The Stories That Haunt Us (14 page)

When the students left, Miss Goss pondered the meaning of the message on the blackboard. Did it mean the student was somewhere in the building? If so, where? Should she alert the school authorities?

But how could she possibly tell them that she had seen a ghost—and that she was the only one?

Miss Goss was getting ready to leave when the door opened and an elderly man came into the room. He was wearing coveralls and carrying a trash basket. “Sorry miss, I thought everyone was gone.” Miss Goss studied the man. “I haven't seen you around here before.”

“Oh, you're right. I'm what you'd call a part-timer. My name's Thibodeau. Henry Thibodeau. Worked here full time for more than fifty years.”

Miss Goss wondered if this man knew something about the mysterious child. “Tell me, Mr. Thibodeau, did something tragic occur in this school at any time?”

“Let me see…well, at one time, this was a small one-room school—pretty as a picture—until it was replaced with this school. Built right over the very spot where the one roomer was. As the story goes, one day a student by the name of Amy McCue and an itinerant maintenance worker vanished. According to Amy's teacher, the girl had been sent down to the basement to get some school supplies. Unfortunately, the teacher forgot about her until nearly two hours later. When she went down to see what was keeping the girl, she was nowhere to be found. She was never found, actually. But many years later we found out what happened to the missing maintenance worker. He was drowned while fishing on George's bank.”

Miss Goss's interest was piqued. “What do you think happened to the little girl?”

Mr. Thibodeau was becoming agitated. “Some folks around here say she was murdered. I would tend to agree,” he replied. Miss Goss sensed he would not talk further about the issue. Hurriedly, she thanked him and left.

Late that night Miss Goss bolted upright in bed. She had been having a terribly weird dream. Mr. Thibodeau was in it, showing her a sketch of something on a piece of paper. Miss Goss remembered him pointing at one specific spot. “She's there. Find her,” he repeated. A voice told the frightened woman to go to the school immediately. She got out of bed, dressed quickly, grabbed a flashlight and hurried to the school.

She had to hold her right hand with her left to keep it from shaking while she got the key into the back door lock. Once inside, she went directly to the basement. She found the narrow door that Mr. Thibodeau had pointed to over and over—it led to the room where he said the body of Amy McCue was buried. Miss Goss opened the door and shone her flashlight in. The room was small and empty. Hanging from the ceiling was a thin wire with a broken light bulb hanging from its socket. Cobwebs were everywhere. She shook when she thought of something crawling along the dirt floor. “Please god,” she whispered, “No rats.” There were small chunks of coal strewn over the dirt floor and she could hear a crunching sound when she stepped on them. She supposed the room had been the coal cellar one time, a theory confirmed when she found a small shovel. Positioning the flashlight on the floor so the light would fill most of the small space, Miss Goss began digging. She worked for ten minutes, then stopped. There was no need to dig further. Miss Goss backed away. It was the same face she had seen in the schoolyard and classroom. She steeled herself to look at the body of Amy McCue. There was no decomposition whatsoever. It was as if she were simply asleep.

It was three o'clock in the morning; the teacher decided to stay until the school authorities arrived. No longer afraid, she moved to the far corner of the room and sat down. She brought her knees up close to her chest, wrapped her arms around her legs, put her head down on her knees, closed her eyes and waited for daylight.

That's where they found her the next morning. She told the authorities that she had seen the girl in the schoolyard and her classroom. She told them about the message that appeared on the blackboard. She also told of her meeting with the part-time janitor, the dream, and her gruesome discovery. When she mentioned Mr. Thibodeau's name, there was a stir and whispering. They asked her to describe Mr. Thibodeau and Miss Goss obliged. “He was quite tall. Over six feet I'd say. Black hair. A moustache. There was a tattoo on his left arm. I believe it was the fleur-de-lis.” No one spoke for the longest time. They were all staring at Miss Goss.

The principal finally spoke: “The maintenance worker who went missing and was believed to be Amy's killer was Henry Thibodeau.”

Rearview Mirror

F
ranklin, who lived in Yarmouth, Nova Scotia, didn't know the used car he bought had been in an accident. Although the car wasn't that badly damaged, its owner, a woman in her late seventies, was killed. The coroner said she died of a severe blow to the head. The coroner was right, but the blow to the woman's head wasn't caused by the accident. Her impatient nephew, who couldn't wait for his inheritance, had dealt the deadly blow.

During the inquest, the nephew testified that he had been dozing off when suddenly the car spun out of control. He survived with only minor scratches but his poor, dear aunt was killed.

Franklin was unaware of this history when he bought the car. But every time he was in it, the hair on his neck stood ramrod straight and his body shook from an unknown fear. He was certain something supernatural was in the car with him.

One day, terror overwhelmed Franklin when he felt fingers squeezing his right shoulder. He looked down at his shoulder, but of course he couldn't see the hand that was touching him, so he pulled over to the side of the road, stopped the car and got out. He stepped to the rear window and peered inside. The back seat was empty.

Franklin got back into his car and drove to the dealership where he had bought it only a week before. He told the salesman the car was haunted. The salesman thought him strange, but listened anyway. When Franklin was finished telling the salesman what had happened, there was a long pause. Finally, the salesman said, ”You're telling me we sold you a ghost car? Is that what you're saying?”

“Yes, that's what I'm saying. The car is haunted.” The salesman slowly walked around the car, shading his eyes when he peeked through the windows. “Next,” said the salesman, “you'll be telling me that the so-called ghost in the car is the little old lady that was killed.”

“Killed?” said Franklin. “What are you talking about?”

The salesmen then told Franklin about the car accident. “But it didn't damage the car, really, or we would have told you about it.”

Franklin was shocked to hear of the accident, and felt that the woman who had died must be trying to communicate with him for a reason. The thought of getting back into that car made him feel queasy. “Look, I'm not interested in driving that car anymore. Can we do an exchange?”

The salesman shook his head. “Mister, no way. If there was something mechanically wrong, we'd take care of it, but a ghost? No, I think not.”

Franklin also shook his head as, despite his foreboding, he got back in the car and drove off. On the way back to the city the feeling that he wasn't alone came over him again. When he glanced in the rearview mirror his breath caught somewhere in his chest and he felt like he was going to pass out. He pulled over to the shoulder and stopped and waited until his breathing became somewhat normal again.

In the mirror, staring back at him, he saw a frail old woman. Franklin noticed she had a nasty bump on her forehead. He didn't know exactly what to do so he decided the best thing was to get out of the car. But before he could open the door, she stopped him. “Please, you must help me. I'm a prisoner of this car. It was my nephew who killed me, not the accident. He did it for the money but he can't have it. Will you help me? My nephew struck me with a hammer and then hid it in the stump of an rotting tree. It's only a few miles from here. Drive there and I'll show you. Then you can call the police.”

Franklin felt dizzy. “And what do I tell them? I got the information from the victim? Is that what I tell them?”

“You don't have to tell them anything more than where the hammer is hidden and who did it,” replied the old woman, with desperation in her eyes.

Franklin's sympathy for the woman overcame his fear, and he decided to help her. “Alright, alright, I'll do it,” he said. “But then, you'll have to leave my car. Deal?”

“Deal,” the old woman agreed.

Following the woman's directions, it didn't take Franklin long to find the hammer in the woods. He was careful not to touch it, and used a pair of gloves to lift the bloodstained weapon from the tree trunk. He carefully placed the hammer in plain view, and, upon returning to the car, dialed the police on his cell phone. “Done,” he said as he got back into the car. He looked in the back seat, but the old woman had already disappeared.

Cold Case Files

I
credit the
Sackville Tribune-Post
for the following story, which appeared in The
Daily Gleaner
under the headline: “Fredericton couple found shot to death.”

It was Tuesday, October 19, 1965, at suppertime for most. John and Isabelle Felsing, and their dog, Heather, were walking along the peaceful Oromocto Flats outside Fredericton, New Brunswick. Suddenly, gun shots shattered the silence and the Felsings fell to the ground, mortally wounded. The murderous shots were fired from a 12-gauge shotgun.

Was the shooting deliberate? Or was it the action of a careless hunter?

Heather, the Felsings' dog, was nervous but protective. She stayed by her owners until 10:30 that night, when the bodies were illuminated by taxi headlights and consequently discovered. When the Mounties arrived, Heather wouldn't let them near the bodies, and an animal handler from the SPCA had to be brought in to remove the frightened dog.

Following the shootings, speculation about whether the deaths were deliberate or accidental began spreading throughout the community. Mr. Felsing had been a buyer in a government purchasing department, and according to rumour, he was killed to stop him from releasing damaging information against other officials. No one could provide facts to back up these accusations, however. Following an intensive investigation, the RCMP concluded that a careless duck hunter accidentally shot the Felsings, but the file remains open.

Here's something to ponder. According to journalist and author Dorothy Dearborn, of Hampton, New Brunswick, a police official not with the RCMP came to her with more information. He told her that an elderly hunter included in his will a confession that he accidentally shot the Felsings. As of this writing, the Fredericton detachment of the RCMP has no knowledge of any such confession.

My thanks to Genevieve Kilburn and Stephanie Lutz of the Harriet Irving Library, University of New Brunswick, for assistance in obtaining many of the facts and dates for this mystery.

The Ghost in the Tin Lizzie

M
r. Forester considered himself very fortunate indeed to have been in the right place at the right time. He had placed an ad in the local newspaper looking for a small, out-of-the-way place on the water in the St. Margaret's Bay area, and immediately received a call from someone willing to sell to him. Mrs. Mueller's place sounded like it was exactly what he wanted. He knew as soon as he saw it that it was perfect. It was a typical English-style cottage, set back from the main road, with century-old oaks on either side of the small lane it was on, Ocean View Drive.

When Mr. Forester got out of the car Mrs. Mueller was waiting for him on the stoop. He was surprised at how old she was—on the telephone she had sounded quite young. She had long white hair and she came toward him smiling, with her hand outstretched. Mr. Forester could not help but notice how long and twisted her fingers were, and how cold they felt when he shook her hand. He figured it was poor circulation from old age.

“You're the perfect person to own my beloved cottage,” Mrs. Mueller said, smiling. “I can always tell an honest person by their voice.” She beamed at him.

Mrs. Mueller showed him all around the property. It was, without question, perfect. Absolutely what he had hoped for. There were three bedrooms, a dining room and a large living room that faced the ocean. Standing in front of the picture window, Mr. Forester admired the view. The land sloped gradually down to the cliff 's edge, and a well-worn path led down to the cliff, then ended abruptly. The drop, she told him, was 230 feet. She came and stood next to him. “The view from the top of the cliff is breathtaking,” she said. “Shall we take a closer look?” Mr. Forester followed as Mrs. Mueller led the way through the kitchen and out the back door. Halfway down the path, Mr. Forester noticed a small barn almost completely concealed by the overhanging branches of white pines.

“There's the barn. My late husband kept his car in there. No matter what the weather, rain or shine, his precious car was kept inside.”

Interested, Mr. Forester asked, “What kind of car was it?”

“
Is
Mr. Forester. It
is
a 1927 Model T, affectionately known as a Tin Lizzie.”

Mr. Forester's face lit up. “You mean it's in there now?”

“Yes, Mr. Forester. Would you like to see it?”

“Would I! Of course I would. If I may say, Mrs. Mueller, I'm somewhat of an afficionado.”