The Suit

Here’s one that’ll knock your socks off.
     Back in the thirties there was a Fredericton family of humble means that from time to time received hand-me-downs from fancy relatives in the United States. One day a large box of clothes arrived, including a brand new blue pinstripe suit. A letter from their cousin Minnie pinned to the suit lapel explained that her brother, their recently deceased cousin Charles, had owned the suit. Charles had wanted to be buried in the suit, but the family was a frugal lot and decided it would be an awful waste of a brand-new suit. So they sent the suit to cousin Angus, as they knew it would fit him beautifully. They were sure Charles wouldn’t have minded a bit.

Angus was thrilled at his expensive new suit and hurried up to his bedroom to try it on. Funny thing, though, it was as if the suit had a mind of its own. Angus had to struggle to get it on. Every time he’d lift his foot to pull a pant leg on, he’d fall over, like someone was pushing him off-balance. Finally, he got the suit on. When Angus came downstairs, everyone told him how grand he looked.

At church that Sunday the neighbours noticed the new suit and told Angus how spiffy he looked. Angus felt good. Halfway through the service, though, he felt something pulling on his suit collar. He turned around thinking someone might be teasing him, but the people in the pew behind him were watching the priest piously. Then something was pulling at Angus’s waist. When he looked down he saw his three-button suit jacket being undone, as if with invisible hands. And something was pulling his suit jacket off his shoulders! Angus fled from the church, and by the time he got home all he was wearing was his Stanfields.

It seemed Cousin Charles did mind, after all.

Annie’s Brooch

This sad ghost tale takes place in Liverpool, Nova Scotia. The account my storyteller gave differs slightly from the tale as it’s told by “Ted” R. Hennigar in his book Scotian Spooks, Mystery and Violence.

Willie and Annie grew up together knowing that one day they would get married. But first, Willie needed to save up some money for a house for them to live in. Though he hated the thought of leaving his Annie, and he worried that some handsome young man may come along and court and marry her, Willie was determined: he decided to head to Boston to make his way.

The streets of Boston were not paved with gold and Willie found it hard to save for the home he planned to build back home for Annie. Meanwhile, Annie saved what she could from her job at a local Liverpool store for their life together. The young lovers wrote to each other regularly, dreaming of their reunion. When he was not working, Willie would walk the streets of Boston looking in all the shop windows. One day, he happened upon a beautiful gold brooch in the shape of a rose with a diamond in the centre. He wanted it for Annie more than anything in the world, but he knew he shouldn’t spend any of the money he was saving for their home. Ever determined, Willie managed to save enough money working a part-time evening job to buy the brooch. He sent it home to Annie with all his love. When Annie received the gift she wrote and told Willie she would treasure it always.

Willie worked in Boston for three more years until finally he had saved enough money to return to Liverpool, marry Annie, and build their dream home on the outskirts of town.

Willie and Annie loved children, but sadly they were unable to have any of their own. Willie’s six year-old niece, Martha, spent a lot of time at their place, becoming almost like a daughter to them.

One day, Annie discovered her brooch was missing. Annie thought Martha may have been playing with it, but when she and Willie questioned their niece, the girl denied playing with it.

The missing brooch caused an argument between Annie and Willie. He thought Annie had been irresponsible by leaving it someplace for Martha to find. Angry words passed between the two—the only serious argument they ever had. They never found the brooch, and it remained a quiet bone of contention, always there in the background during even their happiest times together.

Two years later, Martha died from a childhood illness. Willie and Annie missed her very much and often thought of her.

The years passed and Annie and Willie remained devoted to each other. Willie watched his love finally slip away and die of consumption. To honour her memory, he always kept a light on in the house and always set the table for the two of them. He visited her grave regularly and always kept a fresh supply of flowers in a wooden vase he made and placed on her grave. He was as devoted to her in death as he had been in life.

On the way home from the cemetery one day, Willie had an uneasy feeling. When he got home, he thought perhaps he was coming down with the flu and retired early. He lay in bed listening to the rain on the roof until he fell into a listless sleep. Some time during the night, Willie was awakened by a sound in the far corner of the room. He lit the lamp: there, looking back at him were Annie and little Martha, holding hands. The child looked upset, as though she had been scolded, and Annie looked white and pitiful. Her brown hair was wet and drops of water poured down her face. She stepped toward the bed and said, “Willie, we have found the brooch. Martha remembered where she left it. Come.”

The ghosts of Annie and Martha started out into the hall toward the attic door. Grabbing the lamp, Willie followed. Annie opened the door and Martha went up first, then Annie and Willie after her. Martha walked toward a small hole in the floor. Willie remembered the hole from when he built the house—there wasn’t enough lumber at the time so he left it as it was, an opening barely large enough for a child to climb through.

When Martha came to the opening, she got down on her knees and poked her head inside. She reappeared and passed Willie a small bundle of mesh cloth.

Willie set the lamp on the attic floor and unrolled the cloth—Annie’s wedding veil—to reveal the beautiful brooch that Martha had hidden so many years before. He stared with disbelief at the long-lost brooch. With tears in his eyes, Willie turned to his wife and niece, but they had disappeared. He returned to his room and placed the veil and brooch under his pillow.

Sleep came hard to Willie that night. A couple of days later, during another summer rainstorm, the ghost of Annie appeared to Willie. Annie stepped closer to Willie’s bed, and again, he noticed her face and hair were soaked. Annie looked down at Willie and spoke: “We have the brooch back, Willie. Let’s not quarrel any more. Please, come help me.”

Willie reached for her, but she backed toward the door and beckoned him to follow. “Come help me, Willie. I am so cold and wet.”

Willie dressed quickly and followed the ghost of his wife out into the rain, toward the cemetery. When they reached her grave, Willie looked down on the simple headstone and the flower vase he’d lovingly made for his dear Annie. When he looked up, her ghost was gone. Willie called her name repeatedly, but there was no response. She had left him alone again.

Summer was drawing to a close, and the weather turned cold and rainy. Once again Annie appeared to Willie, soaked to the skin. Her beautiful brown hair was hanging limp over her shoulders. She begged Willie to help her and back to the cemetery they went. As before, when Annie got to her grave, she vanished.

Willie woke early the next morning and headed for the cemetery. He brought a few pink chrysanthemums with him, deciding it was about time he replaced the peonies which had been there since early summer. As he picked up the vase, he noticed the bottom had rotted out, leaving a large hole under the vase which had been there since early summer. He picked up a stick and poked. It was then that he realized what had been bothering Annie. Each time she appeared, she was drenched, and she always came during a rainstorm. She had been trying to tell Willie that water was pouring down on her face through the hole in the grave. Even though he realized fixing the hole would mean never seeing Annie again, he did what he had done for her in life—made her happy. He fixed the hole…and never looked on his beloved again.

Row, Row, Row Your Ghost

In the last century, boating was a popular pastime, and boats were available to rent by the hour, the day, or the week on Nova Scotia’s Eastern Shore. One afternoon, a Mr. Hampton showed up at the boathouse wanting to rent a rowboat to take to an island he was interested in buying. The rental shop owner told Mr. Hampton he had only one boat left, and that, well, it was haunted. Mr. Hampton smiled and said that whoever was haunting the boat could join him for the ride.

Halfway across the lake, the man began to have some difficulty keeping the boat on course. It seemed to have a mind of its own and kept veering off toward the middle of the lake. Suddenly the boat dipped to one side and there was a loud splash, as if someone had jumped over the side. Mr. Hampton could hear gasping and thrashing in the water, but no one was there. After a few minutes, the splashing sounds stopped. When he got to the island and pulled the boat up on the beach, Mr. Hampton noticed a puddle of water on one of the seats and the floor of the boat, but couldn’t think of how the water got there.

His return trip was without incident, and when he got back to the wharf he told the owner what had happened. The owner said, “I told you the boat was haunted. A man rented it last summer to go fishing. Somehow he lost his balance, fell overboard and drowned. Or maybe he jumped over. No one will ever know.”

Broken Promises

This story takes place in Deer Island, New Brunswick. My contacts on Deer Island for this story are life-long residents Dale and Glenna Barteau.

In the mid-1850s, a resident of the town, John Hooper, was fed up with life and decided to end it all. According to reports, he was a little touched up top. He did have one child, a daughter who got off the island and headed for the States. Since no one heard from her since she left, one assumes she bought a one-way ticket.

Now, John Hooper had tried suicide once before, but failed. This time he made sure he would not. He tied a large bolder to his ankle, held the bolder in his arms and jumped into the pond behind his home.

John’s relatives knew he didn’t want a marker of any kind—he had stated as much many times before. He simply wanted to be buried in an unmarked grave, but when it comes to the wishes of the dead, the living think they know better. Big mistake on their part!

With good intentions, his family buried John Hooper in the field behind his house next to the very pond where had ended his life. Here, they erected a large tombstone to commemorate him. In life, he had stated time and time again this was the last thing he wanted. In death he’d let them know just how upset he was.

Not long after he was buried, people passing by his grave noticed the tombstone lying on the ground a few feet from his grave. Naturally, they reported it to his relatives. His relatives, in turn, had workmen put it back, this time more securely. All of this to no avail. Every time workmen put the stone back, it would end up a few feet from the grave, lying on its side.

Stories began circulating that old John Hooper’s ghost was upright and restless. It became so upsetting to island residents that soon they avoided the area altogether.

Meanwhile the family, as feisty and stubborn as John himself, thought they would fix crazy old John for good. They decided to put something there that could not be moved or pushed over. They had the workmen lay a concrete slab first, and then set the marker in it. When family members went to check days later, they found the tombstone split in half with one section lying flat on the ground.

As far I know, John Hooper’s ghost hasn’t been seen around lately. As I understand it, there is a small and simple stone marking his grave. He finally got his way after all.

Let this to be a lesson. It’s wise to respect the wishes of someone who has gone over to the other side. If you don’t, the power of the deceased may come back and haunt the you-know-what out of you.

The Mystery of the Grey Lady

There are many versions of encounters people claim to have had with the mysterious Grey Lady. My own research places the Grey Lady in Seaforth, for two very good reasons: Firstly, the south shore version has always appeared to be the most authentic account to me. And secondly, Dr. Helen Creighton places the Grey Lady in Seaforth as well, in her book The Folklore of Lunenburg County.

The facts were told to Professor Carmen Stone, of the University of Kings College in Halifax, and her mother by Reverend Robert Norwood, the son of Reverend Joseph Norwood, who had several encounters with the Grey Lady.

Sometimes ghosts attach their spirits to one person. In this 1931 story, the Grey Lady’s attachment was to Reverend Joseph Norwood, the rector of the Anglican church of New Ross, and she wouldn’t let go. She appeared everywhere, disturbing him so profoundly that the good reverend asked to be transferred to another parish. He got his wish, and was posted to Seaforth. Of course, that didn’t end his problems with the Grey Lady. No sooner was he in his new surroundings than—lo and behold—the Grey Lady appeared on the landing of the rectory. In frustration, Reverend Norwood spoke to the apparition. He made the sign of the cross and said, “In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, speak.” And what was the Grey Lady’s reply? She looked the good priest in the eye, and told him that a great wrong had been done in which she had played a part. She instructed Reverend Norwood to go to a certain house on Morris Street in Halifax and deliver a message.

Reverend Norwood went to the Morris Street address the very next day, and discovered it was the home of the ghost’s sister. To make absolutely sure there was a relationship between the two, he asked to see a family album. He turned over the pages until he came to a picture of the apparition he had seen and he said, “This is her.” He then delivered the Grey Lady’s message.

The Grey Lady wanted to tell her sister where an important document was hidden, and ask for forgiveness over a quarrel they’d had. The sister said she had forgiven her a long, long time ago and was thrilled to receive the information about the document. For his part in this, the reverend was never bothered by the Grey Lady again.

Irma Gets Even

Mary Kate waved goodbye to her children and stood watching in the doorway until they were safely on the school bus. Returning to the kitchen, she poured a cup of coffee and sat at the table, enjoying the peace and quiet. She thought of her husband, who was out of town on business but would be home by the weekend.

Suddenly, out of the corner of her eye, Mary Kate saw something move. She froze. Slowly, she turned her head toward the stove. Drawing a sharp intake of breath, Mary Kate stepped back. Right beside the stove, a blurry form was slowly taking shape. As the apparition became clearer Mary Kate could see what appeared to be a tall, thin woman in her late fifties. There was some grey in her hair, but it was mostly black, and she wore it high in a bun. She was wearing a black dress with a white collar. Mary Kate shook her head. It has to be my imagination, she thought. Either that or I need a new prescription for my glasses.

Mary Kate stared at the form for a long time, transfixed. The apparition had her hand on a copper kettle on the woodstove. Mary Kate blinked and looked again at the stove. It was the woodstove that had been in the kitchen before Mary Kate and her husband had modernized everything. She recognized it from before the renovations. Mary Kate looked around. The kitchen and everything in it was from another time, as was the apparition.

The ghost was fading in and out, and Mary Kate could make out the sound of water boiling in the kettle.

She was torn between two options. Should she run like mad, or make contact with the spirit? She was surprised to note that she wasn’t afraid. Her curiosity was getting the better of her, and she wondered how to address the ghost. Would the ghost acknowledge her?

Her dilemma was solved when the ghost slowly turned her head towards Mary Kate and spoke directly to her. “It was deliberate, you know. He pushed me. He shoved me down the stairs and my head hit the banister and that was it. He killed me to get me out of the way. The next thing I knew I had been waked with all those hypocrites pouring out their pack of lies. Of course, him being mayor at the time, there wasn’t much of an investigation. Tripped and fell down the stairs was what he told the investigators, and they bought it, lock, stock and barrel. But I swore I’d get even with him. So, here I am!”

Mary Kate wanted to be as friendly as possible—the last thing she wanted to do was upset a ghost. So she smiled and said, “It was your husband then, who pushed you down the stairs?”

The apparition nodded. “Indeed, it was. I’ve waited all these years to catch up with him and finally get even with the old coot. People should know what he did. He shouldn’t be allowed to get away with it. With your help he’ll get what he deserves.”

Mary Kate’s eyes narrowed. “My help? Meaning what?”

“Well, as a spirit, I’m limited as to what I can do and where I can go. Ghosts have different abilities, as do humans. Unfortunately, I’m not the travelling kind of ghost. I can’t go where I please. I’m stuck in this place. Can’t leave the house by myself. But I can if I become part of you. Kind of piggybacking, you might say. I’ll be invisible and you won’t even know I’m there. Think of me as an extra sweater.”

Mary Kate shook all over just thinking about it. “You want me to help you do away with your husband?”

“No, no, of course not. No violence of any kind. I just want to face him one more time before he dies, which I’m hoping won’t be long. As a matter of fact, today is his one hundredth birthday. I’m sure there’ll be a birthday party for him, and I’d like to be there.”

“And where is he?”

“Oh, I’ve been keeping tabs on his whereabouts. I can still read the papers, you know. Sometimes even over your shoulder. He’s in a nursing home. So…you’ll help me then?”

Mary Kate raised her eyebrows at the ghost. “Do I have a choice?”

“Not really. I can cause some real problems if you decide otherwise. You know, move things around. Flood the bathroom. Scare the children. You want that?”

“No, of course not. Let’s get on with it then. I’m Mary Kate and you are, I mean, you were…?”

“Irma.”

“Well, Irma, when do you want to go?”

“This afternoon. I want to get to him before he up and dies on me.”

Mary Kate agreed, and Irma disappeared, stating she’d be back in the afternoon. In her absence, Mary Kate made a few phone calls and found what she was looking for. A friend at the local newspaper read the story to her. Irma had been telling the truth: “Fall Kills Mayors’ Wife. Foul Play Not Suspected,” read the front-page headline from forty years ago.

It was about ten past three when Mary Kate drove into the nursing home parking lot. She quickly crossed the parking lot to the main entrance and went inside. She scanned the lobby until she found the ladies’ room. Following Irma’s instructions, she walked briskly towards it and went inside. As soon as she was inside, Irma’s ghost stepped away from Mary Kate.

The apparition told Mary Kate to stay in the ladies’ room until she returned. “Once I leave here,” she told Mary Kate, “ I’ll be invisible and only my husband will see me.” Then, Irma disappeared.

A sign with bold red letters above the solarium door wished Seth a happy one-hundredth birthday. Irma stepped inside. There were several residents seated around the brightly lit room. At one end, some of the residents were playing cards, other were watching television. There was chatter and laughter coming from the other end of the room, and Irma moved toward the sound, floating across the room and coming to stand behind a woman. Irma stole a look around. He was sitting in a wheelchair, grinning from ear to ear. Irma had to admit that he looked pretty good for a hundred.

All heads turned when a young woman carrying a birthday cake followed by a group of nurses came into the room singing “Happy Birthday.” Those gathered around Seth moved away to make room for the birthday revellers. Irma stepped right in front of the table where the birthday cake was placed. The cake had ten lit candles. One candle for each decade, Irma supposed. A heavy-set woman who appeared to be in charge suggested Seth blow out the candles and make a wish. “Take a deep breath now,” she told him. He did…and it turned out to be the last one he ever took. As Seth was taking the breath, Irma suddenly appeared behind the cake. She bent down so only her face showed between the flickering lights of the candles. It was only seconds, but Irma saw the look of disbelief on Seth’s face.

Once they were back in the car, Mary Kate asked Irma if everything had gone as planned.

“Oh, yes, yes indeed,” she replied. “The old coot got the biggest birthday surprise of his life.”

When they got back to Mary Kate’s house, Irma told Mary Kate that there was no need or reason for her to stay any longer. With that, Irma’s ghost was gone.

The following morning, Mary Kate again stood in the doorway until the children were safely on the school bus. She went into the kitchen, poured herself a cup of coffee, and picked up the morning newspaper. When she opened it, she noticed an article in the corner right away: “Former mayor dies suddenly during his 100th birthday party.” Mary Kate couldn’t help but smile when she read the concluding line: “An employee of the nursing home observed, ‘It was as if he had seen a ghost.’”

The History Lesson

Grade four teacher Miss Goss stood at the window watching her students enjoy recess, at a school in Sydney Mines, Cape Breton, in the early 1940s. She noticed a lone child standing on the sidelines, watching. Miss Goss noticed something else highly unusual: The child was dressed head to toe in very odd clothing. The style was outdated, as though from another century.

Miss Goss decided to find out who the little girl was and why she was dressed that way. She made her way through the schoolyard, but by the time she reached the other side of the playground, the child was gone. Miss Goss asked the children where the little girl had gone, but they didn’t seem to know who their teacher was talking about. The bell rang and the children filed inside.

Miss Goss instructed the children to read their favourite stories. All was quiet in the classroom. The teacher, too, was intent on her reading until a movement in the back of the class caught her attention. When she looked up, the same little girl in old-fashioned dress stood in the back of the classroom, staring at her. There was something strange about the child. It was as if she was in some kind of trance. The children, Miss Goss noticed, were not aware of the girl’s presence. Was she the only one who could see her? What should she do? She decided to confront the student, but when she looked up again the child was gone.

Miss Goss had to shake her head because what happened next was beyond belief: An invisible hand was writing a message on the blackboard. The letters slowly came together. They formed two simple and terrifying words. “FIND ME!”

The teacher turned and looked at the students but all heads were buried in their books. “Excuse me class,” she said. “Can you see what has been written on the blackboard?” Puzzled, the children shook their heads. One student replied with a smirk, “Are you seeing things, Miss Goss? There isn’t anything written on the board.” The teacher was now truly perplexed and responded, “No. I just wanted to see if you were paying attention, that’s all.” Just then the bell rang and with a sigh of relief, she dismissed the class with a reminder not to forget their homework.

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

Franklin, 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

Mr. 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.”

When Mrs. Mueller opened the garage door, Mr. Forester couldn’t believe what he was looking at. The Model T was still in showroom condition.

“I can’t believe it, Mrs. Mueller. I just don’t know how it can still be in such pristine condition after all these years parked in this barn.“

“Perhaps,” said Mrs. Mueller, “my husband’s spirit?”

Mr. Forester nodded and smiled.

“Go ahead and sit in it, Mr. Forester.”

“You don’t mind?”

“Of course not. I insist.”

Mrs. Mueller then moved to the other side and got in. She patted the driver’s seat, smiling.

Mr. Forester got behind the wheel. Not only was it in showroom condition, but it also had that special new-car smell. Maybe he could buy this from her as well!

“Go ahead,” Mrs. Mueller said, “Go ahead take hold of the wheel.”

Just as soon as Mr. Forester’s fingers wrapped around the wheel the engine turned over.

Startled, Mr. Forester tried to pull his hands off the wheel, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remove them. The vehicle backed itself out of the garage and began to pick up speed as it moved toward the cliff. Mr. Forester tried to steer away from the cliff, but it was as if someone else was steering. He tried desperately to jump out of the hurtling car, but he couldn’t. Something kept him anchored to his seat. When Mr. Forester turned to Mrs. Mueller the wind was blowing her long white hair around and over her head, making her look for all the world like a cackling witch. Mr. Forester screamed as the Tin Lizzie went over the cliff into the void below.

The young man turned the car down Ocean View Drive. He turned to his pretty bride and said, “Keep your fingers crossed, honey—this could be our new home.”

When the young man stopped the car an elderly woman with long white hair stood on the stoop smiling. She suggested they look around outside first. She led the way along the well-worn path toward the high cliffs. When they came to the open garage, the young man stopped in disbelief. “That’s not a Tin Lizzie, is it?”

“Why, yes…yes, it is…Would you folks like to sit in it?”

Dead Ringer

This is the second story passed on to me by Russell McManus of Truro, Nova Scotia.

One of Russell’s hobbies is collecting coins. When the Truro Exhibition closed for the season, Russell grabbed his metal detector and headed to the field that was used as the parking lot. He began his search for coins near the horse barns. Luck was on his side: where usually he found only new coins, keys and nails, this time he discovered a few very old coins, along with some blackened nails and glass. And the ground nearby contained small pieces of old charred wood, indicating that there had been a building there at one time, and one which had possibly burned down.

Russell’s metal detector was recording a signal about eight inches deep. He dug down, and just as he was going to pick up whatever his detector had found, two horses in a nearby coral went wild. The horses reared onto their hind legs, pawing at the air with their front hooves, clearly terrified of something. They were snorting, whinnying and trying to break out of the coral. Two handlers had to rush into the coral to calm them down. Russell, meanwhile, pulled an old horseshoe out of the hole he had dug. And as he lifted the horseshoe from its grave, he heard a horse thundering toward him at full gallop. Russell was frozen to the spot. He couldn’t move a muscle, and could only keep his head down to protect himself. Something brushed past, knocking him off balance. When he got to his feet there was no sign of the charging horse—the two horses in the coral were calm and grazing.

I wonder if Russell McManus has that horseshoe nailed to anything, or if he did the wise thing and put it back where he found it.

‘Some Monster of Iniquity’

There are three good reasons to enter a cemetery: to be buried, to visit a loved one’s grave, or to read the many fascinating tombstone inscriptions you can often find. In the Methodist cemetery in Middle Sackville, New Brunswick, there’s an inscription on a tombstone that reveals to the world that the man buried there did not die of natural causes. No, William Fawcett was murdered!

This is the inscription on Mr. Fawcett’s tombstone:

In memory of William Fawcett who was a plain industrious hospitable and deeply pious man whose uniform and Christian conduct gained him the respect of all who became acquainted with him while reading one of Mr. Wesley’s sermons.

His immortal spirit was instantly precipitated into the eternal world to take possession of its final rest by some monster of iniquity that will be discovered at the last day who intentionally shot him dead through the kitchen window on the evening of June 19, 1832 in the sixty-third year of his age.

The coroner reported that the body of Mr. Fawcett was found in a seated position, a book of John Wesley’s sermons fixed firm in his hand. It lay open at Wesley’s text on 2 Samuel 18:33, “O my son Absalom, my son, my son Absalom. Would I had died instead of you.”

Here the plot thickens. The coroner’s report concluded, “What renders this dispensation more particularly depressing, is that suspicion has fallen on his only son, Rufus, as perpetrator of the murder.” Rufus was charged with the crime, but was then acquitted after a trial. He left for the United States and the murder of William Fawcett remains a mystery to this very.