Authors: EvergreenWritersGroup
Tags: #fiction, #halloween, #ghosts, #anthology, #nova scotia, #ghost anthology, #atlantic canada
Out of the Mist
OUT OF THE
MIST
22 Atlantic Canadian Ghost
Stories
Evergreen Writers
Group
Out of the
Mist
22 Atlantic
Canadian Ghost Stories
Copyright ©
2014
Stone Cellar
Publications
Halifax/
Dartmouth,
Nova Scotia
June
2014
Edited by
Pamela Gifford
Cover
photo:
Camp Hill Cemetery,
Halifax, NS,
by Phil
Yeats
***
Smashwords Edition,
License Notes
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***
All stories
contained in this volume have been published with permission of the
authors.
No portion of this
publication may be reproduced, stored in any electronic system, or
transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical,
photocopy, recording, or otherwise without written permission from
the authors.
Although some of the
stories may be inspired by real events and may name a few
historical people and facts, the majority of these stories are
works of
fiction. In most cases, names,
characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either
products of the authors’ imaginations or used in a fictitious
manner. Except for several named historical characters long
deceased, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is
purely coincidental.
***
Preface
Inspired by the tales of renowned
folklorist Helen Creighton, a group of writers decided to try their
hand at an anthology of ghost stories. Perhaps it’s the photograph
of Ms. Creighton in her writing room, or the chill air in the old
stone cellar where we meet, but we felt her presence hovering over
us. We decided to call our group Evergreen Writers, in honor of the
house and its famous inhabitant.
Written over a period of 18
months, these stories point to other worlds, other times that lie
just beyond the thin veil that separates us. Many take place in a
house with a long history, whose descendants still speak of the
strange events that happened there. Some stories are inspired by
real events; others are entirely the author’s
imagination.
Whether you’re a visitor to
Atlantic Canada or have always lived here, these stories will
entertain you, mystify you and perhaps give you the
shivers.
The Evergreen Writers
Appreciation
The Evergreen Writers Group
thanks our editor, Pamela Gifford, for her attentive care and
suggestions.
We also thank the Dartmouth
Heritage Museum's Evergreen House and the Alderney Gate Branch,
Halifax Regional Library, in whose pleasant meeting rooms we shared
stories and made the many decisions leading to the publication of
this volume. The resources provided by libraries and museums are
deeply appreciated by writers everywhere.
Table of
Contents
Manon
Boudreau
Maida
Follini
Maida
Follini
Russell
Barton
Maida
Follini
Diane
Losier
Russell
Barton
Phil Yeats
Catherine A.
MacKenzie
The Ghosts’ Night Out, or Bats
in the Belfry
Maida
Follini
Janet
McGinity
Janet
Doleman
Wilma
Stewart-White
Tom Robson
Janet
McGinity
Diane
Losier
Tom Robson
Art White
Janet
Doleman
Tom Robson
Wilma
Stewart-White
Phil Yeats
Manon Boudreau
The sweet scent of autumn
leaves lies thick in the air, and I tug my jacket higher around my
neck to ward off a chill. I sip on my coffee and stare at the
property in front of me. Nearby on the mansion’s metal fence is
perched a crow, its caws a raw greeting.
What started as a research
assignment for the
Historical Journal of
the Maritimes
quickly grew into an
obsession. There was something strange about the town of Chatham,
New Brunswick. The census for the years 1880 to 1890 showed a child
mortality rate 18 percent higher than any of the other surrounding
communities.
Some families lost more
than one child, but only one family lost all of them. Dawnbrook
Mansion, silent and empty now, was the home of Anne and Wilfred
Fisher and their four children from 1886 to 1895. In the space of
18 short months, all four children died.
I’m fevered at the thought of what awaits me
inside the mansion. Desolate and grim, sitting in a field blighted
by discarded beer cans and fast food wrappers, the building is a
far cry from its former self. You can see a glimpse of its dusty
beauty when you look closely at the frame, the bones of the
building. Overgrown weeds and garbage hide what was once a stunning
sight. But more than that, the history inside the house is like no
other I’ve found.
The head of the
Maritime Historical Society
, Edith Brylar, waves to me from the front porch. She is an
elderly plump woman with big-frame eye glasses and a cap of curly
grey hair.
She fumbles with the key to the front
door.
“
Hello, Catherine,” she
says. “You found the place OK?”
The door groans in protest
as she pushes it open. I hurry towards the entrance as a nervous
giggle escapes my lips, and I cough to cover it.
“
Yes, no problems on the
road,” I tell her. “Thank you so much for meeting me.”
She enters the mansion and motions for me to
follow. Festooned with cobwebs and dust, the entrance is still an
awe-inspiring sight. I can make out the spiral staircase and the
remnants of a gilt picture hung over a broken-down pianoforte.
Paired with the tall ceiling and the chandeliers, it suggests a
former elegance.
I carefully take a few steps in, cautious
not to disturb even the dust. Edith leads me to what would have
been the sitting room.
“
Throughout the home,
you’ll find all the original woodwork still intact,” she tells me.
“After the untimely passing of her first born, Mrs. Fisher fell
into a deep depression. Her journals detailed the dark place she
fell into after her son was found dead. Mr. Fisher had the wood
imported from the Far East and as a show of love, built this room
for Mrs. Fisher. It certainly is grand; however, it is only a mere
attempt at redemption, if you ask me,” she adds, a note of
bitterness in her tone.
Built into each wall are library shelves,
now naked of books. I can imagine Mrs. Fisher sitting at a carved
mahogany desk, reading from one of her books, or perhaps catching
up on correspondence. She would have received guests here, and
discussed current affairs.
“
Redemption for what?” I
ask her.
“
He was never arrested,
but the rumours were that he was involved in the death of the
children.” She gestures towards the extensive shelves, effectively
changing the subject. “Quite a sight isn’t it?”
My eyes light on a frame leaning against the
bottom of the far wall. It is a painting. My body moves of its own
accord towards it. It’s a painting of the mansion during its glory
days. I’ve seen many photographs and they gave me much insight as
to the state of the property in the 1890s, but this painting is
something else.
The artist captured such depth and raw
energy. The landscape depicts the fountain and its surrounding
bushes, trees and flowers, but it is drenched in sorrow. I gently
rub the layer of dust off the lower right corner of the frame, and
find the artist’s name and the date.
Anne Fisher painted this during the month of
June 1894, one month after Mary, the last of her four children,
died. As beautiful as the property was, it must have been purgatory
for her. The sheer madness of losing a child overwhelms me. It’s
unnatural. Still holding the painting, I turn to Edith.
“
How did little Mary die?”
I ask her. She lifts an eyebrow in surprise.
“
A broken neck. She fell
from the large oak tree in the back of the property. No one saw how
it happened. Mr. Fisher was the one who found her, just like he
found the other three.”
An uncontrollable shiver runs through my
body.
“
If you don’t have any
questions, let’s move on. The side veranda is just this way,” says
Edith. “It’s in need of repair, but the view is lovely this time of
year.”
A noise overhead startles me. It sounds like
an object is being dragged across the floor above me. I learned
some time ago not to be unnerved by the creaking of old homes and
buildings, so I brush off the noise. Old houses sag and shift on
their foundations over time. The noises are part of that
process.
Edith leads me to the left
side of the mansion. The veranda has suffered more damage than the
other parts of the building. Being exposed to the elements for
years has rotted the wood. It is partly enclosed, and was surely
stunning at one point. But now it hardly seems to fit with the rest
of the mansion. Edith cautions me not to go farther.
“
If you’ll notice the
chairs at the far end corner,” she adds. “Mr. Fisher carved them
himself. His tools are still in the outbuilding.”
One of the chairs is smaller than the
others. It’s the size of a toy.
“
Did Mr. Fisher make toys
for his children as well?” I ask Edith.
“
We believe he did. We
found wooden dolls’ furniture and doll-size bassinets in a
playhouse outside, and a doll house in the girls’ room,” she
answers.
The dragging sound catches my attention
again. “What do you think that noise is?”
“
Just
the sounds of an old house,” she mutters. “The mansion needs
repair. It will be added to the
Registry
of Historic Buildings
shortly. Restoration
can commence then,” she says, and stalks off. “Are you ready to see
the ballroom?”
