Let’s get straight to it.
The Royal, that magnificent brick-and-beer beacon perched on Station Street, is haunted.
And not in a “bit of a chill near the ladies’ loo” way. We’re talking full-fat, cellar-stinking, whisper-in-your-ear-at-3am-and-steal-your-chips kind of haunting.
And honestly? It’s what gives the place its charm.
Like a pint with a weird aftertaste that you just keep ordering because it feels right.
We’ve been gathering stories. Real ones. From real people. Who were sober enough to remember (or at least claimed to be). Some of them have the nervous energy of someone who’s stared into the abyss and the abyss went: “Fancy a Dark Mild?”
🪦 The cellar: a fragrant nightmare
Let’s begin in the bowels. The cellar.
Where the pints live. And the nightmares steep like forgotten gravy.
Now, every pub cellar’s a bit grim. Bit damp. Bit whiffy.
But this one? This one’s got personality.
Multiple staff members – past and present – have told us about the smell.
It’s not constant. It comes and goes.
Like it knows when you’re alone down there.
And when it hits? It’s not your standard damp-floor-and-cleaning-fluid pub pong. No no. This is worse.
One described it as “rotting meat and sadness.”
Another said it was like “a fridge that died in 1993 and nobody found it ‘til Bonfire Night.”
A third just went quiet and now sells crystals in Cornwall. Healing ones. Big ones.
Environmental Health came once. Took one sniff. Did that slow, broken blinking thing like a traumatised owl… and left. No paperwork. No words. Just vanished into the fog like a reverse Batman.
And yes, we know cellars are supposed to be a bit musty.
But this?
This is like Satan’s airing cupboard after he left a pork joint in it over Bank Holiday weekend.
One bloke swears the smell only comes when United lose. Another reckons it’s the ghost of a butcher who got locked in with the ale and never came out.
Honestly? We believe them all.
👣 Footsteps from beyond (the upstairs flat)
Now, about that flat above the pub. Cosy. Functional. Full of the sounds of… heavy boots pacing slowly at 2am.
Not a rat. Not a pipe. Not Big Dave looking for snacks.
Real footsteps. Intentional footsteps.
One tenant said it sounded like someone doing circuits in steel-toe boots. Another swore they heard a whisper say “Turn it over, I hate Bradley Walsh” just before the TV switched channels on its own.
A visiting woman from Swinnow reckons something sat on the end of her bed and offered her a Jagerbomb. She left before sunrise and now lives in a fortified bungalow in Morley with a Doberman and six locks on every door.
Nobody’s been back in that flat since.
Well – someone lives in it now, but we’ve not managed to speak to them.
They keep the curtains shut, never makes eye contact, and once walked out of Sainsburys holding a Freddo and humming “Tubthumping” in Latin.
Make of that what you will.
We assume he’s possessed. Or in denial. Or both. Either way, he’s not talking.
And honestly, that’s probably for the best.
😴 Barry the landlord who slept through it all
Then there’s Barry (not his real name – although it is – but we’ve changed it out of respect for his ability to sleep through poltergeists like a snoring cement mixer).
Barry lived upstairs for a few years. Said he’d “come to terms with the lot of ‘em.”
Left ‘em a bacon butty and a cuppa at Christmas. Even had names for ’em.
“Clive just wants the football scores,” he told us. “And Gertrude turns the telly over if she doesn’t like what you’re watching. That’s how I knew she hated The Chase.”
He once offered to put the heating on for them during a cold snap.
Honestly, Barry was more haunted than the flat. But somehow, it worked.
🔮 The bit with derek acorah (brace thisen, this is The Pudsey Blog after all)
Now. We never got Derek Acorah through the door (RIP, legend), but if he had walked into The Royal, his highlights would’ve combusted on impact.
You just know he’d have gone full theatrics. Arms out. Shirt open. Eyes rolling like he’s mid-Co-op meal deal decision.
“I’m getting a name… it’s… FRANK. FRANK IS HERE. He’s covered in soot and STINKS OF BRANSTON.”
According to one bloke we met in the smoking area, Frank was a chimney sweep who died hiding in the snug during a game of hide-and-seek that went too far.
We’re talking full Victorian nonsense.
Derek would’ve demanded a round for the spirits, got lightly possessed, and collapsed backwards into the fruit machine while shouting about a barmaid called Mildred who still wants her Embassy No.1s.
Locals would’ve just nodded and said: “Standard Tuesday.”
💡 Other spooky happenings (probably not real but don’t @ us)
Look, we’ve heard a lot of things. Some believable. Some… less so.
But here are a few of our favourite paranormal rumours, passed on with a straight face and a glint of madness.
We’ll let you decide how many pints were involved.
- A pint of Guinness that pulled itself. Once. Never repeated. Never explained. Never topped for head.
- A mirror upstairs that fogs up with rude words if you insult Leeds United. Say “they’re just Championship Preston with a scarf” and see what happens. We dare you.
- The ladies’ toilet door that locks itself even when nobody’s inside. Could be ghosts. Could be shoddy hinges. Could be passive-aggressive plumbing. We don’t ask questions.
- A ghost cat called Keith. No one’s seen him, but five separate punters have tripped over the same empty bit of air near the jukebox. One woman meowed back out of sheer panic and instinct. Respect.
- A spectral barmaid who appears only when you’re about to be cut off and says “you’ve had enough, love” in a voice that echoes through your soul like hangover regret.
Are any of these true? Probably not.
Do we want them to be? Deeply.
Because frankly, if your local pub doesn’t come with at least one haunted cat and a passive-aggressive ghost mirror, is it even worth the carpet pattern?
Paranormal or not, it’s all just part of the vibe.
And Keith, if you’re reading this – stop tripping people up, ya furry little menace.
Final word
The Royal might be haunted, mildly cursed, and home to at least one invisible cat called Keith – but it’s still one of our favourite pubs in Pudsey. Pints are solid, the chat’s weird in a good way, and there’s always a chance Derek Acorah might show up in spirit or in person. And us? We ain’t afraid of no ghosts. Unless they start drinking our Guinness – then we’ll have words.
