Maritime Mysteries (2 page)

The Ceilidh Spirits

H
is car broke down on a lonely stretch of road that appeared to go nowhere. Should he stay in the car where it was safe, or walk to the nearest village and put up for the night? The thought of a warm bed was the deciding factor.

It was near midnight when he saw a light up ahead. His pace quickened toward the house he saw. When he opened the gate and walked to the front door, he heard music coming from inside. His knock was answered by a old woman. He told her he was stranded and asked if she would she be so kind as to give him shelter for the night. She invited him in and he followed her to the kitchen, where she pointed to a chair at the table—all the while humming the tune the group was playing in the other room. She suggested he should have his tea in the parlour, where he could enjoy the singing and dancing. He sat down in a comfortable old sofa and admired the talent of the young musicians. There were seven in the band altogether; four men and three women, and it was plain to see they were all related—perhaps brothers and sisters. They were, without exception, handsome young people. And all, except one, had wavy, jet black hair. The tallest and thinnest young woman had hair the colour of a golden sunrise.

What he found disturbing and a little peculiar was that they neither spoke or acknowledged his presence. It was as if he didn't exist. He couldn't help but feel somewhat uneasy. And the room itself, while warm and friendly, had a foreboding air about it.

Sleep overcame him, and he lay down on the soft warm sofa. The last thing he remembered was the old woman covering him with a blanket whilst in the distance, he heard the soft, strains of “Dark Isle.”

When he opened his eyes in the morning he was startled to find himself lying on a cold and damp floor! The room that had been so warm was now cold and empty. The fireplace that only hours earlier had given off such warmth was closed off. There wasn't a single piece of furniture in the parlour or in the kitchen, nor was there another human being in the house. Slowly he made his way up the winding staircase to the rooms upstairs. The only thing he found was an overgrowth of cobwebs and a sickening and musty odour in the empty rooms.

He quickly went downstairs and out the front door into the bright sunshine and onto the road that seemed to go nowhere. He had gone less that a kilometre when he saw an old man coming his way. His steps, supported by a cane, were slow and deliberate. Should he tell the old man what he had seen, or didn't see? He thought better of it. No sense being laughed at, or worse, thought of as a fool. They nodded to each other and moved on.

The repairs to his car would take most of the day and evening. While eating dinner at the local diner, he noticed on the wall a newspaper headline: LOCAL MUSICIANS AND GRANDMOTHER DIE IN TRAGIC BUS ACCIDENT. The story carried a family picture; the familiar faces of the young musicians and the old woman who had given him shelter the night before stared back at him.

He was about to turn onto the main road when he changed his mind. He felt compelled to go back to that place, to make sure. It was midnight when he saw the lights come on, and as he drove off, music came pouring out of the abandoned farmhouse.

The Witches of Robie Street

Y
ou don't believe me, do you? You don't believe there's a haunted house on one of Halifax's busiest streets. May I suggest you get in you car and drive by? Or, better still, walk by. If you have the courage, linger awhile. But I caution you, don't linger too long, because on the verandah, the Witches of Robie Street may still be dancing the dance of death. If they catch you spying on them ... well, don't say I didn't warn you.

The city of Halifax is famous for many firsts. It was home to the formation of the first representative government in the British colonies, and the first newspaper in Canada was published here. What's that got to do with haunted houses? you may ask. Well, the house in question was built in the 1840s for William Caldwell, the first elected mayor of the city. The home, known locally as the Robie Street Palace, has changed hands several times. And the spirits? Well, who's to say they're not still there.

The house is currently a combination of a residence and clinic. Patients waiting to see the doctor may choose from a variety of magazines available; the curious will reach for a small five-by-seven white card that explains the history of the Robie Street Palace and how it became haunted, and that its mysterious black window is what made the place so famous.

According to legend, one evening, just at dusk, an old man living in the house was caught spying on three witches who were performing a ritual dance on the verandah. The witches became very angry and put a curse on the old man, and the window he was spying through was turned black by these angry souls. To this day it is said that no matter how many times the glass is replaced, it immediately turns black.

The early residents who lived in the Robie Street Palace were witness to some very mean-spirited poltergeists. For no apparent reason, lamps would suddenly go hurtling across the room, doors would slam shut and then swing open again, and very late at night, voices were heard groaning in the dark upstairs.

On closer inspection of the now boarded-up blackened window, it's difficult to tell what colour the glass really was, or is, or if there really was a window there at all.

Some southenders who know the history of the Robie Street Palace pass by quickly—they've heard about what may happen if caught staring.

The Mystic Farm Ghost

J
ust off highway 101 there is a place known as the Jordan Branch Road, which is located not far from Shelburne, Nova Scotia. There you will find the Mystic Farm. The house was built in 1783 and is currently owned by Jack and Jill Nickerson, who operate a greenhouse nursery.

Life appears normal at Mystic Farm. Normal, that is, until night falls. That's when the ghost of Nina appears. Nina, according to the new owners, was one of the original owners, who lived into her ninety-ninth year.

The young couple first realized the home was haunted when early one morning, Jill was going downstairs to get a glass of water. When she was halfway down, she felt a foreboding and a sweep of ice-cold air passed through her body. Jill knew instinctively that a spirit had passed through her. When she turned to look up the stairs, she saw the shadowy figure of an old woman disappear into a spare bedroom. The next morning, Jill began exhaustive research about the farm and its previous owners, and especially about the ghost who now occupied their home. What surprised the Nickersons was that they were just the second owners of the farm. For 215 years, the place was owned by just one family—the last to live and die there was a woman called Nina.

Nina made her presence known in several ways. It was just after two o'clock one morning when Jill was awakened by the smell of smoke. She and her husband rushed about the home checking every room but couldn't find any fire. After airing out the house and returning to bed, with the smell of smoke still hanging in the air, the young couple knew there would be no sleep that night—Nina was on the prowl.

Contending with one ghost is one too many, but the Nickersons had to deal with two: one inside and one outside. The second spirit never entered the home or appeared to anyone; it's presence was known only by a steady knocking on the back door. The knocking first happened one day when Jack was working around the home while Jill was away. Even when Jack opened the door, the knocking continued. No matter what he did in an attempt to get rid of the knocking—from ignoring it to turning up the stereo—nothing worked. The knocking only became more persistent and louder.

When the Nickersons investigated further, they discovered that some years earlier, a young man was killed when his vehicle smashed into a large boulder on their property. Apparently, the young man's ghost was knocking on the door trying to get help.

The Nickersons are somewhat philosophical about the ghosts that have returned to (or never left) Mystic Farm. As Jill Nickerson put it with a smile, “They're part of our family—or we're part of theirs.”

The Tancook Spook

O
ne of my more memorable Maritime trips was a visit to Big Tancook Island, located in Chester Basin, Nova Scotia. I was producing a television program about the island and its people. It was an unforgettable experience because of the generosity and friendliness of those wonderful Tancookers.

One afternoon, I was invited up to the wheelhouse of a local boat, and the conversation eventually got around to Maritime Mysteries. I was asked if I was familiar with the story of the Tancook Spook. I came away with a wonderful and humorous story of one pesky spirit.

Most everyone at one time or other has experienced how pests in the home, if not eradicated, can get out of hand. But what about a persistent and pesky ghost who's making your life miserable? How do you get rid of that? Do you call in a ghost exterminator? Well, if you live on the island, you call for the services of a Tancooker who has a sure fire old-world method of getting rid of those unwanted spooks. His method, however, isn't foolproof. You'll forgive me if I take license in the telling of this story, as I've heard at least half-dozen versions. This is my favourite.

There once was an old man who lived alone, until one day, an unwelcome and unannounced guest arrived. This old gentleman didn't even know the intruder was in residence until one night he was awakened by some awful noises coming from the attic. “Damn,” he thought, “racoons must of gotten inside.” But when he went up to investigate, there were no animals and nothing was disturbed. The old man was no sooner back in his bed when the racket started up again. Only this time, the noise sounded like it was coming from the kitchen. But when he went downstairs to check, he found nothing out of the ordinary. The old man didn't return to bed, but sat up next to the kitchen stove until dawn, thinking about his problem and if his house was haunted. Every night was the same. He became a victim of some ghostly pranks, including the slamming of doors, and heavy footsteps on the stairs. The last straw came the night he heard whispering at his locked bedroom door. Next morning, he went to see the one person who could tell him how to get rid of the ghost once and for all.

The information the old man was given had nothing to do with seances, burning candles, prayers, or holy water. All he needed was an oversized potato sack, a shovel, some patience, and a lot of luck.

Around eleven o'clock, the old man retired for the night and deliberately left the bedroom door open. He held the potato sack in his hands, hidden under the blankets, and waited in the dark. He had been told that when a spirit enters a room the air around the spirit is icy cold and there is also an odour. Sometime after midnight, he heard footsteps coming along the downstairs hall. He held his breath and waited. The footsteps were now on the stairs. The old man's heart began beating faster and faster. If it didn't slow down, he was sure he'd have a heart attack and the ghost would have won; would have gotten him out of the house for good! He was sure that's what the ghost wanted.

Suddenly, he felt a chill go through him, and there was a distinct change in the air. He was certain the ghost was now in the room. He could also smell a peculiar odour. Suddenly, from the left side of the bed, cool air swept over his face. Was the ghost now standing over the bed looking down at him? It was now or never. With one incredibly fast motion, the old man threw off the blankets, raised his arms high, and where he believed the ghost to be standing, covered the spot with the potato sack. He couldn't believe it! The sack was jerking so hard, he could hardly hold it. It was as though the bag was filled with snakes! The old man quickly tied the bag with a strong rope. While he got dressed, he watched as the ghost inside the bag tried to get loose. He was surprised how light the bag was when he flung it over his shoulder and went outside. There, he picked up a shovel and headed into the woods in back of his home. He remembered what his friend told him—find a spot that is isolated and dig a deep hole and bury the sack. That will be the end of the ghost. When he was finished, he patted down the earth with the shovel, tipped his cap, and went back home to bed. When he woke up the next morning, he was refreshed. It was the first good night's sleep he had had in weeks. However, the best laid plans often go awry, and in this case, that's exactly what happened.

About a month after the old man buried the ghost, a group of young people on the way home from a party came across the newly dug ground. They wondered if someone had buried something of value, or perhaps even a corpse! Full of false bravado, they began digging until they uncovered the potato sack. They looked at each other and smiled. It took a while before they got the knot around the sack untied. When they finally opened it, all that came out was a puff of foul air.

At the exact moment the sack was opened, the old man was awakened abruptly by an angry voice screaming curses. He heard dishes being smashed and the sound of angry footsteps coming upstairs! He knew at once that the ghost was back.

The Unseen Ghost

O
ne day not so long ago, I received a letter from Cynthia Sharpe of Cow Bay, Nova Scotia, telling me a fascinating story of what happened to her and her family after they purchased a century-old home. There is, for me at least, something fascinating about an older home; and at the same time something foreboding. It's as if I expect the place to be haunted. Not all are, of course, but Cynthia's is.