The Stories That Haunt Us (3 page)

Leonard recalls the time an elderly lady came into the restaurant and a waiter seated her by the window facing Argyle Street. A short time later, the woman told him she couldn't stay. He said he'd find her another table. “No,” the woman said, “It's the room. I just can't stay in it.” She left.

That's not all Leonard Currie recalls. There was the time a waitress was standing by the salad bar when she suddenly felt a terrible pressure on her face, and there was nothing she could do to free herself from it. Whatever was pushing against her finally stopped, but it left a red mark on her cheek for days. And there have been numerous times when staff members have heard their names being called over and over again. They investigate and find nothing.

The staff goes about their business with fingers crossed and a prayer on their lips, hoping the ghosts don't bother them or their customers. It's speculation, of course, but some believe these wandering souls may be victims of the Halifax Explosion or the sinking of the
Titanic
. The bodies of many of the victims of these tragedies were brought to Snow's Funeral Home when the company occupied the building.

So the next time you and your lady or gentlemen friend are planning an evening on the town, the Five Fishermen restaurant is a great place to dine—so long as you keep a wary eye on who's watching you. If it's a tall gentleman with a long black coat and a scowl on his face, pay him no mind—unless he comes to your table!

The Dollhouse

I
met an elderly lady during a book signing and she had a ghost story she wanted me to hear. It happened to a friend of her grandmother, Mrs. Flora Campbell. The house this friend lived in was haunted—or at least, the dollhouse in the house was haunted.

The owner of the house, which was in Annapolis Royal, was going overseas for three years to work as a missionary and asked Mrs. Campbell to house-sit her plants and two cats until she returned. Mrs. Campbell agreed and moved in. On the day of her departure, the owner delivered this ominous warning: “In a room on the third floor there is a dollhouse. It's locked and must remain so until I return. Under no circumstances should you or any of your friends enter this room. There is no reason for you to go inside and I implore you not to let curiosity get the best of you. Agreed?” Scared but too far in to turn back, Mrs. Campbell agreed.

It wasn't long, however, before the woman realized there was something not right—something disturbing—about the house. Late at night, the sounds of footsteps would awaken her from a sound sleep. She also heard mysterious giggling, like the laughter of naughty children. As soon as she'd get out of bed to investigate, she'd hear the scurrying of feet, then silence. After checking all the rooms on the second floor where she slept, she'd stand at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the third floor where the dollhouse was located, and listen. She knew she was being ridiculous but her curiosity took her up the stairs towards the forbidden room. She walked down the narrow hallway and stopped at the locked door, listening. It was distant and faint but she was sure she heard whispering. Shaking her head she went back to her room.

The next morning, while dusting a mantle clock, Mrs. Campbell accidentally flipped open the back panel. When she turned the clock around to snap the panel back in place, she couldn't help but notice a piece of bright red ribbon rolled-up inside. She took out the ribbon, and found a key attached. She knew instinctively that it was the key to the dollhouse. In her excitement and wonder, she forgot—or chose to forget—her promise to the owner. The only thing on her mind was discovering once and for all what was going on behind the locked door. When she got to the third floor, again she stopped and pressed her right ear against the door. Nothing.
A good sign
, she thought. Slowly, with a shaking hand, she inserted the key in the lock, turned it and opened the door. She flipped on the light switch and took in the contents of the room.

Mrs. Campbell couldn't believe the number of dolls! She counted 125 dolls lined up on shelves, chairs, the two windowsills, and the large bed. The woman wondered why anyone would lock up a room full of dolls as though they were dangerous, and began to walk around the room to get a closer look at the dolls' faces. The dolls were all shapes and sizes—one was even as big as a six-year-old child. She began to relax and enjoy looking at the dolls, when suddenly, in her periphery, something moved. Mrs. Campbell realized she had made a terrible mistake.

The missionary who owned the home became concerned when the letters stopped arriving from her friend. She telephoned the house, but there was no answer. She notified the police. The chief dispatched four policemen to investigate. The smallest officer slipped through a jimmied window and opened the front door for the other three.

There was no response to their calls so they went upstairs to look around. When nothing unusual was found on the second floor the police officers went up to the third floor. They noticed a locked door down the hall and one officer thought he heard whispering coming from the room. They decided to pick the lock, and the senior officer entered the room full of dolls. He started when he saw the body of Mrs. Campbell lying on the bed. She was dead. Several dolls knelt beside her on the bed, while others knelt on the floor. Lying next to the woman was a very large doll, about the size of young child, with its arms around the dead woman's neck.

As an aside, I will tell you of my own experience with strange and mysterious happenings. Dolls upset me. They sit there with that fixed stare and no matter how hard I try, I can't get rid of the feeling they're watching me.

A few years ago, while visiting a museum, I wandered off from my friends and ended up in a dark room that had a damp, musty odour. When my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I observed that everything in the room was black. On a black table in the centre of the room, with a large black bow around its middle, there was a long, narrow basket. I wondered what it was used for and later found out it was a death basket. Women's clothes, including a black dress, coat and hat, were draped over the end of a chair. On the floor in front of the chair was a pair of high button shoes. When I saw what was sitting on the shelf above the chair the hair on my neck stood up. It was a doll, also dressed entirely in black. (There was that feeling again. The doll was watching me with those empty eyes.) There was a silver tray on a round table by the side of the chair. On the tray was a card with writing in black lettering on it. I bent down and read it: “Mourning Room.” I swear I then heard a cackle. I looked up just in time to catch the doll lifting its head. I quickly left the room and didn't stop until I was outside in the bright and warm sunshine of the living.

A Helping Hand

I
t was a beautiful morning when Danny set off for a swim at an old dam near Sheet Harbour on Nova Scotia's South Shore. Instead of meeting up with his buddies as usual, he decided to go by himself, ignoring what everyone said about not swimming alone. Danny wasn't too worried about it. In fact, he wasn't worried about much at all. He was a young, strong lad—and the best swimmer on his team.

The water was cool, but the day was hot, and Danny was feeling refreshed as he swam toward the dam. He was concentrating on his front stroke, going through the exercises in his mind, when suddenly an old woman appeared on a large boulder on the bank. Danny looked at her expectantly. He knew everyone in the village, but he was certain he had never seen this woman before. Something inside told him to keep moving, but he shook it off. What could this harmless old woman possibly do to me? he thought.

As he came abreast of her, Danny noticed she tilted her head to the side and looked at him quizzically. “Where you off to boy?” said the woman. Danny had the urge to tell her it was none of her business but he thought better of it. He didn't answer her, and turned to swim away. “I asked you where you off to?” Danny continued to ignore her and quickened his pace. “Don't be so high and mighty young man. You never know when you may need a helping hand,” she called after him. He turned his head to look at her one last time, but she was gone. He figured she was upset at his insolence and just kept going on her way.

A few minutes later he reached the old dam. Anxious to sharpen and hone his diving skills, Danny got to it right away. He kept looking around expecting to see the old woman watching him, but he was thoroughly alone. Still, he couldn't get her out of his mind—she reminded him of someone, but try as he might, he could not place her.

Danny stood poised at the highest point of the dam. The water was dark but inviting so he took in a deep breath and dove in. Unfortunately, what Danny hit that day was more than just the water: his forehead struck something below the surface. Danny couldn't move his arms and legs and he fought against losing consciousness. If he did pass out, he would drown for sure. “Yes that's it, float until the weakness and pain passes,” he told himself. But when he tried to level his body he couldn't get his legs up. Twice he went under and twice through sheer force of will he got himself back to the surface. He struggled to make it to safety but his strength was waning. Unless there was help or a miracle, he feared he would not make it.

Suddenly, a hand broke the surface of the water and reached for him. Through hazy eyes, he saw her. It was the old woman. She smiled, “Take my hand, Danny.” How did she know my name? was Danny's thought as he passed out. Minutes later, he woke up safe and sound on the shore of the river. There was no sign of the woman who had saved his life.

Some months later, Danny's grandmother was closing down her summer home and he and his parents went down to the shore to help her pack her things. As Danny was passing the dining room table, he noticed several portraits ready to be wrapped and put away in boxes. One picture in particular caught his attention. He was drawn to it because the face in the picture looked familiar. He stood looking down at that stern face that somehow seemed softer than when had seen it on that summer day. Danny called his parents and grandmother into the dining room. “When I told you I was saved from drowning by an old woman, you asked who she was. I didn't know at the time, but I do now.” Danny pointed to the picture of the old woman and said “That was the lady I saw that day. She was the one who helped me.”

Danny's grandmother stepped closer to the table. She looked down at the picture, shaking her head in disbelief. “There must be some mistake, Danny,” she said. “That's my great grandmother, your great, great, great grandmother. She's been dead for a very long time.” Danny looked at the picture then back to his parents and grandmother and said: “Dead, yes, but not gone.”

The Bear's Den

T
he Bear's Den B&B is located on Water Street in Shelburne. The two-hundred-year-old home is presently owned and operated by Elizabeth Atkinson, who told me, with a chuckle, that one of the owners back in the 1950s came to Shelburne to compete with her father in the jewellery business—“Now I own his house. That's poetic justice for you.” When I bring up the topic of hauntings in the house, she tells me that there is not one but two old ghosts living there, and that both are male.

“I became aware of the possibility that the old place was haunted when the knocking started and the doorbell began ringing at all hours of the day and night,” she said. The first few times the doorbell rang, Liz started to rush to the door, but there was never anyone there. A visiting friend reassured Liz, saying, “It's only kids,” but Liz suspected differently: When she looked out, no footprints in the snow led to her front door.

The presence of ghosts in Liz's new home and place of business was brought to her attention one evening while she entertained two guests from Ontario and Quebec. The woman from Quebec sat up suddenly and said, “I have a message for you from the old man seated over in the corner of the room. He wants me to tell you he doesn't like all the commotion and he wants everyone to leave his home.” Liz's response, besides surprise of course, was one of indignation. “Well, you can tell the old man I am certainly not leaving. This is my home now.”

Soon after, one evening while Liz prepared supper in the kitchen a guest entered and asked Liz about “the peculiar markings on the ceiling.” When Liz looked up, she saw three markings, each about three feet long. How they got there remains a mystery, and it took a lot of elbow grease to remove them.

Liz has never actually seen the ghosts, but she knows when they're near. One night while seated before her bedroom mirror, she was tapped on the shoulder. She remembers an odd smell and a brush of cold air, but she could not see any but her own reflection in the mirror.

Liz Atkinson maintains the two ghosts are locals—one is the former owner and rival jeweller who came to town in the 1950s, the other is a neighbour from across the street who apparently came to visit the other ghost and never left. He's the ghost that sits in the window box watching people going by. Not everyone can see him, only those in tune with the spirit world, like the guest who woke up to find someone sitting in a chair watching him. The only thing he remembers about the ghost was the way he was sitting…like Rodin's “Thinker.” Perhaps the ghost was thinking of ways to rid the house of humans!

Nervous Nellie

T
he 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.