The Stories That Haunt Us

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

I
t 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 and 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

I
f 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.