Millie’s Last Ride
I t was a hot and dry Saturday afternoon when I stopped at a sidewalk cafe for something to quench my thirst. As I sat there sipping my drink, I noticed in the middle of the street the forming of a dust devil. Strange, I thought, very strange indeed, because there was on that unbearably hot afternoon absolutely no wind at all. But there it was beginning to take shape. Then it began to move snakelike toward me. Cars ran over it, but didn’t crush it or break it into harmless tiny dust-devil pieces. I became hypnotized by it. It was upright, swaying its shapeless head from side to side as if searching out its prey. Then, what looked like one monstrous eye in the centre of this shapeless mass saw me and the dust devil bolted straight up. It moved slowly back and forth, gauging the distance, and then with lightening speed it came at me. But just before it reached me, it got caught up in a woman’s skirt and disappeared.
As I finished my drink, the image of that dust devil took me back to a time I hadn’t thought of since I was a child growing up in the Whitney Pier area of Sydney, where this story took place.
To avoid any embarrassment to the living, I refer to the couple in this story as only Millie and Rufus. Millie died on a cold December morning in 1912. She was eighty-five, and the last of her family. Millie, as everyone will agree, was a chronic complainer. She complained that her life was one of great hardship and suffering. What few friends she had thought otherwise. They believed she had it pretty good, considering she had become a widow twelve years earlier. That, they concluded, had to count for something. They should be so lucky.
Millie’s bitterness was due to a failed relationship. She had been engaged to a young man who recognized something in Millie he didn’t appreciate, so he disappeared for good.
Time being the great healer, she married Rufus, who eventually found out exactly what his new bride was like. Millie not only had a cruel streak, but also a vicious temper. If truth be known, on more than one occasion Rufus got the busy end of more than one air-born frying pan.
Theirs was a marriage of convenience. For Millie, it kept food on the table; for Rufus, it meant having someone to cook the food. Needless to say, the relationship was soured from the beginning.
Rufus had but one true love in his life. Her name was Victoria—a green-eyed seventeen-year-old redhead, who died in a fire one cold winter’s night. Rufus prayed for the day he would join his beloved in that other world.
One evening, after one beer too many in the local watering hole, Rufus boasted to his drinking buddies that he would get even with Millie. The day would come when he would make her pay. “We’ll drink to that,” his friends echoed, “but maybe in the next world, not in Millie’s.” Rufus smiled and thought to himself, yes, precisely, in the next world. Rufus then emptied his glass, said goodnight to his buddies and stepped out into the night. With unsteady legs he set off into the blackness. Halfway up Calvary Hill, Rufus was suddenly confronted by a brilliant blue light. There was no time to determine as to what was causing the illumination. Its force sent him to his knees and into the next world—and into the arms of his beloved, Victoria.
Twelve years had passed since Rufus died, and what he had feared the most while alive was about to happen. The woman who made his life on earth a living hell was about to lie down beside him for all eternity.
Moments before Millie died, she confessed that she may have been a little harsh with Rufus and prayed for his forgiveness. The old girl was hedging her bets. Millie did not fear death as much as she feared the unknown and Rufus’s threats that he would get even with her from the next world. If he had the power, she would never get beyond the cemetery gates. Millie, now a frightened old woman, looked up at the familiar faces gathered around her bed and asked if that were possible? Could Rufus do that from the grave? With those fearful questions still on her lips, Millie gave a whimpering sigh and passed over. Outside, a wind came up and with it the worst snowstorm in memory.
On the morning of Millie’s funeral, the snow had stopped, but lay deep throughout the region. With roads barely passable, it was wisely decided by the undertaker to transport Millie’s body to the cemetery by horse and sleigh. What really concerned the undertaker was the old priest who was brought out of retirement on Millie’s final wish, and the pallbearers, who were also all hand-picked by Millie herself. Most of them were well into their late seventies. It would be a miracle, the undertaker confided in his young assistant, if they didn’t all drop dead before reaching the graveyard.
When the funeral mass ended, a small group of mourners came out of the church. Old men blew warm breath into their hands and stomped their feet to keep warm. The women stood some distance from the men and watched the six pallbearers struggling to keep Millie’s coffin upright as they came down the church steps.
Millie’s close friends wisely decided not to make the hazardous trek to the cemetery. They stood huddled against the icy wind and watched as the funeral procession made its way from out of the churchyard across the square and up Calvary Hill. Fighting to keep up were the old priest, his black robe dragging in the snow, and still further behind, the pallbearers.
Under hoof and under foot, there were three feet of snow. With fear in his heart the undertaker kept a tight rein on the horse as the animal lifted one heavy hoof after the other. Twice the animal stumbled and nearly fell. Fearing that the horse might indeed fall, the funeral director told his assistant to lead the animal by his head.
Halfway up the treacherous road, three of the pallbearers collapsed from exhaustion and spent the rest of the journey sitting on Millie’s coffin.
When the procession reached the cemetery gates, a rumbling noise was heard. It appeared to be coming from just inside the graveyard, near a newly dug grave: Millie’s grave. The awful noise sounded like high-pitched screaming. The old men covered their ears with their hands in an attempt to block out the terrible noise. Then they saw it! A black shape rising up out of the empty grave. The old priest fell to his knees blessing himself. Whatever it was, it spun into a cyclonic shape that grew bigger and bigger. Then it began spinning faster and faster until it became a shadowy white mass of snow, much like a prairie dust devil. It moved along the ground, under the gate, and slammed up against the horse. The startled animal, rearing up on its hind legs, fell over on its side, upsetting the sleigh. The three pallbearers who were sitting on Millie’s coffin went sailing into the snowbank, while Millie and her coffin went careening back down the mountain. The undertaker and his assistant raced after the run-away coffin, but eventually gave up the chase. All they could do—anyone could do— was watch as the coffin disappeared down the mountain. What they didn’t see, of course, was the coffin’s disintegration when it slammed up against the railway abutment. Nor did they see Millie’s body go sailing over the abutment. When her body came down on the other side, it landed on a moving train that was shunting a cargo of Cape Breton coal to waiting ships that were docked at the international coal piers. When the cars were positioned over the chute, the bottom doors of the car carrying Millie’s body were opened and ten-thousand tons of coal, along with the body of Millie, went down into the ship’s hold. The coal was destined for the furnaces of Upper Canada. Was the incident at the cemetery caused by the dead hand of Rufus? He did promise when alive to keep Millie from lying beside him for all eternity. Or was it merely a sudden burst of winter wind?
At the conclusion of a police investigation, the only evidence found were the broken pieces of the coffin. Millie’s body was never recovered.
Weeks later, the old priest, still tormented by what he saw in the graveyard, went to see his Archbishop. “And what did you think you witnessed,” asked the Archbishop.
“I saw the ghost of a young Rufus and a young woman. They were standing next to the newly dug grave. They just stood there watching.”
“Excuse me, Father,” said the Archbishop, “but you said you saw a young-looking Rufus. Rufus was over eighty when he died, wasn’t he? How do you account for that?”
“I don’t know,” said the old priest, “but Rufus and I grew up together. I can’t explain it, but it was Rufus I saw.”
“And the young woman? Who was she?”
The old priest slowly raised his eyes to his superior and whispered, “Victoria!”
The Codfish Spook
H e is seen all over town, or so they tell us. You’d have to be blind to miss him, they say. He wears yellow oilskins and a sou’wester, and yes, he carries a codfish over his shoulder. He’ll smile, step aside for the ladies, even tip his sou’wester, but he’ll not give you the time of day, because he’s not of our time any longer. Who is he? He’s Saint John, New Brunswick’s most colourful personality. One problem, though—he’s a ghost! He’s known around this old Loyalist town as the Codfish Spook.
So how did he end up in such an altered state? Well, from what we’re told, love is what broke his heart, and water is what done him in—the waters of the Bay of Fundy to be exact. This isn’t one of these Saint John brand of Irish folk-telling stories. No, according to most, this one’s the real McCoy.
While on this earth, the spirit in question had a wife and five children. Keeping food on the table was more than a full time job. Old Codfish didn’t mind, of course; he loved his wife and children.
Early one morning, while fishing for cod, he fell overboard and into the Bay of Fundy. One might imagine his last thought to have been, who is going to feed my wife and five little ones? Was it love and concern for his family that brought his spirit back from a watery grave?
There’s some argument over where and when the Codfish Spook is seen around town. Some say only on the anniversary of his drowning; others contend, while coming out of a local watering hole on a Saturday night, that they see him all the time. When the fishing boats return to port, he’s often seen coming up from the dock with a large cod slung over his shoulder. The Codfish Spook is heading home, where he’ll leave the catch on his wife’s doorstep, but not before looking inside to see the face of his beloved.
One morning, just before dropping off a fish, what he saw inside his former house set him back on his heels. There sitting at the head of the table was another sea-fairing lad! Well, even a spirit has feelings, and there were no longer any freebies! Not while there’s another man “fishin’ around!”
As the legend continues to unfolds, there are sightings of the Codfish Spook observing faces. Perhaps he’s searching for a more appreciative soul. We have no proof, but have you noticed some of the more attractive Saint John widows hanging out in Market Square these days?
The Fortress Ghost
T here are certain structures and places that convey a ghostly presence. On a dreary and fog-swept night, Fortress Louisbourg is such a place. In a house inside that great fortress, there is a strong presence other than human—I felt it as soon as I stepped over the threshold. The place in question was, and perhaps still is, the home of a Captain Robert Duhaget.
Ghosts usually keep to themselves, and for the most part move quietly in and out of their favourite haunts. When they accidentally confront the living, they’re usually more upset that we are. But not in all cases. Not in the case of the ghost of Captain Robert Duhaget. He doesn’t particularly care who sees him—and many employees of Fortress Louisbourg have.
Robert Duhaget was an officer of the Compagnies Franches de la Marine. He was no hero, nor did he distinguish himself in any great battle. Records show that he was slightly wounded during a mutiny by his own troops in Port Toulouse—now St. Peters, Cape Breton.
There are literally hundreds of documents chronicling the life and times of Fortress Louisbourg and its inhabitants. But nowhere is there a mention of any foul deed that may have kept this wandering soul from his grave. What the records do show, however, is that while returning to France, Duhaget died suddenly and was buried at sea. That may be why his spirit haunts the Fortress to this day.
The presence of the ghost was first felt by a worker who was in the attic of the Duhaget home. The employee remembers a man standing by the far wall of the attic wearing a red military greatcoat. At the time he thought the man was just another employee in costume sneaking a break. Both nodded to each other and the employee left. The second incident occurred while another staff member was seated in a chair by the fireplace. He was suddenly startled when a cold breeze swept past the right side of his face and then, as if it were an invisible person, crossed in front of him and then across his left cheek.
What really convinced the staff the home was haunted was when another employee, who was carrying boxes downstairs, stumbled and would have surely fallen if it hadn’t been for someone, or something, from behind that grabbed her around the waist. The staff was convinced the ghost had to be Robert Duhaget.
The Duhaget spirit is also seen moving about the fortress grounds—passing sentries as he makes his way to the ramparts to inspect the guards on duty. And during evening prayers the spirit of Robert Duhaget enters the chapel. He sits by himself with his head bowed. Perhaps in some way he is praying to free his spirit and allow his wretched soul to return to France.
The Phantom Drummer
W hen he told them he heard the sound of a drum late one night coming from the direction of Fort Anne, they told him he must be hearing things. “No,” he professed, “I didn’t see anyone, but I did hear the sound of a drum and someone was playing “A Call to Arms.”
In 1605, middle class, upper class, lower class, priests and peasants alike, sailed from France to the new world, and were overwhelmed by what they saw when they sailed up the mouth of the Annapolis River. They exclaimed that “This is a place of wonder!” and they called it Annapolis Royal. In time, however, the British also wanted a piece of this paradise. Many battles ensued between these two powerful forces.
To protect their holdings, the British built Fort Anne. In 1710, and for the last time, the French were out and the British were in—in to stay. But nothing lasts forever; Annapolis Royal’s political base would change. When Halifax was founded in 1749, Annapolis Royal was no longer the seat of power and the remaining soldiers at Fort Anne were shipped off to New Brunswick.
Today, Fort Anne is a portrait of what it was like back then. The old cemetery is a constant reminder of the sacrifices made by those early settlers. Resting under the hallowed ground of Fort Anne cemetery are hundreds of soldiers who are perhaps restless because they are unable to find peace in foreign soil. One such restless spirit may be the phantom drummer who is said to wander the ramparts playing “A Call to Arms.”
No one has actually ever seen the phantom drummer, but the president of the Annapolis Royal society, Alan Melanson, has heard him. Alan’s first encounter happened one evening, soon after he had retired for the night. For a moment he thought he was dreaming, but when he sat up in bed and listened, he knew someone was playing a drum. In the morning, he was told there was no emergency at the fort overnight. And no one was playing a drum.
Some tourists, we are told, while getting back on their buses, wonder where the soldier was—the one playing the drum.
Don’t Walk Behind Me
T his story is from one of Edith Mosher’s popular tales of the paranormal. I include it in her memory.
Ralph was a shy and quiet young farmer who rarely stopped long enough to pass the time of day with his neighbours. One day, Ralph arrived at the local general store and, following several attempts, told the owner that his wife, Martha, had left him for another man. When questioned about the other man, Ralph said he didn’t know who he was. He was just guessing that’s what she had done—run off and left him. Ralph’s story surprised everyone and those who knew Martha could not believe she’d do such a thing. In time, however, no one was talking about Martha’s disappearance—the whispering was about Ralph. His neighbours began noticing a drastic change in his behaviour. He started mumbling to himself and constantly looking over his shoulder as if someone was following him. Someone was—the ghost of Martha began dogging him. Poor Ralph never had a moment’s peace. Even in death, there was no escaping her.
One afternoon, a farmer who was repairing his fence told his neighbours that he had watched Ralph coming down the road screaming over his shoulder, “Don’t walk behind me!” All the farmer could see was Ralph. What he didn’t see, of course, was Martha’s ghost. Ralph now had a problem. He couldn’t tell his family and neighbors what had actually happened to Martha. After all, he had to stick to his story that she had run off with another man. In the end, Ralph was committed to a psychiatric ward. Right there on the doctor’s couch with the ghost of Martha watching, he ultimately confessed the whole sordid mess. He had murdered her because she was a busybody, a henpecking woman, he called her. He told the psychiatrist that Martha was appropriately enough, buried under the henhouse. Poor old Ralph was taken back to his room, babbling on, “The witch won’t leave me alone. Ralph do this, Ralph do that, don’t do that, Ralph.”
When the police dug up what was left of Martha from under the henhouse and buried her in a proper grave, she no longer walked behind Ralph. It made little difference, though. In his present mental state, Ralph was in no condition to appreciate the end of Martha’s henpecking.
The Ghost of Princess Lodge
I n 1794, Prince Edward, Duke of Kent, ordered his loyal subjects to build a domed music room for his mistress along the shores of Bedford Basin. This Halifax, Nova Scotia, landmark, known today as Princess Lodge, is the site of this tale of death and of a ghost that will not remain in his grave.
On a warm summer afternoon, Prince Edward invited a few of his friends on an afternoon of drinking and gambling. As the afternoon wore on, and the booze flowed freely, angry voices were heard over the calm waters of the basin. Two officers—an army colonel by the name of Ogilvie and a young naval lieutenant by the name of Howard—had become embroiled in a bitter dispute over the honour of a woman. Nothing short of a duel would satisfied either man.
It was dusk when both officers, with their seconds by their sides, faced each other. Then the stillness of the evening was broken by the clash of steel against steel. Colonel Ogilvie, a master swordsman in his own right, was no match for the quick and younger man. In a matter of minutes, Colonel Ogilvie fell to the ground, mortally wounded. The young naval officer was also wounded, but didn’t die until days later.
It is not known where Prince Edward was at the time; perhaps he too fell—in this case from too much merriment. When he was told of the duel he became outraged. He reminded his officers that dueling was against military regulations. In his anger, the Prince ordered the body of Colonel Ogilvie buried where it had fallen, without military honours.
Not long after the burial, people began noticing a strange sight near the lodge. A lone figure later identified as Colonel Ogilvie could be seen rising up from his grave and wondering the grounds of Princess Lodge.
Legend has it that the ghost of Colonel Ogilvie will not rest until he’s given a military burial. Until then, his spirit will continue to haunt the lodge. Some say if you look closely when day gives way to darkness, a lone figure in a red army tunic can be seen still wandering the royal grounds—waiting.