This curious blend of spiritual showmanship and barely-contained mob aggression prompted some observers to link the affair with wider questions about rural ignorance and electoral reform.
Indeed, an anonymous correspondent to the Pall Mall Gazette, styling themselves “An Atheist,” seized upon the Soulby case to argue that superstition still gripped the countryside – and that, perhaps, this undermined the case for extending the vote to the rural poor. “If the people of Bottesford,” he sniffed, “are to be taken as a fair sample, we had better pay more attention to Mr. Goschen, and a little less to Mr. Gladstone.”
Others were quick to respond, noting that the newspaper had mistakenly located Bottesford in Leicestershire instead of Lincolnshire – a geographic correction that did little to rescue the dignity of either county. A Leicester Chronicle editorial tried to salvage some honour, suggesting that although superstitions did linger, education would soon banish them.
Witchcraft, Folklore—or Poltergeist?
From the modern perspective, the Bottesford case is a rich mix of folklore, social tension, and what today we might call poltergeist phenomena. The spontaneous movement of objects, focus on a pubescent girl, and apparent intelligent mischief all mirror classic cases – from the Enfield Poltergeist to the more obscure Willington Mill haunting of the 19th century.
Was Betsy the mischievous mastermind of the haunting? Quite possibly. But one must wonder what compelled her. Boredom? Attention? Or something deeper, more unconscious? Psychical researchers would later speculate that poltergeist activity often centres on emotionally volatile adolescents—particularly girls—who may unwittingly project physical energy in mysterious ways.
Yet the Victorian mind had little room for such nuances. It knew only witches, devils, and frauds. And while it wagged its finger at rural ignorance, it also gorged itself on tales of bewitchment with relish. Betsy Soulby may have been branded by some as a fraud, by others as a witch – but to the railway carriages full of spectators, she was a wonder.
Bottesford today is a quiet place, its 19th-century dramas long buried beneath tarmac and time. But in 1879, it danced briefly on the national stage, its pavements crowded with gawping Victorians, its pigs and chickens decked in twigs, and its teenage “witch” at the centre of a storm that said far more about society than it did about spirits.
And somewhere in the echoes of Lincolnshire folklore, you might still hear the whistle of that kettle – singing on the fire, then trotting off across the road, entirely on its own.
Sources: Daily Gazette for Middlesbrough (15 March 1879); Pall Mall Gazette (March–April 1879); Leicester Chronicle (5 April 1879); British Newspaper Archive.
