Maritime Mysteries (17 page)

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. ‘That 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 in 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.

Captain Cross was soon joined by the church minister and sexton. When they opened the door and went inside, they saw three women climbing the steps to the belfry. The bell tolled for the eighth and last time. When the three men searched the belfry they found it empty and the bell's rope securely tied. Where did the women go and who was ringing the bell, and why?

Just before noon, the
Fairy Queen
set sail for Pictou.

The next morning, news spread throughout Charlottetown that the
Fairy Queen
had failed to arrive at the Pictou, Nova Scotia, wharf.

The
Fairy Queen
had left Charlottetown under a strong wind and a heavy sea. Off Pictou Island, the vessel began taking on water. She eventually broke up and sank. Of the sixteen passengers, nine had survived.

An inquiry would later show that the captain and crew had deserted the vessel, taking the only lifeboats and leaving the passengers to a watery grave. In his own defense, the captain told the inquiry that he went into the lifeboat to direct the lowering of the passengers, but a crew member cut the rope, leaving the stranded passengers screaming to be taken off the doomed vessel.

The heavy seas were too much for the
Fairy Queen
; she capsized, sending the passenger into the turbulent waters. Nine of the sixteen passengers clung to a floating piece of wreckage and some eight hours later were rescued.

The next morning, a boat was sent out in search of the
Fairy Queen
. She was approximately four miles from Pictou Harbour. There was no trace of the four women who perished.