Maritime Mysteries Read online

  Maritime Mysteries

  and the Ghosts Who

  Surround Us

  Dedicated with love to my grandchildren,

  Michelle, Glenna, Glenn, and Jonathon,

  and in memory of my wife, Rose.

  Maritime Mysteries

  and the Ghosts Who

  Surround Us

  Bill Jessome

  Copyright © Bill Jessome, 1999

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from CANCOPY (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Nimbus Publishing Limited

  PO Box 9301, Station A

  Halifax, NS B3K 5N5

  (902) 455-4286

  Design: Margaret Issenman, MGDC

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

  Jessome, Bill

  Maritime mysteries

  ISBN 1-55109-291-3

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-55109-847-0

  1. Ghost stories, Canadian (English)—Maritime Provinces. 2. Tales—Maritime Provinces. I. Title

  GR113.5.M37J47 1999 398.2’09715’05 C99-950141-0

  Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support of the Canada Council and the Department of Canadian Heritage.

  Table Of Contents

  Foreword

  Introduction

  Author’s Note

  Chapter One

  Haunted Homes and Halifax Haunts

  Chapter Two

  Restless Spirits and Unfinished Business

  Chapter Three

  Sea Stories

  Chapter Four

  Love and War

  Chapter Five

  Haunted Holiday Spots

  Chapter Six

  Possessions and Church Tales

  Chapter Seven

  The Unexplained

  Chapter Eight

  Forerunners and Forecasts

  We know what we are, but know not what we may be.

  William Shakespeare

  Foreword

  It didn’t go well the first time Uncle Bill and I faced a TV camera together. It was in the early 1960s and I was one of many children invited to the CJCB Television staff Christmas party that year. As the party neared its end someone on the crew decided it would look good for Bill to open that evening’s newscast with one of the children on his knee. He picked me. Now, I am certain Bill had no idea back then that I would follow him into television news. No, I suspect it was Bill’s keen sense of style and image that had him choose the child whose clothes best complimented his suit.

  My memory of those first moments on a TV newscast has me squirming and crying and being quickly rescued by my mother. Uncle Bill’s sudden serious tone and “TV Newsguy” delivery startled me. But that’s not how Bill tells the story. My first chance to hear him recount the incident came thirty years later when we were hosting a segment of the Christmas Daddies Children’s Telethon in that same Sydney studio. Fortunately, he told the story when we were not on air. According to Uncle Bill, it wasn’t tears that spoiled my first TV appearance. Rather, a liquid of another sort ruined his suit. And I wasn’t rescued by my mother; I was tossed to her and Uncle Bill was left reading the news damp and disgusted.

  Actually, I don’t think this version is true. But to watch and hear Bill tell it you can’t help but believe the story. His delivery, his flair for detail, that conspiratorial glint in his eyes as he shares something secret with you. Heck, I want to believe the tale even when the laughs are at my expense.

  Bill’s love of story grew in his decades-long career as a television newscaster and reporter. That love brought him to his second cathat he began after his “retirement” at age sixty-five. Bill Jessome’s Maritime Mysteries series ranks among the most successful segments of ATV’s popular Live at Five news show. He and his favourite cameraman, the late Kevin MacDonald, brought every story to life in a way that created a strong demand for more.

  Uncle Bill’s decision to launch a new career as “man of mystery” did not surprise those of us fortunate enough to know him, not just his TV personality. His passion in life, second only to his love for his late wife Rose, is the telling of a good tale. I’ve watched him work out many of these stories over his favourite Sunday dinner. He would wink and smile and play with his inflection until he had the reaction he wanted from a captive audience.

  Now, at age seventy-four, Bill has found a new way to share his stories. You are holding it in your hand. As you read some of his favourites you can almost hear that warm, familiar rasp in his voice—the sound that somehow made the stories more frightening. As for the likelihood of some of these tales, it really doesn’t matter. Bill makes you want to believe them, just as he makes me want to believe I ruined his suit so many years ago.

  —Phonse Jessome

  Introduction

  Q uestions and rarely a definitive answer: “Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Jessome?”

  “No, but I’m afraid of them.” Certainly not very original, I admit, but it does break the ice when the conversation turns to the paranormal.

  Like many people, I sometimes feel compelled to look over my shoulder. And for no particular reason occasionally, when I’m alone in my car at night driving down a lonely stretch of road, a foreboding sweeps over me. It’s as if there were an invisible passenger seated beside me. I also fight the urge to glance in the rear-view mirror, afraid of what may be staring back.

  Questions and more questions: “Explain, please, the puff of cold air that sweeps over my face when all the doors and windows are tightly closed. And explain away, if you can, the sickening odour of decaying flowers that wake me from a troubled sleep. And what is that standing at the foot of my bed?” I don’t know. But I’ve been there.

  And still more questions. “How old is the ghost story?”

  “Older than me and thee, my inquisitive friend. The ghost story predates literature. It belongs to a primordial world; perhaps even during its blackness.”

  A word was brought to me in secret, and my ears heard a whisper of it.

  It was during a nightmare when people are in deep sleep.

  I was trembling with fear; all my bones were shaking.

  A spirit glided past my face, and all the hair on my body stood on it,

  The spirit stopped, but I could not see what it was...

  From the book of Job. That’s how old the ghost story is.

  One final question: Do you have a favourite ghost story? There are many. These are some of my favourites.

  So, let the journey begin by turning the first page. Then read on, but do look over your shoulder from time to time.

  Author’s note

  M ost of these stories were passed on to me by Maritimers who appreciate the art of storytelling. Many have kept a record of grannie’s folklore; others remember hearing the stories as children over a flickering candle or kerosene light.

  In some cases, I have taken storytelling liberties where subtle embellishment is like frosting on a cake, but I never stray too far from the heart of the tale. Included are a few stories from my own disturbed imagination.

  My profound gratitude to all those wonderful people who invited me into their homes, where many hours were spent listening to and recording these wonderful stories for my Maritime Mysteries series on ATV.

  And to those busy folk who took advantage of coffee shops, shopping centres, Canada Post, the telephone, e-mail, and faxes, to share with me their favourite ghost stories, I am forever grateful.

  Chapter One
r />   Haunted Homes

  and Halifax Haunts

  Penelope

  I slow my pace—even stop—when I’m passing Shirreff Hall on the corner of South and Oxford Streets in Halifax. I’m constantly reminded of the young woman whose ghost may still be roaming the corridors of Shirreff Hall, a home away from home for female students attending Dalhousie University. The young lady in question was a domestic by the name of Penelope.

  During my research for the Maritime Mysteries series, an editor of the campus paper told me that there are no records in the University’s files on this young woman’s employment. It’s as if she never existed.

  Was there ever a Penelope? Or was she—is she—merely the creation of a too-vivid imagination of young impressionable students? I will tell you what was told to me, then you can decide for yourself.

  Back in the late twenties, Penelope worked as a domestic on the third and fourth floors of Shirreff Hall. When she didn’t show up for work one morning, a thorough search of the residence was made. She was found in the attic, hanging from a rope. At the time of this writing there is still a piece of that rope, albeit rotting and frayed, still hanging from an attic beam. Perhaps it’s still there. And perhaps it’s the same rope Penelope used to hang herself!

  What terrible event drove Penelope to take her own life? And what powerful forces keep her restless spirit walking the corridors of Shirreff Hall?

  The reasons for taking her own life are still being discussed by Dalhousie students in the late hours of the night. Not long after she committed suicide, some students saw her ghost wandering the fourth floor. Some of these students, with a frightened look in their eyes, reported that while studying, a sudden wave of cold air swept over the room and they had a strange feeling that someone had just walked into the room. Others, awakened from a sound sleep by some force, tell of a young woman standing at the foot of their beds. When they ask her who she was, she vanished. And there are still other students who speak of the presence of an unexplained force that is beside them when they walk down the long, dark corridor to the bathroom. Others speak only of an uneasy feeling of being constantly watched.

  Is it really the ghost of Penelope? Scoff if you may, but don’t try to tell the students I talked with that they were seeing things, or that they were letting their imaginations run away with them. As far as they’re concerned, Shirreff Hall is haunted—haunted by the ghost of Penelope.

  Even now when I walk by Shirreff Hall I wonder if Penelope is watching from a fourth-floor window. I want to look up, but dare not, just in case.

  The Ceilidh Spirits

  H is car broke down on a lonely stretch of road that appeared to go nowhere. Should he stay in the car where it was safe, or walk to the nearest village and put up for the night? The thought of a warm bed was the deciding factor.

  It was near midnight when he saw a light up ahead. His pace quickened toward the house he saw. When he opened the gate and walked to the front door, he heard music coming from inside. His knock was answered by a old woman. He told her he was stranded and asked if she would she be so kind as to give him shelter for the night. She invited him in and he followed her to the kitchen, where she pointed to a chair at the table—all the while humming the tune the group was playing in the other room. She suggested he should have his tea in the parlour, where he could enjoy the singing and dancing. He sat down in a comfortable old sofa and admired the talent of the young musicians. There were seven in the band altogether; four men and three women, and it was plain to see they were all related—perhaps brothers and sisters. They were, without exception, handsome young people. And all, except one, had wavy, jet black hair. The tallest and thinnest young woman had hair the colour of a golden sunrise.

  What he found disturbing and a little peculiar was that they neither spoke or acknowledged his presence. It was as if he didn’t exist. He couldn’t help but feel somewhat uneasy. And the room itself, while warm and friendly, had a foreboding air about it.

  Sleep overcame him, and he lay down on the soft warm sofa. The last thing he remembered was the old woman covering him with a blanket whilst in the distance, he heard the soft, strains of “Dark Isle.”

  When he opened his eyes in the morning he was startled to find himself lying on a cold and damp floor! The room that had been so warm was now cold and empty. The fireplace that only hours earlier had given off such warmth was closed off. There wasn’t a single piece of furniture in the parlour or in the kitchen, nor was there another human being in the house. Slowly he made his way up the winding staircase to the rooms upstairs. The only thing he found was an overgrowth of cobwebs and a sickening and musty odour in the empty rooms.

  He quickly went downstairs and out the front door into the bright sunshine and onto the road that seemed to go nowhere. He had gone less that a kilometre when he saw an old man coming his way. His steps, supported by a cane, were slow and deliberate. Should he tell the old man what he had seen, or didn’t see? He thought better of it. No sense being laughed at, or worse, thought of as a fool. They nodded to each other and moved on.

  The repairs to his car would take most of the day and evening. While eating dinner at the local diner, he noticed on the wall a newspaper headline: LOCAL MUSICIANS AND GRANDMOTHER DIE IN TRAGIC BUS ACCIDENT. The story carried a family picture; the familiar faces of the young musicians and the old woman who had given him shelter the night before stared back at him.

  He was about to turn onto the main road when he changed his mind. He felt compelled to go back to that place, to make sure. It was midnight when he saw the lights come on, and as he drove off, music came pouring out of the abandoned farmhouse.

  The Witches of Robie Street

  Y ou don’t believe me, do you? You don’t believe there’s a haunted house on one of Halifax’s busiest streets. May I suggest you get in you car and drive by? Or, better still, walk by. If you have the courage, linger awhile. But I caution you, don’t linger too long, because on the verandah, the Witches of Robie Street may still be dancing the dance of death. If they catch you spying on them ... well, don’t say I didn’t warn you.

  The city of Halifax is famous for many firsts. It was home to the formation of the first representative government in the British colonies, and the first newspaper in Canada was published here. What’s that got to do with haunted houses? you may ask. Well, the house in question was built in the 1840s for William Caldwell, the first elected mayor of the city. The home, known locally as the Robie Street Palace, has changed hands several times. And the spirits? Well, who’s to say they’re not still there.

  The house is currently a combination of a residence and clinic. Patients waiting to see the doctor may choose from a variety of magazines available; the curious will reach for a small five-by-seven white card that explains the history of the Robie Street Palace and how it became haunted, and that its mysterious black window is what made the place so famous.

  According to legend, one evening, just at dusk, an old man living in the house was caught spying on three witches who were performing a ritual dance on the verandah. The witches became very angry and put a curse on the old man, and the window he was spying through was turned black by these angry souls. To this day it is said that no matter how many times the glass is replaced, it immediately turns black.

  The early residents who lived in the Robie Street Palace were witness to some very mean-spirited poltergeists. For no apparent reason, lamps would suddenly go hurtling across the room, doors would slam shut and then swing open again, and very late at night, voices were heard groaning in the dark upstairs.

  On closer inspection of the now boarded-up blackened window, it’s difficult to tell what colour the glass really was, or is, or if there really was a window there at all.

  Some southenders who know the history of the Robie Street Palace pass by quickly—they’ve heard about what may happen if caught staring.

  The Mystic Farm Ghost

  J ust off highway 101 there is a place known as t
he Jordan Branch Road, which is located not far from Shelburne, Nova Scotia. There you will find the Mystic Farm. The house was built in 1783 and is currently owned by Jack and Jill Nickerson, who operate a greenhouse nursery.

  Life appears normal at Mystic Farm. Normal, that is, until night falls. That’s when the ghost of Nina appears. Nina, according to the new owners, was one of the original owners, who lived into her ninety-ninth year.

  The young couple first realized the home was haunted when early one morning, Jill was going downstairs to get a glass of water. When she was halfway down, she felt a foreboding and a sweep of ice-cold air passed through her body. Jill knew instinctively that a spirit had passed through her. When she turned to look up the stairs, she saw the shadowy figure of an old woman disappear into a spare bedroom. The next morning, Jill began exhaustive research about the farm and its previous owners, and especially about the ghost who now occupied their home. What surprised the Nickersons was that they were just the second owners of the farm. For 215 years, the place was owned by just one family—the last to live and die there was a woman called Nina.

  Nina made her presence known in several ways. It was just after two o’clock one morning when Jill was awakened by the smell of smoke. She and her husband rushed about the home checking every room but couldn’t find any fire. After airing out the house and returning to bed, with the smell of smoke still hanging in the air, the young couple knew there would be no sleep that night—Nina was on the prowl.

  Contending with one ghost is one too many, but the Nickersons had to deal with two: one inside and one outside. The second spirit never entered the home or appeared to anyone; it’s presence was known only by a steady knocking on the back door. The knocking first happened one day when Jack was working around the home while Jill was away. Even when Jack opened the door, the knocking continued. No matter what he did in an attempt to get rid of the knocking—from ignoring it to turning up the stereo—nothing worked. The knocking only became more persistent and louder.