Tom Slemen’s Haunted Wirral: More M53 mysteries

I received an unprecedented response from Wirral Globe readers following last week's column about hauntings and other strange incidents reported to me over the years concerning the M53 motorway. Because of that, I thought I would share two of the more intriguing and unsettling accounts that readers have since passed on. I will begin with a perplexing mystery that unfolded on the evening of Monday, August 28, 2017 -- the Summer Bank Holiday.

A couple in their thirties, Clark and Rosie, had left Ellesmere Port and were heading home to Wallasey. Clark had been seeing Rosie for almost six months, and the relationship was going well. Rosie had not visited her parents in Ellesmere Port for years, and although she had enjoyed the day, she was glad to be heading home.

A neighbour had been looking after her dog, Ben, and knew the animal would be missing her as much as she was missing him. As their car travelled along the stretch of the M53 that crosses Wirral Circular Trail near Eastham Rake, the vehicle suddenly began to lose power. Clark, who was driving, noticed that the engine was struggling and pulled over onto the hard shoulder.

Later, the fault would be attributed to a sensor issue, but at the time it was enough to cause concern. Clark let the engine cool for a few minutes before attempting to restart it. When he did, the car would not accelerate beyond forty miles per hour.

Not far from the Raby Hall Road bridge, the couple spotted what appeared to be a brightly lit service station at the end of a slip road. Relieved at the sight, they decided to pull in, get something to eat, and arrange for breakdown assistance. Inside the cafe, Clark ordered two burgers, large portions of fries and two large Cokes.

However, when he tried to pay, his debit card repeatedly failed. Embarrassed, and with no cash on him, Clark began to flush red. The young woman behind the counter noticed his discomfort and said something that took him completely by surprise.

"It's all right," she said kindly. "Next time you call in, you can settle the bill." "That's very kind of you," Clark replied. "Thank you." He carried the tray over to Rosie, who had taken a seat by the window, and explained what had happened.

Then, somewhat sheepishly, Clark made a confession: he had not taken out breakdown cover with either the RAC or the AA. He had always assumed that as long as he maintained the car properly, he would never need it. "Oh, Clark, no," Rosie groaned.

She immediately reached for her phone and said she would have to search for a local breakdown company. At that moment, a young man -- perhaps twenty-five years old -- approached their table. "Is that your car out there?" he asked, gesturing towards the car park beyond the window.

Clark nodded. "I couldn't help overhearing," the man continued. "You said you're having trouble and you're not covered. I'm a time-served mechanic.

I'll take a look under the bonnet if you like -- and I won't charge you." "Oh no, that's all right," Rosie said quickly, but Clark had already risen from his seat. "I'd really appreciate it," he said. "Clark!" Rosie protested, glaring at him, but he had already followed the stranger outside.

They were gone for no more than two minutes. When they returned, Clark gave Rosie a cheerful thumbs-up. "He's fixed it," he said. "Just a small issue with the sensor."

Rosie leaned closer and whispered, "Clark, for all we know he could be a fantasist. What if the car breaks down again on the motorway? I'm calling someone out."

"We haven't got the money for that," Clark replied. "And he said it's sorted." Rosie said no more, but she remained in a mood for the rest of their stop. Back on the motorway, however, the car performed perfectly.

Within minutes, they were cruising at seventy miles per hour. Rosie insisted they should still have it checked at a garage the following morning, and Clark agreed. The next day, a mechanic examined the vehicle and found nothing wrong with it at all.

A fortnight later, the couple decided to return to the service station to repay the kindness shown to them. They drove back to the same stretch of road, confident they would find it easily. But the cafe was gone.

There was no slip road. No service station. No building of any kind.

The spot where they both clearly remembered it standing was empty. Perplexed, they asked friends and acquaintances whether anyone had ever seen a roadside cafe at that location on the M53. No one had.

The place, it seemed, simply did not exist. Months later, while dining at the Dibbinsdale Inn, Rosie overheard a conversation at a nearby table. A woman was describing a cafe she had visited on the M53--one that had seemingly vanished when she tried to return.

Rosie approached the table, apologised for interrupting, and asked the woman to elaborate. As they compared notes, it became clear that both stories referred to the same mysterious location near the Raby Hall Road bridge. To this day, the mystery of the missing M53 cafe remains unsolved.

Another strange account concerning the M53 dates back to the summer of 2008. A man named Paul, who had fallen on hard times due to a drink problem, had been sleeping rough beneath the Thornton Common Road overbridge. On a bright, sunny morning, Paul -- remarkably sober -- decided it was time to turn his life around.

He intended to hitch a lift along the motorway to visit a relative in Prenton, hoping for a fresh start and perhaps the chance of employment. He had walked some 350 yards when he heard a deep, bone-shaking rumble. Turning to see what was causing the noise, Paul was confronted with a sight he could scarcely believe.

A massive vehicle -- a monstrous truck -- was approaching along a slip road that led onto the motorway. Paul stood at six feet tall, yet the tyres alone towered over him, each one as high as a wall. The body of the machine rose even higher, dwarfing any lorry he had ever seen.

It stretched on and on behind the cab, segmented like a train yet moving as a single unit. It seemed far too large for any British road. There was no conceivable way such a vehicle could pass beneath the standard bridges of the motorway network.

At first, Paul assumed it must be some kind of military prototype. Despite his circumstances, he found himself fascinated. The sound of the machine was unlike anything he had ever heard--a deep, grinding resonance that seemed to vibrate through his bones.

The tyres did not merely roll; they appeared to press into the tarmac, as though the road itself were yielding beneath their immense weight. Paul could see the surface deforming, the white lines buckling and splitting as the vehicle advanced. Compelled by curiosity, Paul raised a hand and waved.

To his astonishment, the vehicle came to an immediate halt. At that moment, a cyclist approached, slowed, and stopped beside Paul. The cyclist stared in disbelief at the enormous machine.

Then Paul noticed a hatch opening halfway up the side of the vehicle. A man appeared and beckoned to him. The hatch was at least twenty feet above the ground, and the only apparent means of access was a fixed ladder running up the side.

Paul had always been uneasy with heights, but driven by curiosity -- and perhaps opportunity -- he began to climb, his satchel slung over his shoulder. Reaching the hatch, he pulled himself inside. What he saw astonished him.

The interior resembled not the cab of a lorry, but the flight deck of an aircraft. Two men sat at consoles surrounded by unfamiliar instruments and displays. One of the men was engaged in a heated argument via a video link.

Mid-sentence, he turned and stared at Paul. "Who the hell are you?" he demanded. "You're not Bradford." "Sorry," Paul replied, confused. "I thought you called me up here."

"I thought you were Bradford," the man said, glancing back at the screen before returning his attention to Paul. "You'll have to go." "Could you give me a lift towards Prenton?" Paul asked hopefully. "No," the man snapped. "This isn't for you; it's not for your eyes.

Off you go." Reluctantly, Paul turned and made his way back down the ladder. The height now seemed far more intimidating than it had on the way up, and he descended with a growing sense of vertigo.

No sooner had he reached the ground than the enormous vehicle began to move again. The vast wheels rolled forward, and Paul watched as it joined the motorway. What struck him as particularly strange was the complete absence of other traffic.

Not a single car was visible in either direction. He turned to speak to the cyclist, but the man had disappeared. When Paul looked back towards the motorway, the colossal vehicle was gone.

There was no sign of it anywhere.

To this day, Paul has never been able to explain what he saw that morning--nor where the mysterious vehicle came from, or where it went.

o Haunted Liverpool 38 and Tom Slemen's other books are available from Amazon.