by Bill Jessome
Did the MacDonalds heed the warning of the spirit never to return to the farm? They did not. In time, and because they missed their home, they did return. For a little while things appeared normal. So much so that Alex “Black John” decided to plant a spring crop. But a black cloud hung over the MacDonald farm. In less than three weeks, the fires started again. The MacDonalds fought these demons secretly, but in the end were forced to give up and leave the Spook Farm for good.
And what eventually happened to the principal players in this Maritime Mystery?
Alexander “Black John” MacDonald died on March 26, 1923, of natural causes at the home of his daughter, Mary Quirk.
Mary Ellen “Black John” MacDonald stayed in the area for a year and then moved to Ontario where she operated a boarding house. When she died, her remains were brought back to Nova Scotia for burial.
Janet “Black John” MacDonald died on March 17, 1930, also at the home of her daughter, at the age of eighty. Cause of death—third degree burns!!!
So the journey ends ... or does it?
One final warning: If you should go down Caledonia Mills way and you’re trudging through the woods and accidentally come upon a clearing where there should be ample growth of trees and flowers and singing birds, but instead you find barren ground, then you have stumbled onto the property of Alexander “Black John” MacDonald. That barren piece of land you’re standing on is the spot where the Spook Farm once stood. Nothing grows there anymore! And if you take a souvenir, such as a charred and broken piece of shingle, you do so at your own peril. Take it home and who knows where the next mysterious fires may start! The author of The Fire-Spook of Caledonia Mills took an egg cup from the charred ruins. He of all people should have known better. Mr. MacIntyre placed the egg cup on the fireplace mantel of his summer home one holiday weekend and left. The only thing left standing in the morning was the chimney!
There are, even today, people living in Caledonia Mills who will not drive by the Spook Farm late at night, for fear of having a breakdown, mechanical or mental!
The Holy Ghost
T he events I’m about to describe are from the pen, or rather the tongue of another, as it’s an oral account. He, and he alone, is the author of this adventure into the paranormal. My only purpose is to continue the gifted tradition of that dying breed—the storyteller.
This spiritual tale came to my attention by way of Mickey MacNeil’s story about a Priest who was owed a mass. This delightful piece of folklore, along with other delights, can be found in Ronald Caplan’s Cape Breton Book of the Night.
Although I may have taking some liberties in the telling of this island yarn, the facts have not been altered one iota. This is how the tale unfolds:
Sometime around the turn of the century in a rural community in Cape Breton, a young boy was accused of stealing money from the church poor box. Discipline was harsh in those days, and the child would pay dearly for this alleged crime. The parish priest would teach this young scoundrel a lesson he would remember for the rest of his life. His punishment? Three nights locked up alone in the church. Apparently, no one thought the punishment unreasonable. The boy was taken from his home at the appointed hour and handed over to the priest, who locked the frightened child inside the church. The boy was left alone to consider his crime.
The church, like the graveyard that surrounded it, was wrapped in deadly silence. The only light was a thin sliver that squeezed through a crack in one of the stained glass windows. Its beam fell on the head of the child. As he struggled to fend off sleep, the church was suddenly illuminated with a radiant yellowish hue, and filled with the scent of flowers. The boy’s eye caught a movement on the altar. It was like mist coming up from somewhere below. Transfixed, he watched it take on a human shape; the shape of an old priest. Scared out of his wits, the boy remained motionless, hoping against all hope that he wouldn’t been seen by the strange-looking priest. With outstretched arms, the priest, with great sorrow and in a mournful voice, cried out, “Who will assist me in the mass?” Too frightened to speak, the boy shut his eyes and prayed that whatever it was would disappear. Again, the voice of the priest cried out, “Help me, help me!” When the boy summoned enough courage to look up, the old priest was gone.
In the morning, the boy was sent home, but he told no one of what he had seen. Would anyone really believe him? The next night the boy was locked inside the church again. At midnight the church once more came alive with a brilliant light. And out of a mist appeared the old priest who raised his arms and in a wailing voice again asked, “Who will assist me in the mass?” The boy remained quiet, still too afraid to make his presence known.
On the third night, the young boy moved closer to the altar and waited. At exactly midnight, the old priest appeared, and when he asked if there was anyone who would assist him, the boy with his heart pounding in his chest stood up and said, “I will assist you, Father.”
When the mass was over, the ghost told the boy that he had died on the altar while saying the mass over fifty years ago and he could not rest in his grave until he completed the mass. He explained that now, thanks to the boy his soul could find eternal rest.
In the morning the parish priest reminded the young boy of what he had done and said he hoped that he had learned a valuable lesson while locked inside the church. The child looked up at the priest and said, “Yes, I learned a lot, and you know something, Father, I did something that I don’t believe you’ll ever do.”
“And what is that?” asked the priest.
The boy smiled and said, “I helped an old priest get to heaven last night.”
The Headless Nun
I t was late, and darkness had swept over the Miramichi, making the way treacherous for the old man who was moving slowly toward the bridge that crossed over Crow Brook. Not only was he fighting a cold winter’s wind, but inside him was the fear of having been confronted by the ghost of the Headless Nun. He trudges on.
The story of the Headless Nun is perhaps the most famous of all the ghost stories to come out of the Miramichi.
Two New Brunswick writers, Harold W. J. Adams and writer/teacher Doug Underhill, wrote extensively on this piece of history and folklore.
The tale of the Headless Nun got its beginnings during the 1700s in the French Fort Cove region of New Brunswick. When the Acadians were driven out of Nova Scotia in 1756, many made their way to Louisiana and Quebec, while others stopped in northern New Brunswick, where they set up a small community not far from what is now known as New Castle. It was Harold Adams who gave the ghost the name Sister Marie Inconnus, meaning the “unknown one.”
Of major concern to the community during this period was the constant threat that the British would eventually overrun French Fort Cove and not only kill or drive off the inhabitants, but also confiscate their valuables. To prevent this, the community placed all their money, jewellery, and gold in a large treasure chest. Sister Marie was trusted with the safety of the treasure and it was she who selected the place where the treasure was buried. The news of buried treasure and who knew where it was hidden spread throughout the Miramichi. One day while crossing the Crow Brook Bridge, Sister Marie was brutally attacked by a woodsman, who, when she wouldn’t tell him where the treasure was buried, cut off her head and ran into the woods with it. Another version has two men attacking her on the same bridge and when she refused to tell them where she hid the treasure, one of the robbers severed her head. When they realized what they had done, they threw the head into the water below and fled.
The body of Sister Marie was found the next morning by French soldiers. However, a search party that combed the river and woods never did find the severed head of Sister Marie Inconnus. In time, the body was returned to France.
Not long after that gruesome murder, the ghost of Sister Marie was seen walking back and forth over the Crow Brook Bridge, searching for her missing head.
The old man approaching the bridge stopped. His old eyes peered into the darkness.
The only sound was the wind and rushing waters below. He took a deep breath and stepped onto the bridge. Near the other side, a black form appeared out of nowhere. Above the wind, he heard a whispering cry, “Please help me find my head so that I can become whole again.” The old man collapsed. When he came to, the ghost of the headless Nun had vanished.
Most of French Fort Cove, as it was then, is gone. Still popular is the theory that there was treasure buried in or around the old French Fort Cove region. And on cold winter nights, the ghost of the Headless Nun crosses the Crow Brook Bridge.
The Great Amherst Mystery
I f there is one story dealing with the paranormal that has left a lasting impression on me, it’s the extraordinary and frightening account of a young woman who became possessed by demons. Locals go in and out of the Canadian Tire store on Princess Street in Amherst, Nova Scotia, by the hundreds, unaware of the terrible events that happened at that location 120 years ago. But those who know the tale, are filled with an uneasy foreboding.
In 1878, there was a row of small homes on Princess Street. In one such modest dwelling lived eighteen-year-old Esther Cox, who would in time become the centre of this unbelievable drama. Esther’s mother had died when she was an infant, and her father had remarried and moved to the United States. No one knows why he abandoned his children.
Esther and her sister moved in with their aunt and uncle, Daniel and Olive Teed. It was a happy and tight-knit family, until one evening when Esther and her sister had retired for the night. Esther became restless. She tossed and turned and complained that something was happening to her; something inside her body that she didn’t understand. Her sister scolded her, telling her that people would think she was crazy and if she kept it up, she’d be carried off to an insane asylum. That night, Esther cried herself to sleep.
For this young Amherst, Nova Scotia, woman, what happened that night was just the beginning of a terror-stricken trip into the world of demons. A poltergeist was now in residence in the Teed home and in the body of one Esther Cox.
Nothing much out of the ordinary happened for about a week. Then one night while Esther and her sister had retired for the night, something awakened Esther. She felt something moving in the bed. She stiffened and jumping out of bed, and screamed that there were mice crawling under the sheets! When her sister tore the bedclothes back, the bed was empty. Then, to their horror, they saw something moving under the bed. It was a box containing patchwork. They stood there stupefied as the box slid across the floor to the middle of the room, where it lifted off the floor as if by some unknown force, and then fell back down again. When the Cox sisters called their uncle, he checked the box and, finding nothing unusual, told his nieces to go back to bed and then left the room laughing.
Near dawn, Esther jumped out of bed again screaming, “I’m dying, I’m dying!” Esther’s screams awakened the whole family, who rushed to her bedroom. There they found Esther with her hair standing on end and her skin turning the colour of blood. When the family finally calmed her down and got her back in bed, what they witnessed next nearly drove them from the room. Esther’s body began swelling to an enormous size. Suddenly there was a mysterious explosion of noise, so powerful that it shook the entire house. When the noise stopped, Esther’s body returned to its normal size.
Life for Esther Cox would only get worse. On subsequent nights, bedclothes were ripped off her bed and objects went flying across the room.
One evening, when Esther’s health was at its lowest ebb, a doctor was summoned. During the examination, and with the family gathered around her bed, a familiar scratching noise was heard above Esther’s head. A message scrawled across the bare wall read, “Esther Cox, you are mine to kill!” There was no doubt in the minds of those present and especially in that of the doctor that the body of Esther Cox was possessed.
Whenever Esther left the home, the manifestations in the Teed residence would stop. When she went to live with neighbours, however, the poltergeist went with her.
In one such incident, Esther went to live and work on a farm and when the farmer’s barn was destroyed by fire, Esther was charged with arson. She was convicted and sentenced to three months in jail. However, after wiser heads in the community prevailed, Esther served only a month.
When she returned to the Teed home, Esther may have been greeted warmly by her relatives, but not by the poltergeist. No sooner had she settled in, than fire balls, chairs, and utensils flew from wall to wall.
When the news of the Amherst poltergeist spread, people from all over the world converged on the town of Amherst hoping to witness such manifestations. One such man was an American actor and writer who was interested only in making a dollar. His name was Walter Hubbell. He became friends with Esther and the whole Teed family. Following extensive research, Hubbell concluded that Esther was not a madwoman, but the victim of a poltergeist. Hubbell eventually wrote The Great Amherst Mystery, a highly successful book on these strange manifestations.
Hubbell knew a good thing when he saw it. So he took Esther with him on tour of Maritime theatres. He was hoping that while Esther was seated on stage, the poltergeist would made its presence known. But that was not to be, and the audience in Pictou, Nova Scotia, shouted “Fake, fake!” Hubbell knew he was not welcome, and got out of town immediately. A similar situation greeted him in New Brunswick, so he wisely ended his little enterprise.
It is believed that an exorcism by a Mi’kmaq medicine man eventually drove the demons from Esther’s body. Whether it did or not is debatable. In time, however, Esther Cox was free of her demons and, like her father before her, married and moved to the United States, where she lived until her death in 1912 at the age of fifty-two.
The Esther Cox story is a classic case of a person possessed, and is also one of our more famous Maritime Mysteries.
I’ll Dance With the Devil
H ere’s another hand-me-down in jig time:
One day while I was sipping coffee at a Tim Horton’s, a woman asked if she could sit down and join me. She was interested in my Maritime Mystery series on ATV and wanted to discuss her favourite mystery tales. One of her favourites, she told me, never made it to television. She asked if I would care to hear it. “Of course,” I told her. This is her story.
There once was a popular dance hall in Sydney, Nova Scotia, where all the young people of the surrounding areas went on Saturday nights. One particular Saturday evening, a beautiful young girl went to the dance against her parents’ wishes. While there, the young woman suddenly jumped up, and swirling around the floor, hollered, “Who will dance with me? I’ll dance with anyone—even the Devil himself!”
A hush came over the place. The musicians stopped playing and all of the dancers moved away from the girl, except a stranger, who seemed to appear out of nowhere. He walked slowly to the middle of the dance floor where the girl was waiting. Smiling down at her, this very handsome and dark stranger said it would be a pleasure and honour to dance with her. He wrapped his strong arms around her waist, and began swaying back and forth to the music. The young girl closed her eyes and rested her head on the stranger’s chest. The other dancers became spectators. No one else danced; it was as if they were incapable of moving—as if there was some power keeping them in a trance. They were transfixed by the way the young girl and the stranger danced. When the dance was nearly over, the girl looked down and fainted. In the confusion, the stranger disappeared. When the young woman regained consciousness, she told the crowd that when she had looked down at the feet of the stranger, she had seen a cloven foot!
When she finished telling the story, the lady paused and said, “Well, what do you think? Is it a good story?”
“Certainly is,” I told her. And I went on to tell her that I came from Sydney and had heard that story many times when I was in my teens. The dance hall in question was located at a place known as Nelga Beach, on the outskirts of the city. I also told her I spent many a Saturday night in that very hall dancing the night away,
but keeping one eye out for a tall, dark stranger who may be interested in dancing with my girlfriend.
The lady’s story is similar to others that are documented in Helen Creighton’s Bluenose Ghosts. One such story discusses how a young girl in New Brunswick paid dearly for wishing to dance with anyone including the devil: Satan left his hand print on her back. The young girl was so disturbed, she died of shock.
In Parrsboro, Nova Scotia, there was another young girl who also loved to dance and she too made the mistake of calling on the devil—who is never far away or out of ear shot. Apparently, this young woman’s boyfriend decided not to take her to the local dance. This disturbed her so much that she exclaimed she would go to the dance with anyone, including the devil. Satan heard her. No sooner were the words out of the young woman’s mouth, when a fancy carriage pulled up to her front door and out came a handsome young stranger. The young girl had the time of her life and danced every dance with the dashing young man. When the dance was over, the stranger wished the young lady goodnight, and left. It wasn’t long after the girl retired for the night, when a loud noise was heard coming from her room. When her family went to investigate, they found her dead. On her forehead was the imprint of a horse’s hoof—the devils’ mark. The roof of the girl’s bedroom was torn away. The devil had exacted his price, and came back to collect it—her soul. We did mention, didn’t we, to be careful what you wish for?
The Ghost Of Dean Llwyd
L ate one night in 1933, the Dean of All Saints Cathedral in Halifax rushed from the parsonage on an errand of mercy. Concerned only with reaching the bedside of a dying parishioner, Dean John Plummer Llwyd raced across Tower Road and was struck down by an automobile. Death claimed the good Dean two weeks later.
