by Ian Gibbs
As for Fan Tan Alley, Chung is still very active there. You may feel like you’ve stumbled or tripped and hit your shoulder into the red brick buildings that line the alley. You may feel a very strong wind come whipping down the alley, even though the air is still. Some even hear the clatter of Chung’s feet as he tries to race for freedom and escape his crime, or they feel his hands as Chung pushes them out of the way. Other people have reported feeling watched as they make their way down the alley. Once on a Ghostly Walks tour, after the guide recounted Chung’s story, he noticed a woman who looked shaken and then relieved. She told the guide afterward she had heard and seen a young Chinese man with stained clothing running toward her; she had even pressed herself up against the wall to get out of his way. Though no one else had seen anything, the woman was thankful to have heard the story, because the experience now made sense.
As for Yau, her owner Yip Tang obviously felt great affection for her. Yau’s funeral was one of the largest and grandest that the city of Victoria had ever seen. It must have been very grand indeed for there have been no reports of Yau remaining behind, so her soul must have truly moved on to the next destination.
I have been in both locations where Chung is said to reside. Even before I heard the story about Fan Tan Alley I felt very uncomfortable there. It may be because it’s so narrow that I felt closed in. I’m not sure. I do know that when I go down there now, and I often do, it’s with more understanding of who may still be there, so I don’t feel any fear.
As for the restaurant, there’s a presence there to be sure, but it’s not angry and murderous. In fact, I’m not even sure Chung realizes that he’s dead or that the original hotel that he worked in is no longer there, and so he still behaves as he always has in his spirit form (though now that offices have replaced the hotel on the floors above the restaurant, I have to wonder what Chung does to keep busy). The restaurant still leaves out a small offering of food and drink for him, and his spirit remains relatively calm. While you may not notice a presence in the restaurant, go down Fan Tan Alley if you can. It’s definitely worth the brush with history, if not a ghost.
THE CHRIST CHURCH CATHEDRAL PRECINCT
PIONEER SQUARE, OR THE OLD BURYING GROUNDS
ESTABLISHED IN 1855, Pioneer Square was used as a cemetery until 1873. At that point, it had over 1,300 permanent residents buriedbelow its surface, and the city established a new and much larger cemetery in Ross Bay. The old burying grounds were the second graveyard to be used by Victorians. The first graveyard was set up rather casually when Fort Victoria was established. It was at the corner of what is now Douglas and Johnson Streets. The problem with that graveyard was that the land was waterlogged clay, so whenever the weather was even remotely damp or rainy, which was most of the time between September and April, the graves would fill up with water and the coffins would burst to the surface. The early Victorians got around this by having not only grave diggers at the funerals ready to fill in the dirt, but also men with spear-like poles, who, after all the mourners and families had left the site, would punch holes into the coffins so they could fill with water and hopefully not re-emerge later. Obviously with the population increasing and the rather unpleasant side effect of the graveyard, the city needed a solution, and so a new cemetery was established. The Pioneer Square location made much more sense because it was quite a bit higher in elevation and had the added benefit of not having its residents re-emerge in rainy weather. Pioneer Square was actually the home base for one of Victoria’s very first documented ghosts.
Adelaide Griffin was co-owner of the Boomerang Saloon in Bastion Square, until she died in a typhoid epidemic in 1861. After her death, she was frequently seen in Bastion Square, and she became famous for being the Ghost of Langley Street in downtown Victoria, near where her saloon was located. At one time in Victoria’s history, Adelaide was seen so frequently that spotting her ghost was actually a popular activity. Going downtown to spot the Ghost of Langley Street filled up more than a few weekend nights for Victoria’s youth.
Another famous ghost that lingers in the former graveyard is that of Robert Johnson. Johnson was one of Victoria’s founding fathers who took his own life with a barber’s razor. He has been known to appear in front of people in Pioneer Square with a blade in his hands, which he drags across his throat, disturbing the restful vistas you’re hoping to see as you relax in the park. Other people visiting the park have reported hearing voices call out to them, lights floating at night, and the feeling that they’re being watched. I know whenever I have cut through the park, I have felt very uncomfortable, like I’m in some kind of danger, but can’t really pinpoint why. There is a sense of uneasiness there. I suppose I thought they’d moved all of the bodies to the Ross Bay Cemetery, but as it happens, they did not. Those left behind are still very much interested in not resting in their final resting place.
CATHEDRAL HALL/CHRIST CHURCH CATHEDRAL SCHOOL
I WORKED IN THE Christ Church Cathedral precinct for almost nine years. During that time, I had plenty of reasons to be all throughout the buildings, so I thought I’d share a few of the experiences I had while working there.
I had many opportunities to be in the Cathedral Hall and Christ Church Cathedral School. I helped out with youth events there, and my son went to school there. When we had events in the hall, we knew we were the only ones there and the custodians would lock us in the building so no one else could wander in. The other leader and I would be down on the main floor and we would hear noises upstairs: furniture moving around, footsteps, doors opening and closing. One particularly memorable time, we were at the school about an hour early so we could set up. My co-leader and I were in the building alone. We distinctly heard a door close on the level above us and looked at each other.
“That’s weird,” I said. “I thought we were the only ones here?”
“We are. I spoke to the custodian before he left and he said he would be back at 9:30 am when we were all done.”
“Oh,” was all I could muster in reply.
We decided we’d better go check it out, as we were expecting a rather large group of teenagers and didn’t want to catch someone who might be working upstairs unaware. We headed up to the second floor and began walking along a classroom-lined corridor. We didn’t see any lights on in the classrooms, nor did we see anyone through the classroom door windows as we moved slowly along the hallway.
We reached the end of the hall and looked at each other.
“There’s no one up here,” I needlessly stated.
“Yeah, I see that. It’s really strange,” he replied.
As we began to move back down the hall, we heard the distinct sound of a door banging closed. The door was to the last classroom on the right; it was the door we had just been standing next to, discussing how the school was indeed vacant.
Being the brave, lion-hearted soul that I am, I yipped like a small dog and ran. I may have even used my co-leader for traction by shoving him toward the sound as I bolted in panic. The combination of that echoing bang and the knowledge that no living person was up there with us was enough to send me running—it was not my finest hour.
After that incident, whenever we were running an event and heard footsteps, doors closing, and chairs being moved, we ignored it. Occasionally, one of the teens would ask what the noise was or who was upstairs. Regardless of the noise or the time, we both automatically answered, “The custodian.” The church hall just feels like a place of shadows. I’ve been there during the day and I think whatever is in there goes dormant when it’s full of children and energy. But once it’s quiet, dark, and lonely, the presence becomes more active. I wouldn’t even go to the bathroom in that building, I was so spooked. And I always made sure I was never, ever the last one out.
THE DEANERY
BUILT IN 1938, this lovely house was originally the home of the dean; it is now the cathedral offices. As I worked in the diocesan offices, merely a parking lot away, I had many occasions to be in this
building as well. This home has its own energy that is different from the rest of the precinct. I can’t explain why it’s so different, but it definitely is. When I was downstairs, I would often hear noises upstairs. The noises were the usual footsteps and doors closing, but softly. There is a stately presence that remains here.
Once when I was upstairs, I was walking down the hall, looking down, and I felt like I had just run into someone. Looking up, I said, “Oh, excuse me.” But there was no one there. There was no one else in the hall. I felt like an idiot.
There never seemed to be anything really scary in the deanery. It was a very mild presence, but it was a presence nonetheless. I never did any research into who it might be as there didn’t seem to be a need. As I have mentioned, I don’t go looking for this kind of thing, so if something is there and it’s cool with me being around, I’m not going to push too hard to figure anything else out. I definitely got the feeling that it was a female spirit and she was just happy to be there. She liked things to be done properly and enjoyed having people around. It is quite unusual for a spirit to be so relaxed actually, but this one seemed happy enough. My best guess is that it was the spirit of a former dean’s wife who loved the place as if it were her own, and even though it never was truly hers, she couldn’t bear to leave.
BISHOP’S CHAPEL/DIOCESAN OFFICE
THIS GHOSTLY EXPERIENCE was my first one in Victoria. When I began working for the diocese, I also helped out with some of the cleaning around our office. I’d go in at night when it was quiet and there was no one around to get in the way. The bishop’s chapel doubles as the diocesan archives as well as a small chapel. My first time going into the chapel was pretty dramatic, much more dramatic and sudden than any other experience I’ve ever had. Usually there’s a bit of a build up to something happening, but not this time. I unlocked the door, lugging the vacuum cleaner with me. I needed to empty the garbage cans, vacuum, dust, and clean the one tiny bathroom. It wasn’t really a burden, but the work needed to be done.
As soon as I got through the door, I knew something was off. I flipped on the lights, but they didn’t seem to be very bright, and even though it was a warm late summer day outside, it was icy cold inside the chapel.
I decided to ignore the weirdness if I could, and just do what I had to do so I could get out of there quickly. I plugged the vacuum in and began cleaning the rugs. Then I decided I should empty the garbage cans first. I turned off the vacuum and emptied the garbage can in the room with me into a big bag, and then made my way through the door at the end of the chapel to the addition that had been built to house the archives. The doors didn’t quite match up, so if you were in the bathroom area, you couldn’t see the rest of the chapel.
As I emptied out the garbage in the archives, I thought I heard something in the chapel, but figured it was nothing. When I came back out, however, I was more than a little surprised. The vacuum cleaner plug had been pulled out of the wall. It was not just resting beside the wall, but rather it looked like it had been grabbed and thrown toward the vacuum itself because it was lying in the middle of the floor.
Okay, that’s sort of odd, I thought. I plugged the cord back in, still feeling the heavy and almost angry presence in the small space with me, and continued to clean the rugs. When I was done, I decided to clean the bathroom before I dusted. I unplugged the vacuum myself this time, determined not to let that happen again, and went into the bathroom. While I was in the bathroom, I once again heard noises out in the main chapel. I wasn’t overly anxious to check them out. Eventually, though, I ran out of reasons to stay in the tiny bathroom and made my way back into the chapel.
What I found there did not make me happy. Three of the four chairs that were in the chapel were on their backs. They looked as if they’d been casually tipped over. Of course, I knew they’d been perfectly upright when I went into the bathroom, so it was really hard to deny that something odd was going on.
This is when I figured I’d better just stop and feel out what was happening. I lowered my guard and tried to get a sense of the presence. I felt the mood shift very slightly and it became less hostile. It also drew me to a plaque on wall.
The plaque explained why the chapel had been built. A young man by the name of John Yarrow had died while at Cambridge University in 1938. His mother had the chapel built in his honour in 1939 and gifted it to the diocese. Could a young man who had died in another country really have been brought back to his homeland? Was it his spirit hanging around in a chapel built in his memory? I figured it was worth at least asking some questions. Out loud I said, “John, I’m not here to bother you or disturb you, I’m just here to keep this place looking nice. As this is your chapel, I would think you would want that. Okay?”
Of course, I didn’t get a response, for which I am grateful, but it did seem like the whole building relaxed just a little. As I left, I said, “Bye, John, see you next week.” Then I locked the door behind me and went on my way.
The next week, I opened the door and said, “Hello, John, just me, here to tidy up.” And flicked on the lights and got to work. Other than a box of paper clips falling from a desk and hitting the floor while I was cleaning the bathroom, nothing much happened. As before, when I was done, I said goodbye to John as I locked the door behind me.
Over the next weeks and months, the feeling in the chapel changed. It was no longer angry; it was almost expectant. The lights were brighter, although it was always colder in there than anywhere else. One day while I was cleaning, I was suddenly compelled to sing old hymns. I just started singing out loud “How Great Thou Art” and “The Old Rugged Cross” and “Just As I Am” while I cleaned and worked. The acoustics were pretty awesome in the chapel, so I sounded good. When I was singing, the mood lightened even more, almost to the point where it felt happy, contented, and joyful in the chapel. So that became my routine. I would always say hello as I entered, sing some old hymns, and then say goodbye as I left. I never had anything strange happen again, and I never felt threatened or afraid in that building either.
My office was in the basement of the diocesan office, where the leadership of the diocese conducts business. When I was there on my own, some strange things would happen. I seemed to hear footsteps all the time. If I was alone in the office, the perimeter alarm would be on, so I could hear if anyone came into the building. But when I was in my basement office, I would often hear someone walking around on the main floor. If I happened to be on the main floor, I’d hear footsteps on the second level, and if I was up on the second level, I’d hear the same sound of someone walking on the main floor.
At first I didn’t mention the footsteps to anyone, but eventually I summoned my courage and asked another employee who was often in the building alone whether she had ever experienced anything unusual. She looked at me for a half second and then said, “The footsteps?” I was amazed and, quite frankly, relieved to know I wasn’t the only one hearing the footsteps. I did some research, and I think I may have figured out to whom the footsteps belonged.
The site of the diocesan office was originally the space for the bishop’s palace, the home where the bishop would have lived. It had been torn down and a new building erected in its place in 1994. One of the last bishops to live there had a wife who was agoraphobic and hadn’t left the home in nearly nineteen years. Apparently she remained on the second floor and never came downstairs, allowing the servants to look after her. I suppose you can take the building away from the ghost, but you can’t take the ghost away from the building.
I never felt fearful there, except for one time. The diocesan office had been built on the original stone foundation for the bishop’s palace. Half of the basement had been turned into cement-encased platforms, which were used for storage, and it was never an overwhelmingly welcoming space. But I didn’t mind working down there as long as the door to the storage area remained closed, and, as foolish as it sounds, I never sat with my back to that door. One afternoon the office was closed, but I needed t
o catch up on some work, so I went in, locking the door behind me. I hadn’t been there more than an hour when I had the overwhelming feeling that something dark was not happy that I was there. This was not an “Ooooh, I feel creepy” type of feeling; it was more like being threatened, yelled at, and ordered out at the same time. I packed up and left.
I still don’t know what I encountered that day. Maybe it was a presence used to having its alone time, maybe it was just passing through. Either way, I never sensed it again.
OUTSIDE OF DOWNTOWN
THE DELTA OCEAN POINTE RESORT
IT WAS A dark and stormy night—no really, it was. On the night of September 22, 1899, the rain and the wind were lashing the windows of the Pilgrim Bakery, situated at the foot of Johnson and Wharf Streets. And the owner of the bakery, forty-four-year-old Agnes Bing, was about to make a terrible choice.
Agnes was unusual for her time, as she owned her own bakery when most women did not own businesses of any kind. Her husband had given her permission to do this, because he suffered from what was known then as paralytic fever. Since he couldn’t work, Agnes knew it was up to her to ensure that her family had the things that most families enjoy, like food and shelter, so she started the bakery. While it was not high class, it did a steady trade with the dubious businesses and patrons that surrounded it.
Lower Johnson Street in the late 1800s was not the best neighbourhood to frequent, unless you were looking for wine, women, and song. There were more saloons and houses of ill repute in that small section of town than there were buildings. Often there was more than one saloon per building, each on a separate floor. As for houses with overly affectionate young women, there were plenty of those as well. Lower Johnson Street was a loud, wild place in those days, but even people dedicated to the party life enjoy the odd sandwich or cookie now and then.
