The Headless Queen of St. Peter ad Vincula

The Tower of London had always been a fortress of shadows, secrets, and blood. It was more than just stone walls; it was a repository of history, cruelty, and tragedy. Within its cold embrace, those who once wielded power were reduced to prisoners, condemned by the Crown. Among them, Anne Boleyn, second wife of Henry VIII, executed in 1536. Her headless form was said to haunt the Tower, though few dared to speak of it aloud.

St. Peter ad Vincula, the small, unassuming chapel within the Tower grounds, was where Anne lay buried, along with many others who met grim fates on the executioner’s block. For years, the chapel was silent, a place where the dead rested—mostly. But some nights, the weight of history grew too heavy, and whispers crept through the dark.

Evan Radcliffe had been a guard at the Tower for five years. He’d heard the ghost stories from his colleagues, but he never put much stock in them. Ghosts were tales for tourists, warnings passed down to new guards to keep them on their toes during the long, lonely hours. He didn’t need any of that. A war veteran, he’d faced enough in his life not to fear shadows. But even the toughest men have their limits.

It was a bitterly cold November night, the kind of night that seeps into your bones. The other guards had turned in, leaving Evan with the final patrol. He buttoned up his jacket, checked his flashlight, and set out. The Tower was unusually quiet, even for the late hour. As he passed the White Tower, he glanced toward the chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula. Something tugged at him.

His boots crunched on the gravel path leading to the chapel. Evan paused before the small, ancient building. A sense of unease settled over him, but he ignored it. He had never gone inside at night before. He wasn’t supposed to. The chapel was reserved for the daytime, its dark secrets meant to be left undisturbed once the sun set.

But tonight, the chapel seemed different, as though it was beckoning him. The stories of Anne Boleyn’s ghost flickered in the back of his mind, but he brushed them aside. *Just stories.* He wasn’t afraid of some long-dead queen. The pull grew stronger, and Evan found himself walking toward the heavy wooden door. 

It creaked open under his hand. Inside, the chapel was dim, the stone walls casting long shadows in the faint light from the small windows. The air was colder here, colder than outside, as though something unnatural was drawing the warmth from the space. His breath hung in the air in front of him.

Evan shined his flashlight around the interior. Rows of simple wooden pews stretched toward the altar, and in the floor, the modest grave markers of those buried within the chapel. He spotted Anne’s, marked only by her initials: “AB.” No royal title, no fanfare. It struck him as profoundly sad. A queen reduced to two letters.

Something moved in the corner of his vision. He whipped his flashlight toward the altar. Nothing. Just the flicker of shadows. He let out a breath and turned back toward the grave marker.

That’s when he heard it.

A soft whisper, like a woman’s voice carried on the wind. Evan stiffened, shining his light toward the altar again. This time, there was movement—definite movement—at the far end of the chapel. His flashlight flickered, casting the room into darkness before sputtering back to life. In the beam, a figure stood at the end of the chapel. 

A woman. 

She wore a long, dark gown, her hands clasped in front of her as though in prayer. Her head was lowered, hidden by the shadow of a veil. For a moment, Evan’s breath caught in his throat. The figure did not move, but the air around her seemed to pulse with cold, as though the temperature had dropped further in her presence.

“Who’s there?” he called, his voice steady but laced with uncertainty.

The woman remained still, her hands clasped in prayer. 

Evan took a step forward, then another. His hand gripped the flashlight tightly, his knuckles white. The woman’s veil shimmered slightly, almost ethereal in the beam of light. He squinted, trying to make out her features. 

Another whisper, this time closer.

Evan’s heart pounded in his chest. The air thickened, and an overwhelming sense of dread crawled over him. Something was wrong, terribly wrong. The woman began to move—slowly at first, her steps soft and deliberate. Then, without warning, her head… tilted unnaturally to the side. 

His light faltered again, plunging the room into near darkness. When it flickered back, the woman’s head was gone.

Evan stumbled back, his eyes wide. Where the woman’s head had been, there was now only a dark, empty space. Her body, headless, continued to move toward him, faster now, almost gliding. The whispers grew louder, circling him, wrapping around his mind like tendrils of ice.

He turned to run, but the heavy wooden door slammed shut with a deafening crash. His flashlight flickered and died, leaving him in complete darkness.

The sound of footsteps—no, not footsteps—gliding, scraping, something unnatural, came closer and closer. Evan could feel her, inches from him. He backed up against the cold stone wall, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

Then the whispers stopped.

Evan swallowed hard, the silence pressing in on him. He slowly turned his head toward the altar, toward where the headless figure had stood.

Nothing.

For a moment, he dared to hope it had all been in his head, some horrible nightmare brought on by the chill of the night. But then the cold hand touched his arm.

He screamed and jerked away, only to feel her fingers brush against his neck. His heart thundered in his chest, and he bolted toward the door, clawing at the heavy wood. His fingers found the handle, and with a burst of strength, he yanked it open and stumbled out into the cold night air.

The whispers followed him. He didn’t stop running until he reached the gatehouse, where two other guards stood chatting.

Evan burst in, pale and breathless, his eyes wild. The guards looked at him in confusion, then concern. 

“What happened?” one of them asked, his voice laced with disbelief.

Evan opened his mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words. The image of the headless woman, her dark gown trailing behind her, haunted his thoughts. Finally, he managed to choke out, “Anne… she’s real. She’s real.”

The other guards exchanged uneasy glances but said nothing. The Tower of London had always been a place of ghosts, but few had ever seen them with their own eyes. Evan, though, knew the truth now. Anne Boleyn’s spirit was not at rest, and the chapel of St. Peter ad Vincula held more than just the bodies of the dead.

It held their souls, too.

And some, like Anne, were far from peaceful.