Maritime Mysteries: And the Ghosts Who Surround Us

Maritime Mysteries

and the Ghosts Who

Surround Us

Dedicated with love to my grandchildren,

Michelle, Glenna, Glenn, and Jonathon,

and in memory of my wife, Rose.

Maritime Mysteries

and the Ghosts Who

Surround Us

Bill Jessome

Copyright © Bill Jessome, 1999

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from CANCOPY (Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency), 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

Nimbus Publishing Limited

PO Box 9301, Station A

Halifax, NS B3K 5N5

(902) 455-4286

Design: Margaret Issenman, MGDC

Printed and bound in Canada

Canadian Cataloguing in Publication Data

Jessome, Bill

Maritime mysteries

ISBN 1-55109-291-3

EPUB ISBN 978-1-55109-847-0

1. Ghost stories, Canadian (English)—Maritime Provinces. 2. Tales—Maritime Provinces. I. Title

GR113.5.M37J47 1999   398.2’09715’05   C99-950141-0

Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support of the Canada Council and the Department of Canadian Heritage.

Table Of Contents

Foreword

Introduction

Author’s Note

Chapter One

Haunted Homes and Halifax Haunts

Chapter Two

Restless Spirits and Unfinished Business

Chapter Three

Sea Stories

Chapter Four

Love and War

Chapter Five

Haunted Holiday Spots

Chapter Six

Possessions and Church Tales

Chapter Seven

The Unexplained

Chapter Eight

Forerunners and Forecasts

We know what we are, but know not what we may be.

William Shakespeare

Foreword

It didn’t go well the first time Uncle Bill and I faced a TV camera together. It was in the early 1960s and I was one of many children invited to the CJCB Television staff Christmas party that year. As the party neared its end someone on the crew decided it would look good for Bill to open that evening’s newscast with one of the children on his knee. He picked me. Now, I am certain Bill had no idea back then that I would follow him into television news. No, I suspect it was Bill’s keen sense of style and image that had him choose the child whose clothes best complimented his suit.

My memory of those first moments on a TV newscast has me squirming and crying and being quickly rescued by my mother. Uncle Bill’s sudden serious tone and TV Newsguy delivery startled me. But that’s not how Bill tells the story. My first chance to hear him recount the incident came thirty years later when we were hosting a segment of the Christmas Daddies Children’s Telethon in that same Sydney studio. Fortunately, he told the story when we were not on air. According to Uncle Bill, it wasn’t tears that spoiled my first TV appearance. Rather, a liquid of another sort ruined his suit. And I wasn’t rescued by my mother; I was tossed to her and Uncle Bill was left reading the news damp and disgusted.

Actually, I don’t think this version is true. But to watch and hear Bill tell it you can’t help but believe the story. His delivery, his flair for detail, that conspiratorial glint in his eyes as he shares something secret with you. Heck, I want to believe the tale even when the laughs are at my expense.

Bill’s love of story grew in his decades-long career as a television newscaster and reporter. That love brought him to his second cathat he began after his retirement at age sixty-five. Bill Jessome’s Maritime Mysteries series ranks among the most successful segments of ATV’s popular Live at Five news show. He and his favourite cameraman, the late Kevin MacDonald, brought every story to life in a way that created a strong demand for more.

Uncle Bill’s decision to launch a new career as man of mystery did not surprise those of us fortunate enough to know him, not just his TV personality. His passion in life, second only to his love for his late wife Rose, is the telling of a good tale. I’ve watched him work out many of these stories over his favourite Sunday dinner. He would wink and smile and play with his inflection until he had the reaction he wanted from a captive audience.

Now, at age seventy-four, Bill has found a new way to share his stories. You are holding it in your hand. As you read some of his favourites you can almost hear that warm, familiar rasp in his voice—the sound that somehow made the stories more frightening. As for the likelihood of some of these tales, it really doesn’t matter. Bill makes you want to believe them, just as he makes me want to believe I ruined his suit so many years ago.

—Phonse Jessome

Introduction

Questions and rarely a definitive answer: Do you believe in ghosts, Mr. Jessome?

No, but I’m afraid of them. Certainly not very original, I admit, but it does break the ice when the conversation turns to the paranormal.

Like many people, I sometimes feel compelled to look over my shoulder. And for no particular reason occasionally, when I’m alone in my car at night driving down a lonely stretch of road, a foreboding sweeps over me. It’s as if there were an invisible passenger seated beside me. I also fight the urge to glance in the rear-view mirror, afraid of what may be staring back.

Questions and more questions: Explain, please, the puff of cold air that sweeps over my face when all the doors and windows are tightly closed. And explain away, if you can, the sickening odour of decaying flowers that wake me from a troubled sleep. And what is that standing at the foot of my bed? I don’t know. But I’ve been there.

And still more questions. How old is the ghost story?

Older than me and thee, my inquisitive friend. The ghost story predates literature. It belongs to a primordial world; perhaps even during its blackness.

A word was brought to me in secret, and my ears heard a whisper of it.

It was during a nightmare when people are in deep sleep.

I was trembling with fear; all my bones were shaking.

A spirit glided past my face, and all the hair on my body stood on it,

The spirit stopped, but I could not see what it was...

From the book of Job. That’s how old the ghost story is.

One final question: Do you have a favourite ghost story? There are many. These are some of my favourites.

So, let the journey begin by turning the first page. Then read on, but do look over your shoulder from time to time.

Author’s note

Most of these stories were passed on to me by Maritimers who appreciate the art of storytelling. Many have kept a record of grannie’s folklore; others remember hearing the stories as children over a flickering candle or kerosene light.

In some cases, I have taken storytelling liberties where subtle embellishment is like frosting on a cake, but I never stray too far from the heart of the tale. Included are a few stories from my own disturbed imagination.

My profound gratitude to all those wonderful people who invited me into their homes, where many hours were spent listening to and recording these wonderful stories for my Maritime Mysteries series on ATV.

And to those busy folk who took advantage of coffee shops, shopping centres, Canada Post, the telephone, e-mail, and faxes, to share with me their favourite ghost stories, I am forever grateful.

Chapter One

Haunted Homes

and Halifax Haunts

Penelope

Islow my pace—even stop—when I’m passing Shirreff Hall on the corner of South and Oxford Streets in Halifax. I’m constantly reminded of the young woman whose ghost may still be roaming the corridors of Shirreff Hall, a home away from home for female students attending Dalhousie University. The young lady in question was a domestic by the name of Penelope.

During my research for the Maritime Mysteries series, an editor of the campus paper told me that there are no records in the University’s files on this young woman’s employment. It’s as if she never existed.

Was there ever a Penelope? Or was she—is she—merely the creation of a too-vivid imagination of young impressionable students? I will tell you what was told to me, then you can decide for yourself.

Back in the late twenties, Penelope worked as a domestic on the third and fourth floors of Shirreff Hall. When she didn’t show up for work one morning, a thorough search of the residence was made. She was found in the attic, hanging from a rope. At the time of this writing there is still a piece of that rope, albeit rotting and frayed, still hanging from an attic beam. Perhaps it’s still there. And perhaps it’s the same rope Penelope used to hang herself!

What terrible event drove Penelope to take her own life? And what powerful forces keep her restless spirit walking the corridors of Shirreff Hall?

The reasons for taking her own life are still being discussed by Dalhousie students in the late hours of the night. Not long after she committed suicide, some students saw her ghost wandering the fourth floor. Some of these students, with a frightened look in their eyes, reported that while studying, a sudden wave of cold air swept over the room and they had a strange feeling that someone had just walked into the room. Others, awakened from a sound sleep by some force, tell of a young woman standing at the foot of their beds. When they ask her who she was, she vanished. And there are still other students who speak of the presence of an unexplained force that is beside them when they walk down the long, dark corridor to the bathroom. Others speak only of an uneasy feeling of being constantly watched.

Is it really the ghost of Penelope? Scoff if you may, but don’t try to tell the students I talked with that they were seeing things, or that they were letting their imaginations run away with them. As far as they’re concerned, Shirreff Hall is haunted—haunted by the ghost of Penelope.

Even now when I walk by Shirreff Hall I wonder if Penelope is watching from a fourth-floor window. I want to look up, but dare not, just in case.

The Ceilidh Spirits

His car broke down on a lonely stretch of road that appeared to go nowhere. Should he stay in the car where it was safe, or walk to the nearest village and put up for the night? The thought of a warm bed was the deciding factor.

It was near midnight when he saw a light up ahead. His pace quickened toward the house he saw. When he opened the gate and walked to the front door, he heard music coming from inside. His knock was answered by a old woman. He told her he was stranded and asked if she would she be so kind as to give him shelter for the night. She invited him in and he followed her to the kitchen, where she pointed to a chair at the table—all the while humming the tune the group was playing in the other room. She suggested he should have his tea in the parlour, where he could enjoy the singing and dancing. He sat down in a comfortable old sofa and admired the talent of the young musicians. There were seven in the band altogether; four men and three women, and it was plain to see they were all related—perhaps brothers and sisters. They were, without exception, handsome young people. And all, except one, had wavy, jet black hair. The tallest and thinnest young woman had hair the colour of a golden sunrise.

What he found disturbing and a little peculiar was that they neither spoke or acknowledged his presence. It was as if he didn’t exist. He couldn’t help but feel somewhat uneasy. And the room itself, while warm and friendly, had a foreboding air about it.

Sleep overcame him, and he lay down on the soft warm sofa. The last thing he remembered was the old woman covering him with a blanket whilst in the distance, he heard the soft, strains of "Dark