Chapter Two

Restless Spirits and Unfinished Business

The Ghost of Lucy Clark

S he was waiting for me on the banks of the old mill damn. Her legs were tucked up close to her chest, arms folded around her knees. She was rocking back and forth. Something inside told me to turn and run; something else was pulling me toward her. When I came closer, I noticed her hair was so long it touched the ground. And when she beckoned me to sit by her, her hair was the only part of her that seemed alive. The skin on her face and hands was the colour of slate. It was difficult to tell her age, no more than sixteen, perhaps even younger. She was wearing a long white dress.

When she turned toward me, her head moved in a jerking motion, and she kept her neck hidden from me by deliberately letting her hair cover the left side of her face. There was something she didn’t want me to see. When her eyes—deep set and lifeless—met mine, a chill went through me. The smell of death was all around her. I wanted to run, but couldn’t. Something I can’t explain kept me there. When she spoke, a deep, rasping whisper came out of her throat: “My name is Lucy Clark.”

Lucy Clark! My blood ran cold! Lucy Clark has been dead for over a hundred years and the story of her appearances are still told in every household in the village, and for a hundred miles beyond.

I will put down all the facts of this story as I have heard them, so in your own time and wisdom, you can decide for yourself whether the story of Lucy Clark came out of a too-fertile imagination or a bad case of indigestion. If, in the end, you’re still not convinced, then go down Londonderry way and ask the good folks there. See what they have to say.

The first time Lucy Clark came back from the grave was on the old Cumberland road, the route the stagecoach travelled between Truro and Amherst, Nova Scotia. This incident occurred in the community of Lornevale, tucked in between the regions of Londonderry and Folly Mountain.

This is the way the story unfolded:

A handsome team of six horses were harnessed and ready when Ned Purdy, the stagecoach driver, came out of the depot and climbed aboard. He cracked the whip over the heads of the two lead horses and the coach moved out of the depot yard and onto the old Cumberland road. The horses kept up a steady gait and the passengers were reasonably comfortable. It was a warm summer evening with little or no wind to speak of. There was nothing out of the ordinary, nothing that is, until the stagecoach rounded the first sharp curve on the road. The lead horses bolted almost pulling Ned off his seat. Standing in the middle of the road was a woman wearing an ankle-length white dress. “Who the Hell...” Ned blurted out. When he got the team under control and looked up the road again, she was gone. Was his imagination playing tricks on him? But what spooked the horses? Sometimes a bear or deer crossing the road can set the horses off. Perhaps that was it, thought Ned. He was about to sit down, when out of the corner of his eye he saw the woman standing just below his seat, blood oozing from a torn jugular in her neck. She was reaching up with outstretched arms. Fear took hold of him, but it was a fear that also made him whip the horses on. Ned Purdy didn’t know it at the time, but he was the first to encounter the ghost of young Lucy Clark.

It was some years later before Lucy’s ghost appeared again. This time it was to Tom Adams of nearby Westchester. One day, Tom decided to exercise his dogs on the old Cumberland road. He had heard many times Ned Purdy’s story about his encounter on the same road with the ghost of Lucy Clark. It’s not that Tom didn’t believe the story, he just wasn’t thinking about it on that day.

Tom and his dogs were no more than a quarter of a mile into their walk when it happened. Coming toward him in the middle of the road was a woman in a flowing white dress. Tom shook all over as a chill went through him. The whimpering dogs backed away. Tom Adams then remembered the story of Ned Purdy’s experience with the ghost of Lucy Clark. He knew that if it was Lucy Clark, it was too late to run. She was now upon him, walking quickly—or rather more like floating than walking. Her arms were outstretched, and when she spoke her voice was but a rasping whisper: “My name is Lucy Clark and I beg of you not to be afraid; not to run off like the others have. You must listen to me—hear why I cannot rest in my grave until the truth is known. It is said that I was carried off by a bear. That is not true. I was murdered! Murdered by the hand of my own brother!” Tom was in a state of shock; he was frozen. The ghost began telling the tragic tale of her death. “One day, my mother and father left my brother, Frank, and me, to care for the farm animals while they were away for the day. Sometime after supper, our prize pig got out of his pen. My brother had a mean temper and he screamed at me to corner the pig, but the pig was too fast. In a fit of rage, my brother grabbed an axe and struck me across the neck—he killed me. Frank then took my body to the old mill dam. He let the water run out of the dam, and then buried my body under large stones. He then let the water flow back in. When my parents returned home late that evening, he told them a bear had carried me off into the woods. My parents and the authorities believed his story. If you tell what really happened, I will be free and my soul will forever rest in peace.”

Tom Adams was unable to speak; he could only nod in agreement. Lucy Clark then vanished before his eyes. When Tom Adams returned home he collapsed from the ordeal. It took several weeks before he could bring himself to talk about what Lucy Clark’s ghost revealed to him that evening on the old Cumberland road.

Tom Adams’ grandson, Arden Mattix, confirms his grandfather’s encounter with the ghost of Lucy Clark. What she told Tom about the way she died was confirmed many years later by her brother, Frank, who, on his death bed, confessed to the murder of his sister and revealed where the body was buried. When the authorities drained the old mill dam, they found the skeletal remains of Lucy Clark!

I began this tragic tale by telling you that Lucy Clark was waiting for me on the banks of the old mill dam. Well, yes, but only in one of my many recurring dreams—or nightmares.

The Lady in the Blue Dress

T his is not one of those “a long time ago” ghost stories—it’s a 1990s tale.

When the story of the Lady in the Blue Dress came to my attention, I immediately set off for Indian Harbour, Nova Scotia, where this sad tale unfolded.

Sitting behind the wheel of my car as I approached Peggy’s Cove I noticed how abruptly the landscape changes. There’s a sparseness to the land. It falls away to a flatness and disappears behind a seawall of boulders that keep the pounding surf at bay. Above the high cliffs, the steeple of a church rises above the tiny cluster of houses that dot the landscape.

On the whitecaps, a lone Cape Islander was barely visible against the rays of the sun. And above the village, a fluttering of gulls left the sanctuary of the church steeple and flew off to circle above the incoming vessel. They would circle high above and wait until buckets of fish-waste were thrown over the side and then they would fold their wings and dive.

When I arrived at Indian Harbour, I met with two of the principals involved in this remarkable story. One was the daughter of the Lady in the Blue Dress and the other was Donna McGuire, an artist, and the owner of Rogues Gallery.

I’ve changed the family name of the Lady in the Blue Dress to avoid any embarrassment to those distant relatives who may still be living in the area. Here, then, is the story of the ghost who walks the rocks of Indian Harbour.

It was destined to happen. No one could prevent it, least of all Marlana, a popular Toronto radio psychic. Marlana was looking forward to a holiday in Nova Scotia with her friend Donna Cameron. A few days after Marlana arrived, Donna decided that she, her two children, and Marlana would head for Indian Harbour to visit her good friend, Donna McGuire.

Sometime after arriving at the McGuire’s home, Donna Cameron decided to explore the rugged shoreline with her son. In the meantime, Marlana went on a driftwood hunt with Donna’s daughter, Christine.

When they returned, Marlana asked Donna McGuire if there was a legend in the village about a woman who was seen out on the rocks. Donna looked somewhat puzzled and told Marlana that she had never heard of such a legend. Marlana pressed on, “Nothing about a woman in a blue dress?”

“No,” Donna replied, “Nothing like that.” Everyone now became interested in why Marlana was so concerned. What was the reason for her questions.

There was a long silence. All eyes were on Marlana. She then told them what happened. “When Christine and I arrived at the shore, I was suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of loneliness. I didn’t mention it to Chris, but told her that I didn’t like the place. And then I had this feeling that I had come to Indian Harbour from Scotland, and that the people here didn’t like me. As we moved closer to the high rocks, the feeling of loneliness and separation grew even stronger. Suddenly, a woman in a long blue dress appeared out of nowhere. She stood on the rocks staring. Then, as quickly as she appeared, she vanished. I didn’t mention what I saw to Chris. However, on the way back I saw the woman again. I felt certain she was trying to make contact with me; trying to tell me something.”

When Marlana finished her story, Donna McGuire suggested they she should visit Hattie Sutherland, the oldest resident in the village. If anyone knew of a legend and a strange woman seen on the rocks, it would be Hattie. They were received warmly by Mrs. Sutherland, and nothing would do until the traditional afternoon tea and cakes were served. Marlana waited for the right moment, then told Hattie of her experience on the beach and what the woman she had seen looked like. There was a moment of silence as Hattie listened while sipping her tea. “The woman you describe sounds like the stories I’ve heard about my mother. She came to Indian Harbour as a war bride from Scotland. I’m the youngest of five children and was far too young at the time to remember very much about my mother and what happened to her. According to what I’ve been told, though, it wasn’t long after she arrived in Indian Harbour that she was not accepted by her in-laws. I suppose they were bitter over their son marrying someone from overseas. Anyway, it was a difficult time for her. My father was a fisherman, and he spent long periods of time at sea. It was a lonely time for my mother and she would stand on the rocks and stare out to sea as if she was trying to will herself back to Scotland.

“When my father drowned during a storm, his family cut off all contact with my mother. Now alone and lonely, she wrote to her father begging him to come over to Indian Harbour and take her back to Scotland. My grandfather did come over, but either couldn’t support, or didn’t want anything to do with her children, so we were left behind in the care of relatives. To this day I don’t know what was on my mother’s mind. Perhaps she thought that in time, we’d all be together.

We never heard from her again; never knew if she was alive or dead. Then, one day a letter arrived from Scotland informing us that she had died. Those who knew her in Scotland said she took the guilt of leaving her children behind to her grave. Maybe that’s why she came back. I mean her ghost, that is.”

What Hattie Sutherland told Marlana and Donna McGuire is pretty much the same as what she told me.

If there is a postscript to this ghostly tale, it’s this: surely Hattie Sutherland must wonder why her mother’s ghost has yet to make contact with her.

If ever you go down Indian Harbour way, walk the rocks if you must, but before you leave visit Rogues Gallery and say hello to Donna McGuire, the artist who captured the Lady in the Blue Dress on canvas; a tragic, lonely, and ghostly figure.

Mrs. Copeland’s Ghost

T here’s much more to Sable Island than natural gas—a lot more. There’s the ghost of Mrs. Copeland. This is her tale of woe.

Sable Island is located some 350 km southwest of Halifax, Nova Scotia. The salty Maritime Mystery that takes place there involves a shipwreck, a murder, and a bleeding ghost.

There are at least two versions to this 18-century mystery that we know of; both are partly fact and partly fiction, although some fishermen will say the story is completely factual. One version, nearly as old as this story, was written by the author of Sam Slick, Thomas Chandler Haliburton, and the more recent one, Fatal and Fertile Crescent, was written by Lyall Campbell. Of course, there are countless oral versions, and folklore always also plays a significant roll in Maritime Mysteries.

So let the journey begin, to a place of broken ships and restless spirits.

A ship laden down with the personal belongings of the Duke of Kent set sail from England in 1799 for the garrison town of Halifax. Among the passengers were a Mr. Copeland—the garrison’s doctor—his wife, two children, and a maid.

When the ship failed to arrive in Halifax, the Duke sent out a search party to look for it. The first obvious place to investigate was Sable Island. When the search party arrived on the island, they found the beach strewn with debris, including many of the Duke’s personal belongings. There were also the victims of the shipwrecked vessel. The officer in charge told his men to bed down for the night and they would bury the dead in the morning. In the meantime, he would check the other side of the island for any survivors.

There were, at the time, small huts on the island built specifically for survivors of shipwrecks. Realizing it was getting late, the officer decided to stay in one of the huts and return to his men in the morning. He lit a fire then went outside again to continue searching for survivors. When he returned to the hut, there was a woman standing by the stove. Her long white dress was dripping wet and soiled by sand and seaweed. When he asked who she was and where she came from, she held out her left hand. Her ring finger was missing and oozing with blood. When he moved closer, she fled past him and out the door. He followed and watched her flee over the dunes until she disappeared. When he went back inside, she was again standing by the stove. It was then he recognized who and what she was. It was the ghost of Mrs. Copeland, wife of the garrison’s doctor! That was the last time he saw Mrs. Copeland—or rather, her ghost.

On his return to Halifax, the young officer promised himself that he would avenge Mrs. Copeland’s murder by seeking out her murderer and returning her ring to her family in England. As soon as he arrived back in Halifax he went after the most notorious member of the wreckers gang—a local group known to prey on victims of shipwrecks. While talking with the daughter of the man he believed to be Mrs. Copeland’s murderer, the woman told him that her father found the ring on the beach on Sable Island. The child’s mother, however, said that a Frenchman, on Sable Island at the time, had given the ring to her husband. She added that if he wanted the ring back, he could buy it from the local watchmaker. In the end, he did purchase the ring and kept his promise to the dead Mrs. Copeland by returning the ring to her family in England. However, her murderer was never caught. According to those living on the seedy side of Halifax, he suffered a worst fate than the gallows. In his sleep the ghost of Mrs. Copeland would rise up to point an accusing and mutilated finger at him.

Fishermen who sailed close to Sable Island at the time reported seeing a shadowy figure, with an outstretched hand, staring out to sea as if waiting for the return of something ... perhaps a finger and ring!

Ashley’s Encounter

T his incident occurred in a small community outside of Sheet Harbour, on Nova Scotia’s south shore. It came my way by the brother of the sister involved, and by the sister’s insistence, the names have been changed.

It was a cold winter’s afternoon in the late 1930s when Ashley finished school for the day and headed for the safety and warmth of her home. The route she travelled never varied. Her only concern was passing the local graveyard. When the cemetery came in sight, her footsteps always quickened.

On this particular day as Ashley reached the main gate of the cemetery, she was startled by a tall woman coming toward her from between the tombstones. Young Ashley was terror-stricken. She wanted to flee, but was unable to move. She could hear only the beating of her heart. There was snow on the ground, and as Ashley would later recall, the woman left no footprints in the snow, nor did she open the locked gate. She simply walked through it. The stranger took Ashley’s hand, and led her away from the cemetery.

When Ashley opened the back door of her home and stepped in the kitchen, the smell of cooking filled her nostrils. Her mother greeted her with a smile, a cup of warm cocoa and hot tea biscuits.

“So,” her mother asked, “how was school today?”

“Okay, I guess,” Ashley replied. Then staring off as if her mind was elsewhere, she told her mother that she met a woman by the graveyard on the way home from school. “She walked a ways with me before leaving. She wanted to know my name and what grade I was in and which school I was attending. She also said that when she was a girl, she went to the same school.” Ashley’s mother was anxious to know the name of this stranger. “She knew you,” Ashley said, “she went to school with you. She said her name is Grace Forshaw.

“No, Ashley,” her mother exclaimed, “the woman you met was not Grace Forshaw. Grace Forshaw died twenty-five years ago!”

The Ghosts of Uniacke House

W hy did Martha Uniacke return from the grave? And why did her daughter join her in eternal vigilance?

Many people leave this world whimpering and afraid; afraid of death, the unknown, and the darkness. And most never return. The answers as to why this mother and daughter returned may lie in the mansion itself and in those who lived there.

Mount Uniacke was built in 1813 as the country home of Richard John Uniacke, Attorney General of Nova Scotia. Uniacke named the estate after his ancestral home in Ireland, where his family were prominent and prosperous members of the landed gentry. Uniacke was born in 1753 at Castletown, Ireland.

Following a bitter quarrel with his father, he set sail for the new world to seek his fortune.

He arrived in Philadelphia in 1774, where he met Moses Delesdernier, a Swiss resident of Nova Scotia who was in Philadelphia seeking residents to settle in Nova Scotia. Delesdernier liked Uniacke and convinced him to come to Nova Scotia and work for him. Uniacke agreed, and the following year at age 21, he married the not yet 13-year-old Martha Delesdernier, daughter of his employer.

On my first visit to Mount Uniacke, I was overcome by a feeling that time was suspended; that the people who once lived there, and died there are still there, in spirit. As I got closer to the mansion, I had an uneasy sense that I was being watched from behind musty smelling drapes. Once inside, I was certain of it. I was also aware of a sadness. The imposing portrait of Richard John Uniacke, the master of the house, hangs on the hall wall and those piercing eyes of his never leave you.

Martha Delesdernier, who bore Uniacke twelve children, died at age forty. It wasn’t long after she passed away that strange things began happening. Field workers and house staff noticed Martha wasn’t where she was supposed to be—in her grave. What happened in that mansion to bring her back from the graveyard? And why did the spirit of Lady Mary Mitchell, Martha’s eldest daughter, also return from the dead? Both Uniacke women are sometimes seen arm in arm strolling down by the lake. Other times they are seen inside the home, and at times, Lady Mitchell sits at the piano while her mother sits and listens. They do not appear to be upset, nor do they attempt to convey a message to the living.

Martha and Lady Mitchell go about their mysterious ways even when tourists from many lands and cultures visit Uniacke House. Most visitors are unaware of the ghosts. But as Goldie Robertson, the Chief Heritage Interpreter, reminded me, there are those who have a special insight into these things—they feel a presence of something or someone from beyond. Such was the case with a family visiting from Lebanon. They were about to enter a bedroom on the first floor when the mother gasped and withdrew from the room. She quickly gathered her children around her and left, telling the guide the room was haunted by two women. The frightened visitor told the guide one spirit was sitting on the bed, while the older lady was seated in a rocking chair.

There is little else to be said about why these two 18-century ladies who haunt Uniacke House; until and unless they somehow convey to the living why they are not at peace in their graves, it will remain a Maritime Mystery.

Next time you visit Mount Uniacke, look beyond the obvious. You’ll never know what might be watching from the top of the stairs or staring back from behind the hemlock.

The Man They Hanged Twice

H e was taunted by relatives, and picked on by his friends. They told him that he had to get even with the man who took his woman. So, young Bennie Swim swapped his guitar for an old .38 Smith and Wesson and set off on a murderous journey in a place called Benton Ridge, New Brunswick.

It was March 27, 1922, sometime around four o’clock in the afternoon when Bennie knocked on the back door of the farm house where his pregnant former girlfriend lived with her new husband. The husband answered the knock, and he was shot dead in his tracks. Bennie then turned the gun on his old girlfriend and shot her in the chest. When she tried to run, he shot her a second time in the back and she fell to the kitchen floor dead. Bennie then turned the gun on himself, but the bullet that lodged in his head did little damage and he survived to face the hangman’s noose.

The first words out of his mouth when the sheriff caught up with him were, “Sheriff this is awful, I suppose I’ll hang for it.” And he would. Not once, but twice!

Bennie’s last days were spent behind the bars in the Woodstock, New Brunswick, provincial jail. According to guards, Bennie was a model prisoner.

During his preliminary hearing, a plea of insanity was entered by the defense. Many witnesses testified that young Bennie Swim was insane. A Government psychiatrist, however, found him mentally competent to stand trial for the double murder. When it was over, the jury found Bennie guilty of first degree murder and he was sentenced to hang on July 15, 1923.

There were, according to reports, several volunteers wanting the hangman’s job. Some even came from the state of Maine, willing to do the job for a price. The sheriff who was responsible for hiring a professional hangman was having a difficult time getting an experienced one. Because of that, the hanging was postponed twice. The country’s top hangman, Arthur Ellis (not his real name) was otherwise engaged; no doubt hanging other Canadians. Finally, two Montreal hangmen were recommended—a poor recommendation for Bennie Swim. They were little more than amateurs who had gained their so-called experience hanging blacks in the southern United States.

Seven months after the murders and at approximately 5:00 P.M. on Friday, October 6, 1923, Bennie Swim was led up the steps of the provincial jail in Woodstock to the gallows. While Bennie Swim prayed, a black hood was placed over his head and the noose placed tightly around his neck. Bennie was still praying when the trap door was sprung. A few short minutes later, an unconscious Bennie Swim was cut down. There were three physicians in attendance. To their surprise and horror, they found that Bennie was still alive! On further examination, they also discovered that Bennie’s neck wasn’t broken in the fall—a sure sign of a bungled hanging. No one outside of that examination room will ever know if Bennie actually regained consciousness. According to those in attendance he never did.

Bennie was carried back up to the gallows and hanged a second time. Bennie hung there for some twenty minutes before he was cut down and pronounced dead. His body, but not his spirit, was placed in a cold grave by relatives.

An official investigation into the bungled hanging was held. Witnesses testified that the hangmen were drunk. No blame was placed on the local sheriff for selecting the two hangmen from Montreal, but it was recommended that future hangings should be carried out in a federal penitentiary by professionals. This was not the last that would be heard of the botched hanging of Bennie Swim.

Sometime later, guards at the jail reported hearing shuffling footsteps and doors being slammed shut. Other times, and especially late at night, a voice was heard moaning as if in pain. Did the ghost of Bennie Swim return to the Woodstock Jail?

We do know that new guards are told by their superiors how to cope with that restless spirit during the midnight hour: keep busy, read a book, or listen to the radio.

All the guards agreed that whatever the ghost did, he did twice. A coincidence?

The Jailhouse Mystery

B uilt in 1840, the Charlotte County Jail in St. Andrews, New Brunswick, was operational up until the 1970s, when it was turned into a museum of sorts. What makes this old jail different is that it has a resident spirit—a ghost that is.

In the nineteenth century, the prison population was made up mostly of petty thieves, the homeless, alcoholics, and debtors. There were, however, a few hardened criminals who passed through its steel doors, including a few unfortunates, such as Thomas Dowd and Eliza Ann Ward of New River, New Brunswick.

It was in the fall of 1878 when Dowd and Mrs. Ward were transferred from New River to St. Andrews, where their murder trial would be heard. The good folk of St. Andrews went about their business until the trial started. Once it got underway, it was standing room only.

Dowd was convicted of the axe murder of Eliza Ann Ward’s husband, Thomas Ward. Mrs. Ward was convicted as an accomplice, but as she was pregnant at the time, was spared the gallows and was sentenced to seven years in prison instead. Some believed the child she carried was Tommy Dowd’s. Dowd maintained his innocence throughout the trial, but in a later confession wrote, “I killed Ward in the valley where he was found. I killed him with McCarthy’s narrow axe. Ward was on his way home with an axe and pitchfork. When we met we had some words. He made at me with the fork. I clinched the axe and killed him. I then took him by the legs and dragged him to where his body was found. Mrs. Ward never saw him after he left the house; till she saw him dead in the woods, nor anyone else but myself.” This confession, some say, was prompted by Mrs. Ward’s condition. Apparently, he wasn’t aware at the time the court had spared her life.

While awaiting the hangman’s noose, Dowd returned to his faith and spent most of his waking hours praying.

On the morning of January 14, 1879, with a priest and guards on either side, Dowd was taken from his cell and lead to the awaiting gallows. Mrs. Ward was allowed to watch the hanging from a jail window. Witnesses reported that she was weeping when taken back to her cell.

According to records, Mrs. Eliza Ann Ward died shortly after serving her sentence. Found in her personal belongings was a letter. In it she confessed to the murder of her husband!

In time, St. Andrews returned to normal. However, things at the jail were anything but. Guards reported strange sounds during the night and a mysterious beam of light would appear on the wall along which Dowd had been held. Guards reported that it was as if an invisible hand was trying to write a message. Another guard said it was Dowd’s ghostly hand that scrawled the words, “I’m innocent!” that appeared there.

The Ghost of Kelly’s Mountain

I n the cool morning air a lone loon is heard as it skims over the water of the Bras d’Or lakes. The mist rises from the forest floor and sweeps over the mountain, but the peace and serenity is broken by a voice that is hurled back down the mountain, “Ye keep that bloody stuff off my mountain, ya hear!”

It’s the voice of a spirit that’s filled with Irish fury; it belongs to Patty Kelly, a crotchety old Irishman who claimed the mountain as his and his alone.

Kelly was a true mountain man living in isolation. Old Patty had good reason for keeping the curious out; it’s said that he made his own whiskey and moonshine, and didn’t want anyone discovering where his stills and booze were hidden.

Even in death, Kelly swore he’d return to guard his mountain against anyone attempting to trespass on or deface it. When old barley corn finally caught up with him, he passed away, but not his spirit—it stayed on the mountain to watch over what was his.

When workers on the new Trans-Canada highway reached the mountain, it was obvious to everyone that what was happening was being done in the name of progress—everyone that is except Patty Kelly. His antics frustrated workers, who couldn’t figure out why their heavy equipment was constantly breaking down. Others complained of a strange old man who suddenly appeared out of nowhere, forcing their vehicles off the road. And when workers came on shift in the morning, their tools were strewn all over the place. In the end, some suggested the mountain was haunted. Ultimately, however, progress won out. The Trans-Canada Highway over the mountain was finally completed.

On the east side of the mountain toward Seal Island Bridge, there is a treacherous curve in the road—a favourite place for the Kelly ghost to suddenly jump out in front of cars, nearly sending driver and automobile over the mountain and into the lake.

One day, a driver and his passengers, who were on their way home from a Ceilidh, witnessed an old man in overalls and a plaid shirt doing a jig on top of the mountain. If it was Kelly, he must have been sampling his barley corn. One motorist even reported seeing a man in the middle of the highway who ran toward his car and passed right through it! These stories reached nearly every home on the island, including that of Charlie MacKinnon, who immortalized Patty Kelly and his mountain in a popular folk song.

So, an Irish fable? Maybe, yet when I drive over Kelly’s Mountain, I feel like I’m being watched. Next time you’re driving over it, keep your eyes open, because you never know who’s watching, or running alongside your car—and keeping up!

The Hitchhiker Ghost

T his story was told to me in a check-out at a local grocery store by a young woman who said it was one of her father’s favourite ghost stories.

I later came across a similar story in Janet and Colin Bord’s Unexplained Mysteries. Either version raises the hair on the back of your neck. If you’re ready, lets put the Harley in gear and see what’s over the next rise.

The night sky was an explosion of stars when the young biker said goodbye to his girlfriend and headed down the highway. He lived by a fast rule—never stop for a hitchhiker unless it was an emergency. So why did he stop for the young woman who seemed to appear out of nowhere? It’s as if he didn’t have a choice. He waited until she strapped on the extra helmet before heading back down the highway. Some miles later, he felt her release his waist. When he pulled over to check, the young woman was gone. However, the helmet was strapped securely to the seat.

When he arrived at the next town, he told several waitresses in a fast food restaurant what had happened. They listened politely, and when he had finished his story, they told him that what he had experienced was nothing new; that other drivers had had similar experiences.

One such driver was a middle-aged man, who stopped his car for a young woman one night, and after driving some fifteen minutes, turned to speak to her but she was gone! He reported what had happened to the police, and his story was reported in the press. That story was read by a man who claimed his girlfriend was run over and killed in the same location. When the driver of the car was shown a picture of the young woman, he confirmed she was the one he had given a ride to.

So, next time you and your Harley are out for a pleasant drive and you feel as if someone has just put their arms around your waist, well…have a nice ride!

The Roundhouse Ghost

T his story is by way of Leo Evens of Sydney, Nova Scotia, a retired Sydney and Louisburg railroader, and somewhat amateur historian of the Whitney Pier area of Sydney. In my teens, I too worked for the now defunct S&L.

We’re told you can never go back. You can, of course, but nothing remains the same. Your favourite corner store where you bought those juicy honeymoon candies when you were a child was probably torn down to make way for a strip mall. People grow up, leave the old neighbourhood or die. It all changes eventually.

The only things left of the Sydney & Louisburg Railway are memories and ghosts. The buildings are gone, nothing left but rusting rails and grass that has gone to seed.

It was in 1942 and the height of the war, when I was offered a job on the railroad. Most of the able-bodied men had gone into the service. At the time, my father was an engineer there, which is probably why I was hired.

I remember my first day on the job. I was nervous, and wanted very much to make a good impression. I even remember the foreman’s name: Joe R. Macdonald. We would eventually become good friends. My shift was midnight until 8:00 A.M. Joe R. explained to me and another worker what our duties were. Just before he left for home, he said, “Oh, by the way, ignore the ghost. He won’t bother you.” We thought at the time he was joking. He wasn’t.

From that moment on, and whenever I was at work, I kept looking over my shoulder and dreaded the times I was alone. If I was, indeed, alone.

There were many theories about why the ghost was haunting the place, but no one ever found out. As one railroader put it, “When you come face to face with a ghost, you just stand there with your mouth wide open. You want to scream, but nothing comes out.”

The ghost’s presence was first noticed by two employees who were working the graveyard shift. They were standing just inside the large open doors of the roundhouse, watching a light snow coming down. Something moving in the cab of an engine caught their attention. Who could it be? they wondered. There were no other workers around, and the first crew wasn’t scheduled until 6:00 A.M. Something else bothered them. Why were there no footprints in the snow leading up to the cab of the engine? When they climbed aboard to investigate, the cab was empty.

The ghost’s favourite place was near the workbench. He’d stand between engines observing the men working. That led some to believe he must have been a foreman.

One of the more frightening encounters happened when a callboy, or dispatcher, was alone in the office. While the boy was on the phone, the door opened and the ghost walked in. The callboy wanted to run, but he was to scared to move. He knew if he stood up his legs would collapse under him. All he could do was sit there and watch the spectre move around the office. Then as quickly as he came in, the ghost turned, stared at the startled young man for a moment, and left.

To this day, the legend of the roundhouse ghost persists, and although the railway and buildings are long gone, some, like Leo Evans, believe the ghost is still there, moving in the tall grass where the roundhouse once stood.

The Pipe-smoking Ghost

T here are people who, when entering an empty building, feel an energy and instantly know they aren’t alone. Gloria Burbidge found out through some mysterious clues that her two-hundred-year-old Brooklyn, Nova Scotia store is inhabited by something other than humans: objects are often not in their proper places, doors that were locked securely for the night are found open in the morning—and most mornings when Gloria arrives at the store, there’s a heavy odour of pipe tobacco in the air.

Gloria and close members of her staff didn’t speak of what was on their minds for quite sometime, but it soon became readily apparent to everyone that what was happening wasn’t the work of a prankster, but a genuine ghost. So, with a country sense of humour, they christened their resident ghost Hector. Whenever something fell from a shelf, everyone would nod in agreement. Hector is about.

In an attempt to get to the bottom of this Maritime Mystery, Gloria called on the talents of two psychics, who both spent a considerable amount of time touching and smelling things on the first floor. But when Gloria took each psychic up to the attic on separate occasions, it was a different matter. The first psychic spend only a short time in the room and said the energy and force there was so heavy she had to leave. The second psychic didn’t make it to the attic. She didn’t even get to the top of the stairs before collapsing in an emotional state. From their reaction, it was obvious Hector was in the attic. The second psychic told the owner that she had a vision of someone being thrown down a flight of stairs. According to local history, there is a story that there was a tavern located upstairs in the store over a hundred years ago, where, the story goes, a man was killed when he was thrown down the stairs.

To this day, a beverage salesman will not go into the storage room alone. A couple of years ago he was checking supplies when he suddenly felt something strange near him. When he recovered from the shock of whatever it was, he told the staff that he hadn’t seen anyone, but a pungent odour had overwhelmed him. He said he would quit his job before he’d go back there alone again.

Gloria recalls another incident when a young man planned on staying in the store overnight to raise money for a rock-a-thon. No sooner had he settled in for the night when a ghostly and shadowy figure crossed in front of him.

Whenever customers step inside the Brooklyn general store, they’re greeted warmly by Gloria Burbidge and her staff, Some sniff the air—the familiar smell of pipe tobacco is everywhere. They nervously steal a glance towards the stairs that go up to the attic, wondering if the ghost of Hector is coming down…