The Stories That Haunt Us Read online

  The Stories That

  Haunt Us

  Bill Jessome

  Copyright © Bill Jessome, 2004

  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 Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Nimbus Publishing Limited

  PO Box 9166

  Halifax, NS B3K 5M8

  (902) 455-4286

  Printed and bound in Canada

  Design: Margaret Issenman

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Jessome, Bill

  The stories that haunt us / Bill Jessome.

  ISBN 1-55109-483-5

  EPUB ISBN 978-1-55109-849-4

  1. Ghosts—Maritime Provinces. 2. Tales—Maritime Provinces. 3. Ghost stories, Canadian—Maritime Provinces. I. Title.

  GR113.5.M37J474 2004 398.2’0971505 C2004-905674-3

  We acknowledge the financial support of the Government of Canada through the Book Publishing Industry Development Program (BPIDP) and the Canada Council for our publishing activities.

  For Heather Proudfoot

  Table Of Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Roadside Spectres

  Chapter Two

  One More Haunted House

  Chapter Three

  The Missing

  Chapter Four

  Seeing Things

  Chapter Five

  Unfinished Business

  Chapter Six

  You Can’t Outrun a Forerunner

  Besides this earth, and besides the race of men,

  there is an invisible world and a kingdom of

  spirits; that world is round us, for it is everywhere…

  —Charlotte Brontë, Jane Eyre

  Introduction

  Y es, I know I went out on a limb and told you devotees of the paranormal that there were no more ghostly tales worth telling. How wrong I was! Ghost stories are endless and ever-changing. They’ve been around forever—why, these wandering souls have been here since before the written word, for this is the stuff of the great storytellers. And yes, gentle hearts, such stories are as old still as the first human to slip into the abyss. Does that mean each of us carries our own ghost within, which will rise when we are no more? How perceptive you are, dear reader. How very perceptive indeed. Please read on…

  Chapter One

  Roadside Spectres

  The Woebegone Ghost

  It was late evening but not yet dark when Ethan Carmichael encountered the lone man on the side of the road. Ethan thought the man might be someone he knew, but when he got a closer look at the man’s face he didn’t recognize him. Ethan got down from his wagon and stood a couple of feet from the stranger. It was then he realized this was no man at all—he was looking right through him! The ghost was sitting on a large tree stump, and Ethan could see straight through him.

  Not a man easily scared, Ethan spoke to the apparition. “Good evening to you, sir. My name is Ethan Carmichael. Something I can do for you?” The ghost told Ethan his name was Hector Piercey and explained that his spirit could not rest until he found his body and saw that it was given a Christian burial. Ethan asked where Hector’s physical body was located. The ghost replied, “A place called the Thistle farm. It used to be located just across the way, but now it’s gone. I’m certain this is where it was. That’s why I was sitting here wondering what to do. I cannot rest until I find my body.”

  “Well,” said Ethan, “I’ve been living in these parts for a long time and I’ve never heard of the Thistle farm.” It was obvious by the expression on the ghost’s face that he was confused and frustrated. Without a word, and in obvious despair, the ghost let out a wail and disappeared.

  When Ethan got home he told his wife Susan about his experience with the ghost. She cocked her head to one side and smiled at her husband. “You had a few in town, I suspect. The ghost is more likely the spirits in your belly, I’d say.”

  Ethan persevered and told her the story. “The poor soul lost his body and now he’s upset and confused because the place where he said it was hidden, the Thistle farm, is no longer there. I told him that for as long as I’ve lived around these parts, there was never a place known as the Thistle farm. Anyway, I’ll be back there tomorrow evening at the same time to see if I can help the poor man. I’m told ghosts appear mostly in the same place.”

  True to his word, Ethan was back the next day at the same time. Sitting on the same tree stump was the ghost. Ethan stopped the horse but didn’t get down from the buckboard immediately. For a few minutes they stared at each other. This time, though, Ethan noticed something different about the ghost’s demeanour. He wore an expression of deep sadness—it seemed as though he might burst into tears at any moment. Ethan got down, and this time he sat on the tree stump next to the ghost.

  “So,” Ethan said. “Tell me the problem and we’ll see if we can come up with a solution for you.” The ghost nodded. He then pulled down his shirt collar revealing an ugly circular scar on his neck. It was an obvious sign that he met his death on the gallows.

  “You were hanged?”

  The ghost nodded.

  “What happened?”

  So the ghost of Hector Piercey told Ethan the sad tale of his demise:

  I was passing through here on my way to the city when night came. I didn’t have any money for lodgings, so I just slept in a barn loft at the Thistle farm, not wanting to impose on anyone, you see. But sometime before dawn, half a dozen men dragged me out of the loft and before I had a chance to explain myself or ask why they were so angry, I found myself strung up on a tree! Then, just before everything went dark, I heard one of those men say, ‘That’s one less horse thief to worry about.’

  “I tried to scream at them, ‘I’m no horse thief!’ But I suddenly realized that I was sitting on the edge of the hayloft, looking down at the men. They were digging a shallow grave for my body. For a moment, I couldn’t understand how I could be in two places at the same time, sitting up there watching and at the same time hanging from a rope just outside. And then it hit me. I was a ghost! When the grave was deep enough I watched as one of the men went outside and loosened the rope. My body made a thumping sound when it hit the ground, and again when they brought me into the barn and dumped me into the shallow grave.

  “After the last shovel of dirt was thrown on my grave, one of the men said, ‘Who’s ever going to know?’ Then they uncorked a bottle and drank, swearing an oath to each other to never tell another soul about my murder.

  “And now here I am on this tree stump. I think my soul has been in limbo, and the only thing I can figure out is that I need to find my remains and be buried in my family plot.”

  Ethan told Hector he would check with local historians and officials for a record of the Thistle farm first thing in the morning. He bid the poor ghost goodnight and returned home.

  The next morning, Ethan was in the Registry of Deeds office minutes after it opened, asking about the farm Hector was hanged and buried on. “Yes,” said the clerk. “The location you gave me is where the Thistle farm once stood. Following the death of its owner, however, the children allowed the farm to go to seed and it wasn’t long before they abandoned the place. Vandals eventually burned down the buildings.”

  With this news, Ethan hurried back to the big tree stump. With a shovel slung over his shoulder and the ghost of Hector Piercey at his side, he made his way through the thick grass and in no time at all located the foundations of the house a
nd barn. The shape of the foundation indicated where the entrance was, and from there Ethan and Hector measured the distance to the middle of the barn where Hector’s body was buried.

  Ethan drove the shovel into the ground, and just ten minutes later, he found what he had been looking for. He carefully lifted the skeletal remains of Hector Piercey and placed them gently in the box he had brought. He looked around for Hector, but the ghost was gone. Ethan knew, then, that he was gone for good.

  Two days later, the remains of Hector Piercey were laid to rest in the family plot, with descendants of his family attending. There was a memorial following the burial, and one senior family member sought out Ethan.

  “How well did you know our great-granduncle?’

  “Not well at all, actually,” Ethan replied.

  The man wanted to know how Ethan had become involved in finding the remains. Rather than explaining his experience to the family, he simply said he had been hiking when he stumbled upon the remains. Erosion had worn away the shallow grave.

  “Imagine our surprise, someone finding that murderous wretch after all these years!”

  Ethan stared at the relative. “Murderous?”

  “Oh, yes. Uncle Henry was convicted of murdering a local merchant but escaped the hangman’s noose by overpowering the guards and escaping into the night, never to be seen or heard of again. They say he was a quite a convincing son of a gun.”

  Hocus-Pocus

  If he could help it, Doctor Neville Cross never refused a house call. It didn’t matter what time of day or night it was, he would never put a patient off with “take two aspirin and call me in the morning.” He travelled the back roads of the Maritimes in his black 1946 Pontiac Coupe to be at his patients’ bedsides.

  This was the case late one afternoon when the good doctor received an emergency call from Hector Mummery. Hector’s wife, Zelda, was very ill and asked the doctor to come immediately. Some say Zelda Mummery was a hundred if she was a day. It was difficult to tell since her spine doubled her over and she rarely looked higher than one’s kneecap because of excruciating pain. People living on or near the top of the mountain where Zelda lived avoided her because they believed she was a witch and that if they crossed her she’d put a hex on them.

  Doctor Cross made his way to the Mummery house. Just as his car reached the top of Franey Mountain in Cape Breton, the rear right tire blew and he was forced off the road. He managed to change the blown tire and was lowering the car when suddenly it gave way, and came crashing down on his right shoulder. Pinned by the full weight of the car, Doctor Cross struggled to free himself. Darkness was quickly descending and the chill of the night air was settling into his bones. The doctor lay there looking skyward, cursing the clouds passing overhead that blocked out the moon.

  With hope and life draining from him, Doctor Cross became aware of a splashing sound. It sounded as if someone was walking through the nearby puddles, making their way toward him. “Is someone there?” he called out. There was no response, just the sounds coming closer. Suddenly, the vehicle was lifted off his shoulder. Doctor Cross rolled out from under the clutches of the car and gingerly stood up. He checked his shoulder and was relieved to find it wasn’t broken. He looked around to thank the person who had come to his aid, but there was no one. He heard nothing, saw nothing. Puzzled, the doctor got into his vehicle and hurried to the Mummerys’.

  Doctor Cross knew what Zelda Mummery’s medical problem was but she would not go to the hospital; she preferred, instead, to rely on her own remedies.

  “You have cancer, Zelda, and you have no choice but to go to a hospital for proper treatment and care.”

  “No my potions will work. I just have to change the mix. Make em’ stronger.”

  “You need to go to a hospital.”

  “I’ll think about it,” she said finally. But the doctor was firm with the old woman. “You take one of these tablets every four hours and none of that hocus pocus magic of yours.”

  The old woman looked at the doctor blankly, then beckoned him to lean in closer. He bent down and she whispered in his ear: “If it wasn’t for my hocus pocus, you’d still be trapped under your car, dear doctor.”

  The Ghosts of Old Zeke

  and Molly Hill

  When I began researching stories for this book, I was told that a hotbed for ghosts and mysteries was Pubnico, Nova Scotia, and that there would also be an amazing number of fascinating storytellers there. My friend was right—I found an abundance of both.

  The storyteller of this tale is Laurent d’Entremont, who has generously allowed me to include in my book his encounter with the ghosts of old Zeke and Molly Hill. Laurent’s true ghost story appeared in the Yarmouth Vanguard on October 29, 1991:

  It was in the fall of the year, when the frost was on the pumpkin, and the corn was in the shock. The geese honking above were announcing their departure, and like many geese, I was on my way to River Bridge, New Brunswick, to visit my sister, Olive, and her family. River Bridge is close to the Nova Scotia border and received its name from the lone covered bridge over the narrow but swift Avonlea river.

  Being one who enjoys the great outdoors, I kept an eye out for birds and waterfowl close to the road, with a little luck of maybe seeing a deer or two. What really caught my attention, though, was in late afternoon, when I was about 20 miles from my destination, a Model A Ford roadster was stopped by the side of the road and had its hood opened. An old-timer in farmer’s overalls was working on the engine. The car was over-heating because of a faulty fan belt, a common thing in the early days of motoring.

  He introduced himself as Zeke Hill. His wife, Molly, was inside the car knitting what looked like a heavy pair of fishermen mittens.

  Zeke spoke fondly about his car. “This is the only car I ever had. I bought her new in 1930 and kept her all these years. Like me she is getting up there, but ain’t over the hill yet. Tomorrow old man Lovitt over in River Bridge will fix my leaky water pump and install a new fan belt. Be good as new again.”

  A man who had kept the same car for over 40 years would make a pretty good story, I thought, as I parted company with old Zeke. The car had cooled down by then and roadside repairs would enable him to reach home.

  Later, in River Bridge, I told my sister of my encounter with the Hills. She had never heard of Zeke or Molly Hill, but thought perhaps her husband Leonard knew them. He was away in Carraquet on business and would only be back the next day. Of course everybody knew old man Lovitt, who was quite the local character. Of my sister’s three boys, Joseph, Lucien and François, it was François, the youngest, who shared my interest in old cars. He insisted that we visit Lovitt’s garage in the morning.

  We found old man Lovitt fiddling on some old relics of the past. The garage door was open, Lovitt was tall, straight as a rake handle and proud. The only thing which betrayed his age of four score plus one or two was his face, which was as weather beaten as the banks of the Petitcodiac.

  “I understand that you have been running this place for 50 years” I ventured. “Yep, closer to 60.” He was quite willing to talk, like most people of his age. “My brother Caleb and I, we built this place during the hungry twenties, we did all the work just the two of us.”

  Detecting my French accent, he asked where I was from. “West Pubnico,” I told him. “I’ve been there once,” he said. “Martha and me, we toured Nova Scotia about 20 years ago. We stayed overnight in Pubnico. Nice place.”

  But when I asked him at what time Zeke Hill was coming over with his Model A, an expression came on his face as if he had just seen a ghost. His answer was a real shocker, “Zeke Hill ain’t coming here or going anywhere else, he’s been dead for 25 years.” “But I was talking with him yesterday,” I insisted.

  “Someone has been playing a trick on you” he said, then he told me the story of Zeke Hill.

  Zeke and Molly Hill lived on a small farm about two miles from town. They made a meagre living out of farming and Molly sold woolen mitt
ens to the local fishermen.

  They bought only one car, a Ford Model A, which they kept for many, many years. One day in late fall, Zeke was coming from town when a young boy on a bicycle drove right into his path. He swerved to avoid hitting the boy, lost control of the car and went over the bank into the river close to the bridge. He died in the accident. Molly moved away after that and died a few years later. Now the farm was abandoned and the buildings were falling apart.

  Since a man who had been dead for 25 years was not likely to show up (again), I changed the subject and asked if he had any car parts left over from the early days. He looked around, all he could find was a Model A fan belt. “Here take it,” he said “I’ll never use it now.”

  As we left, François asked me if I had seen the tag attached to the fan belt? I had. My heart almost stopped when I read “for Zeke Hill” written on the tag.

  We decided to take a run over to visit the abandoned farm as François knew where it was. Devoid of life for a long time, the farm was a lonely place: one of the barn doors was off its hinges, swallows had made their nests on the rafters for years and a blue sky could be seen through holes in the roof. François suggested that we leave the old fan belt there, “for the ghost of Zeke Hill”—after all, it did belong to him. I went along with it. We left the belt hanging on a wooden peg near the door.

  I went back home in West Pubnico and more or less forget all about it. No one would believe me anyway. But the ghost of Zeke Hill was not through yet. The next spring I received a phone call from New Brunswick. It was my nephew François. He was excited and talking at about 200 miles a minute. He slowed down enough so that I could get the gist of what he was saying.