The Stories That Haunt Us Read online

  Nervous Nellie

  The Fagan family lived on Nova Scotia’s Eastern Shore. A loving, close-knit family, they lived a quiet and contented life. There was only one problem. Things were never where they were supposed to be, and often, when someone in the family got up in the morning, they found cups and saucers in shattered pieces on the floor. Furthermore, the family members always had to be careful about where they stepped, as quite often things seemed to be spilled on the floor. Yet none in the family claimed to be responsible for the accidents.

  One of the Fagan daughters offered an explanation. “Maybe, we have a ghost in the house.” Her younger brother giggled.

  “Ridiculous,” said the father. “There are no such creatures as ghosts.” No sooner had he said this when a cup fell off the sideboard and smashed on the floor. The mother jumped, the daughter smiled and the brother giggled again.

  “Now, now, that was a just a coincidence, nothing more.”

  “Yes father,” said the daughter as she left the kitchen on her way to school. “Whatever you say.”

  The mother had had quite enough of this. The first few accidents she had chalked up to childishness, but she was beginning to put more faith in her daughter’s explanation. “What if she’s right? What do we do then?” she asked her husband. Mr. Fagan reassured his wife. “Don’t worry yourself about it. There are no ghosts in this house.”

  Putting on a brave face for the family was one thing, but the father was also having second thoughts about all the “coincidences” and “accidents” that kept occurring. One day, he went so far as to check all of the shelves in the house. They were all perfectly level. Yet the odd things continued to happen. It was getting harder to convince himself that a ghost was not at work in the Fagan household. Finally, with the urging of his family and his ultimate hope to prove them wrong, he decided to research the history of their house.

  Mr. Fagan went to the provincial archives in Halifax and spoke to a local historian. Together, they managed to piece together the history of the family’s house. A sea captain by the name of Eli Philpotts had built the house in 1833 for his bride, Nellie Fortune. Nellie, a little slip of a thing, was skittish around people. The couple rarely entertained because Nellie was so nervous that she often dropped things. Eli was devoted to Nellie and he never complained, even when she broke their best china.

  They lived happily together for many years, doting on each other and laughing at Nellie’s clumsiness. One day, however, tragedy struck, and Captain Eli’s vessel didn’t return to port. The vessel, its crew and its captain were never heard from again.

  After her husband’s ship failed to return on the appointed day, Nellie spent all her waking hours sitting at the window scanning the horizon. It came to pass that Nellie hadn’t been seen around town for three or four days. Neighbours found this odd and became concerned. Some of them decided to go to the house and investigate. They found her sitting in her seat at the widow, dead, with her eyes still fixed on the horizon. She spent her last moments on earth waiting and watching for her beloved husband.

  When the undertaker and his assistant were bringing Nellie’s body downstairs, they swore they saw her ghost standing in the kitchen watching her body being removed. They couldn’t leave fast enough when they heard a dish crash to the floor!

  Mr. Fagan decided it was best to tell his family what he had discovered: “I have checked out the problem and, as unbelievable as it seems, we do appear to have a ghost to contend with. But, a harmless one. Her name was Nellie Philpotts. Her husband was a sea captain who was tragically lost at sea and Nellie never got over his drowning.” Just then a cup dropped to the floor. There was a long silence.

  The precocious daughter smiled and said, “Good evening, Mrs. Philpotts, or should I say…Nervous Nellie?”

  At the Shore

  John and Annabel needed to get away from the city. They loved Halifax, but the cottage they had rented near Mushamush Lake in Lunenberg County was perfect and they were looking forward to the peace and quiet of a month’s holiday at the shore. Everything seemed too good to be true.

  It was raining when the strange occurrences began. Only Annabel heard it, the sound of a car’s engine—something old, like a model “A”—followed by voices. It wasn’t the tinkling laughter of children that Annabel heard; it was the sound of children crying coupled with the desperate voices of adults hollering. Annabel told her husband she thought it was coming from somewhere on the river.

  But John was skeptical: he heard nothing and couldn’t understand why Annabel was so upset. When she told him what she heard, he thought it might be some kids playing a trick on them. He went to the window to see, but with the heavy downpour and the darkness and trees, it was impossible to see clearly. John returned to the living room, telling Annabel he didn’t see anything.

  This haunting happened every afternoon at precisely the same time. It was becoming unbearable for Annabel and she began to dread the afternoons. She was becoming very nervous, glancing at the mantle clock obsessively as the hands moved closer and closer to four thirty. Finally, she couldn’t take it any longer, and said to her husband, “That’s it, John. I can’t stay anymore. Listening to the pathetic cries of the children wrings my heart out.”

  John didn’t argue with her. He also had enough and was finding it difficult to relax as they had hoped. Although he still had not heard the voices that Annabel spoke of, he couldn’t bear her agitated state. It was decided. They hurriedly packed up their belongings and threw everything into the car. They were almost ready to leave when an old man came up from the shore. “Leaving so soon? Can’t say I’m surprised,” he said. John looked at the old man for a moment, trying to figure out what he meant. When the old man didn’t explain further, John asked: “And just what do you mean by that?” John thought maybe this stranger knew more than he was saying—maybe he was even responsible somehow. “This place is haunted of course,” replied the man. “Not the cottage itself, but the river. Which one got the special gift or the curse as some call it? Ah, yes, the little lady. I can see it in her eyes.” John was becoming irritated. “Gift? Curse? We’re not interested.”

  But Annabel was very interested. The old man didn’t look at John when he spoke again. He looked directly into Annabel’s troubled eyes and told this haunting story: “It happened a long, long time ago. Wintertime, it was. This family had a father, mother, and five little ones.” Here he paused for a long time, and stared at the river.“…and a grandfather whom the children called Poppy Jay. Well, they all climbed into their brand, spankin’ new car and headed for town. They decided to take a short-cut across the frozen river. Halfway across, the ice gave way and the car went down like a rock with everyone in it.”

  Annabel knew his story to be true at once. “Are you telling me that what I hear are the ghosts of those who drowned?” The old man nodded. John turned to place the last of their belongings in the car. With his head halfway in the trunk, John said. “Yes it is a terribly sad story, but nevertheless, we’re packed now and are returning to the city.”

  When Annabel turned to thank the old man, he was gone. ”Where did he disappear to?” she wondered. Annabel suddenly stopped. Holding several book in her arms, she looked at the cottage, then the river, and back to John. “You don’t suppose do you, John, that he could be…the grandfather?”

  The Ghost in the Attic

  There are very few old homes that don’t have a past, mysterious or otherwise, and it is the past that haunts the house in this story.

  Charles and Margaret Wicks, who lived in Toronto, had Maritime roots and decided to abandon big-city life and spend their retirement years in a rural setting. So off to Nova Scotia’s coast they went.

  The search for a new home began, and soon they discovered wonderful old mansion in the Annapolis Valley. It wasn’t for sale, but they could lease it, so they did just that.

  It wasn’t long after they were settled in that Margaret realized there was something in the attic—li
ving or otherwise. During supper one evening she broached the subject with her husband, Charles.

  “I don’t know if you are aware of it, Charles, but we have a problem in the attic.” “Leaking?” said Charles.

  “No. Something is living up there. I heard noises and things being moved about.”

  “What kind of noises?”

  “Well, this morning, for instance, I was having some tea when I heard something being dragged across the floor. Even stranger, I think I heard crying.”

  “Hmmm,” said Charles. “You think someone is living in the attic rent-free? We can’t have that now, can we?”

  Margaret looked at her husband. Figures, she thought. Charles the former banker always thinking of cost—no one gets a free ride!

  ”So,” she said, “You’ll check it out?”

  “Certainly, we’ll both check it out right after supper.”

  Just then they heard a thump.

  “See,” said Margaret, “what did I tell you?”

  Charles got up from the table, stretched, and said, “Let’s see what’s up there now.”

  Halfway up the stairs, Charles turned to Margaret and asked, “I don’t remember checking the attic before, do you?”

  “We didn’t. Remember you said, ‘we’re leasing the place, not buying it, and anyway we’re not going to live in the attic.’”

  “Ah, yes, I do remember now. Pays to check, though, my daddy always said.” Margaret rolled her eyes at that. Charles let out a great sigh and took the last two steps to the attic door.

  Charles’s fingers fumbled around inside the doorframe until they came in contact with the light switch. The room was large and filled with boxes of all sizes and descriptions. Beds propped up against the walls and mattresses were piled high in a corner. Below the only window in the room Margaret noticed a huge steamer trunk—and something else. “My god in heaven—a child! Oh, my, my,” she said “Do you see her, Charles?”

  “See what?”

  “The child sitting on the trunk by the window.”

  “No,” Charles said, “I see no one. You’re seeing things.”

  “I’m not. I can see her, plain as day. She’s wearing a black dress with a white collar and her feet are bare. She can’t be more than eleven or twelve, and may even be younger. She must be a ghost!”

  “How do you know she’s a ghost?”

  “Because she’s fading in and out. God almighty—we have our very own ghost.”

  “How come I can’t see her, then?”

  “Maybe because you’re not a believer. Ever think of that?”

  The ghost liked Margaret immediately, but Charles she wasn’t so sure of. She decided it would be best to disappear altogether until she knew how they really felt about spirits and if they could accept one in the house.

  “Ah, she’s gone. You must have scared her, Charles.”

  “Me? How could I scare her if I didn’t even see her?”

  “Ghosts know,” was Margaret’s reply.

  That night in bed, Margaret’s mind was racing. She would get to know the ghost. Find out her name, everything, especially how she became a spirit—and then later, when they got to know each other better, who knew what could happen? Margaret’s one sorrow in life was not having children of her own. Feeling hopeful, she finally fell sleep.

  The next morning, just as soon as Charles left for town, Margaret immediately went up to the attic. There was no sign of the young ghost girl anywhere. Maybe I was imagining it, Margaret thought. But she seemed so real. Just then her right hand became very cold. When she looked down she nearly passed out. Beside her was the same girl she had seen the day before. The ghost had Margaret’s hand in hers. At first Margaret could see the girl’s lips moving, but she could not hear what she was saying. She leaned in closer, in time to hear the ghostly words, “My name is Cassie Fielding.”

  “I’m very happy to know you Cassie Fielding. My name is Margaret Wicks.”

  The ghost of Cassie Fielding led Margaret over to the steamer trunk where they sat down. “How old are you, Cassie?”

  “I’m eleven going on twelve.”

  “You have an English accent. So you must be from somewhere in England?”

  “I do? I mean, have an accent? Because yes, I’m from London.”

  “How did you become…ah—how did you become…a…”

  “A ghost? My family and I were coming over to spend our holidays in New York, and also Halifax where my father’s cousin lives. I can’t remember the name of the ship but I remember it was new and large.”

  The Titanic! Margaret thought.

  “The ship was so beautiful,” Cassie said, “so much brass, and so many mirrors, and long winding stairways. Because it was so huge, my brother and I would play hide and seek. Father told us to be careful because if we got lost on such a big ship we may never be found again. And he also told us that if something terrible should happen during the crossing, we were to stay together. ‘If you get separated, stay put and we’ll come for you no matter how long it takes,’ he said to me again and again. So I must stay here until father comes for me.

  “There must have been an accident of some kind. I remember I couldn’t sleep so I snuck up on deck. It was very calm that night. The sky was clear and full of stars. I was standing by the ship’s railing, looking down at the water and I saw all these huge chunks of ice floating by. The ones that were poking up through the water looked like church steeples—I wondered how big they were below the water. Suddenly, there was a big bump. It felt like the ship ran into something. Then it began tilting, and I fell over the railing. I don’t remember anything after falling. When I opened my eyes, I was in this room. How I got here, and why, I don’t know. It took me a long time to remember what had happened and understand that I had drowned. But now I need to know: where were my parents and my brother? Were they saved?”

  Little Cassie Fielding then began to cry. Without thinking, Margaret took the ghost into her arms and rocked her soothingly. She decided then and there that she would adopt Cassie Fielding, ghost or not. Cassie would become the daughter she never had. She knew, of course, that Charles would balk against such an unnatural situation, telling her she was crazy. “Besides,” he’d argue, “officially it can’t be done.” Well see, we’ll see, she thought to herself.

  When Cassie stopped crying, Margaret asked her how long had she had been in the attic.

  Wiping her eyes, Cassie said, “A very long time—years. I’ve tried to leave but I could never get the door open. I could never turn the knob.”

  “What about stepping through the door? You know, you’re a spirit. Have you tried that?”

  “No! It never occurred to me. Would that work, do you think?”

  “Never know ‘till you try. Want to?”

  “Yes.” But when the ghost girl reached the door, she paused.

  Margaret whispered, “Go ahead. What have you got to lose?”

  Cassie stepped back, smiled at Margaret and walked straight through the door—and just as quickly, stepped right back in.

  “I did it, I did it!”

  “Want to go down stairs and look around?”

  “Oh yes. But the man that was here yesterday…is he down there?”

  “You mean my husband? Charles is a big pussy cat. Anyway he’s not in the house and won’t be back for another hour or so.”

  Gingerly Cassie followed Margaret down the long and winding stairs to the front hall. When Cassie reached the front door she pulled the curtains aside and peeked out into the world she no longer belonged to.

  “Come,” said Margaret, “I’ll show you the rest of the house.”

  When the tour was over, Margaret stood by the stove waiting for the water in the kettle to boil. “We’ll have a nice cup of tea…I’m sorry, do ghosts…?”

  Cassie smiled. “There is no need for a ghost to eat or drink. You go ahead.”

  Cassie sat at the kitchen table watching Margaret prepare the tea. Marvelling at her wisp
y form perched there, Margaret wondered what it was like being a spirit. Cassie said, “I can guess what’s on your mind. Are you wondering what it’s like, being in my world?”

  Margaret nodded. “You never get hungry, or thirsty or tired. Well, that’s not quite true. You do get tired of the sameness. The worst part, though, is the loneliness.”

  Cassie told Margaret that she could not explain why she ended up in that particular house. Perhaps because it was so old, isolated and close to the sea. “Maybe that’s why spirits are attracted to such a place. There could be others—and will be—others. I’m sure of that.”

  “Well,” said Margaret, “as of this moment, Cassie Fielding, you are part of the Wicks family.” Cassie’s ghost smiled and crossed over to where Margaret was standing, hugging her around her waist. Margaret couldn’t feel anything—just a sensation of coldness—but she didn’t mind.

  The sound of a car pulling into the Wickses’ driveway startled Cassie’s ghost, who was about to flee back to the attic. “No stay,” said Margaret. “Sit over there, invisible if you like, and observe. You’ll find Charles to be a nice person after you get to know him.”

  “I’m back,” Charles greeted his wife, hanging his coat on a kitchen chair. “Guess who I ran into in town today? Actually, never mind, you’d never guess his name in a million years. I met Mr. Crabbe. Remember, he’s the one who got us interested in this place? He told me there’s a good chance the owners will sell. Seems one of the owners passed away and the other doesn’t want to come back and live here alone.”

  “That sounds wonderful!” exclaimed Margaret.

  “Well, here’s the thing—I’m not sure if it is so wonderful,” said Charles.