by Ian Gibbs
Julia exclaimed that she loved her job, and was excited to be a part of the hotel venture. I asked how the house had come to be bought by the hotel chain. She told me a German industrialist and his family had owned it as a summer home. The family decided they no longer wanted the home, so they packed up and headed back to Germany and sold the house to the hotel chain. I cautiously continued with another question, asking if anything unfortunate had ever occurred in the house. Julia looked guarded and asked what I meant. I said, “Well, for example, in the pool area. Anything with kids?” Julia looked uncomfortable. She admitted that one of the family’s three boys had drowned in the pool. The parents were devastated and sold the place as quickly as possible to get away from the memory of their son’s tragic death. I exhaled. I hadn’t noticed I was holding my breath. I told Julia, “I think he’s still there.” She got a bit of a twinkle in her eye, leaned over, and said, “Why do you think I live in the guesthouse?”
After breakfast, we didn’t really feel like sticking around. I left Margaret to finish her packing and headed toward the pool one last time. No one else was in there. I said out loud to the boy, “It’s okay. You can go.” I told him he didn’t need to be trapped here, and that while I didn’t know who, I could guarantee that someone was waiting for him and he’d be so much happier there.
Did he go? I felt the room sigh, and the emotions lessen, but I don’t really know if he left. This was the first time I’d ever encountered a spirit who was so unhappy where they were residing that I was compelled to do something. While I don’t usually mess with the ghosts and their situations, this was definitely a different case.
I don’t know if it was the haunted pool, lack of interest, or poor management, but within months the house gates were closed, a for sale sign went up, and the hotel was closed for good. The gates remained closed for several months before the house was bought as a private home. For a long time, the new owners had a sign up in front of their house that read: this is no longer a hotel. this is a private home. please do not drive down the driveway. I did venture down the drive, just once, after the sale. The home no longer had the same sad aura that had been so powerful months before, but I don’t know if the boy left, or just became quieter.
THE WILKINSON JAIL
THE COMPLEX OF buildings now known as the Vancouver Island Regional Correctional Centre, the Wilkinson Jail, or “the Wilkie” has had a rich and storied life, which may explain why so many spirits and ghosts still wander the halls. In researching this building, I not only had the opportunity to talk to a couple of correctional officers, I also had a chance to tour the facility and get my own impressions of this rather foreboding institution.
It started as the Saanich Prison Farm. It was built in 1914 to welcome thirty-eight prisoners from the old jail, which itself had been built to replace the original jail in Bastion Square in downtown Victoria. The second jail had been partially destroyed by fire in 1912. Rather than rebuild it, the government decided to build a new twenty-five-acre prison farm.
The prison was built for the princely sum of 100,000 dollars, 2.4 million dollars today. It was designed by William Ridgway Wilson, the same gentleman who designed the Bay Street Armoury. It was built to house up to 140 prisoners, with room to bring in forty additional beds. There were also outbuildings and barns built by the prisoners, but these were removed in 1985 when the prison was modernized. Surprisingly, the Saanich Prison Farm was only in operation for three years. It closed in 1917 to save money—and to send prisoners to fight in the First World War.
The Colquitz Mental Home was located in the building from 1919 to 1964. The hospital was home to a wide range of criminally and dangerously insane men. These men worked the farm grounds that were then still part of the facility; as it turns out, they were great farmers. In the 1930s, the patients produced 90,000 pounds of vegetables, 4,000 pounds of fruit, and 15,000 pounds of meat. It wasn’t all fun and games though. During the 1920s, there were numerous escapes. While the site was being used as a mental hospital and farm, several additional buildings were constructed on the property, along with other attractions such as fishponds, greenhouses, barns, stables, and even a tennis court. These were all built by the patients.
During this time, there were also several deaths as many of the patients weren’t so much insane as they were hard to care for. Institutionalizing people was done as a matter of course in those days. These patients were often not in great health to begin with, but you have to wonder if being locked up with people who were certifiably or criminally insane shortened their lifespans further.
After almost forty-five years as a mental home, the building reverted to its original purpose and became the Oakalla Prison Farm in 1966. Within a few years it was renamed the Vancouver Island Regional Correctional Centre, which is still its official name, but it is commonly known as the Wilkie.
Regardless of its name or its use, the building has seen its share of trouble. Violence, escapes, and even the murder of a police officer in the 1960s have all occurred on the grounds. The combination of jail and mental hospital is a good recipe for unrest and ghosts.
One of the correctional officers had an experience a few years ago. He was sitting in one of the units, which have kitchens and seating areas with cells off to the side. He was right in the middle of the castle façade. The windows in the façade were all closed. The officer was doing some paperwork when he heard what he thought was the wind picking up, but he didn’t think much of it. After that he heard a clunk, looked up, and saw the coffee pot fly off the counter. It travelled nine or ten feet, and then hit the wall. It hit the wall with such force that the handle broke and the metal pot was dented from the impact. Needless to say, the officer didn’t spend a whole lot of time up there alone anymore.
Another officer spoke of something that happened in another original site unit. He was there alone when he heard a deep rhythmic thumping noise coming from a wing that was under renovation and therefore empty. It started out quite faint, but became more noticeable. As he lingered alone in the unit doing his checks, the noise got louder and louder. He finished his checks, which he did thoroughly, but admittedly in a hurry, and got out of there as quick as he could. So far he has not needed to go back.
There are many other stories of noises, particularly the sound of doors closing, which is odd as all the doors are locked as standard procedure. People often hear voices, footsteps, and other inexplicable sounds.
These stories are not limited to the officers either. A former guest of the jail shared a story about being in his cell. One night he was woken by what he thought was his cellmate trying to get in his upper bunk with him. He could feel something cold and solid all the way up his back and felt the blankets being tugged. The inmate jumped off the bunk only to see his cellmate in his own bed, wrapped in his blanket, facing the wall, and sleeping deeply. The poor man was so affected by this experience that he begged the correctional officer to put him in another cell. The officer agreed to; he admitted that he too had experienced strange things, and so had many other officers and inmates. That particular cell was known for being the source of strange laughter, even when it was completely empty. It was always the same slightly mocking laugh, though the inmates changed on a regular basis as this particular section of the jail was for stays no longer than thirty days.
When I was in the prison, I was struck by quite a number of different presences that remain within the walls. The impression I got was that they were not from the time when the facility was a prison, but more likely from its time as a mental hospital. The ones who have remained are quite likely not even aware they are dead, and are also likely to cause trouble. I didn’t get the impression that they are malicious, but they are certainly active and enjoy scaring people; officers or inmates—it doesn’t matter to them—although they’re likely to go a little easier on the inmates as they will see them as compatriots.
Go past the Wilkie on your next drive around Victoria. What do you feel? Anything of note? T
his really is a fascinating site and one we are lucky to have been able to keep around for so long.
HOME ON ELK LAKE DRIVE
AS FAR AS ghost tales usually go, this home is certainly a unique setting. On a warm summer night in 2014, my friend Corrina, who is also sensitive to spirits, and I headed to a large, well-kept modern townhouse. The townhouse had been built in 1994, so it hardly qualified for your typical old-building ghost quotient. Nonetheless, a mutual friend, aware of our sensitivities, had invited us to her home to see if we could figure out what was going on.
Our friend Sheila, the home’s owner, is a strong woman, with a positive outlook and a tonne of energy. As a single mom with a demanding full-time job, Sheila did not have any time left over for whatever was going on in her home. While Shelia is a self-professed non-believer, it was hard to dismiss that strange things were happening, with annoying constancy. The light bulbs kept burning out. It is of course normal to have a bulb burn out now and then, but three or four a week was excessive. Items fell off the shelves. No breeze or vibrations preceded these objects falling, but it was more or less a daily occurrence. Sheila was uncertain, but she wasn’t afraid.
Corrina and I pulled into the courtyard of the townhouse complex and got out of the car. I was immediately hit with a sense of awe and power regarding a tree in the middle of the courtyard. It was obviously very old, and I was drawn to it in the strangest way. I definitely felt a presence out there and was looking forward to going into the home and seeing what was what.
Upon entering the home, my “antennae” were up full blast. We sat down to have tea in the kitchen and talk about what was going on. Sheila was puzzled by the instances, and thought it might be nice to see if Corrina and I could pick anything up. We began to tour the house. It was a large home. There was a fully finished basement with a rec room, bedroom, and bathroom. The main floor consisted of a large kitchen, living room, and dining room. The upstairs had three bedrooms and two bathrooms. The trouble was, I felt nothing. Not a hint, not a whisper, nothing. This was a bit embarrassing. I had shown up to help and I honestly couldn’t sense even a touch of a presence.
As we returned to the main floor, I looked at Corrina and asked, “Anything?”
“No,” she replied, “nothing. You?”
“Not even a little. This is so weird,” I responded. We were about halfway down the stairs when I noticed the sliding glass doors to the back patio. I was suddenly struck by the feeling that I had to be out there. It was really important. I looked at Sheila and asked, “May I go out there?” She nodded yes and I was out the door.
I looked to my left and my right; there was a long line of identical decks, one at the back of each unit. Then there was about twenty feet of grass. There was quite a heavy band of trees at the end of the grass; it was thick enough that I couldn’t see through the trees. By this point, Sheila and Corrina had joined me on the deck and were leaning on the railing like I was. I was a bit mystified as to what I was doing out there when I suddenly got a whole lot of pictures in my head and knew what was going on.
I pointed to the trees. “Is there a stream or creek in those trees?” I asked. Sheila confirmed there was. I then pointed to the left, almost to the end of the row of townhouses, “And is there a farmhouse down there in the trees?” At this she looked a bit startled, but responded that yes, there was indeed the foundation of an old farmhouse deep within the trees.
I was so relieved because I’d figured it out—or had been told what was going on and it suddenly all made sense. The farmer whose land we were now on was still very much there, but instead of haunting the houses, he remains on his land. I explained that the water was a forceful attractant; it is a power source. Combine the power of water with the fact that the farmer had no desire to leave and that sort of sealed the deal.
The good thing for Sheila was this farmer had no intention of or interest in haunting her home. What he did want was for her to know that this was his land, and as far as he was concerned, she was his tenant. I also said, with some weird confidence, that now that she knew his feelings, and he knew she was aware of them, she wasn’t going to be bothered anymore.
I took a guess and asked her if the other residents had experienced the same kind of electrical problems she had. At this point, she got a funny look on her face and confided that the strata had in fact hired an electrician to examine all of the wiring in the complex because of “problems,” but he had found nothing wrong. I laughed because it’s always nice to have some kind of confirmation and there it was. The farmer also thought it was pretty funny that they had brought in an electrician. He wasn’t a mean guy, but he was in charge and was used to having things go his way. My impression was that he had grown old and died on the land he loved and that, as he was one of the first people to farm this land, he couldn’t bear to leave it. I’m not sure he was aware that he was dead, but he was certainly aware that others were on his land—not that he minded, but he wanted to be clear with them that they were on his property.
I met up with Sheila about three months later. We were in a work environment so I didn’t want to say anything too open and out there. But I gave her a meaningful look and said, “So?”
She looked back at me with a big smile and responded happily, “Nothing.” It appears the farmer was pleased. Everyone knew who was boss and now he could get back to focusing on what he really cared about: his land and the large tree that had so caught my attention when we’d driven in. It was the only thing on his land that hadn’t changed, and he was very drawn to it and loved it. As far as I know, the farmer is still there, and new owners of the townhouse units should move in prepared with a warehouse pack of light bulbs.
VICTORIA–AREA LAKE HOUSE
FRIENDS OF MINE were going away for the summer, so they offered up their beautiful Victoria–area lake house to any of their friends who wanted to book a week or a weekend. The only rule was you had to leave it nice for the people coming after you.
Our family thought this was a great deal. We reserved our week, and even invited our friend Stephanie, who was coming from the Maritimes for a visit, to stay there with us. We congratulated ourselves on our luck and were looking forward to a fun escape and enjoying the cottage lifestyle.
I won’t go into a lot of detail about where the cottage is, as the generous people who lent it out still live there. As cool as they are, they’re not really anxious to have their home turned into a drive-by spectacle. I don’t blame them. I will say that it is an older house, built in the 1960s or 1970s. It is a single-storey home with dark wood siding. The front door is in the centre with two wings angled out on either side. The interior is lined with pine that has mellowed into a rich, dark golden colour. However, as a result of all that wood, the house seemed very dark, right from the moment we stepped in the door.
My wife and I took a room on the side of the house where there were three bedrooms and a bathroom; Stephanie took a room in the other wing of the house, which had two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a dining room. We took some time to unpack and settle in, then met in the middle, where the kitchen, living room, and generous deck were. Even before we had begun to make our first meal, Stephanie and I both heard creaks and clunks from the house. Something wasn’t sitting right, but we both agreed we didn’t know the house that well, and so we recognized it could be the sounds of an older, all-wood house settling down as the day cooled. We had our dinner, watched the sunset, and retired for the night.
The next morning when I got up to make coffee I was quite surprised to find Stephanie fast asleep on the couch. I moved around as quietly as I could, but coffee first thing in the morning is not something that can be delayed. Unfortunately, I made enough noise to wake her up. I asked why she was sleeping on the couch, and she replied that she had had a very rough night and needed to get out of her room because she just couldn’t stay asleep in there. I looked at her quizzically. Stephanie had known me for a long time. We had spoken of our own experiences with ghosts and were not
afraid to talk about the paranormal together.
We got on with our day, doing all the usual things you do at a lakeside cottage: hanging out on the dock, floating around in tubes, going for walks, and just enjoying the outdoors. We eventually got hungry enough to go in for dinner. It was starting to cool down a bit so we thought we’d eat in the dining room at the end of the far wing of the house. Until this point, I’d had no reason to go to that end of the house. Imagine my surprise when I walked down the dark hall to set the table for dinner and found the hair on the back of my neck and arms go straight up. I also felt the usual tightness in my chest I get whenever there seems to be something else around. The presence was so strong and so dense that I stopped in my tracks. It gave off the energy or picture of a large, dark ugly toad, just squatting there, heavy and unhappy. I pushed forward, plunked the silverware and plates down on the table, and went to talk to Stephanie, who was helping my wife in the kitchen.
“So, your room, what the heck?” I began.
“I know, it’s awful and I can’t figure out why I don’t like it down there, but I really, really don’t.”
“Yeah,” I said, “I think you should probably switch ends of the house.”
So that’s what Stephanie did. She took one of the other rooms in our end the house. That night we heard the same thumps and bumps we’d heard the first night, but now we noticed they were all at the other end of the house. At least twice I heard a door close down there and Stephanie, who had managed to get a better night’s sleep, told me in the morning that she’d heard the doors closing as well.
I couldn’t get the strangeness out of my head. As Sunday dawned, I ventured back into that side of the house and went into the room vacated by Stephanie. The last thing I wanted to do was open myself to this creature, whatever it was, but I relaxed a little and focused on it some more.
