Part the First, being the tale of a haunting in rural England in the 1920s.

Almost a hundred years ago now, out on the fields and winding lanes by Curry Rivel in Somerset, there came stories of the ghostly apparition of a woman who walked at night. A woman dressed in black, her face sinisterly veiled. It was said that anyone who ever looked upon this specter’s face, looked into her blackened soulless eyes, would be struck dead on the very spot where they stood.

Who was this ghost?

Some said she was the spirit of an old governess who had lost her charges in some terrible accident—most likely drowned by the old weir—who now roamed the misty meadows and hedgerows looking for their bodies to bring them home once more. Others said she was an evil wraith looking to snare the unwary soul.

When children wouldn’t go to sleep at night, their mothers told them to close their eyes or the woman in black would find them out and feast upon their bones.

Terror gripped the sleepy village. It became so bad that some would ne’er leave their houses after sundown for fear of meeting the dreaded woman in black.

For four years, this ghostly figure was seen by moonlight drifting over fields, wandering brambled lanes, waiting at the crossroads for hellbound travelers.
 

 
Then one night, a group of men gathered in the local pub, the King William Inn. The sightings of the woman in black had been more frequent of late and the villagers said that when the black specter is seen three times in a week someone was going to die….

That was when the postman Frank Chorley chirped up and said, “I saw her the day, so’s I did. Broad daylight it were too.”
The room hushed silent. All eyes turned slowly towards the postman as he sat at the bar with his half-finished pint in front of him.
“He’s drunk,” said one of the red-faced old timers.
“Funny he can find a ghost in the day but can’t deliver my mail,” said another.
“Bad luck to see a ghost in daylight, Frank, means you’re cursed,” said the landlord William Weaver leaning over the bar polishing a glass with an old rag.
“I ain’t cursed. But I saw her plain as day, I did.”
There came a low susurration of voices.
“Did you see her face?”
Frank turned in his seat and faced those huddled behind him.
“I saw her all right. Looked right at her face.”
“He be cursed, he be! Oo-arh!”
More noise, raised voices, chairs shifting against the wooden floor.
“You’ve had enough tonight, Frank, be heading off home now, like a good lad, what do you say?” The landlord moved to pick up Frank’s glass, but the postman was too quick and held its frothy contents tight against his chest.
“I’ll tell you something. That woman in black is no ghost.”
No one moved.
“And more than that,” said Frank, his gaze drifting over the silent room, “I know who that ghost is.”

Part the Second, being the story of the ghost revealed.

The King William Inn was a busy pub. At night, farm workers and locals formed a scrum along the bar, laughed and joked and shared news and talk of the day that had been. The night local postman Frank Chorley made his little speech, the room fell silent waiting for the postman to disclose the secret of the woman in black.
“That be no ghost. But I tells you this, and I’ll swear it’s true, that woman in black looks very like our vicar the reverend Alfred Harold Read.”
“You mean he’s got a sister?”
“No. I mean that ghost is the vicar.”
“Away man, you’re drunk.”
“Good one, Frank. You had us all there.”
A few laughed, only the landlord was determined to know more.
“What are you saying then?”
“I’ll tell you what I’m saying. The ghost that haunts this here village is none other than the vicar.”
The laughter was louder now. No one believed what they were hearing.
“I met that ghost tonight on Burton Road and it was him.”
“Never.”
“Burton Road, you say? All right then, that’s what you say, so let’s go have a look for this reverend of yours.”

Weaver and Chorley left the bar and took their bicycles out into the lanes. They cycled along the Burton Road. Half-a-mile down its narrow way, they saw the ghostly apparition of the woman in black ahead of them. She was dressed in her Victorian frock, black hat, dark coat, stockings and high heels. She casually carried a parasol in one hand.

Chorley and Weaver stopped their bikes in front of this dreaded apparition. They challenged the figure to reveal its true identity. The ghost said nothing and kept moving. Chorley then shone his bicycle lamp directly onto the ghost’s face. The light revealed a terrified-looking reverend peeking out from under the brim of his large floppy hat.
 

 
Part the third, the Reverend explains.

The following day, Weaver met the reverend at the local post office. Read was now in his usual clerical garb. He approached Weaver and said something like, “I hope I didn’t startle you last night?”
“Not quite, reverend, but I have to admit I was surprised to see you out dressed as you were.”
“Ah yes, that. Yes. Well, you see, William, I can entrust you with my little secret I’m sure. I dressed as a lady for…er…research purposes.”
“Research, you say?”
“Yes, research. I’m working on a book, you see, with the sole aim of enquiring into how the women of this fine village of ours are treated by the men.”
“Oh, really? So, you’re not a transvestite then?”
“A transvestite? Heaven no. I am a happily married man. Smoke a pipe, don’t you know? And I’ve got thighs on me like a navvy’s. Go on have a feel. You could crack walnuts with those muscles…”
“Oh….right…”
“You see William, I’ve heard that many a fine girl around here and you know young women and that sort get into trouble or are molested by some rough lads, and I thought I’d pose as a lady to see if this were true.”
“All right…”
“I don’t think I’ve done any harm with my little masquerade. Though to be frank, of course, the wife doesn’t know anything about it.”
“I see…”
“Yes, I’m sure you do. I knew you would get it, William. Now I’ll tell you what, why don’t you come along to a special meeting I’m having at the village hall tomorrow night where I’ll put everything out in the open and explain it all, what?”

The following night, a small sign was placed in the local village hall announcing the reverend Read giving an explanation as to “Why I Did It.” The sign revealed little more, but the whole village was fully aware as to what the reverend Read was alluding.

In front of a packed hall, the reverend Read stood up and said about four years ago he had become deeply depressed by the state of modern morals. The world was becoming degenerate. Once sincerely held values were being jettisoned in favor of cheap and fickle hedonism.

The vicar continued:

It was my intention to discover what was the attitude of the ordinary man to the ordinary woman going alone on country roads rather late at night making no advances — a woman who became absolutely silent when any sort advance or familiarity was made to her by a man.

To my surprise and intense satisfaction, though I walked on many miles on various occasion, there was not one who became at all troublesome to me.

Some will say it was because I was no engaging female. My only reply to that is that not a few opportunities would have opened out if I had given any sign. After having proved again and again all the local districts, as far as I could that men are far more chivalrous to women than I had imagined, I resolved to confirm and establish my convictions by visiting other populous areas.

The room was stunned silence. But the reverend continued unabashed.

Men, I raise my hat to you. I can truly say that you never had as high a place in my esteem as now.

The lurid Press, that give so much space in their columns to sensation, are not fair to you. The heart of English manhood seems sound as ever. I have confirmed by these experiences your loyalty to the instinct of manhood, your genuine chivalry towards women and your high respect for those who are most inaptly described as the weaker sex.

Now that this strange, and perhaps foolish jaunt of mine is over, I have apologized to everyone and I trust that they will all be ready to forgive me this spasm of folly.

One can only hope there was an old man at the back of this assembly in a fine pair of slingbacks who may have remarked, “So, you’re not a transvestite then? Pity that.”
 

 
The following day, the Congressional Church at Curry Rivel released a statement regarding the vicar’s behavior.

We do hereby place on record our unqualified conviction that such behavior was not due to any moral laxity, but is the result of a nervous disorder induced by anxiety and overwork.

Further, we record our gratitude to God for our pastor’s long and arduous ministry and affirm that our church has been most happy and successful during his four years as our leader.

We have found him a helpful preacher and devoted friend and pastor, recklessly spending his strength in bringing the church through great difficulties to a place of honor in the community and the union.

It is said the woman in black never haunted the lanes and fields of Curry Rivel again. Though there were some who claimed that on a night with a fat, full moon when the sky was clear and the stars did sparkle bright, the ghost of the woman in black could sometimes be seen a-haunting the front room of the vicarage….

Now for clairity’s sake, the essential elements of this story are all true—though some liberties have (of course) been taken by this humble nib-dipper regarding conversations between the real-life charcaters for the benefit of our tale. Read the original news report here.
 

 
Via Beachcombing’s Bizarre History Blog.