by Bill Jessome
The new members of Ashburn are not aware of the ghost; those who are try to keep an eye on the ball and not the woods. We’ve been told there are some golfers who, if they slice a drive into the woods, refuse to go anywhere near the tree-line in fear of coming face-to-face with the ghost of Ashburn.
We understand there have been moments in the clubhouse following a pleasant round of golf, when the conversation turns to why those easy putts were missed. Some put forth the theory that it’s as if an invisible hand were involved. Older members look at each other and smile.
Too Many Coffins
I t was midnight when the brothers of the local Masonic order left the lodge. Little did they know what was ahead of them. There is but one explanation for what happened—they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. They were simply spectators of the restless dead. The frightful tale happened over a hundred years ago, just outside Sheet Harbour, Nova Scotia.
The lodge members lived on the other side of the harbour and to get to their boats, they had to cross a desolate stretch of road. There was a full moon to guide their way and the breeze coming off the water was a welcome relief from the suffocating smoke-filled rooms of the lodge. As they stepped onto the road, a sudden noise startled and confused the group. They stood there huddled together, listening. It was difficult to believe but the terrible sounds were coming from somewhere beneath them. The sounds were like no others they’d ever heard. It was a horrible mixture of wailing, weeping, and agonizing screams. And then the road beneath them began to shake violently and lift under their feet. Before their very eyes, the road was suddenly filled with decaying coffins that gave off a sickening odour. These containers of death moved in a zig-zag fashion, forcing the men to side-step in fear of bumping into them. From that indescribable nightmare, they watched as mystical shapes oozed through the walls of the coffins. These phantoms crept close to the ground, circling the men’s legs and, like a finely spun web, wrapped themselves around the bodies of the paralyzed intruders. The brothers were now beyond fear. They were in an hypnotic state following the shapeless mass of nothingness that fluttered before their eyes. They would later recall that these phantoms took on a human quality, but then the shapeless faces would fall away into a vapor-like mass.
Suddenly, it was over—ended as abruptly as it had begun. It was as if the coffins and the ghosts were swallowed up by the earth.
The brothers fled to their boats. As they rowed in silence to the other side of the river, the sounds of tormented souls could be heard coming from that other world.
Those who were caught up in that ghostly nightmare are gone. So is the Masonic lodge. The only reminder of that night of terror is the road. Today, locals refer to it as the old ghost road.
A Frog’s Frog
I f you have a sense of history when you first arrive in Fredericton, New Brunswick, and, the building that will immediately attract your attention is the officers quarters that was built in 1839.
Today, the building houses a special museum that’s operated by the York-Sudbury Historical Society. There is a Maritime Mystery of sorts here. Hermetically sealed in a glass case squats the world’s biggest frog. This is no run-of-the pond frog mind you. This lily-pad dweller weighed in at forty-two pounds. Is it a froggy fraud you ask?
In pursuit of the truth one need only journey to the nearest fishing hole. You must learn not to rush these rod and reel weavers of truth and tall tales; patience is indeed a virtue. Between baiting fish hooks and long pauses you’ll hear the story of how the world’s biggest frog came to be.
“We must go back in time,” the old man with the fishing pole says. Not back to Jurassic time mind you, only to a hundred plus years and to Killarney Lake, which is located a few miles outside of Fredericton.
The main character in this tale is a Fredericton hotel operator and outdoors man by the name of Fred Coleman. One evening while fishing on Killarney Lake, Coleman noticed a tiny frog sitting on a lily pad, watching him. Coleman was so taken by the little fellow that they became fast friends, and Mr. Coleman began feeding his new friend a rich and varied diet of insects and, according to some, a lot of human food and drink—whiskey to be exact. It didn’t take long before our little amphibian friend puffed up to forty-two pounds!
But nothing lasts forever; Coleman’s friend made his final jump, rolled over, and died. Coleman was devastated, so he had the big fellow stuffed and put on display in his hotel lobby.”
While most New Brunswickers accept the Coleman Frog as the real thing, there are skeptics who say he’s a fake, that he was made by a nineteenth-century chemist who put him in his drugstore window to advertise his homemade cough medicine—frog in the throat remedy, I suppose.
Who would dare poke a finger in Mr. Frog’s tummy to see if he was just so much hot air? I kept my hands in my pockets. Whether he’s all stuffed up or just paper-maché, will probably remain a Maritime Mystery.
The Phantom Train
T here have been many stories of sightings of phantom ships sailing off into the sunset, and of phantom coaches drawn by black horses disappearing into the night, but it’s rare to hear of a phantom train. Prince Edward Island has one.
This incident supposedly happened over a hundred years ago in Wellington.
The community hall in Wellington was only, as the old timers say, a “spit and holler” from the railway station. Well, many years ago, a wedding reception was being held there, and around midnight, above the music and dancing, everyone was stopped in their dancing shoes by the mournful whistle of a passing train. “Strange,” an elder said. “Very strange indeed,” said another. Strange because there was no scheduled train running that late at night. “We should go outside and see,” said another elder. When the wedding party went outside they were dumbfounded by what they saw. Pulling into the station was a mainline locomotive. What made it all the more unbelievable to these country folk were the ghost-like people they saw boarding the train.
Some even swear they heard the familiar “All aboard,” as the train pulled out of Wellington station.
Others reported only hearing the ghost train, not actually seeing it. They heard the train’s whistle, then the familiar sound of steam and steel rolling over the rails.
Could it have been a soul train coming to collect the recent dead?
The Clock
T his fascinating Irish gem is from one of Dorothy Dearborn’s tales from the other side. It’s the story of Irish spirits stealing aboard ships for a ghostly voyage to the new world, not instead staying under the old sod where they belong.
The Irish who came to the Maritimes brought with them not only their personal belongings, but also their folklore, superstitions, and perhaps even unspeakable things from the spirit world, such seemingly harmless items as clocks
Consider the clock the Flanagan family brought to Fredericton, New Brunswick, during the great Irish immigration to New Brunswick.
When I produced this story for my Maritime Mystery series, I spoke with Charles (Mousie) Flanagan, who told me that the story was gospel.
Here’s how he tells it: My Grandfather’s clock was just an oldfashioned mantle timepiece made of some kind of dark wood. What was peculiar about it is that no one could remember if the clock ever worked. But it did chime on rare occasions. My father remembers it striking in the middle of the night once. In the morning they found Uncle Tom in bed, dead.
About two weeks after Uncle Tom died, my mother died—that was in May 1928—and the same thing happened. The old clock that had never worked, or kept time, chimed again in the middle of the night. The next morning my mother was found dead in bed.
Sometime in June 1937, the clock struck once again, and this time I heard it. It was in the middle of the night and everyone was asleep. The clock had only ever struck twice before. The next morning, our housekeeper wasn’t up when we came down to breakfast. When we went to check, we found her dead in her room.
Well, my father got very angry. He went into a rage. ‘T
hat son-of-a-bitch-of-a-clock will never strike for anyone again!’ he said.
He grabbed the clock off the mantle and took it outside to the woodshed where he took an axe and smashed it to bits. Not satisfied with that, he burned the wood and trashed the metal workings beyond recognition. Then he sent what was left to the dump.
Charles Flanagan ended the story of his grandfather’s clock with a great sigh.
As I drove away from the home of Charles Flanagan, I was reminded of stories about haunted things; of people finding discarded pieces of wood from haunted houses, of Grandma’s old rocking chair, even Grandfather clocks. Tic, toc, what’s inside the old clock?
The Curse
Here’s another great Island tale. What do you do when a mysterious illness or an unexplained force takes your loved ones? Do you stay or flee?
This ghastly little horror story can be found in F.H. MacArthur’s Legends of Prince Edward Island. The journey begins on a farm where a young man’s life hangs in the balance.
Nearly two hundred years ago in the farming community of Cape Wolf, Prince Edward Island, a young farmer by the name of Ronald MacDonald was the unhappy sole survivor of his family. He realized that if he didn’t want to suffer the same fate as his parents and sister, then it was time to flee—he could no longer cope with the demons, if that was what they were. He had just buried his mother and father, and a few months before, his only sister. Ronald walked away from the farm where he was born, raised, and worked the land with his father.
He stopped at his neighbour’s home to tell him he was leaving for good. The old farmer nodded in agreement and told the young man that under the circumstances, he was making the right decision.
Young MacDonald agreed, but told his neighbour, that were it not for the family curse, he could be happy living and working on the farm. The curse was put on MacDonald’s great grandfather, who had murdered a young girl back in Scotland. It was a curse that would not be lifted until the last member of the MacDonald family died.
The old farmer said he had attended the funerals of six members of the MacDonald family, who all died of some mysterious illness.
The young man told his neighbour that he hoped to start a new life in the United States. They shook hands and the farmer watched the young man disappear down the road.
The next morning, the body of young Ronald MacDonald was found lying along the side of the road. He had died without a struggle. Was his death caused by the old Scottish curse?
The Bone Knockers
M ost ghost stories can be dismissed as just that—stories. But there are people who have a personal experiences they feel simply can’t be explained away. One such incident happened over sixty years ago in East Noel—usually a tranquil rural community—on Nova Scotia’s Cobequid Bay.
East Noel resident, Reta Laffin remembers that in 1938, around supper time, a sudden loud noise sent everyone racing outside to see what was happening. Reta was only ten at the time, but remembers the older folk in the village saying the noise sounded like human bones knocking together. The mysterious sound put the adults on edge, and kept the children indoors that night.
Over the years, Reta has wondered if there was a reason for the unusual noise. She recalled an old story about a cruel schoolmaster who, back in the 1860s, may have started it all. He went to his grave with more than just pallbearers in attendance. According to Reta, his coffin was swarming with frogs and insects all the way from his home to the cemetery. It was when he was buried that the noise began.
The bone-knocker story has taken its place in the folklore of the Maritimes, and people like Reta Laffin have also written about the incident. Should it happen again, there will be a record, and for the record, Reta Laffin does not scoff at such things. She’s a true believer of things from the other side.
Chapter Eight
Forerunners
and Forecasts
The Wynard Ghost
I t was a late winter afternoon in the year 1785 when two officers of the 33rd Regiment were pouring over maps in the barracks in Sydney, Nova Scotia. One was Lieutenant George Wynard, and the other was Captain John Sherbrooke. Sherbrooke would eventually serve with distinction under the command of the Duke of Wellington in the Peninsular War, and in time, would be appointed Governor in Chief of Canada.
On that fateful afternoon while the officers were studying maps, a movement in the room caught the attention of Sherbrooke. When he looked up, a tall young man appeared in the doorway. According to Sherbrooke, the stranger wore the mantle of death. When Lieutenant Wynard saw the man, he grabbed Sherbrooke’s arm and gasped, “Great God in heaven, my brother!”
They watched as the young man retreated back into the bedroom. Wynard, still shaken from the experience, followed Sherbrooke into the room; the bedroom, however, was empty. What baffled the young officers was that there was no other way out of the room except through the map room.
As the days passed, young Wynard anxiously awaited news from home. He often spoke to fellow officers of his younger brother’s ill health. There was nothing he could do but wait and pray.
Finally, mail arrived from England. There was a letter, not for Lieutenant Wynard, but for Captain Sherbrooke. In the letter, the family asked that Sherbrooke inform their son that his younger brother John had passed away. It was later noted that young Wynard had died in England at the precise moment his ghost had appeared in the map room in Sydney.
The incident of the Wynard ghost was the topic of conversation throughout military circles. Even the Duke of Wellington, Sherbrooke’s old commander in the Peninsular War, had some choice words to say about the ghost: Wellington reminded his officers that there was a lot of heavy drinking in Cape Breton at the time, and suggested that perhaps what Sherbrooke and Wynard had seen were spirits that came out of a bottle. Wellington may have dismissed the story out of hand, but officers who were present at the time of the incident did not. During an inquiry, they confirmed everything that Sherbrooke and Wynard witnessed.
It’s been over two centuries since the Wynard ghost first appeared in that barrack map room in Sydney, Nova Scotia. The garrison is now part of history and the principal players are all but forgotten, but not the Wynard ghost. It is forever part of our Maritime history.
The Forerunner
W e walk among them, these Maritimers who, for a brief moment in time, are the victims of a forerunner—a frightening glimpse into one’s future; a witness to one’s demise.
Hand in hand a young couple went out on a cold October afternoon for a leisurely stroll down a country road. They spoke of their future, of having children and of growing old together.
Suddenly, they saw something up ahead that sent a chill through the young man; he didn’t know why, but it bothered him. He couldn’t make out what it was because of the cloud of dust it was kicking up. Then, out of the dust, six black horses appeared, and sitting on a magnificent carriage were two men dressed in black. The young man drew his sweetheart closer to him and told her they should move to the shoulder of the road to allow the horses to pass. She turned her face to his and with a puzzled look asked, “Where? I don’t see anything.”
“You don’t see the horses and carriage?” asked the young man.
“No, nothing,” she said. The young man drew her still closer to him, then stepped back and waited for the horses to pass. When the horses were nearly abreast of them, he realized it was a funeral procession. Another cold chill went through his body when he saw the six pallbearers, with their heads bowed, walking slowly behind the carriage—they were all relatives of his fiancée!
The young man wondered if he was witnessing a forerunner? He remembered as a child hearing old people talk about such things.
He took his fiancée in his arms and held her close. Over her shoulder he watched the funeral procession vanish and again wondered if it was her funeral that passed them by on that lonely country road.
The Bell Tolled Death
I t was the morning of October 7 i
n the year 1853 when the passenger vessel the Fairy Queen, with eight passengers and a full crew on board prepared to set sail from Charlottetown, Prince Edward Island, for Pictou, Nova Scotia. Four of the passengers were women from the Kirk of St. James. For some unexplained reason, the bell of the Kirk of St. James began tolling while the ship was getting ready to leave.
At about the same time a Captain Cross, a man of habit, was on his way to the stables to prepare, as was his custom, for a ride in Victoria Park. On his way he was surprised to hear a church bell ringing. The good captain was aware that the sounding of the bell at such an early hour could mean that a vessel was in distress, so he headed for the waterfront, but found nothing out of the ordinary. Still tied up at the wharf was the Fairy Queen. In the distance, he could hear the pealing of the bell. Captain Cross hurried uptown toward the sound of the bell—toward the Kirk of St. James. As he drew nearer, he distinctly heard the bell toll eight times. The captain was surprised to see, at such an ungodly hour, three women dressed in white robes standing in the doorway of the church. There was yet another woman. She was inside tolling the bell. Just as suddenly as they appeared, the mysterious women vanished inside the church. When the captain tried to open the door, it was locked.
