by Bill Jessome
The young man turned the car down Ocean View Drive. He turned to his pretty bride and said, “Keep your fingers crossed, honey—this could be our new home.”
When the young man stopped the car an elderly woman with long white hair stood on the stoop smiling. She suggested they look around outside first. She led the way along the well-worn path toward the high cliffs. When they came to the open garage, the young man stopped in disbelief. “That’s not a Tin Lizzie, is it?”
“Why, yes…yes, it is…Would you folks like to sit in it?”
Dead Ringer
This is the second story passed on to me by Russell McManus of Truro, Nova Scotia.
One of Russell’s hobbies is collecting coins. When the Truro Exhibition closed for the season, Russell grabbed his metal detector and headed to the field that was used as the parking lot. He began his search for coins near the horse barns. Luck was on his side: where usually he found only new coins, keys and nails, this time he discovered a few very old coins, along with some blackened nails and glass. And the ground nearby contained small pieces of old charred wood, indicating that there had been a building there at one time, and one which had possibly burned down.
Russell’s metal detector was recording a signal about eight inches deep. He dug down, and just as he was going to pick up whatever his detector had found, two horses in a nearby coral went wild. The horses reared onto their hind legs, pawing at the air with their front hooves, clearly terrified of something. They were snorting, whinnying and trying to break out of the coral. Two handlers had to rush into the coral to calm them down. Russell, meanwhile, pulled an old horseshoe out of the hole he had dug. And as he lifted the horseshoe from its grave, he heard a horse thundering toward him at full gallop. Russell was frozen to the spot. He couldn’t move a muscle, and could only keep his head down to protect himself. Something brushed past, knocking him off balance. When he got to his feet there was no sign of the charging horse—the two horses in the coral were calm and grazing.
I wonder if Russell McManus has that horseshoe nailed to anything, or if he did the wise thing and put it back where he found it.
‘Some Monster of Iniquity’
There are three good reasons to enter a cemetery: to be buried, to visit a loved one’s grave, or to read the many fascinating tombstone inscriptions you can often find. In the Methodist cemetery in Middle Sackville, New Brunswick, there’s an inscription on a tombstone that reveals to the world that the man buried there did not die of natural causes. No, William Fawcett was murdered!
This is the inscription on Mr. Fawcett’s tombstone:
In memory of William Fawcett who was a plain industrious hospitable and deeply pious man whose uniform and Christian conduct gained him the respect of all who became acquainted with him while reading one of Mr. Wesley’s sermons.
His immortal spirit was instantly precipitated into the eternal world to take possession of its final rest by some monster of iniquity that will be discovered at the last day who intentionally shot him dead through the kitchen window on the evening of June 19, 1832 in the sixty-third year of his age.
The coroner reported that the body of Mr. Fawcett was found in a seated position, a book of John Wesley’s sermons fixed firm in his hand. It lay open at Wesley’s text on 2 Samuel 18:33, “O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom. Would I had died instead of you.”
Here the plot thickens. The coroner’s report concluded, “What renders this dispensation more particularly depressing, is that suspicion has fallen on his only son, Rufus, as perpetrator of the murder.” Rufus was charged with the crime, but was then acquitted after a trial. He left for the United States and the murder of William Fawcett remains a mystery to this very.
Chapter Six
You Can’t Outrun
a Forerunner
Empty Saddle
M abel of Lower Sackville told me this story in a theatre line-up. She credits it to her grandfather. It was his great grandfather, Victor, who was involved in the tale.
Victor was driving his team of Morgans to town for supplies when the incident happened. Suddenly abreast of his wagon, there appeared a beautiful and magnificent white stallion. After he caught his breath, Victor noticed something most peculiar. Although there was no one in the saddle, someone or something was holding the reins taut. He also noticed the great brown eyes of the horse bulging out of their sockets and its flared nostrils. Victor knew horses better than most and he knew this one was afraid of something.
Victor’s throat was so dry that when he spoke his voice cracked “Who is it? What do you want from me?” But as soon as he spoke, the horse disappeared. Victor tried to find out who owned a white stallion, but no one for miles around owned such a horse. A mystery to be sure.
Between the Holly
It was a week before Christmas and preparations were in full swing at the MacDonald homestead. At the urging of his family, Dan R. headed into the woods to chop down the family Christmas tree.
That afternoon, under a clear and cold sky and with a newly sharpened axe slung over his broad shoulders, Dan R. headed into the deep forest. Most people who entered these woods didn’t wander too far off the beaten path for fear of getting lost…or of what might be watching from the trees. But Dan R. knew the woods. They had been his playground as a boy.
After an hour of walking through the thick brush, he came into a clearing. Sitting atop a small knoll he spotted the perfect balsam fir. He placed the axe to one side and began clearing the snow from around the trunk. Suddenly a shadow crossed over him.
The fine hairs on his neck stood out and a shiver went through him. A bear was the first thing to cross Dan R.’s mind as he reached for the axe and turned around slowly. Seated on a horse-drawn sleigh and staring silently at Dan R. were a man, a woman and a child. The child was so bundled in winter clothing that Dan R. couldn’t tell whether it was a boy or girl. The one thing he could see was the bright red Santa cap the child wore. Dan R. stood rooted to the spot, puzzled. There was no road to enable a sleigh to get this far into the woods, only a footpath. Yet here before his eyes was a horse and sleigh with three people in it. But how did it get there?
As a police officer, Dan R. was a cautious and intuitive man who never ignored the signals from within. He tightened his grip on the handle of the axe just in case. He smiled, nodded and spoke. “Hello there folks. Getting a tree for Christmas. You look like you’re lost, are you?” When there was no response, Dan R. walked toward the sleigh. When he was close enough to see their faces, he noticed the child was weeping, as was the woman. The man wore a blank stare. Dan R. noticed something else was not right with the scene. Water was dripping from their clothes, the sleigh and the horse. It was as if they had just come through a torrential downpour.
As soon as he took another step, the horse, sleigh and family vanished before his eyes! The shock was so sudden that Dan R.’s legs came out from under him and he fell to the snow. When he recovered his senses, he decided it was time to get the tree and get out of there. An hour later Dan R. crossed over the logging road and made his way down the hill into his backyard. He was happy and relieved to see his home.
After supper, Dan R. and his wife watched the children decorate the tree. They sang Christmas carols and ate sweets. He was still dumbfounded by the afternoon’s events but did not want to alarm his family or put a damper on the festivities, so he held his tongue.
When the kids were finally in bed, Dan R. told his wife what he had seen in the woods earlier in the day. “The people you described sound like the new folk who moved into the old MacGregor homestead. “Perhaps it was a forerunner,” his wife said. Dan R. was not convinced by his wife’s explanation, but exhausted from the days events, he fell asleep.
Dan R. was brought out of a deep sleep by an insistent knocking on the door. It was one his fellow officers, who stated he was needed at Moon Lake. There had been an accident. Someone had gone through the ice. Dan R. dressed hurriedly and made his way to the scene.
When Dan R. stepped out of his truck, an officer was waiting. He was holding a bright, red Santa cap in his hand. Dan R. knew then, without a doubt, that his wife was right—it had been a forerunner indeed.
The Coffin Maker
I was attending a memorial at a local funeral home when I heard this forerunner story. The incident happened over a hundred years ago in a small New Brunswick community near Riverview.
Murdock, the village undertaker and coffin maker, knew everyone for miles around. He was a sly old man who kept up on the state of the village, and always had just enough coffins at the ready. One night, the coffin maker was sound asleep when he was awakened by the sounds of someone sawing and hammering—and it sounded like it was coming from his workshop. Holding an oil lamp high, Murdock made his way downstairs through the kitchen and to the door that led to his workshop. When he unlocked the door and stepped inside, the shop was empty…except for the most beautiful coffin he had ever seen. It was an extra large one.
Murdock, smart man he was, knew a forerunner when he saw one. The village coffin maker and undertaker thought to himself, “just my size.” He returned to bed and died peacefully in his sleep that same night.
A Knock on the Door
Here’s a story from Dr. Helen Creighton’s popular Bluenose Ghosts book. Dr. Creighton loved the community of Pubnico and it is said she heard this story on one of her many visits to that area.
The story involves a girl from Halifax, and her brother, Willie, who at the time of this incident was serving in the army overseas.
One night there was a knock on the door. Even though it was late for visitors to be calling, the girl went downstairs to answer it. She was overjoyed when she opened the door to find Willie standing there, decked out in his uniform. In a sombre and sober voice he said to his sister, “My work is over. I’ve done what I had to do.” The girl reached out to embrace her brother but as she did, he mysteriously disappeared.
Awakened by the knocking, the girl’s father had come to investigate. When he saw his daughter standing in front of the empty door, he was angry with her. “What are you thinking opening the door to any stranger that might be there at three in the morning?” he said in a raised voice. Frightened and confused, she told her father, “Willie was just here. He stood right there on our front porch and said his work was done. I tried to hug him, but he just disappeared.” Her father thought she must have been sleepwalking for how else could he explain why Willie would show up, make this statement, and then leave?
The next morning dawned clear and bright. Just as the girl and her father were sitting down to breakfast, there was a knock at the door. Hoping her brother had returned, the girl ran to the door to greet him. But Willie did not greet his sister at the door. Instead, a serviceman wished her good morning and handed her a telegram which began with those dreaded words “We regret to inform you…” Willie was dead.
All in the Family
This ghost story involves three members of a family in Salsbury, New Brunswick: Lenore, Cordelia and John. Cordelia was well acquainted with ghosts and knew how to deal with them. She saw them all the time and, so we’re told, even had conversations with some. She had this special talent, you know. Ghosts sought her out. They seemed to know that when they approached Cordelia she wouldn’t scream or faint like some do. “Ghosts,” Cordelia would say, “are everywhere. They pass through us on the street of our fair cities. Remember that cool breeze you felt on the hot August afternoon but there was no wind to speak of…?”
Case in point: One time while visiting her grandmother’s grave at a Salsbury graveyard, Cordelia was seated on a bench when she observed a spirit wearing a military uniform looking at her. After many minutes had passed, he finally came over and sat next to her. The ghost asked Cordelia to get in touch with his family back in England and let them know what happened to him. She agreed to help but never did, of course. After all, he was a British soldier killed in the American Revolutionary War. Cordelia figured it was a bit too late to deliver that message!
Cordelia’s brother, John, was of a different nature than his phantom-friendly sister. John’s haunting began some fifty years ago when he bought an old farmhouse outside of Moncton, New Brunswick. He wasn’t settled in for very long when he realized that something was terribly wrong in one room—the bedroom where he slept, as a matter of fact. It wasn’t a place of welcome or rest, and he felt like an intruder in it. He was convinced the room was haunted. He never saw anything but he felt like he was being watched. His suspicions were confirmed when one night, while on his way upstairs to bed, he was suddenly lifted off his feet and shoved down the stairs by an invisible force.
Fed up and terrified, John made arrangements to fly to his sister’s home in Florida. He needed to talk to Cordelia about what was in his bedroom and how to get rid of it. In the car on the way home from the airport, Cordelia said to her brother, “I invited you down, but you didn’t have to bring the spirit with you.” John was confused. “Spirit? I don’t feel the spirit. How do you know it’s here?”
“He’s in the car with us now. He’s been trying to drive the car off the road. Watch.” Cordelia took her hands off the wheel and it suddenly spun to the left. She grabbed the wheel quickly to prevent the car from veering off the road.
John’s visit to Florida was brief, and he returned to New Brunswick more tired and anxious than before. He had just arrived home when he received a call from Cordelia: “You didn’t take the spirit back with you. It’s still down here with me!” The ghost never did return to New Brunswick. I suppose it had something to do with the Florida weather.
Pressed by this writer, Lenore, the teller of these ghostly tales, confesses that from time to time she has premonitions. One Sunday afternoon, she told me, she was resting on her bed when suddenly a strange feeling came over her. She felt as though her body was suspended above the bed. Then a voice spoke to her. It said, “When your mother dies, you won’t be able to get her coffin up the steps.” Lenore immediately thought that this was silly because the steps were quite wide. Two years later Lenore and her family moved to another home and when her mother died, the undertaker told the grieving Lenore, “I’m sorry but I can’t get the coffin up the steps: they’re too narrow.”
Lenore says seeing and talking to ghosts and having forerunners visit you is nothing new or strange. It’s all in the family. True story.
Going Up?
Henry hurried across the lobby to the bank of elevators that would take him to the tenth floor of the hospital and to his mother’s room. When the elevator door opened, Henry recognized the man standing in front of him as his neighbour, Mr. Harrington. This struck Henry as very strange, as his father had told him just that morning that Mr. Harrington was gravely ill and was in this very hospital, close to death. He’s obviously feeling better, Henry thought to himself thankfully. Henry smiled and asked Mr. Harrington how he was feeling. Mr. Harrington didn’t look at or answer Henry; he simply got off the elevator and started walking down the hallway. Henry watched his neighbour recede down the dimly lit hall. Very strange, Henry thought to himself, very strange indeed.
Following the visit with his mother, Henry stepped out into the corridor to discuss his mother’s condition with his brother. At the other end of the corridor, the men noticed a commotion. Several people were coming out of a room embracing each other.
“Our neighbours, the Harrington family,” Henry’s brother told him. “I forgot to tell you, their father passed away only a half hour ago.” Henry stared at his brother. “That’s not possible. I met Mr. Harrington on my way up not ten minutes ago.”
“Oh, come on,” said Henry’s brother. “You must be mistaken. Mr. Harrington is in the room down the hall, dead.”
Henry gave his brother a confused look. “No, no, I tell you. He was getting off the elevator. I spoke to him, but he kept on going without saying a word. Before the elevator door closed, I saw him leave the lobby. I’ll never forget the look on his face
—the god-awful look of man who was going someplace he didn’t want to go.”
Chains
This ghostly tale takes place back in 1913. At that time, Levi Morrow was the keeper of the Wood Islands lighthouse. Like so many others, Levi became an innocent party to a forerunner’s ghostly visit. He was awakened in the middle of the night by the sound of someone dragging chains. Not a good sound to hear at any time but especially during the dead of night.
Levi was drawn to the window. When he looked out he was shocked to see Captain Abraham Daley coming over the top of the shed that was attached to the lighthouse. Levi was startled nearly out of his wits. But Levi didn’t hide under the blankets mumbling, “Go away, go away.” No sir, not Levi. Instead he stood his ground and called out, ”Is that you Abe?” There was no answer and no Captain Abraham Daley anywhere. So Levi went back to bed and probably spent the rest of the night staring into the darkness.
The following day, Captain Daley, who was retiring, was returning to Prince Edward Island on his final voyage. He had a full cargo onboard including a shipload of heavy chains. Near the mouth of Charlottetown harbour, the ship ran into trouble. The crew was saved, but not the good captain. Apparently as he toppled over the side, he got all tangled up in the chains and the weight took him to the bottom.
This forerunner came to me from the “Keepers of the light,” Heather MacMillan of Wood Islands, PEI. Heather grew up on Maritime Mysteries at her father’s knee. She credits the late Mrs. Abena Hume for this Maritime story. Levi Morrow was Abena’s uncle.
And the Bell Tolls for Thee
Also from Pubnico harkens this mystery of a bicycle’s broken bell and what caused it to ring. Howard d’Entremont lives in a house that is over 150 years old. It belonged to his grandfather, Ludger d’Entremont, a fisherman.
Howard’s story goes as such: Old Mrs. D’Entremont was hanging out the laundry in the backyard when she was startled to hear a faint ringing noise. It seemed to be emanating from their shed, so she crept closer to the shack to investigate. As she turned the corner, she was shocked to realize that the ringing was coming from Ludger’s old bike—a bike whose bell had not worked in years!
